Pierre
Cleaning a smudge off his glasses with the hem of his tuxedo jacket, Pierre just wished for this night to be over. His parents dragged him to the Kuragina Gala’s every time the family held one. Pierre did not like it the first time nor does he like it now. Everything about these gala’s were just so snobbish and pretentious. Pierre was bewildered at how his parents could ever take part in something so artificial.
Not only did he dread the gala’s for their over abundant displays of wealth, but he despised them for their over abundant displays of wine...and how badly Pierre just wanted a small sip of the expensive wine. With his parents keeping a close eye on him, he could never be allowed to accept a glass of the red alcohol. Nearly almost every teenager in attendance of this gala had a beverage in hand, and he envied them for having such.
He sighed as a tray of white and red glasses went by him.
“Pierre, so I hear that you will be graduating with honors this year? What year are you in now? Twelfth?”
An older woman with red lipstick smudged onto her teeth asked the boy. The woman he recognized from last year’s gala, who asked him the same exact question as she did just now.
“Um -” He stuttered.
“Yes miss, I work hard in my studies. And yes, this is my final year before college.”
He faked a smile.
As did his mother.
“Pierre is the highest in his class ya’know? Number one out of two hundred three.”
His mother rubbed his back, with a smile on her face.
The woman made a face which expressed amazement.
“He’s a smart boy. My son.”
His father took a sip of his white wine.
“Where do you plan on attending college?”
The woman smiled wide at Pierre, who had now dropped the smile for a more toned down look.
“I had my sights for Harvard, but I’m willing to settle for Stanford if Mother will let me stay in California.”
He turned his head to his mother, with a grin.
“We’ll see.”
She sipped her glass before changing the subject.
“So Martha, how are the kids?”
She asked the woman in front of her.
As the two ladies talked, Pierre retreated back into his thoughts. He felt terrible for lying to that woman. Harvard? Stanford? Who was he kidding? He couldn’t get into those schools, even if he tried. Pierre was smart, but not Ivy League smart. He could probably make way with getting into New York University or Villanova University but never Harvard or Stanford or Yale, or any other Ivy League school. This was the lie his family curated so that his parents could parade Pierre around like he was their trophy, and Pierre followed suit. He wouldn't dare try to stand up to them.
As much as Pierre was smart, he was also a coward. And he hated himself for it. Nothing made him more angry than allowing his parents to lie and brag to uphold their reputation. The only thing keeping him going is the thought: ‘College is only one year away. Go far, and start a new life.’
The two women were still chatting when a beautiful sight caught Pierre’s eye. A girl, standing in the front doorway of the home was talking to Anatole Kuragina, who was standing on the other side of the doorway. She smiled, and it seemed like the world had opened wide for Pierre. His heart leapt as he gazed at the girl from a distance. He recognized her to be none other than Natasha Rostova, the girl he’s had a crush on since sophomore year.
Their paths would never cross normally, as she was a grade below Pierre, but during switching times in between classes, Pierre would often see her chatting away in the hallway while he walked to Physics.
He could have never predicted her ever coming to these gala’s, and of course she had to come on the one night Pierre wore his scuffed dress shoes. (He tripped on a stair while walking into Sunday mass, and he could not for the life of him find his good dress shoes.)
He hoped she didn’t notice, that is if she even noticed Pierre in the first place.
She, and her two other friends entered the home.
“Pierre, why are your shoes all scuffed?”
Pulling Pierre out of his head, his mother looked dismayed by the sight of the brown scuff on Pierre’s right dress shoe.
“It’s just the one shoe mom.” He lifted his foot slightly to show her,
“And I tripped on the way up the stairs at mass one Sunday. I couldn't find my other pair of dress shoes, so I had to wear these.”
“You could’ve asked for my black nail polish and painted over it.”
His mother shook his head at him.
“Sometimes, you have to think son.”
His father piped in.
Pierre, not knowing what to do, simply fiddled with his fingers and nodded with a shameful look on his face.
Another woman, this time with a purple feather in her hat, came by to talk to the family, and suddenly the shame was put inside.
====
After a few minutes, Pierre noticed Natasha had become slightly more drunk than she had been in the past ten minutes. She was now talking to a man dressed in all white. Pierre could tell she thought he was handsome. Pierre thought he looked hideous.
‘Who in their right mind would wear a white tuxedo and white pants? Clearly someone who doesn't care about mess.’
Pierre thought to himself as he sipped his water that he wished were wine.
Still watching from a distance, Pierre watched as Natasha giggled after every sentence the disastrous man spoke. It was like Natasha was hooked on his spell. And Pierre knew, the boy knew it too.
A bad feeling arose in Pierre’s chest.
Un-focusing his attention for a moment, he saw that another person was watching Natasha. A girl with deep red hair and a black dress also studied the young Natasha and mystery man.
‘Its her friend. They came in together.” He remembered.
Like Marya could somehow read Pierre’s thoughts, Marya turned and walked off to a far corner of the room, disassociating herself from everyone around her. And Pierre thought he was introverted…
He silently watched as Natasha accepted more and more drinks from the server. Pierre wanted to shout.
‘Why isn’t anyone stopping her?! Why isn't that man stopping her?! He’s planning something... He wants to get her drunk.’
He swallowed the growl forming in his throat.
Natasha was a small girl, and for her to be consuming that much alcohol couldn't serve her any good. Pierre wondered if it was lack of self control that was making her down these glasses like it was water. Surely, it had to have been because the level of irresponsibility Natasha was riding on would definitely land her in the hospital if she didn't stop right there.
At that moment, Pierre saw the boy smile at Natasha, before walking away to the punch bowl area. Natasha, now alone, stumbled to the nearest chair she could find, and sat down. The girl at the punch bowl, he recognized as Helene Kuragina.
They once were friends but Helene moved so much, they eventually lost touch with each other. A regret he holds close to his heart. Much like Pierre, she was a smart girl. They would often study together as they grew older.
Helene and the man were having quite the snappy conversation. Helene grew visibly more and more upset, as much as she tried to hide it.
‘Who is this guy?’
He was clearly unwanted at this gala. That fact alone made him worried for both Natasha and Helene. By the look of their conversation, he and Helene have a past. Something must’ve happened to make her this upset.
Pierre peered his eyes to see the man pour yet another cup of the spiked punch.
‘One for him, and the other for Natasha.’ He presumed.
Natasha bobbed her head along to the violin and piano as she took yet another drink from the server. He had to alert someone about this…
He glanced over to where Marya was standing. She had a phone in one hand, busy swiping away, burying herself in the device.
He was just about to step towards her when his mother had put a hand on his back. He turned his face to her, then to a man with a big smile on his face.
Vassily Kuragina.
“Pierre Bezukhov, all grown up! How are you?”
The man asked, clutching a scotch on the rocks.
“I’m well, Mr. Kuragina.”
He half smiled, peering over the man's shoulder just a bit so he could see Natasha.
“I remember back when you, Anatole, and Helene were just kids, running around the old house. Then one of you’d get hungry, and then suddenly you’d all get hungry. Thalia would fix you all snacks…”
He lingered on the memory.
“We’re sorry to hear about Thalia, Vassily. Truly we are sorry.”
Pierre’s father said, with a bit of a remorseful tone.
“Thank you, your condolences are much appreciated.”
Vassily gave him a warm smile.
Pierre glanced as the boy in white walked over to Natasha, handing her a cup of the spiked punch. Natasha gladly accepted, just finishing her last drink.
‘This isn’t good…’
“So Vassily, this house is truly amazing.”
His mother changed the subject yet again.
“Oh thank you. We're still getting used to it. Would you like a tour?”
Vassily asked the family, to which Pierre’s mother replied:
“Oh yes please!”
Pierre found himself being moved away from the living room and entering the kitchen, making a drunk and in-danger Natasha Rostova out of his field of sight.
====
Twenty minutes went by of the family being toured around the first floor of the large house. The anxiety Pierre felt was immeasurable. His mind raced around with thoughts of Natasha, Helene, and that bad bad man.
‘Who knows how many drinks Natasha has consumed by now...'
‘God, I hope she’s okay…’
‘Helene must know something about that man.’
‘I can’t ask her though, that would be awkward.’
His own doubts clouded his senses.
They began to walk up the stairs, to the second floor. The marble topped banister was cold to the touch.
Walking past many rooms in the hallway, Pierre noticed one door was slightly ajar. He could hear voices coming from inside of it. One of the voices he could make out was Anatole Kuragina. The other voice was deeper than Anatole's, he did not recognize it.
‘Anatole! I can tell Anatole.’
As Vassily was showing off the features of his house, Pierre found the opportunity to make his grand escape.
“Excuse me Mr. Kuragina, would you happen to know where Anatole is? I haven’t seen him all night.”
Pierre asked.
Vassily smiled at the young boy for a moment.
“Old pals back at it again huh? I’m sure you can find him in his room. He’s with his friend Fedya right now.”
Vassily pointed the way to Anatole’s bedroom.
Pierre smiled at him with a nod and a “Thank you.”, before leaving his family to knock on the door of Anatole’s room.
A few moments later, Anatole popped his head through.
“Pierre?...”
He looked slightly confused.
“Um, hey...How ya doing?” Anatole asked.
“There is a girl downstairs, and she is in trouble.” Pierre blurted out, getting some of his anxieties off his chest.
“Woah, what? Who?”
Anatole opened the door, letting Pierre walk into the room.
Pierre then began to pace around in circles.
Dolokhov rose from his seat.
“Are you okay dude?”
Dolokhov walked towards him, and offered him his seat so he could sit down. Pierre obliged and took the seat where Dolokhov was previously sitting.
“Do you know Natasha Rostova? Junior? Beautiful girl?”
Part of him wishes he didn't say that last part.
“Natasha?!”
Dolokhov said, quite shocked.
“What happened? Where is she?”
He sat down next to Pierre.
“She’s been drinking far too much...and she’s with this guy...I don’t trust it.”
His eyes darted from Dolokhov to Anatole.
“What guy? What does he look like?”
Anatole chimed in.
“I don’t know his name, but it seems your sister knows him. They were having a snappy conversation by the punch bowl.”
Pierre took a sip of his water.
Anatole took in the information, and exited out of the room.
Dolokhov quickly followed behind him, and so did Pierre, not wanting to be left out of the loop.
Anatole looked around the room.
“No sign of Natasha.” He said in a low voice to the other boys.
“No sign of Helene either.”
Dolokhov said, staring out into the sea of people.
“I'm gonna text Natasha, and ask her where she is.”
Dolokhov pulled out his phone.
“The guy had on all white. A white tux and white pants...Which if you ask me, is terrible taste fashion wise.”
Pierre scoffed, taking a long sip of his almost empty water glass.
Dolokhov and Anatole were staring at the phone screen in Dolokhov’s hand.
“What is it?”
Pierre looked over Dolokhov’s shoulder to read the text messages.
Marya: Sorry I left, had to help Helene. I'm in my house with her. Probably gonna stay here the rest of the night. Are you two okay?
Sent four minutes ago
Sonya: Dolokhov! Can you please find Natasha?! Mary’s brother, Andrey took her and they're at Mary’s house now. Mary just texted me, and told me to pass on the message. I'm too far away right now to drive back. Can you drive to Mary’s?
Sent two minutes ago
“Natasha’s at Mary’s. Helene is at Marya’s.”
Dolokhov said to Anatole and Pierre, sliding his phone in his pocket.
“My car is parked over at Marya’s house.”
Dolokhov took out his keys from his other pocket.
“Where’s Marya’s house?”
Pierre asked Dolokhov.
“Next door. Her and Anatole are neighbors.”
He explained to the boy.
“C’mon we don't have time to waste!”
Anatole said as he dashed down the stairs.
They all raced down, receiving some bad looks from the older attendee’s of the gala.
Pierre closed the door behind them, and ran across the yard to get into Dolokhov’s car.
Once they all were in the car, and the doors were closed Dolokhov put the key into the ignition slot.
“Let's go save Natasha.”
The boy put the vehicle in drive, and darted down the street.