The boy went stiff.
He hadn't expected it—not in his wildest, stupidest imagination—that today's prank, thrown out like a stone into a pond, would ricochet and strike someone he couldn't afford to offend.
Yes. They did this all the time along this road.
They'd learned the route by instinct: a good school nearby, a steady stream of girls in neat uniforms, heads down, minds on homework and exams—easy targets, they'd decided. Summit Ridge High School was the best in the city, which meant the girls were prettier on average, cleaner-looking, too proud in the way they walked. So the boys would charge in, shove shoulders, lift a skirt hem for a second just to hear the shriek, or howl crude jokes until a girl's face went burning red. They'd always gotten away with it. No one ever did anything to them.
That was how their courage had swollen—fed by every consequence that never came.
Now, with his hair yanked tight and his body dragged into the scrub where the main road couldn't see, fear finally sank its teeth into him.
Jayna's heart lurched. She clutched Ginevra's backpack to her chest and started toward the bushes, wanting—needing—to see what was happening, to make sure—
Ginevra's voice cut through the air, cold as steel.
"Don't come over."
It wasn't loud. It didn't have to be.
Jayna stopped immediately, rooted where she was, the harshness in that tone freezing her in place. It was the same Ginevra who spoke gently to her on the phone, who listened in quiet patience, who drew rabbits and strawberries like some secret softness had slipped out of her hand—yet right now, there was something in her voice that made Jayna's stomach tighten.
"I—I don't think I even cursed at you," the boy stammered, his words trembling. The way Ginevra had dragged him meant they were completely hidden from the main path; hardly anyone came near this patch of grass and shrubs. That was what terrified him most. His friend was still over on the road, crouched and holding his head, and the boy's mind flashed with the bitter thought: Damn it. If I'd just run first…
Ginevra's gaze flicked down, not at his face, but at the insignia stitched onto the edge of his school jacket—Cedar Grove Middle School.
A shadow of a smile slid across her otherwise indifferent expression. It wasn't warmth. It was the kind of smile that made the air colder.
"Cedar Grove," she said softly. "I've heard the kids there think they're untouchable." Her eyes lifted back to him. "Looks like you do too."
The boy's fear snapped into something uglier the moment he heard her say his school's name. He mistook recognition for hesitation. Pride flared, reckless and loud.
"Since you know it, you'd better not mess with me!" he barked, forcing bravado into his voice. "You mind your business, I mind mine. We stay out of each other's way!"
Even as he spoke, his hand fumbled through the grass beside him, grasping for something hard. His fingers closed around a stone the size of his fist. She's just a girl, he told himself. So what if she's stronger than she looks? A rock is a rock.
Ginevra didn't strike him.
She only looked down at him—quiet, controlled—and said, as if issuing the simplest instruction in the world:
"Apologize to her. And I'll let you go."
She didn't want to make a scene on the street. There weren't many people here, but some instinct—old, deep, and sharp—still refused to let Jayna see her like this.
She was holding herself back. Giving him a way out.
The boy spat, as if the very idea insulted him. "Are you kidding me?"
And then, in one stupid burst of bravado, he swung the stone up and hurled it toward Ginevra's shoulder.
It was clumsy. Full of openings.
Ginevra caught his wrist in mid-motion like she'd been waiting for it.
In the next heartbeat, her knee drove into his abdomen—clean, efficient, merciless. The boy folded, air rushing out of him in a strangled sound. The stone fell from his hand and thudded into the dirt, rolling to a stop by Ginevra's foot.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach, his face contorting as nausea rose violently up his throat.
"Y-you—what the hell—who are you—" he choked out, the words breaking apart around pain.
"I gave you a chance," Ginevra said.
She crouched down, bringing herself to his level, and the boy's breath caught—because up close, her eyes were terrifyingly calm. The cold in them was the kind that could make a living thing go still.
"Since you don't want to apologize," she continued, voice even, "then I won't force you."
She picked up the stone.
The boy flinched, eyes wide, trying to recoil, but Ginevra's hand was already at his jaw. Her grip was firm—too firm—fingers pinning bone and cheek as if his face were something she could simply rearrange.
She pried his mouth open and pushed the stone inside.
"Grind your teeth," she murmured, almost gently. "Rinse your tongue."
The words were soft.
The meaning was not.
She held his jaw in place, forcing the motion, forcing the humiliation, forcing him to taste consequence. He made muffled, panicked noises—pleading sounds that barely qualified as speech—but Ginevra didn't even blink.
Then came the sharp, sickening crack of something giving way.
…
Jayna watched Ginevra step out from the bushes.
Her expression looked the same as always—controlled, composed, nothing obviously out of place—yet Jayna felt a chill ripple down her spine, like she'd brushed against the edge of something she wasn't meant to see.
Jayna's gaze dropped to Ginevra's hands. They were dirty.
Without thinking, Jayna pulled tissues from her bag and reached for her, wiping gently, carefully, as if tending to something precious. She even tugged Ginevra's loose hair back and gathered it into a ponytail, fingers nimble, the gesture oddly intimate in its quiet familiarity.
"Wh-what happened?" Jayna asked, voice tight with nerves.
Ginevra let her do it. Let herself be tied up neatly, like nothing had happened at all.
"Three teeth broke," Ginevra said flatly.
Jayna froze. "Huh?!"
Ginevra swung her backpack onto her shoulder, glanced at Jayna, and tilted her head—an unspoken Let's go home.
"At least explain," Jayna insisted, walking after her. "Is that… is that serious?"
Ginevra frowned slightly, as if trying to understand what Jayna meant—serious for whom.
"I almost got hit by his rock," Ginevra said.
Jayna's eyes widened. "What?! That bastard actually tried to hit you?" She surged forward, grabbing Ginevra's arm, turning it this way and that, checking her shoulder like she didn't believe words alone. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have listened to you—I should've come help—"
And then, finally, Ginevra's mouth softened.
A small smile surfaced—barely there, but real enough to change her whole face.
Something in her chest loosened, warmed by Jayna's fierce, instinctive concern. She looked at Jayna with a gaze that was quiet and gentle, as if Jayna was the only thing in the world that made sense.
"He didn't hit me," Ginevra said. "So he broke three teeth."
Of course, she didn't say how.
Jayna, imagining the boy tripping and smashing his mouth on the stone like some self-inflicted punishment, felt righteous satisfaction bloom. "Serves him right. People like that are disgusting." Her voice sharpened with protective anger. "If he'd hit you—if he'd hit you, I swear I would've—"
She cut herself off, because the image made her chest hurt.
"Let's go," Jayna declared, forcing brightness back into her tone. "Let them suffer. Maybe it'll teach them something."
Ginevra's gaze dipped, and for a moment she looked… faintly lost.
"What's wrong?" Jayna asked, noticing the way Ginevra's eyes lingered downward, as if weighing something she didn't want to say.
"Strawberries," Ginevra answered quietly, her voice almost… disappointed.
Jayna blinked, then laughed, and patted her like it was the easiest thing in the world to soothe. She'd already picked up the empty box from the ground, carefully, as if it could be used again someday.
"Next time I'll wash them for you," Jayna promised, lifting the box slightly. "I'll keep this for now, okay?"
Ginevra stared at Jayna's bright eyes—the way they shone even after fear, even after anger—and for a second she seemed dazed, as if she couldn't quite understand how someone could still look like sunlight.
She nodded.
Just once.
That night, when Jayna came home, she saw a pair of polished dress shoes by the front door.
Her father was back.
"Jayna's home!" Mrs. Rose appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She reached for Jayna's backpack, ushering her warmly toward the dining room. "Go wash up. Dinner's ready."
Jayna's eyes flicked to the lavish spread on the table and immediately knew it wasn't made just for her.
"He's here?" she asked quietly, slipping off her shoes.
Mrs. Rose's expression stiffened in a way that was almost imperceptible. She hesitated, then nodded, patting Jayna's shoulder with a soft pressure that said more than words: Just go. Just eat. Don't fight.
Jayna's mood sank straight to the bottom of her stomach.
She wanted to disappear upstairs. She wanted to pretend she hadn't come home.
But the man was already seated at the long table. His eyes—sharp, trained, accustomed to command—pinned her the moment she stepped in.
"Sit down and eat," Mr. Stevens said.
It wasn't an invitation.
It was an order.
Jayna's mouth twisted. She washed her hands and sat at the far end, putting distance between them like a shield.
The food smelled rich and perfect, but Jayna chewed as if it were paper. No matter how long it had been, she still couldn't get used to sharing a meal with this father—this man who hovered on the edge of her life like a shadow that occasionally returned to remind her it existed.
"Are you adjusting at school?" Mr. Stevens asked, looking at his daughter's bowed head.
"Mm," Jayna replied, eyes on her plate.
"I heard you've been studying hard," he continued, as if reading from a report. "That's good." He paused, then said, with the quiet certainty of someone used to deciding other people's futures, "I want you get good grades. I plan to send you abroad later."
Jayna stood up so abruptly her chair scraped.
"I told you," she said, voice shaking with fury and something rawer underneath, "what university I go to is my decision. You're going to interfere with that too?"
Mr. Stevens' brow tightened. He set down his utensils, displeasure flickering across his face. "Do whatever you want."
He meant well in his own way—he wanted to lay a smooth road in front of her, make things easy.
But Jayna's chest felt like it was full of thorns.
She didn't understand—she never understood—why other families could be warm and gentle, full of laughter and small kindnesses, while she and her father were always like this: blade to blade, neither willing to lower theirs.
"Then let me ask you something," Jayna said, lifting her chin, forcing him to look at her. "All this time… do you even know what my favorite fruit is?"
Mr. Stevens frowned and didn't answer.
Silence.
Jayna gave a small, bitter laugh. Of course. He wouldn't know. He never knew anything that required him to actually see her.
"You only care about your factories," she said, voice tightening. "Your business. When have you ever asked what I want? What I need?" Her fingers curled against the edge of the chair, knuckles white. "I'm working hard at this school for myself. Not for anyone else. Before, when I worked hard—it was because you lied and said Mom would come back if I did." Her throat tightened. "And then what happened?"
The words came out, and regret followed immediately—sharp and sour. He'd come home, for once. And she still had to turn it into a fight.
But she couldn't stand the way he always spoke as if he knew what was best for her, as if the very act of controlling her life was love.
Mr. Stevens raised his eyes. He looked at Jayna standing there, rigid as a statue, and his voice lowered—not gentler, exactly, but quieter, as if he was choosing not to step on the landmine.
"The food will get cold," he said, deliberately shifting the topic. "Sit down and eat."
"I had a lot of strawberries today," Jayna said automatically, irritation still clinging to her tone—though she hadn't eaten a single one.
"I remember you like strawberries," Mr. Stevens said.
His voice softened a fraction, as if he was trying—awkwardly—to keep things from getting worse.
And so they sat in that stiff silence, father and daughter, two people who cared in crooked ways but didn't know how to touch without hurting.
Jayna couldn't bear it.
"I had my mock exams today," she blurted.
"How did you do?" he asked.
"Okay," she said, because saying I tried so hard it hurts felt like bleeding.
Mr. Stevens looked at her for a moment. "What do you want as a gift?"
Jayna lifted her gaze, reluctant even as she answered. "A gift…" She paused, then muttered, "Just… have a crawfish dinner with me sometime."
Mr. Stevens' eyebrows rose slightly. He picked up his glass, took a sip, and then—surprisingly—smiled faintly and nodded.
Jayna's fingers toyed with her utensils, and she spoke again, slower this time, carefully placing her own boundary on the table between them.
"I made a friend," she said. "Her grades are really good. I want to go to the same university as her someday."
Mr. Stevens studied her, then finally gave what could almost be called permission. "That's good. Learn from your friends."
Before nine o'clock, Jayna heard voices downstairs—Frankie Wilson, her father's assistant, reporting something in the sitting room. A moment later came the low roar of a car engine.
Her father was leaving again.
From the window, Jayna watched the car pull away, taillights shrinking into the dark, and sighed. She felt like one of those kids who lived alone in big houses with food and money and no one.
She sat on the window ledge with her phone in hand and looked up.
Tonight, the sky was starless—black ink poured across the world.
—Do you have stars where you are?Jayna sent the message to Ginevra.
A long time passed.
Then, finally, a reply: Can't see them.
Jayna stared at the words until her eyes stung.
Can't see them? She had glasses. How could she not see the sky? Or was she just… being lazy? Distant?
Jayna's irritation bubbled up, quick and childish.
—Are u kidding me? You just don't want to talk to me 😠
Ginevra replied with a single, merciless: en
Jayna blinked.
En? Like some lazy grunt?
She felt more wronged the longer she looked at it. Tonight she was the lonely kid. Nobody was paying attention. Nobody was holding her.
She leaned sideways against the window ledge and dialed Ginevra's number.
No answer.
Ginevra, why aren't you calling back…If you ignore me, I'm going to get mad…
She kept lighting up her screen, checking, turning it off, checking again—over and over—until the movement felt like a nervous tic.
Then her phone rang.
Jayna answered instantly, without even a second of hesitation.
On the other end was Ginevra's voice—slightly echoing, threaded with quiet breaths, as if she'd just come from somewhere warm and enclosed.
"Giny," Jayna blurted, her voice wobbling with the faintest, embarrassing hint of a sob. "Why did you take so long? I waited fifteen minutes…"
"—Cough." Ginevra cleared her throat softly.
Jayna's irritation vanished at once, replaced by worry. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Ginevra said.
Her voice sounded a little hoarse, strangely damp, and Jayna heard the soft slide of a door—open, close—like someone stepping out of steam.
"You just showered?" Jayna asked.
"Yes."
Ginevra set her phone down on the counter and switched to speaker. The bathroom air was thick with mist; her hair was still wet, droplets falling steadily, as if she'd brought rain indoors.
Jayna's cheeks warmed with guilt. She'd been sulking, not once considering that Ginevra might have been busy. And yet, even after a shower, Ginevra had called her back.
Somewhere in her chest, Jayna realized—quietly, uneasily—that she'd started depending on Ginevra without noticing. The moment something happened, she reached for her first.
"Talk," Ginevra said.
Jayna could hear the soft rustle of fabric—Ginevra drying her hair, towel brushing against skin. Maybe it was because she'd just bathed, but her voice sounded lower than usual, hushed in a way that did strange things to Jayna's heartbeat.
Jayna swallowed and forced herself to speak normally. "My dad came home today," she said, cheeks still red, eyes fixed on nothing. "And… we had a little argument. It wasn't huge, but… it felt bad. Everything ended up awkward." She hesitated, then admitted, "I'm just kind of… down."
A faint sigh came through the speaker.
Jayna rushed in, apologetic. "I didn't know you were showering. If I'd known, I wouldn't have messaged you. Sorry."
"Look up," Ginevra said.
Jayna obeyed without thinking—tilting her head toward the window—
—and there, in the black sky that had been empty minutes ago, were stars. Not many. But enough. Tiny pinpricks of light, shy and stubborn.
Jayna covered her mouth and laughed quietly, the sound full of something tender. "Your way of comforting people is really… special."
Ginevra looked out her own window too, towel still in her hands, and said in her usual calm tone, "Have you decided what you want?"
That question made Jayna's stomach flip again. Because tomorrow meant scores. Tomorrow meant proof—whether all that effort meant anything, whether she truly could do this.
"You think I can make the top hundred?" she asked softly.
"I hope you can," Ginevra replied.
Jayna groaned, half whining, half laughing at herself. "Oh my God—when you say it like that, I'm even more nervous. I'm going to be up all night." She tried to shift back into chatter, as if words could pad the sharp corners of fear. "You don't understand—my essay today, I wrote it so carefully, stroke by stroke. My handwriting was unbelievably neat. I'm hoping the teacher will be so touched they'll give me extra points…"
She opened the rabbit-and-strawberries drawing Ginevra had sent and giggled. "Ginevra, did you teach yourself how to draw?"
"Figured it out," Ginevra said simply.
Jayna smiled, warming. "Then learn with me next time. I'm actually pretty good at drawing."
"Hourly rate," Ginevra replied without missing a beat. "Twenty percent off."
Jayna burst out laughing. "You stole my line. A few days apart and Giny's gotten funny."
Ginevra snorted—neither agreeing nor denying.
And so they talked, drifting from one topic to the next. Mostly it was Jayna speaking and Ginevra listening, patient and quiet, like the silence between them wasn't a gap but a home they'd already grown used to sharing.
No one felt wrong in it.
The next afternoon, third-period PE.
The moment the bell rang, Jayna sprinted for the second academic building. Even from far away she could see the crowd—students packed together so tightly it looked like the wall itself had grown a living skin.
Mock exam results for the junior class were posted the following afternoon. The top hundred names—the honor list—were displayed behind the glass case on the building's exterior, meant to encourage everyone.
Jayna had run the instant class ended, yet somehow there were still people here who'd arrived before her, pressing up against the glass like it held oxygen.
She bounced on her toes in the back, trying to see, but taller boys blocked her view completely.
"Damn—first place is still that girl from Class One, Ginevra Volkova," someone said with awe and bitterness. "How can anyone be that insane?"
"No kidding. She's first every time. Leaves the rest of us no chance. Our class president got second again…"
Jayna stood there listening, pride rising hot in her chest. Of course. Of course Giny was first.
"Excuse me—sorry—can I squeeze through? Thanks—" Jayna kept saying, pushing gently, apologizing as she fought her way forward inch by inch. At last, after what felt like a battle, she reached the front.
She lifted her eyes, saw the number one name, and her excitement spiked—then immediately twisted into fear as she forced herself to look for her own ranking.
From the bottom.
"One hundred… Noah Larkin. Ninety-nine… Hayden Cole." Jayna's lips parted. "Hayden's ninety-nine…"
She bit down on her lip, suddenly scared to keep going. She remembered Hayden ranking in the eighties last time—he'd slipped.
God, Jayna thought, throat tight. I did really well. I know I did. But I'm still terrified…
She scanned up to ninety.
Still not there.
"Well," Jayna thought bleakly, shoulders sagging, "guess this is where reality slaps me."
If she wasn't in the top ninety, then there was no way she'd made the top hundred.
Disappointment hit so hard it felt physical. Her head lowered. In the jostling crowd, she got pushed back out toward the edges, like she didn't belong near the glass.
Being wrong—being so hopeful only to be wrong—hurt more than she wanted to admit.
"What rank did you get, Mason Hawthorne?"
"Ninety."
"I got eighty-eight. There's just one person between us—ha!"
"Yeah… that person's in Class One, I think. Name's… Jaynara Stevens? Never seen it before."
Jayna's head snapped up.
Her heart stopped for half a beat, then lurched forward.
She turned toward the tall boy speaking and grabbed his hand without thinking, eyes bright with panic and hope. "W-wait—what did you say? Who was eighty-nine?"
Mason Hawthorne stared at her, startled by the sudden contact. A gorgeous girl was holding his hand like it mattered. His brain short-circuited for a second.
"Uh…" he managed, voice slow and confused. "Eighty-nine… Class One. I think her name was… Jaynara Stevens."
"Really?!" Jayna's voice cracked.
She released his hand immediately, not even noticing his stunned expression, and shoved back toward the glass case with renewed ferocity.
"Mason, you know her?" his friend laughed, smacking his shoulder as Mason continued to stand there, dazed.
Mason watched Jayna's back disappear into the crowd and shook his head, half-smiling. "No."
Jayna finally forced her way back to the front, hunting for the number that had set her whole body on fire.
And there it was.
89th — Junior Class (1): Jaynara Stevens
Jayna stared.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again, as if the words might change if she blinked. She even checked the strokes of her own name in a ridiculous burst of paranoia—no extra line, no missing curve.
No.
It was perfect.
It was hers.
A joy so huge it almost frightened her filled her chest. She needed to tell Ginevra immediately. She'd already started planning how—maybe she'd pretend she failed, let the disappointment bloom, and then flip it, watch Ginevra's expression change—
But when Jayna turned from the glass case, still glowing, she froze.
Not far away, Ginevra was watching her.
High ponytail. A red headband tied across her forehead—bright, bold, impossible to ignore. She wore the blue-and-white school tracksuit like it had been tailored just for her. A bottle of water rested loosely in her hand. Sunlight hit her from the side, turning her into something sharp and radiant, all clean lines and quiet strength.
How could someone make a plain PE uniform look like that?
That red headband—Jayna had picked it herself. She'd given it to Ginevra because it suited her, because she wanted something of hers to live on Ginevra's body.
Jayna looked at Ginevra's pale face lit by sunlight, almost glowing, and her happiness spilled over into motion. She jogged over, sweat beading lightly on her forehead, her smile so bright it could melt someone.
"Ginevra," Jayna burst out, voice bubbling, "do you know?! You're first again!!"
"I kn—"
Ginevra's gaze softened, warm and calm—
And before she could finish, Jayna flung her arms around her and kissed her hard on the cheek.
"I'm eighty-nine!!" Jayna shouted into the moment, breathless with triumph.