The morning light filtered weakly through the overcast sky, casting the school in muted grays. Kevin Emilio Boyce slipped into the classroom early, as always, his backpack slung over one narrow shoulder. Inside were the notes he'd pored over until the small hours—neat columns of equations, proofs underlined twice. He didn't look around as he took his seat in the front row. He never did.
Math class dragged for most, but not for Kevin. Mr. Dalton scribbled a particularly vicious differential equation on the board, and while half the room groaned, Kevin's pencil flew across the page. He solved it in under five minutes, then double-checked, then waited quietly as the rest caught up.
Dalton scanned the submitted work, pausing at Kevin's paper. "Flawless again," he said, almost surprised. "Keep this up, son, and you'll walk that exam."
A few muffled snorts rose from the back. Kevin adjusted his glasses and stared straight ahead. Praise like that only painted a bigger target on his back.
When the bell rang for break, he headed for his usual refuge: the old oak tree at the edge of the courtyard. It wasn't blooming like the cherry trees everyone photographed, but it was quiet, and the branches hung low enough to shield him from most eyes.
He leaned against the trunk, flipping open his notebook to review integrals. The air smelled like incoming rain—heavy, metallic. He ignored it.
Then he heard her laugh.
Alice crossed the courtyard with her usual orbit of friends, hair catching what little light there was, voice bright and careless. She was talking about some party, gesturing wildly, and for a stupid second Kevin forgot to look away.
Her friend Mia caught it first. "Alice, your stalker's at it again."
Alice turned. Her eyes—black, sharp—locked on him. The smile dropped off her face like someone had flipped a switch.
Kevin's stomach knotted. He closed the notebook slowly, already knowing what came next.
They veered toward him. Alice stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. "Got something to say, shrimp?"
He opened his mouth—nothing came out. Before he could step back, Kyle appeared at Alice's side, towering, amused. One casual shove from Kyle's palm against Kevin's shoulder was all it took. Kevin's back hit the tree trunk hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and his bag slid from his arm, spilling everything into the grass.
At that exact moment, the sky split open.
Rain slammed down in sheets, sudden and violent. Notebooks fanned out across the ground, pages drinking water instantly. Ink bled into gray smears. Kevin dropped to his knees, scrambling to gather them, but the mud sucked at his fingers and the paper tore like wet tissue.
Alice laughed once—short, delighted. "Perfect timing."
Someone's phone was already recording. A small crowd formed under the overhang, watching like it was free entertainment. Kyle folded his arms, rain dripping off his letterman jacket, grinning down at the mess.
"Look at him," Alice said loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Thinks he's smart. Can't even stay on his feet."
Kevin's glasses fogged and streaked. He blinked hard, grabbing a sodden page that used to be his calculus review. The equations were gone, dissolved into nothing. Something hot and furious tightened behind his ribs, but his hands only shook harder.
Vernon hovered at the edge of the circle, half-hidden by the corner of the building, watching without stepping in. Their eyes met for a second. Vernon looked away first.
Alice stepped over a ruined notebook like it was trash, already turning back to her friends. The group drifted away, laughing under shared umbrellas, leaving Kevin on his knees in the downpour.
The rain didn't let up.
By the time the final bell rang, the courtyard was empty and the ground a shallow lake. Kevin trudged to the library soaked to the bone, shoes squelching. He claimed the same corner table he always did, spread the least-damaged pages under the weak lamp, and tried to salvage what he could.
Most of it was illegible. Hours of work, blurred beyond recovery.
He sat there long after the librarian locked the front doors and left through the side exit, copying what he still remembered onto fresh paper borrowed from the supply closet. His clothes dried stiff and cold against his skin. Rain drummed steadily on the roof.
Every smudged equation felt like a fresh shove. Every laugh he'd heard replayed behind his eyes.
But underneath the exhaustion, something steadier took root.
They could ruin his notes. They could ruin his day.
They couldn't ruin him.
Kevin kept writing, line after careful line, until the new pages were fuller than the old ones had ever been. The rain outside softened to a whisper against the windows.
He closed the notebook, flexed his cramped fingers, and allowed himself the smallest, sharpest smile.
Next time, he'd be ready.