They say spring makes you drowsy, autumn leaves you sluggish, and summer takes all the strength out of your bones.
After barely enduring two long lectures in a row, Jayna felt as though her soul had been wrung out. All she really wanted was to fold her arms on the desk and steal a few minutes of sleep.
If only their math teacher didn't have a voice like a foghorn.
Every time her eyelids began to sink, that sharp, carrying voice would slice through the classroom, jarring her back into miserable wakefulness.
She propped her cheek in her hand and let her gaze drift toward the window instead.
At some point, the booming lecture stopped. The room exhaled into a sudden quiet. The teacher must have finished explaining the theorem and was now giving them those five problems on the board to work through. Pens scratched. Pages rustled.
The silence made the outside world louder.
In the morning, the sky had been clear and bright, a typical crisp day. But now the light had gone flat, the world beyond the glass bruised and dim. A fine drizzle had begun, threading down the windowpane in silvery streaks.
"Ah, Ginevra, look," Jayna murmured, her eyes fixed on the window. "It's raining."
Her voice wasn't loud, but in the hush of the classroom it echoed just enough to be heard everywhere.
"How about this, Jaynara—you go out and take a look for us?"
The math teacher's already sharp voice suddenly cracked through the air, making Jayna jolt as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water down her back.
Their math teacher, Mr. Lewis, a round, heavyset man with permanently furrowed brows, stomped down the aisle with his textbook tucked under one arm. He lowered his head to look at her open book. The spotless, untouched pages gleamed up at him, not a single pencil mark in sight.
The sight made his temper spike.
"You," he said, his face darkening. "Tell me the answer to the problem on the board."
His tone was icy, each word clipped. He glanced around the room as he spoke, just in case any of the students nearby dared to mouth the answer to her.
"No one is allowed to speak," he added harshly. "You—stand up and answer the question."
Jayna had no choice. She pushed back her chair and stood, resignation written in the curve of her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ginevra turning her head slightly, giving her a quick, sidelong glance.
So she was worried that Jayna wouldn't be able to do it, huh.
For no good reason at all, Jayna's heart brightened a little at that thought.
"The answer is fifty-eight," she said.
Mr. Lewis stared at her, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
"You… actually worked that out yourself?"
He turned his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes, and glanced deliberately at the two people sitting on either side of her—Ginevra, cool and composed, and Ethan Johnson on the other side, her other desk mate.
"Come on, sir, what are you implying?" Jayna forced a small smile. "Of course I did it myself. That's what the practice notebook is for."
Mr. Lewis held out his hand. She passed him the exercise book. He flipped through it with a deepening frown, pages rustling under his fingers. The arithmetic stood there in her restless handwriting, line after line.
He couldn't pick out a flaw.
At last, he made a small, disgruntled sound in his throat and motioned for her to sit back down.
As he turned to leave, he tossed a final warning over his shoulder.
"Next time you chatter in my class," he said, "I'll send you out to stand in the hallway. Don't affect the other students' learning."
Jayna dipped her head and nodded silently.
She knew exactly who "the other students" meant.
He was afraid she was dragging Ginevra down.
When the bell finally rang and the classroom dissolved into noise, Jayna immediately turned to the person beside her, looking as pitiful as she could manage.
"The teacher said I'm a bad influence on you," she said, her voice small.
Ginevra didn't respond.
That silence pricked. Jayna shifted her chair, scraping it a little closer so she could see her face better.
"Just now," she tried again, "were you worried I wouldn't be able to do the problem?"
She leaned in with all the subtlety of a cat trying to sit on someone's laptop.
"No."
Ginevra's answer was short and cool. Her expression stayed calm, but her fingers had tightened almost imperceptibly around the sheet of scrap paper in her hand.
On that page was the exact same problem Mr. Lewis had asked about. She had solved it earlier during the lecture, meaning to show it to Jayna later if she looked lost.
She hadn't expected Jayna to do it herself.
"Right," Jayna sighed, pretending not to care. "I thought you'd be worried about me."
But the slump of her shoulders, the way she laid herself across Ginevra's desk with quiet, theatrical sadness, gave her away.
Her big dark eyes, framed by thick lashes, kept sneaking glances up at Ginevra's profile.
Ginevra knew very well she couldn't shoo this person away. After a brief struggle, she simply accepted her fate and let Jayna stay draped across her desk, turning back to her own homework.
Except…
It was hard to concentrate with those eyes staring at her.
That gaze pressed on her like the warmth from a desk lamp, gentle but insistent, refusing to be ignored.
Finally, Ginevra lifted her head.
The moment their eyes met, Jayna brightened. She snagged one of Ginevra's pens with quick, deft fingers and, on the corner of the scrap paper clenched in Ginevra's hand, she drew a small, lopsided rabbit.
"There," she said, pleased with herself. "Don't mind me. You can keep writing."
"What is it you're actually trying to say?"
Ginevra looked at her, patience stretched thin but somehow still intact. She thought, not for the first time, that she must have an extraordinarily good temper.
Jayna gave a shy little smile.
"I just think," she said, "you were worried about me just now. You just won't admit it."
"And how would you know?" Ginevra asked quietly, casting her a sidelong glance.
Before Jayna could answer, a familiar loud voice exploded behind them.
"Jayna! Why do you cling to that side of the room all day long?"
Calista's voice boomed across the rows of desks.
Jayna twisted around to glare at her.
"I do not," she muttered under her breath. "You don't get it."
Calista marched over, hooked an arm around her, and tugged her up from Ginevra's desk like she was pulling a rag doll off a hanger. To anyone watching, Jayna really did look as though she'd lost her bones, always slumped over that same spot.
"Honestly, look at you," Calista scolded. "No wonder Mr. Lewis said he's worried you'll drag Ginevra down."
Jayna frowned.
"I was just talking to her," she protested. "How is that 'dragging her down'?"
Ginevra stayed silent.
Her silence felt like agreement.
Calista shook her head, baffled as ever. She truly couldn't understand how her friend found new ways every day to hang around this cold-faced, untouchable beauty.
"Anyway," Calista said, switching topics with a sigh, "I came to tell you it's raining outside. My dad's picking me up today. Our houses are on the same road, so just come ride with us."
"Oh." Jayna blinked, then managed a smile. "Okay. Thanks."
She really had forgotten to bring an umbrella.
As she turned back, she reached out and lightly tapped Ginevra's arm with one finger—a quiet question in the gesture.
Did you bring an umbrella?
Ginevra gave a small nod. Of course she had. Ginevra Volkova seemed like the kind of person who always had an umbrella, no matter what the sky looked like in the morning.
By the time the final bell rang at the end of the day, the drizzle had swelled into a steady rain.
At the foot of the teaching building, Jayna tilted her head back, squinting at the low clouds. The rain showed no sign of stopping; if anything, it seemed to fall harder with each passing minute, a curtain of silver threads between her and the gate.
Calista stood at the entrance holding a bright floral umbrella, calling over the noise of the rain.
"Jayna! Backpack on, let's go! My dad's car is right by the school gate—he hates trying to park there."
"I know," Jayna called back, fumbling with the zipper on her bag. "The zipper's just being weird."
She tugged and wrestled with it, and in that small, awkward moment, she happened to see Lydia Westbrook and her friends coming down the stairs and gathering near the entrance as well.
For reasons she couldn't quite put into words, Jayna had never liked Lydia.
Top of the class, from what looked like a comfortable family, and always surrounding herself with a little court of convenient admirers. Some boy was already dashing up with an umbrella, holding it out for her like a scene from a commercial.
"Zoe, are we really okay doing this?"
One of the girls beside Lydia spoke in a small, uneasy voice, glancing sideways.
Zoe Taylor curled her lip, completely unconcerned.
"You're always so scared of everything," she scoffed, tilting her head. "We're just putting trash into the trash can, that's all. Get it?"
"But…" the other girl still hesitated. Her brows pinched together, anxiety written all over her face.
"What 'but'?" Zoe rolled her eyes. "Lydia was the one who went up and tried to talk to her, remember? And what did she get? Completely ignored. So ungrateful. Look how upset Lydia is. Why bother talking to that ice-cold statue in the first place?"
The disdain in her voice was thick and ugly.
In the middle of the group, Lydia's brows dipped slightly, her expression shadowed. Her face had lost its usual polished calm; something darker hovered there.
"This doesn't need to be discussed again," she said, her voice low and cool. "She'll figure out for herself how she ought to treat me. You don't have to say a word. I don't care to hear it anymore."
Hearing that, Zoe immediately laughed and softened her tone.
"Okay, okay. Still, what's the big deal if she leaves a little later?" Zoe said. "She's always so cold. If she ends up locking up the classroom herself, all the better. I've been annoyed by her for ages…"
"What are you talking about?"
Jayna had heard enough.
Ignoring Calista's urgent tug on her sleeve, she pushed past a couple of students blocking the way until she was standing right in front of Lydia's group, her expression turned uncharacteristically cold.
"Nothing," Zoe said, recovering quickly. She smiled a sugar-sour smile. "Could you step aside? You're in the way."
"You think you can just say a few vague things and walk off?" Jayna narrowed her eyes, remaining firmly where she was. "Explain what you meant."
"Why are you always sticking your nose into other people's business?" Zoe's tone sharpened. "What's it got to do with you? Seriously, it's ridiculous. Unlike you, we don't just go straight home after school. We have tutoring to get to. It's really expensive, you know—charged by the hour."
She bumped her shoulder hard into Jayna's arm as she spoke, eyes glinting with provocation.
Jayna instinctively stepped forward, ready to close the distance between them.
Before she could, Lydia moved, slipping neatly between them.
"This has nothing to do with you," Lydia said, her smile cool and thin. "Bottom-of-the-class Jaynara Stevens, just worry about yourself."
She ran the tip of her tongue lightly along the corner of her mouth, as if savoring the words, then stepped around Jayna with practiced grace.
As she passed, she gave Jayna's shoulder a little pat, almost affectionate in gesture, completely mocking in intent. Then she slid under the umbrella of the tall boy waiting for her and climbed into the sleek Mercedes idling by the curb.
For a second, Jayna saw red.
If Calista hadn't been gripping her arm tightly, she might actually have grabbed Lydia by the hair and dragged her back for answers.
"Jayna!" Calista hissed, holding on with both hands. "Why are you worked up over them? Whatever they're doing, why do you have to care?"
She genuinely didn't understand, but she understood this much: she didn't want Jayna tangled up with that kind of group.
Jayna's breathing was still too quick, chest rising and falling. Suddenly, she snatched the floral umbrella from Calista's hand.
"Calista, do you have another umbrella?" she asked abruptly.
"Uh… I have a small one though," Calista said, a bad feeling creeping over her. "Why?"
"Then let me borrow this one first."
Jayna was already closing the umbrella as she spoke, fingers fumbling with the strap.
"You and your dad go ahead. I need to go back to the classroom."
"How are you going to get home, then?" Calista stared at the pouring rain, panic creeping into her voice.
She reached out to grab Jayna again, but her hand closed on empty air.
Jayna was already gone.
Rain roared against the concrete, drumming on the roof and the metal railings, swallowing smaller sounds whole. Jayna's voice was quickly drowned out; she didn't know if Calista heard her last sentence at all.
It didn't matter.
Her sneakers slapped against the stairs as she bounded up, taking the steps two at a time. Water flicked off her umbrella in messy arcs.
By the time she reached the fifth floor, she was breathing hard, her chest tight, both from exertion and from the nameless anxiety gnawing at her stomach.
Almost everyone had already gone. At this hour, the building felt strangely hollow. If the corridors had been full, running against the flow would've been a nightmare.
"Hey, Jaynara, what are you going up for?"
On the landing, Megan Wells nearly collided with her as she hurried down.
"Is anyone still in the classroom?" Jayna blurted, not bothering with greetings.
Megan shook her head, ponytail swaying.
"At this time? Who'd still be there?" she said. "The lights are off. The teacher hasn't come by to check, and the cleaning group finished ages ago and left."
"Do you know who's on cleaning duty tonight?"
Megan thought for a second.
"Um… pretty sure it was Zoe's group," she said. "Why? What—"
Zoe's group.
Jayna's fingers tightened around the umbrella handle.
"Okay. Thanks!" she called over her shoulder, already running again.
"Hey! I just said no one's there!" Megan protested weakly.
But Jayna was already halfway down the hall.
She skidded to a stop outside their classroom, fingers shaking slightly as she grabbed the door handle.
With a sharp, scraping sound, she yanked the door open.
Empty.
The rows of desks sat in dim grey light, the air cool and still. The faint smell of chalk and detergent hung in the room, familiar and strangely foreign all at once.
Jayna walked straight to the last row.
Her steps slowed as she reached the back corner and laid her hand on Ginevra's desk.
The surface was damp and cool under her palm, as if someone had just wiped it down with a wet cloth.
Her heart gave a painful thud.
She quickly bent down to look beneath the desktop.
Ginevra's backpack hung from the hook on the side of the desk, straps neatly arranged, untouched.
So she hadn't gone home.
Something hot and cold surged through Jayna at once—a flare of anger, a rush of fear. The pieces she'd overheard downstairs snapped into place with awful clarity.
Trash into the trash can.
Her throat tightened.
Almost without realizing it, she had already turned and was hurrying back out into the corridor. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead; beyond the windows, the sky split open with a jagged flash of lightning.
A moment later, thunder crashed, rolling across the campus like something ripping through the night.
Jayna shivered. The sound seemed to reverberate in her bones.
Her steps slowed as she reached the door at the end of the corridor—the door to the sixth-floor restroom.
Her fingers clenched around the umbrella handle until her knuckles went white.
"Ginevra?" she called softly.
The word echoed down the tiled hallway, thin and fragile against the roar of the rain.