Jayna had changed.
That, at least, was the shared conclusion of Mrs. Rose and Mr. Carter.
Ever since the October break—since the day she'd gone to a classmate's house—this child no longer looked like the same lazy, mischief-making troublemaker they'd grown used to. It was as if someone had quietly replaced her with a version from years ago, one that moved with purpose and kept her head down.
"She studies from morning to night," Mr. Carter said, worry roughening his voice. "Is she going to study herself crazy?"
"What do you know?" Mrs. Rose clicked her tongue, though her eyes softened. "She's finally being sensible again. Like back in middle school, the way she used to be—look at her, so serious. But she's gotten thinner. I don't know if she's keeping up with nutrition. Next time I go shopping, I'm buying more good ingredients."
And it wasn't an exaggeration. During the entire break, aside from that first day out, Jayna stayed shut in her room with the door closed. She only came out when it was time to eat. Sometimes Mrs. Rose would sneak a glance at the desk and see books stacked on books, like a small paper city threatening to collapse. At night, the light in the study burned deep into midnight—too deep for someone her age.
Mrs. Rose had even mentioned it to Mr. Stevens.
"You told my dad?" Jayna complained at the dinner table, chewing with an edge to her tone. There was irritation in her expression, but it was thin, like a sheet stretched over something more fragile.
"Your father's just worried," Mrs. Rose said, pushing the platter closer. "He's afraid you'll wear yourself out. Eat a little more. This fish is fresh—have some."
I know, Jayna answered silently, the words kept inside where they wouldn't wobble.
The closer the exams came, the tighter her nerves drew. Time sprinted ahead like it had somewhere urgent to be, and suddenly the mock exam was only one day away.
Jayna prodded at the food, appetite absent. For days now, she'd poured everything into studying. If she didn't understand something—before class, after class, between periods—she went straight to Ginevra Volkova. She didn't care about the puzzled looks from other students. Let them stare. Let them wonder.
She needed to improve.
She would.
"I'm done," Jayna said, setting down her chopsticks, and went upstairs.
"Jayna, you barely touched your soup…" Mrs. Rose sighed, looking at the untouched dishes, the worry returning like a hand pressing gently but insistently against her chest. "Why is she pushing herself so hard…"
On the second floor, in the easternmost room, stood a pristine white piano—so new it still looked like it didn't belong to the house. Mr. Stevens had bought it years ago. He'd said Jayna's mother had played beautifully.
Back then, young Jayna had believed—fiercely, desperately—that if she learned to play well enough, she could bring her mother back. So she had practiced until her fingers ached, until the notes felt like promises.
Now she opened the door and walked in alone.
Mrs. Rose kept the room spotless. Jayna lifted the lid of the piano and let her fingertips drift over the keys, light as a hesitant breath. It had been two years since she'd played. For two years she'd resisted even looking at it, sometimes seized by a sudden, ugly urge to destroy it—this object that had once given her hope and then, in its own quiet way, crushed her will.
She pressed a key.
The sound was clean. True. The instrument didn't need tuning, as if it had been waiting faithfully in her absence.
Jayna inhaled, slow and deep, and fixed her gaze on the piano—the same piano that had carried her longing and then watched her lose it. In her memory, she had never played for anyone. Not once.
"Ginevra," Jayna said into the phone when the call connected, her voice low with nerves she didn't want to admit to. "I want to play the piano. Will you be my first listener?"
"Okay."
On the other end, Ginevra's voice didn't hesitate. As always, it was cool and gentle in the same breath—like winter sunlight.
Jayna smiled, set her phone against the sheet music stand, and began to play from memory.
When she played, she became frighteningly focused. Her hands knew where to go, even after two years of refusal. Her fingers moved with practiced fluency, transforming into living notes that leapt and turned and struck with bright, restless energy. The sound rose, urgent and proud, stirring something buried—something that wanted to answer back. The piano seemed to vibrate with it, as if the whole body of the instrument had woken, thrilled, and was breathing again.
When the final chord fell away, Jayna stayed still for several seconds, as though she hadn't yet returned fully to her own body.
Only God knew how—after two years untouched—she had managed to play the entire rhapsody without breaking.
"It's over," she said softly, picking up the phone. Her smile was small, but real. "My one and only listener."
"Croatian Rhapsody."
"Yes," Jayna laughed under her breath, startled that Ginevra recognized it immediately. "I tweaked it a little. But… I guess it's barely passable."
"I'm honored to have heard it."
The tenderness in Ginevra's voice was unexpected—softer than usual, almost warm enough to bruise.
Jayna hadn't expected Ginevra to tease her, even gently. Her own voice dipped, honest despite herself. "You know… the mock exam's basically here. I'd be lying if I said I'm not nervous."
"Don't be nervous," Ginevra said. "Treat it like any other day."
In truth, even if Jayna didn't make it into the top hundred this time, Ginevra still wanted to keep the promise she'd made—still wanted to give Jayna what she'd asked for.
Jayna exhaled, then, half-joking and half-aching, let herself lean on the line between them. "Honestly, these past few days I've been terrified. But the moment I hear your voice, I calm down. Is that… the legendary magic of love?"
The words came out too smooth.
She froze for a beat, then hurriedly patched it with a laugh that sounded like she was trying to fool herself. "I mean—friend love. Friendship love."
Even she didn't understand it.
Right now, it really was true: only Ginevra's voice could settle her heart.
On the other end, Ginevra lowered her eyes, listening to Jayna's familiar teasing, her gaze lingering on Jayna's bunny avatar on the screen—soft, gentle, unguarded in a way Ginevra would never admit to anyone.
"You have no idea how hard these days have been," Jayna went on, spilling it all out like she'd been carrying it in her mouth. "Studying so late every night… when I feel like I can't hold on, I make coffee. I used to hate coffee—so bitter. Now I'm almost used to it. But I always put three sugar cubes in. And Mrs. Rose made so many good dishes today and I had no appetite at all. People always say 'can't eat, can't drink' when you're distracted—that's literally me." She huffed a laugh, then added, "What are you doing? You're not responding to me."
"Check your messages," Ginevra said.
Jayna glanced down.
A picture.
She enlarged it, and her face lit up like someone had struck a match behind her eyes.
It was a rabbit drawn in black pen—clumsy but unbearably cute—sitting in front of a mountain of strawberries. The rabbit looked stuffed, a little smug, as if it had just let out a satisfied burp.
"Did you draw this?!" Jayna's laugh spilled out bright and uncontained.
"Just now."
Jayna grinned so widely it almost hurt. For Ginevra, who didn't usually bother with things like this, to draw anything at all—let alone something this adorable—felt like a gift smuggled into her hands.
"So your meaning is…" Jayna said, teasing now, but with a flutter of real hope beneath it, "if I survive this exam, you'll buy me lots and lots of strawberries as a reward?"
Jayna could hear the faintest laugh on the other end.
"You didn't say no," Jayna said quickly, seizing it like proof. "I'll take that as a yes. Then I guess all this studying is worth it."
She saved the image immediately, secretly, like she was hiding a treasure. A rare artwork from the legendary Ginevra Volkova—she'd keep it safe. Someday, she'd pull it out and laugh at Ginevra with it. That was what friends did.
Right?
The things you care about most always seem to arrive too fast.
Now Jayna sat in the exam room, waiting for the teacher to hand out the papers. She tried to hold on to Ginevra's words—Relax. Treat it like any other day. But calmness refused to come. Her leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the desk, a nervous tremor she couldn't hide.
Ginevra… please bless me, Jayna prayed silently, almost superstitious with desperation.
The test landed on her desk.
She flipped it open and began.
Minute by minute, something strange happened. The questions began to feel… familiar. Not easy, exactly, but navigable. The methods Ginevra had taught her fit the problems as if they'd been cut from the same cloth. A few questions she still couldn't do—but she didn't clamp down on them like she used to, grinding herself to dust. She skipped them and moved on.
Their exam rooms were in different classrooms. Ginevra, as always, was in the first exam room on the sixth floor. Jayna was on the second.
When the first session ended, there was a fifteen-minute break before the next subject—French.
After turning in her paper, Jayna hurried out to the balcony to breathe. She leaned against the railing, letting the air cool her face, trying to convince her heart to slow down.
Upstairs, Ginevra packed her stationery with her usual unhurried precision and stepped out as well. The final few challenge questions had been similar to problems she'd explained to Jayna at home. She couldn't help wondering—had Jayna managed them?
She drifted to the railing on the sixth floor and looked down, searching.
And there—exactly where she expected—was Jayna. Restless, half-bored, half-overloaded, sprawled against the balcony ledge, fingers absently combing through her short, choppy bangs.
Ginevra's gaze lingered too long.
Her expression softened without permission, the hard edges easing as though they'd never been there.
"What are you looking at?" a voice asked. "So serious."
Ginevra turned.
It was Lydia Westbrook.
They were in the same exam room, so of course they'd run into each other. Ginevra didn't answer.
Lydia seemed used to Ginevra's cool silence by now. She'd been recovering at home for days, and whatever fear had once been born from the Zoe Taylor incident no longer clung to her the way it had. Following Ginevra's earlier angle, Lydia leaned forward and looked down as well.
She saw Jayna.
Lydia's eyes flickered—something quiet and lonely passing through.
"I didn't expect you two to be that close," Lydia said.
Ginevra looked at her, not quite understanding what Lydia wanted from this conversation.
"We've been in the same class so long," Lydia continued, and her voice grew smaller, more cautious, "and I've never seen you smile like that before." She paused, then asked plainly, "Is it because of her?"
Her meant Jayna. Ginevra knew that.
"What are you trying to say?" Ginevra asked.
Lydia hesitated. For a moment, it seemed like she might swallow the words and walk away. But she forced them out anyway, carefully, like she was laying down something breakable.
"About what happened last time… can we let it go? No grudges?"
Ginevra frowned, her mouth opening—
—and then a sweet, piercing shout from below shattered the moment into pieces.
"Hey, Ginevra—! Giny—!"
Ginevra snapped her head down.
Jayna was on the second floor, grinning like an idiot, waving both arms with zero shame, calling loudly enough to attract every wandering pair of eyes.
Giny…?
Ginevra's face tightened with helpless disbelief.
She lifted a finger to her lips, signaling Quiet. Jayna understood immediately, then exaggerated her mouth movements in the air, silently announcing:
I—did—pretty—well.
Ginevra nodded.
And only then did she realize her own expression had gone unmistakably gentle.
Jayna beamed back, dimples appearing, then bounced off toward her classroom like she couldn't contain herself.
So.
She really did well.
Ginevra straightened and turned back to Lydia, who stood there with words still caught behind her teeth. Ginevra tilted her head slightly, calm returning like a mask sliding into place.
"You should ask Jayna," she said.
Lydia lowered her gaze and tugged a bitter smile into place. "Alright. Then… good luck on the rest of your exams."
"Thank you," Ginevra replied politely.
She returned to her seat, but the image of Jayna's silly grin stayed in her mind, stubborn and bright. Ginevra shook her head with a quiet, resigned fondness.
Doing well was good.
She hoped Jayna would truly get what she wanted.
By the time the day's exams ended, it felt as if the final bell had cut a tight wire holding everyone's nerves in place. The tension snapped, and the whole campus exhaled at once. Some students looked relieved. Some looked like they'd been punched in the gut.
This mock exam mattered. For top students like Ginevra, the results would go into records tied to early admissions consideration. For Jayna, it mattered even more—she'd burned herself down for this.
"Excuse me—coming through—sorry, coming through—"
Jayna jogged against the flow up the stairwell to the sixth floor, using every scrap of strength she had to squeeze past. By the time Ginevra was calmly packing her bag, Jayna was already outside the classroom window, tapping to get her attention.
(Why do you pack so slowly?) Jayna mouthed, half-scolding, half-laughing.
Ginevra glanced at the impatient girl and quickened her movements. On her way out, she still took the time to greet the proctor.
"Hey," Jayna said as they fell into step together. "You know that teacher?"
"Mr. Sutton," Ginevra answered. "The senior grade dean. He's always assigned to the first exam room."
Jayna nodded blankly. She barely knew most of the senior staff, but people like Ginevra—gods among students—were always remembered by teachers. Jayna's curiosity tugged again. "Are you always in the first exam room?"
"Yes."
Jayna realized she'd asked something painfully obvious. She tipped her head back toward the sky, muttering like she was speaking to fate itself. "When am I ever going to catch up to you? Take tests in the same room as you?"
Ginevra looked at her, as if considering how to answer without crushing her.
Jayna waved her hand quickly, cutting her off before Ginevra could say anything sharp. In a room of thirty-five students, Jayna would have to place in the top thirty-five of the entire grade just to end up in the same exam room as Ginevra.
It was basically a death sentence.
"I feel like I'll never catch you in this lifetime," Jayna said, talking idly as they walked through campus, her voice light but the frustration underneath undeniable. "It's too hard."
"Jayna."
"Hm?" Jayna turned.
Ginevra reached into her backpack and pulled out a small box—strawberries inside, neatly arranged, clean and bright. She held it out.
"For you."
Jayna froze.
"For me?!" Her voice lifted in disbelief, and then her eyes flooded with joy so fast it looked almost childish.
"Yes."
Jayna accepted the box with a shy, delighted smile. "You actually remembered!" She'd said it as a joke, really—about rewarding herself with strawberries after the exam. She hadn't expected Ginevra to take it seriously.
But Jayna's every careless sentence stayed in Ginevra's memory.
"Let's eat together, let's eat together," Jayna said quickly, already popping the lid. "I can't just eat alone, or some people will start drooling."
She picked up a strawberry and, with exaggerated mischief, shoved it into the mouth of a certain someone who had been deliberately keeping a tiny distance.
"You eat," Ginevra said, turning her face slightly away.
"Nooo," Jayna whined, grinning, and lifted a little fork again, coaxing like she was feeding a stubborn child. "Let me feed you. Open up—my arm's getting tired."
Ginevra hesitated, reluctant.
Then she opened her mouth anyway—just a little.
The tips of her ears reddened, betraying her.
Only after Ginevra swallowed did Jayna finally prepare to eat one herself. She balanced the box in her left hand, reaching—
—and suddenly someone from behind shoved her hard.
Jayna pitched forward on instinct, her body thrown into a stumble.
Thankfully, Ginevra's reflexes were faster than thought. She hooked an arm around Jayna's waist and yanked her back before she could hit the ground. Jayna staggered several steps, saved by Ginevra's grip—
—but the strawberry box wasn't so lucky.
It flew from Jayna's hands, struck the ground, and burst open. Strawberries scattered everywhere, rolling like small, wounded hearts across the pavement.
Jayna stared.
Her eyes filled with instant grief, ridiculous and real. She looked ready to cry over fruit. Then anger rose, sharp enough to steady her legs.
She whipped around to see which blind idiot had pushed her—
Two boys with backpacks were standing there, laughing. Middle schoolers. They stomped the fallen strawberries with gleeful cruelty, grinding them into the ground, then stuck out their tongues at Jayna and Ginevra like it was a game.
Jayna couldn't believe it.
The arrogance. The lack of manners. The sheer ugliness of it.
Her hands shook with rage. She lifted a finger, about to scold them—
—and one of them spit out a curse at her, a word filthy enough to make her stomach twist.
After that, as if nothing mattered, the boy kicked the empty box and turned to run.
"Oh, hell no," Jayna snapped, already starting to roll up her sleeves, ready to chase them down and drag their parents into it.
But then—
The boy running in front suddenly jerked as the empty fruit box smacked into the back of his head. He yelped and crouched, clutching his skull. The other boy stopped in alarm and hurried back.
Jayna blinked, stunned.
Beside her, Ginevra handed Jayna her backpack without a word and walked forward.
Calmly.
Almost quietly.
She flexed her fingers once, as if loosening joints.
The boys looked up at her and forced what they thought was a friendly smile—trying, suddenly, to pretend this was nothing.
But Ginevra's gaze changed.
In one breath, the gentleness drained away. Something violent and cold slid into place, merciless as a blade.
She grabbed the boy who'd cursed by the hair and yanked.
He didn't even have time to scream properly before she dragged him off the walkway and into the grass by the roadside. He scrambled, half-rolling, half-crawling, legs kicking uselessly as she hauled him through gravel and stones. His ankle scraped, skin splitting—thin red lines opening like punishment.
"Ah—shit, it hurts—!" the boy howled, his voice breaking with panic.
Ginevra lowered her eyes and looked down at him.
There was a flash in them—something dark, something that didn't belong in a schoolgirl's face.
"Tvar," she said quietly, and the softness in her voice made it worse. "Who were you calling that?" She looked down at him coldly, the word "Trash" slipping from her lips, and the cruelty in her gaze matched the venom in her tone.