Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The First Girl
Three weeks into the term, the snow turns wet and heavy, sticking to my jacket as I walk across the courtyard after last period.
My skates hang over my shoulder. I am headed to the rink because that is where I go when I do not want to think, which is always.
I cut across the courtyard and hear my name.
“Kilovac?” I turn.
It is the headband girl. The one who looked at me like I was the smudge on a window she needed wiped away. Her friends flank her like a pair of decorative columns. They all wear matching coats in different colors, expensive fabric that moves too smoothly to be normal.
She steps forward, chin lifted. “You left your book,” she says, holding out the small Russian lit paperback I used in class.
I did not leave my book. It was inside my bag ten seconds ago. But her hand is outstretched, so I take it.
“Thanks,” I say.
Her eyes flicker over my face, down to my hoodie, then back up. “You are… good."
“At what?”
“Hockey.”
I shrug. “Thanks.”
Her friends shift behind her, bored already, waiting for her to finish talking to the peasant charity case.
She forces a smile. “Maybe I will come to a game.”
“Suit yourself.” Her smile falters. Like she expected me to fall at her feet because she acknowledged my existence. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “We are having a study group afternoon tomorrow. For midterms. You can join if you want. I mean… if you need help.”
There it is. The insult wrapped in generosity.
I tighten my grip on my skate bag. “I am fine.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Right. Of course.”
She turns away quickly, cheeks pink. Her friends immediately swarm her with whispers.
I walk off. This world exhausts me.
I skate for an hour, long enough for my muscles to stop twitching. I do my homework in the empty bleachers afterward. Then I shower, change, and head toward the side exit. That is when I hear it. Footsteps. Light. Hesitant. Echoing in the hall behind me.
I do not turn. I know the sound of cheap sneakers and expensive footwear. These are the expensive kind.
“Kilovac.”
I stop. She is standing there. Headband girl. Alone. No friends. Her perfect coat unbuttoned, her perfect hair a little frizzy from snow. She looks… nervous.
“What?” I ask.
“You go home this way?” she asks.
“Sometimes.”
“Can I… walk with you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “Because I can.”
That answer tells me everything and nothing at once.
We walk. Snow falls heavier now. Her boots crunch on the pavement. She keeps glancing at me like she wants to say something big but is not sure how to start.
Finally, she blurts, “You do not care.”
“About what?”
“About us,” she says. “About people like me.”
I laugh once. “Why would I?”
She flinches. Not in offense. In truth.
We reach the back corner of the sports building, the area where the maintenance shed blocks the view of the courtyard. She stops walking. Looks around. Steps closer. Too close.
“I did not mean to look down on you,” she says softly. “I just… everyone does. It is how it is. But when you hit Volkov, I… I saw you.”
She reaches for my sleeve. Fingers brush the fabric. Her eyes search mine like she is looking for permission. I do not give verbal permission. I just do not step back. She rises to her toes and kisses me. Her lips are soft. Uncertain. She tastes like mint tea and privilege.
She pulls back, breath shaky, eyes wide. “Do not tell anyone,” she whispers. “Please.”
There it is. The shift. The crack in the porcelain.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because they will talk. Because they will say something is wrong with me. Because they will think I chose…” She gestures to me. “…this.”
I laugh quietly. “This?”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. I just hate that she said it.
She steps closer again, palms on my chest now. “But I want to choose you.”
Her voice is almost desperate. So, I let her kiss me again. This time she means it.
Her hands tangle in my hoodie. Mine settle on her waist. Her breath comes fast. She presses her forehead against mine when we break apart.
“Can we…” She glances at the shed behind us. “…go inside?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “Why not?”
“Because you are scared of people seeing me with you,” I say. “But you want me out of sight? I do not do secrets.”
She bites her lip. “Please.”
I should walk away. I know what this is. I know what she wants. I know it is not me, exactly. It is rebellion wrapped in hormones. But she looks at me like I am something she has never been allowed to touch before. And I am fourteen, not an idiot.
“Fine,” I say.
She exhales in relief and pulls me behind the shed, where the overhang hides us from the path.
Snowflakes melt on her hair as she lifts her chin and kisses me harder than before.
Hands roam. Breathing deepens. Heat builds fast. She is inexperienced.
She is eager. She is terrified. And she is not thinking about me at all.
Not Aleks. Not the person. She is thinking about what I represent.
Danger. Difference. Something outside her curated world.
When she pulls away again, her lipstick is smudged and her eyes are shining in a way that makes her look less polished and more… human.
“Do not tell anyone,” she whispers again.
I nod once. “I won’t.”
She touches my cheek, almost apologetic, then pulls her coat tighter and walks away into the snow.
I stand there a long time, watching her disappear between the buildings.
I am not stupid. I know she will ignore me tomorrow. Pretend this did not happen. Pretend she did not kiss the scholarship boy behind a shed like a secret sin. But I also know something new now. Rich kids break too. They just break in prettier places.