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Every summer of my life has been swallowed by bible camp. like clockwork. like a curse. like god himself put me on the roster and forgot to take me off. And I hated it — the heat, the hymns, the forced smiles — all of it. The only reason I survived was that my cousin was a counselor and refused to suffer alone. But this year? freedom. She quit. She QUIT. and bible camp ended last week, which means I have eleven whole months before anyone tries to hand me a devotional again.
But anyway. Today isn't about trauma. Today is the first day of school. senior year.
I rolled out of bed with a groan, stretching like a cat that slept wrong. My hair was a mess, my eyes were crusty, and my soul was... somewhere.
But today was the day.
Soccer tryouts.
I was already on junior varsity, but I'm a senior now, and I want varsity. "The real team". the one that gets actual applause instead of pity claps from parents who don't know the rules. Is that too much to ask? I hope not. I packed my soccer bag with my brand-new cleats, shin guards, deodorant (because I'm not a monster), and my own soccer ball... just in case someone "forgot" theirs again. I set the bag aside and got dressed: jeans and a wrinkled Muna T-shirt.
Stunning. Breathtaking. Vogue is shaking.
I padded downstairs, still half-asleep. My mom slid a plate onto the island like she'd been waiting for me.
"What happened to all the new clothes we bought you?" she asked, staring at my shirt like it personally offended her. I tried smoothing the wrinkles with my hand. They laughed in my face. "They're dirty..." I muttered, stabbing a waffle with my fork.
"Bells, I told you to do laundry yesterday."
"I know, I know, I forgot..." I said through a mouthful of waffle. She sighed — the classic mom sigh — and went back to rinsing dishes. My dad came downstairs, grabbed his coffee, kissed the top of my head like I was still five. "Alright, I'm off. love you both!"
We chorused our goodbyes, and then it was just me, my mom, and the quiet hum of the dishwasher.
"You nervous?" she asked.
"About what?" I said, even though I knew exactly what.
"Senior year. AP classes. College applications."
I groaned dramatically. "Please. I already have three ap classes this semester. I'm gonna evaporate."
She smiled that proud‑mom smile that says, "You're dramatic, but I love you."
My phone buzzed.
Katie 🐸: WAKE UP. first day of hell. u alive or no
Katie 🐸: send fit. I need to bully u.
I snorted.
Me: jeans. wrinkled Muna shirt. Don't be rude.
Katie: LMFAOOOOO. iconic. Want me to pick u up?
Me: nah i'm driving. tryouts.
Katie: fine. see u in the lot. Bring me a granola bar, or I'll scream.
I tossed my phone into my bag and finished my waffle. My mom slid a travel mug toward me like she already knew I'd need caffeine to survive.
"Thanks," I said, kissing her cheek.
"Drive safe," she warned, pointing a spatula at me like a weapon.
"I always do," I lied confidently.
I grabbed my bag, keys, and walked outside. The morning air was cool enough to wake me up, but humid enough to remind me I lived in Florida. My car sat crooked in the driveway because I still can't park straight. I threw everything into the passenger seat, turned on the engine, and immediately got blasted by chaotic pop music. Honestly? perfect. I pulled out of the driveway like the main character I fully believed I was. And off to school I went, blasting MUNA like my life depended on it. runner's high came on, and I was in it, singing way too dramatically for someone who hadn't even had caffeine yet. "I'm on a runner's high, I'm on a runner's high—" yeah. I was performing. for the steering wheel.
By the time I pulled into the parking lot, I was feeling bold. confident. main‑character‑coded. So obviously I decided to back up into my spot like I was in a Fast & Furious movie.
and then— "Whoa, Whoa! Watch out..!"
I slammed the brakes. bro. Why were they walking across a parking space? Who does that? Who raised them. I glanced at the rearview mirror and froze. OH. MY. GOD. No. No No No. NO! I slapped a hand over my mouth as she walked toward my car.
Shit Shit Shit. She's coming to my window. I could literally feel my soul leaving my body. She stopped beside my door, leaning down with that stupidly attractive, sly, masc‑leaning look she always had. She tapped the window and motioned for me to roll it down, her fingers long and elegant and annoying. I lowered it an inch, then all the way, because apparently I hate myself.
"Young," she said, her soft Russian accent curling around the word like it was something intimate. "long time no see."
My brain short‑circuited. "Hi Kristen..." I managed, slow and awkward, because I was SO EMBARRASSED and also maybe dying.
"May I ask," she said, tilting her head, "Why you almost tried to run me over..?" The teasing in her voice was illegal. actually illegal.
"Uhm... I usually... don't think people walk in parking spaces..." I joked weakly. She raised a brow. not amused. "Oh, well, excuse me. I didn't want to walk on the sidewalk. god forbid."
"Sorry, I—"
"Relax," she said, a tiny smirk tugging at her mouth. "I'm kidding, young."
She still called me by my last name. Why was that cute? Why was I like this?
"Mnn, you play?" she asked suddenly.
I blinked. "Huh?"
"Soccer," she clarified, eyes flicking to my bag in the passenger seat. "You play?"
"Oh— yeah, haha... I'm trying out for the team today."
"Ah. cool."
I swallowed. "What do you play?"
"Yes, briefly," she said. "I try out today. My school. I don't go here."
"Oh...?" I hated how breathy that sounded. ew.
"Yes. I drop off my sister. She's in ninth grade."
"Right... that makes sense."
She stepped back slightly, hands in her pockets, looking unfairly good for eight in the morning. "Okay, I will go. Do not run me over."
"I won't," I said, laughing nervously because I had no control over my body. She started walking away, then turned back, eyes glinting. "If I make the team, maybe we'll go against each other, huh..?"
"Well... that's if I make the team," I said.
She gave me a look. a look. "Oh, you will," she said, smirking like she knew something I didn't. "Goodbye, young."
And then she almost winked. almost. And it was so hot I had to physically grip the steering wheel.
I grabbed my phone with shaking hands.
Me: katie. Oh my god. You will NEVER guess who I just ran into....!
-
"No freaking way! you ran into Kristen Romanoff !!?!!?" Katie practically screamed, vibrating with excitement like a chihuahua on Red Bull.
"Shh— relax, lower your voice.." I hissed, glancing around the parking lot like Kristen might materialize out of thin air. My heart was still doing gymnastics.
"Oh— right, sorry!" she whisper‑yelled, which was somehow louder. I slammed my car door shut, still feeling the ghost of Kristen's almost‑wink burning into my soul. I swear I could still smell her cologne. Or maybe that was just my car AC. Whatever. Katie looped her arm through mine as we started toward the school entrance. "Bells. You're literally shaking."
"I'm not shaking," I lied, shaking.
"You're in love with her," she said immediately.
"I— what— no—" I tripped over absolutely nothing. "I'm just... startled."
"Startled by her jawline?"
I groaned. "Katie."
She grinned like she'd won something.
-
The hallways were chaos. Freshmen clumping like lost ducklings. Seniors pretending they were too cool to care. Teachers standing in doorways with fake smiles and coffee breath. The fluorescent lights buzzing like they were judging us.
Katie and I pushed through the crowd toward AP Chemistry — our first class of the year. The room smelled like old textbooks and stress. The long black lab tables were already half‑claimed by overachievers. We slid into our usual spot: middle table, left side. Prime real estate. I dropped my bag and exhaled, finally letting my shoulders relax. "Ugh, I forgot how depressing this room is," Katie said, poking the black tabletop like it offended her. "It's giving... academic prison," I agreed.
Students trickled in, loud and sleepy and dramatic. And then—
"Hellooooo my chemically‑gifted sluts!" Jay strutted in like he owned the place, iced coffee in hand, nails painted a glossy black. Katie snorted. "Jay, you have AP Calc first period."
He tossed his hair. "And yet here I am. Because fate wants me near you two."
"You're in this class?" I asked.
"Yep." He plopped into the seat beside us. "AP Calc is first period, right? Try to keep up, babes."
Katie rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable."
"And gorgeous," he added.
"Unfortunately," I said. The door slammed shut and everyone jumped.
"Good morning, scholars," said a tall woman with sharp eyeliner and a cardigan that screamed 'I grade harshly.' "I'm Dr. Halpern. Welcome to AP Chemistry." A collective groan rippled through the room. She passed out thick packets — the dreaded syllabus. "This year we'll be covering thermodynamics, kinetics, equilibrium, acids and bases, and of course, the AP exam in May." Jay whispered, "I'm dropping out." Katie whispered back, "Same." I whispered, "I'm already dead."
Dr. Halpern continued, "You will each be assigned lab partners—"
Jay clutched his chest. "If I get paired with a straight boy I'm suing."
"—but not today," she finished.
Jay exhaled dramatically.
Students murmured, flipped through the packet, complained about the workload. The usual first‑day soundtrack. Katie nudged me. "Okay, Bells. Spill. Start from the beginning. How did you run into her?" Jay perked up instantly. "Who? What? Is this gay drama? I love gay drama." I sighed, cheeks warming. "It's not— okay, fine. I was backing into my spot and she walked behind my car." Jay gasped. "She almost died?"
"No! I didn't hit her!"
Katie smirked. "But she came to your window." I covered my face. "Don't remind me."
Jay leaned in. "Describe her. In detail. For science." I swallowed. "She... looks different. Older. Hotter. Like... masc‑pretty? And she still has that accent and she called me 'Young' and—"
"Oh my god," Katie whispered.
"You're in love with her," Jay declared.
"I'm NOT—" I protested, blushing so hard I felt feverish. Jay raised a brow. "Bells. You're literally glowing."
I groaned into my hands.
"And," Katie added, "she plays soccer now." Jay's eyes widened. "Wait— what school?"
I hesitated. "Um... Westbrook High." Jay slapped the table. "Bells. That's our rival school." Katie nodded. "Yeah, we played them like three times last year."
My stomach dropped. "Oh my god." Jay grinned wickedly. "So you're telling me... your crush... plays for the rival team... and you're trying out today... and you might go against her?"
I squeaked. "Stop." Katie fanned herself. "This is literally a movie plot."
Jay pointed at me. "You're doomed. And in love."
"I'm not—" I tried again. But my face was hot. My chest was fluttery. My brain kept replaying her smirk, her voice, her almost‑wink.
Yeah. I was doomed.
-
After a long, excruciating day of syllabuses, awkward introductions, and teachers pretending they "don't give homework on the first day," I finally made it to the part of the day I'd been waiting for: soccer tryouts.
I know — shocking.
Me?
Excited?
After eight hours of academic suffering? But honestly... yes.
Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the fact that I'd spent the entire day replaying my parking‑lot interaction with Kristen Romanoff like it was a scene from a movie. Maybe it was the way my stomach kept flipping every time I remembered her voice, her smirk, her stupid almost‑wink. Whatever the reason, I practically floated toward the field. Katie came with me for moral support, obviously. She claimed she was "only here because she had nothing better to do," but she brought snacks, a water bottle labeled Hydration Queen, and a mini first‑aid kit. So she was clearly invested in my survival. Jay, on the other hand, had to sprint to drama class. He was auditioning for Mean Girls: The Musical and had already declared that if he didn't get Regina George, "this shit's rigged and I'm suing." I wished him luck. He told me to "slay the field like a lesbian icon." Classic Jay. The field was buzzing when we arrived — girls stretching, tying cleats, jogging laps, talking nervously. The sun was starting to dip, painting everything gold, and for a moment I felt like I was in one of those aesthetic sports movies where the main character has her big breakthrough moment.
Katie nudged me with her elbow. "You good, Bells?"
I exhaled slowly. "I think so."
She gave me that look — half teasing, half supportive — the one she saves for moments when she knows I'm about to spiral. And honestly? I was. Between first‑day stress, AP classes, and the emotional earthquake that was Kristen Romanoff appearing out of nowhere, my brain was fried. But the field felt grounding. The smell of grass, the sound of cleats on turf, the familiar weight of my soccer bag on my shoulder — it all reminded me why I was here. Why I wanted this. Why varsity mattered. And maybe, just maybe, why the idea of playing against Kristen made my heart do something stupid and fluttery. I shook my head, trying to clear it. This was not the time to be in love with a rival school's striker. Or midfielder. Or whatever position she played. I didn't even know. I just knew she looked good holding a soccer ball and that was enough to ruin my life. Katie squeezed my arm. "You've got this. Seriously. You're good, Bells. Like... actually good."
I swallowed hard. "I hope so."
"You don't need hope," she said. "You need confidence. And maybe a little gay panic. Which you already have."
I groaned. "Please stop."
She laughed. "Never."
The coach blew the whistle, calling everyone to the center of the field. My heart jumped into my throat. This was it. Tryouts were starting. No turning back. I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders back, and stepped forward.
"Bells, breathe," Katie whispered.
"I am breathing," I said, even though I absolutely wasn't.
"You're gonna kill it. Just do what you always do."
"Which is what?"
"Run fast, kick hard, and don't pass out."
"That's... inspiring."
"You're welcome."
The coach raised her clipboard. "Alright, ladies. Let's get started."
Cut to an hour and a half later.
I was drenched. My shirt clung to me, my hair was plastered to my forehead, and my lungs felt like they were made of fire. But I'd done it. I'd actually done it.
"You did great, Isabel, oh my god!" Katie yelled, rushing over with a water bottle like she was my personal medic.
I took it with shaky hands. "You think so?"
"Of course, girl. You rocked!"
Before I could respond, Coach hollered across the field, clipboard in hand. "You'll get your results tomorrow in the activities hall!"
Everyone buzzed with excitement — hugging, squealing, jumping. I felt it too, but underneath it all was a knot of nerves twisting in my stomach.
Katie nudged me. "You're in. I'm calling it now."
"I hope so," I whispered.
--
When I got home, I walked in like a zombie. My legs were jelly, my arms were noodles, and my brain was mashed potatoes. I flopped onto the couch and let out a dramatic sigh.
"How were tryouts, hun?" my mom called from her office.
"Excruciating..." I groaned, dragging myself upright and shuffling toward her doorway. "But I think I did good, though."
"Oh, I hope so!" she said, typing away. "When's Dad coming home?"
"Not till late, honey. So you're on your own for dinner."
"Oh. Okay... I'll just go to Katie's."
"Alright," she said with a small smile.
I slid the glass large door shut behind me and trudged upstairs. A shower was non‑negotiable. I needed to look at least somewhat human.
After I got dressed, I texted:
Me: I'm coming over. No negotiations.
Katie: Oh, okay...
I grabbed my bag, headed outside, and—
Across the street, out stepped Kristen.
My soul left my body.
She was leaning against the porch railing across the street like she'd been waiting for me. Her height — five foot ten, literal skyscraper, from what I remembered, because that car interaction she looked smaller. It made her silhouette impossible to miss. Her deep, heavy Russian accent rolled out like thunder.
"Well, well, well..."
I facepalmed. "Are you stalking me, Kristen? Because first my car, now my home."
She looked around, nodding approvingly. "Ah, yes. Your home. Big. Nice. Large."
"Thanks...?" I blinked. "But wait — what are you even doing here? You don't live there."
She scoffed. "What? Me? Don't live here? Pfft. Young, of course I do."
"I've lived here since I was born. I've never seen you."
She sighed. "Okay, fine. I don't live here. My aunt does. We were not on... ehh... 'speaking terms.' Now we are good."
"Oh. Sorry."
"You're fine." She paused, glancing down at the little girl drawing on the driveway. "Xорошо, заходи внутрь сейчас, Айла" (Okay, go inside Isla.)
The girl pouted. "Но я ещё не закончила раскрашивать!" (But I haven't finished coloring yet!) She held up her chalk like evidence.
"Go," Kristen huffed.
The girl sighed dramatically, brushed chalk off her pants, gathered her pieces, and trudged inside — leaving behind an unfinished rainbow and a cat with one ear.
"Who was that?" I asked softly.
"Cousin. Isla. She's seven."
"Oh... that's nice," I said, suddenly shy for no reason.
Kristen's eyes flicked over me, slow and assessing. "Where are you going? You look... ehh... dressed nicely."
My face heated. "Just to my friend's. Why? You want to follow me?" I asked walking towards my car door, about to leave.
"Eh. Maybe."
"Figures," I muttered.
She walked from the porch to the driveway, glancing at me. "Mnn. What if you cancel?"
"Why? I told her I was going to her house."
"Come, come," she said, waving her hand like I was a puppy. I found myself walking across the street toward her without thinking.
"Give me phone," she said.
I clutched it. "Why?"
"Come on, come on, Young. Phone. Give me."
I sighed and handed it over. She scrolled. "Katie, yes?"
I nodded, confused.
She typed something, then cleared her throat and — oh god — imitated my voice. Her deep Russian accent trying to sound high‑pitched and girly was the funniest, most chaotic thing I'd ever heard.
"Hey girlyyyyy, so I'm like now busy! Sorry, will talk soon, bye!"
She hit send.
"I do NOT talk like that," I said flatly. "Whatever. You come with me." She replied, then walked toward her car — a Porsche. A literal Porsche. Never expected it to be hers. She opened the passenger door for me. "I don't bite. Come on." My heart was pounding. "Where are you taking me?" She scoffed, a bit annoyed, leaning down so her face was level with mine — or as close as it could get with our height difference. "Oh what, you think im going to kidnap you young? Please, let's be serious here."
"I-, no I was just asking-"
"Right, right..." she said, closing the door, walking to the driver side. "I'm taking you to my place." A glint of nervousness entered my body. Already going to her place, and I haven't seen her in like.. years? Anyways, the car ride was quiet in that weird, charged way where every second feels louder than it should. Måneskin played low through the speakers, bass humming under my feet. I didn't even know she liked Italian rock. Somehow it fit her — sharp, bold, a little chaotic. I kept sneaking glances at her. She kept pretending not to notice.
"So..." I finally said, because silence was killing me.
"Yes, Young?" she replied, voice soft but still carrying that deep, masculine edge that made my stomach flip, she tapped her left foot softly to the beat of the song.
"Did you... do good on your tryouts?"
"Yes. I pass. I am on team."
"Wow, so quick?"
"Yes. My school isn't like that. You try out, boom, spot earned."
"Oh. Right."
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "I am forward."
My heart dropped. That was usually my position. I don't even know if I got it or not. But two forwards? Opposite teams...? Oh god.
"So... are you nervous?" I asked.
"Nervous? Not me. I don't do that."
I smiled. "So you're ready?"
She glanced at me, eyes flicking down my face before returning to the road. "I am excited. And ready. Both."
The way she said it made my chest warm.
_
Cut to fifteen minutes later, we pulled into her neighborhood — smaller houses, cracked sidewalks, kids' bikes in yards. Her Porsche looked like it had been dropped here by accident. She parked and stepped out. "Sorry I don't live in five‑star mansion."
"Oh, that's fine," I said quickly.
"Good. And watch your step." She pointed at a cracked tile in the walkway.
She muttered under her breath, "I hope my mom is not home."
I blinked. "Why?"
She didn't answer.
We reached the door. She opened it, then groaned. "Of course she's home. Дерьмо." (Shit.)
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
"Yes, yes. Everything is fine." It didn't sound fine.
Inside was chaos — her freshman sister on the couch watching TV with their mom, two little brothers running around, a tiny girl drawing on the floor with a marker, her mom not even caring that she's ruining her home.
"Does anyone notice you brought me over?" I whispered.
"Unless I bring food, they don't care. But once my mom notices, game over, which doesn't bother me, I'm used to it."
"You bring other girls over?" I asked, slowly concerned.
"Yes, young I bring other girls over. I'm not a total loser..." she said with a hint of certainty. "Right, sorry..." I replied.
She sighed and stepped forward to then immediately landed on a LEGO.
"ARGH! Приходите забирать свои глупые лего, мелкие ублюдки!!" (Come pick up your stupid Legos, you little shits!)
Two boys scrambled over, scooping up the Legos. Kristen rubbed her temples, then her foot. "Evan and Petro," she said, pointing.
She moved into the cramped kitchen, stepping around toys. "Argh... Would you like drink? We have lemonade?"
"I'm okay," I said, unsure, quickly glancing in her fridge which barely had food and it was full of vodka, wine, and beer.
"So, it's just your mom and siblings?" I asked.
"Yes. Dad left when I was young. Урод." (Bastard.) "I hated that man."
"Oh..."
"The little girl is Karoline. Freshman sister is Silvana. We call her Vana."
Before I could respond, she grabbed my wrist. "Come, come."
We walked down a dim hallway until she opened her bedroom door — and it was like stepping into a different world. Clean, organized, soft lighting, posters, a neatly made bed.
"I begged for my own room," she said. "Did not want to share with these pests. Dirty. Very dirty. I am clean. Cleanest one here."
She flopped onto her bed and patted the spot beside her. "Sit."
I sat. The bed creaked under us.
She set her drink down, then leaned in and kissed me — hands cupping my cheeks, warm and firm.
"Oh!" I pulled back, startled.
"Sorry... did you not like that?" she asked, brows furrowing.
"No, I did. I did."
"Good," she murmured, leaning in again.
This time I didn't pull away.
Her height made everything feel overwhelming — she had to bend down so far to reach me, her shadow practically swallowing mine. Her hands were big, warm, steady on my waist. The kiss deepened, slow at first, then hungrier, like she'd been waiting for this.
I ended up half‑lying on the bed, her towering over me, one knee sinking into the mattress beside my hip. She kissed me again, slower, more deliberate, her thumb brushing my jaw. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure she could hear it.
She pulled back just enough to look at me. "You are very shy," she whispered.
"I'm not—" I started, but she smirked.
"You are."
I blushed so hard I felt dizzy.
We kept kissing — soft, warm, breathless — until everything blurred into heat and closeness and the feeling of her hands in my hair. Eventually, the moment folded into something deeper, something private, something I won't describe — but it was gentle, and careful, and full of that strange, magnetic pull between us...
Then—
Her mom's voice exploded from the living room.
"Кристина! Ты опять привела кого‑то домой?! Что с тобой не так?!" (Kristina! You brought someone home again?! What is wrong with you?!)
Kristen closed her eyes, jaw tightening. "Боже... не сейчас." (God... not now.)
Her mom yelled again. "Ты думаешь, я не вижу, что ты делаешь?! Это дом, а не гостиница!" (You think I don't see what you're doing?! This is a home, not a hotel!)
Kristen stood up so fast the bed shook. "Мама, хватит!" (Mom, enough!)
I froze.
She stormed to the doorway, shouting back, voice deeper, angrier. "Я просто привела друга! Перестань кричать на меня каждый раз, когда я дышу!" (I just brought a friend! Stop yelling at me every time I breathe!)
Her mom fired back something sharp and fast — too fast for me to catch.
Kristen snapped, "Я не такая, как ты! Перестань делать вид, что заботишься!" (I'm not like you! Stop pretending you care!)
Silence. Heavy. Ugly.
Kristen shut the door, leaning against it, breathing hard.
I swallowed. "Are... you okay?"
She rubbed her forehead. "I don't get along with her. At all."
I stepped closer. "Why?"
She hesitated, then sat back on the bed, shoulders slumping. "She... she does not like who I am. How I am. She thinks I am... trouble. Too loud. Too much. She wants perfect daughter. I am not perfect."
My chest tightened. "Kristen..."
She looked at me, eyes softer now. "It is always like this. Every day. I try to ignore. But it is hard."
I sat beside her, our shoulders touching. "I'm sorry."
She shrugged, but her voice was small. "You get used to it."
I didn't think anyone should ever have to "get used to" that.
She looked at me again, really looked, and her expression softened. "But... having you here... it is nice."
My heart did a somersault.
"Yeah," I whispered. "It is."
She leaned her head against mine, and for a moment, the whole house went quiet.