Exhausted, drained of almost all energy, I slowly—no, more like crawled—into the doorway of the apartment. Silently shutting the door behind me, I tossed my helmet onto the side table and slid down the wall from sheer fatigue, slowly closing my eyes and letting my backpack drop. Damn, that was tough. And it was only the start of the school year. What would going to happen next? It's terrifying to even imagine.
A hissing sound coming from the kitchen snapped me out of my "sleeping on the go." Instantly, I caught a pleasant scent wafting from the same place and frowned as much as my face would let me. Mom shouldn't even be home yet—her workday only would end at eight. Maybe she didn't go today? No! Even the thought sounded ridiculously silly and pointless in my head. But then… who on earth was working so hard in the kitchen?
Kneeling, I silently pushed myself up—if you don't count the characteristic crack in my back—and reached for the cabinet door. With, damn it, an absolutely horrible creak, I opened it and pulled out a wooden baseball bat. Holding it at the ready, I started taking slow, careful steps toward the kitchen.
My heart pounded like crazy, and my breathing became uneven and anxious. Terrifying!
"Hands behind your head! Nobody move!" I burst in with a shout, kicking the damn door open.
My dad looked at me with a what the hell, kid expression and, clearly stunned, just stared with his mouth slightly open.
"Dad!" I tossed the bat aside and rushed into his arms with a wide, Cheshire-cat grin. "Mom didn't say you were coming!"
"Well, that's because she doesn't know yet," he replied, hugging me back while continuing to stir something in a sizzling pan with a spatula.
Pulling away, I turned toward the stove, trying to figure out what exactly he was cooking. Small pieces of meat mixed with finely chopped vegetables, all covered in tomato sauce. My appetite didn't just wake up—it exploded instantly. A second later, my stomach let out a loud growl, more like a volcanic eruption than anything else.
"Looks like someone's starving," Dad commented, then gently nudged me toward the door, sending me off to change.
"But how… Why didn't you...?" I didn't even get to finish before I found myself out in the hallway. Only after hearing his voice from the kitchen—saying he'd explain everything over lunch—did I pick up my bag and, with heavy steps, head to my room.
No one could even imagine how happy I was about my dad coming back—I hadn't seen him for over a month. Every single day, I found myself bitterly cursing his damn job, the one that kept taking him away from me for long stretches, that didn't let us see each other and didn't even always allow us to call. Archaeological excavations took place all across Europe, across the continent, all over the world—and my dad was always part of those expeditions.
Of course, being an archaeologist is an incredible, fascinating profession. But, damn it, it shouldn't come before family. And in our case, it did.
My dad spent more time traveling the world than he did at home, and naturally, that didn't make me happy. Not just me, either. But those moments we did spend together as a family—with Mom and Dad—were priceless. Seeing them sit quietly on the couch, smiling at each other… seeing my mom soften, no longer reacting so sharply to everything… witnessing two people who truly loved each other and realizing they were your parents—and that you yourself were proof of that love.
I didn't get to see that often—because of my dad's job—but that only made those moments even more special, the kind that stayed with me for a very long time.
As it turned out later, while I was eagerly devouring the lunch he'd made, feeling like there was a massive hole in my stomach that needed to be filled immediately, Dad had only come back for a short while. That's why everything had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly.
I frowned the moment I heard, "…just for a couple of days," realizing that in a day or two he'd be gone again. But at the same time, I was still glad things had turned out this way—that at least for a little while, I'd get to have him close.
"How's school?" Dad smoothly switched the topic after explaining his sudden arrival.
I abruptly choked on a piece of bread and, stopping mid-meal, coughed loudly, thumping my chest with my fist.
"Is it really that bad?" he asked with mock surprise, widening his eyes and covering mouth with left hand.
"It's nothing special," I brushed it off, setting my fork down on the plate. "Just an insane workload."
By "insane," I meant that every morning I got up for school, every hour spent in that building, every bit of information they tried to cram into my brain—all of it made me want to die. And sooner rather than later.
"Eleventh grade, after all," Dad sighed wearily, stating the obvious, and I nodded just as gloomily. "And how are things with your favorite subject?"
Yeah, yeah—he meant biology.
"We've got a new teacher."
"Oh? Has Mrs. Johnson already served her time?" Dad narrowed his eyes and said it with a teasing tone, faint wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. I nodded again, just as sadly.
"I can imagine how happy your mom must've been."
"Oh, she's been even happier than me," I confirmed quickly, recalling Mom's furious rants, letting out a quiet chuckle.
That's exactly what I'd been missing—these carefree conversations with my dad, that special atmosphere I slipped into every time I told him about everything that had happened while he was away. My plate emptied pretty quickly, and Dad only smiled warmly before asking:
"Tasty?"
"You bet," hardly anyone could compete with my dad when it came to cooking, but I got to enjoy his masterpieces far too rarely. Again—because of his job. Though, after seventeen years, I'd gotten used to things being this way. Still, sometimes it left a dull ache in my chest—especially in those moments when I really needed his support.
"By the way," Dad suddenly stood up, raising a forefinger, "I've got something for you."
I froze in anticipation. He stepped out of the kitchen for a minute, and when he came back, there was a teasing smile on his face. I noticed he was holding something behind his back. A gift? When did he even have the time?
"Well?.." I said impatiently, rubbing my hands together like a little kid and raising my brows expectantly.
I blinked in surprise as he handed me a set of pastel pencils.
I couldn't help but smile, realizing he remembered exactly what I needed. Yeah, in my free time—which I barely had, if any—I drew. Everyone, everything, anything around me. I loved it, and Dad supported me like no one else. Unlike Mom, who thought my "scribbles" were a waste of time and completely useless.
"You'd better study with that kind of enthusiasm instead," her words echoed in my mind.
"Thank you, Daddy," I said, jumping up from the table, happily taking the gift and hugging him tight in gratitude. Moments like this made me love him even more—for understanding me, for sharing my interests.
"You're welcome, princess," Dad chuckled. "Now show me your new sketches… if you've got any."
I gave him a look that clearly said, "Of course I do," and hurried off to my room, clutching the box of pastels to my chest like some kind of treasure, hoping to find my latest drawings.
Overwhelmed with joy because of Dad's return, I completely forgot—not just about the upcoming biology test, but about school altogether. I spent the rest of the day in his company, sitting in the living room over cups of warm tea, talking about everything. Literally everything. And even when Mom came home, exhausted after a long workday, she was so happy to see him that she, just like me, let herself forget everything else.
Even her usual, well-worn question—"Did you do all your homework?"—the one I heard every single day, this time remained somewhere deep in the far corners of her mind.
The next day, I poured out all my joy and excitement in conversations with my desk partner. But the moment my foot crossed the threshold of classroom "209," something in my brain flipped—a switch. My common sense snapped back instantly, and the smile vanished from my face as if it had never been there at all.
"I forgot," I whispered under my breath, staring blankly at a single spot on the board, already seated at my desk. I was sure my face now looked like I'd done something truly awful.
"What happened?" Smith asked with a nervous little laugh, but a second later, my seriousness seemed to transfer to her completely. "Lily…"
She stared at me with concern, frozen in place, genuinely starting to worry. Pressing my dry lips together, I slowly turned to her. My face must've gone pale—marble pale.
"I forgot to learn a new material."
The moment she heard that, Vicky instantly pressed a hand to her chest, exhaling in such relief as if she'd just escaped the worst fate imaginable. Then she burst out laughing, while I stared at her, completely confused by her sudden joy.
"Wow, you're something," Smith said, still laughing, wiping the beads of sweat off her forehead. "You looked so serious, like you'd killed someone. And all that happened is—you forgot to prepare for the lesson."
"All that happened?" I raised an eyebrow, still drilling her with my sight. Maybe it wasn't that big of a deal—but not for me. Not after I'd promised my mom I'd be able to handle it on my own and do well without extra lessons.
Now my carelessness and absentmindedness had swept through everything like a hurricane, ruining it all. I could already feel it—I was completely screwed.
Sometimes it feels like the only thing I'm actually good at is sensing when I'm about to be completely screwed.
Great start of the school year, Lily.
Just… fantastic.
"Oh, come on, it's not the end of the world," but I had already tuned out everything my friend said next, frantically digging through my backpack for my biology textbook. I knew perfectly well that ten minutes of break wouldn't be enough to memorize everything, but I scanned the tiny lines as quickly and carefully as I could. Without my glasses, unfortunately—I simply didn't have time to take them out.
The bell rang like a thunderclap, its awful sound echoing through the entire school, making me want to cover my ears. And in that moment, one phrase kept repeating in my head, louder and louder, building in force:
"Too late."
After that, everything happened in a blur. The teacher's words—"Take out a double sheet of paper." A joke he threw in with some sharp remark about whether we'd actually prepared, which I didn't even catch. My sight, frozen with dread, slowly scanning the questions—most of which I didn't know answers to.
I kept writing something, anything, occasionally glancing up at Collins, who was lounging lazily in his chair, legs casually propped up on the desk. A thought flickered through my mind—not very professional, sitting like that. Completely outrageous. But I didn't have time to dwell on his lack of manners.
When the forty-five minutes were finally up, I skimmed over my paper, fully aware that an "A" was already out of the question. I tried to add something more, but Scott, collecting the papers, stopped in front of my desk, casting a shapeless shadow over it—much like herself—and extended her hand, saying with a sharp edge:
"Your paper, please."
I honestly wondered how she even managed to squeeze out a polite word, but realizing I had no time left, I handed over the sheet with a sour expression, leaving one of the answers unfinished.
Frowning, I lowered my head and slowly packed my things into my backpack. I knew I had to start preparing myself for Mom's next rant already—because it was inevitable. The moment I told her about my not-an-A—which I didn't even have yet—she'd start pecking at my brain with her usual "I told you so" and all that nonsense.
Suddenly, as I stepped into the hallway, merging with the students flow, I noticed the biology teacher picking up our papers and carrying them into the storage room.
And right then, a truly brilliant idea hit me—one that could save me from Mom's anger… and from a bad grade.
An idea I'd definitely be ashamed of.
But right now, it felt incredibly tempting.
Like the only way out I had left.