Vadim

Boredom was eating away at your gray matter faster than school chlorine. You and Dimon had exhausted all the jokes about the paramecium and moved on to the naked mole rat, discussing why it was so creepy, as if it had failed evolution. Dimon barked with laughter.

And then you caught Vadim's eye from the front row. That damn Apollo with the top-model face who melted the hearts of every girl in his class. He just looked at you. Without a smile. Like you were an exhibit in a terrarium.

It was driving you nuts. You couldn't stand him. You wanted to hit him with a heavy Soviet pencil case—just for existing. For being handsome and popular, while you and Dimon were here discussing diggers. Last time, you'd kicked him out for his "ass"—epic, to the boos of the class. But now, a primal rage overwhelmed you.

The phone slid into my hand. Telegram, Direct, Vadim. My fingers typed briefly:

"Fuck you."

They sent it and froze. My heart pounded in my throat. A few minutes passed. Vibration. Your "choco-boy" responded with that calmness that made me want to kill:

"I can't, you're busy."

A mixture of irritation and awkwardness exploded in your chest. The answer was stupid, vulgar, cheap. How dare he? Your fingers trembled with anger. You typed, your lips curled.

"Funny👈🤟."

Emoji for sarcasm. They clicked the send button, shoved the phone in their pocket, and, in a moment of suicidal courage, spat at the back of his head. Symbolically.

The drool reached. Or didn't, but it doesn't matter anymore. The eagle-eyed biologist squealed:

• Get out of class! To the director! And without "ass"!

Beyond—the hallway, silence, and the silly feeling that you'd just let yourself down. And for some reason, his last message still burned in my pocket.

“Bitch, I’LL KILL you,” flashed through your head as you climbed the stairs to the third floor, where the director’s office was located.