Stas continued taking notes, paying me no attention. A troubling thought that Smirnov might turn away from me too slipped in, and I tried to push it away.
"What page are we on?" I asked him, though I could see which chapter his book was open to. I needed to know if Stanislav would talk to me or if the rumors had destroyed our friendship too.
"Eighty-five," he answered casually, and I felt relief. "Why are you late?"
He glanced at me briefly, careful not to irritate the teacher, then noticed something amiss, furrowed his brows, and studied my face carefully. When I saw Stas frown, I realized he hadn't missed the traces of tears.
"What happened?"
He doesn't know. Stas asked with such genuine concern that there was no doubt. My heart leapt in my chest, for I was standing at a crossroads. If I didn't explain to Stas what had happened, he would hear the rumors from others anyway. Maybe even Tatiana herself would bring them. Strange that she hadn't included him in the mass message. Of all people, Stas Rostov was the one she should have wanted to show first that I had no place beside him—neither as a friend nor as anything else. A perfect way to erase a rival from history, reinforcing her own personal "and they lived happily ever after" in the fabric of existence. Then why didn't he know?
A lump formed in my throat, and bitterness filled my mouth. I was afraid to recount the vile rumors to Stanislav because I didn't want to see his reaction firsthand. The day's events had already overflowed their cup, and I was surprised Kaandor wasn't around. Every time emotions ran particularly high, he appeared. Could it be that this trial wasn't enough to make him come again? If today were Friday the thirteenth, I would have blamed all misfortunes on it, but it was an ordinary day, when the whole world seemed to decide at once to test my endurance.
Perhaps my skin had become stronger than my soul. One more blow, and it seemed my soul would crumble to dust, but the façade would conceal it all. I was afraid to know what he would think. Too salty, too bitter.
I hesitated to respond, not knowing what to do, and Stas covered my hand with his—so cold and yet so pleasant. It was as if he were cooling the heat of the blue flame raging inside me.
My best friend. My worst enemy.
When I looked past the audacity and slight arrogance with which Stas treated others, I saw a person capable of selfless care, and I began to feel differently about him. I saw how alive and sensitive he could be in grief and now dreamed of catching genuine happiness in his eyes. To become its cause. But all I could offer him was disappointment.
A boy behind us whistled across the classroom:
"Look," he said cheerfully, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Smirnov wants a piece of the Black too."
Stas immediately turned toward the speaker. Veins pulsed on his temples. If vampires could kill with a glance, he would definitely look like Stanislav now: his irises filled with darkness, and something fearless and wild inside was ready to strike.
"What are you talking about?" His voice was almost a growl, but the classmate didn't even raise an eyebrow.
"Oh, don't pretend. What a shining knight you are," the boy smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "Though why am I even talking? You've probably already tried the goods more than once and want seconds. She's insatiable, isn't she? Ran after Nikita so fast—already counted eight lovers in the school. Tatiana isn't like that, from a good family. Not like this one…"
The chair Stas was sitting on tilted and fell. Before the back could touch the floor, there was a slap, like thunder after lightning. Everything happened so fast. Stas stood over his classmate, breathing heavily. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, and I saw that Stanislav was beside himself with rage. His arms had straightened after the first strike, fingers shaking, but he skillfully concealed it, quickly clenching his hands into fists.
"Don't you dare speak about Asya like that," he said slowly, deliberately, so that his stunned opponent could grasp the meaning.
"Are you out of your mind?" the classmate whispered, eyes wide at Stas, then, after a short pause, laughed nervously. "You probably all sleep with her in your family, like animals. Live under the same roof and don't hide it, messing with each other. So, Asya, does it feel good to be the sixth?"
"Smirnov! Kulikov!" the teacher shouted. "Both of you, follow me! To the principal!"
The teacher strode to the door and swung it open with a sharp gesture, urging the students forward. The classmate immediately lost his cheer and noticeably paled, his face blending with the pale blue of his shirt. Stas reacted more calmly, though his gaze lacked both anger and resolve. He stared at the floor, ashamed, and for a second, the nasty voice of fear whispered that Stas would get in trouble because of me. Something had to be done—and fast.
"Kirill Nikolaevich," I rose from my desk, hoping the teacher would notice. "Stas isn't at fault. It's all me."
I blurted it out in one breath and froze, unsure how to continue. Should I really recount the rumors and explain how Tatiana's jealousy had in one instant destroyed not only my reputation but possibly my future at Kserton School? What if I told the truth, but the teacher didn't believe me? What could I even do to protect myself and Stas, who had simply decided to stand up for me, while I had barely enough strength to cry over the hurt and bitterness at my own future, crumbling before my eyes from every angle?
Teacher Bobylev inhaled so loudly that it was audible at my desk. He tiredly rubbed his nose and then raised his face to the ceiling for a moment, as if asking why all these troubles had fallen on his lesson.
"Since it's all you, then you too, to the principal," Bobylev pointed to the exit, and I, slumping, trudged toward the door. "Class, do not make noise while we are gone. Take notes on the terms and concepts from pages eighty-six to eighty-nine, and answer the questions at the end of the paragraph in your notebooks. I will return and check selectively."