Chapter 3

Exhausted, nearly drained of all energy, I slowly step—or rather, crawl—through the doorway of my apartment. Silently shutting the door behind me, I toss my helmet onto the table and slide down the wall in exhaustion, my eyes slowly closing as I let go of my backpack. Damn, this is tough. And it's only the beginning of the year. What's it going to be like later? I don't even want to imagine.

The sound of hissing coming from the kitchen jolts me out of my half-asleep state. I immediately catch a pleasant aroma from the same direction and frown as much as my facial muscles allow.

Mom shouldn't be home yet—her workday doesn't end until eight. Maybe she stayed home today? No! Even in my head, that thought sounds idiotically ridiculous. So who the hell is working away on my kitchen?

Bracing myself on my knees, I silently get up, aside from the unmistakable crack in my spine. I reach for the cabinet door, opening it with a god-awful creak, and pull out a wooden baseball bat. Holding it at the ready, I begin tiptoeing toward the kitchen. My heart is pounding for some reason, my breathing shallow and uneven. This is terrifying.

"Hands up! Nobody move!" I scream at the top of my lungs, kicking the damn door open.

My father looks at me with an expression that says, "Are you serious, kid?" His mouth falls open in shock.

"Dad?!" I fling the bat aside and rush at him with outstretched arms and a Cheshire Cat grin. "Mom didn't say you were coming!"

"That's because she doesn't know yet," he replies, hugging me back while still stirring something on the sizzling pan.

I pull away and turn to the stove, trying to get a good look at what's cooking. Small pieces of meat mixed with finely chopped vegetables, all simmering in a rich tomato sauce. My appetite kicks in instantly, and my stomach lets out a growl that sounds more like a volcanic eruption.

"Looks like someone's hungry," Dad chuckles before nudging me toward the hallway. "Go get changed."

"But… How did you… Why didn't you…" My words trail off as he gently shoves me out of the kitchen. I hear him call out that he'll explain everything over lunch.

Heavy-footed, I pick up my backpack and head to my room.

No one can even begin to understand how happy I am that Dad is back. I haven't seen him in over a month. Every single day, I curse his damn job, the one that takes him away for long stretches, keeping us from seeing each other, sometimes even from talking. His archaeological digs happen all over Europe, across entire continents—hell, all over the world—and he's always part of them.

Sure, being an archaeologist is a fascinating career. But damn it, it shouldn't come before family. Yet, for us, it always does.

Dad spends more time traveling than he does at home, and obviously, I'm not happy about it. Neither is Mom, for that matter. But the rare moments when we're all together—Mom, Dad, and me—those are priceless. Watching them sit on the couch, smiling at each other, seeing my usually uptight mother soften in his presence—those moments stay with me for a long time.

And later, as I eagerly devour my lunch, trying to fill the black hole in my stomach, I find out that Dad is only here for a couple of days. That explains the surprise visit. My smile falters when I hear "…just for a few days", realizing that in a blink, he'll be gone again. But I'm still grateful for whatever time I get.

"How's school?" he asks after explaining his unexpected arrival.

I nearly choke on my bread. Coughing loudly, I pound my chest with a fist, trying to clear my throat.

"That bad?" Dad asks with exaggerated surprise, his eyes widening as he covers his mouth with his hand.

"It's nothing special," I deflect, setting my fork down. "Just… an insane workload."

And by "insane," I mean that every morning, as I drag myself out of bed, every hour spent at school, every bit of information they desperately try to drill into my brain—it all makes me want to end it all. Quickly.

"Well, it is your final year," Dad sighs, looking just as tired as I feel. I nod in agreement, mirroring his somber expression. "And how's your favorite subject going?"

Ah, yes. He means biology.

"New teacher."

"So, Mrs. Robinson finally called it quits?" Dad squints, smirking in amusement. Crow's feet form at the corners of his eyes. I nod again, looking just as miserable as before.

"I bet your mother was thrilled."

"Oh, she was over the moon," I laugh, remembering Mom's furious rants about Mrs. Robinson.

This is what I've missed—the carefree talks with Dad, the way we can talk about absolutely anything and everything. My plate empties at record speed, making Dad chuckle before asking,

"Was it good?"

"Of course!" No one can compete with Dad's cooking. But I rarely get to taste it—again, thanks to his job.

"By the way," Dad suddenly stands, wagging a finger at me. "I have something for you."

I freeze in anticipation as he steps out of the kitchen. When he returns, he has that teasing smile on his face, and I notice he's hiding something behind his back. A gift? When did he even have time?

"Well?" I urge, rubbing my hands together like an excited child, raising an eyebrow.

My mouth falls open when he hands me a set of pastels. My heart swells with happiness—he remembers exactly what kind I use.

In my scarce free time—which, let's be honest, is almost nonexistent—I love to draw. Sketching people, places, random objects around me. It's my escape. Dad supports it, unlike Mom, who thinks my "scribbles" are a complete waste of time.

"You should put that enthusiasm into your studies," her words echo in my mind.

"Thank you, Daddy," I beam, hugging him tightly. This is exactly why I adore my dad—he understands me like no one else.

"You're welcome, princess," he chuckles. "Now, go grab your latest sketches—I want to see them."

I give him an "Are you serious?" look before darting to my room, clutching the pastel set to my chest like it's the greatest treasure.

Completely caught up in my excitement over Dad's arrival, I forget not only about my upcoming biology test—but about school altogether. I spend the rest of the day with him, sipping tea in the living room and chatting about everything. Even Mom, exhausted after work, momentarily forgets her stress and enjoys the evening. For once, she doesn't ask her usual "Did you finish your homework?"

The next day, I'm gushing about my happiness to my deskmate—until I step into Room 209.

A switch flips in my brain. Reality comes crashing down. My smile vanishes.

"I forgot," I whisper in horror, my gaze locked onto the blackboard.

"What's wrong?" My friend, Sarah, giggles nervously. But my panic is contagious, and soon, her expression mirrors mine. "Eva?"

I stare at her, my face paling to the color of marble. "I forgot to prepare to the lesson."

Sarah lets out a dramatic sigh of relief and starts laughing. "You scared me half to death! You looked like you just killed someone!"

"Just forgot to prepare to the lesson?" I raise an eyebrow at her. Maybe it's not the end of the world, but… not for me. Not after I swore to my mother that I'd ace this class.

I already know—I'm screwed.

What a fantastic way to start the school year, Eva.