Chapter 1 Impact

chapter 1

Zara grumbled, stretching as far as her spine would let her, fingers clawing at empty air.

“Fucking bitch box, when I catch you...” she hissed, standing on her tiptoes giving the shelf a solid glare. The box was right there, just barely out of reach, mocking her. She nudged it closer with the tip of her fingers—centimeter by goddamn centimeter.

Finally—"Ha!" Victory. The box tilted toward her.

And then—oh shit.

Books. So many books.

They came tumbling down like they had a personal vendetta.

She shrieked, flinched, arms up in defense—

—and then were the pain of hurtling books was supposed to come she lost her breath as she was slammed into the wall.

Hard.

A weight hit her like a linebacker, pinning her back, breath stolen right from her lungs. Something—someone—pressed against her, caging her in, shielding her body from the paper apocalypse.

Books crashed to the floor. A sharp grunt sounded in her ear.

Zara gasped. She was fine—mostly—but the body still pressed to hers felt less fine. Warm. Solid. Entirely too close.

She blinked up through strands of hair and chaos, heart punching at her ribs. A mess of orange-dyed curls fell over someone’s face—someone who smelled vaguely like library dust and citrus shampoo. Beneath the curls: a sharp jaw, flushed cheeks peppered with acne, and a pair of askew round glasses threatening to fall off a bruising nose.

Bai.

Of course. The school’s resident awkward genius hermit. Zara barely remembered the last time she heard her speak.

But right now, Bai was pressed against her like a goddamn wall, one hand still braced beside Zara’s head, the other curled tight around her waist like instinct had kicked in hard.

Zara couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Why was her skin burning where Bai touched her?

Why did her stomach flip like she'd just swallowed a live wire?

Why the fuck did this feel... hot?

“Ah–are you okay?” Bai’s voice cracked like glass—nervous, shy, way too soft for someone who’d just tackled her like an action movie hero.

Zara snapped.

The rush of fear, adrenaline, and something she couldn’t name boiled over.

She shoved Bai hard.

The girl stumbled back, landing on her ass with a startled yelp, hair flying, glasses half off.

Zara stood there, chest heaving, lip curled.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

Her voice came out too sharp, too fast—like it was covering something up.

Then she turned and stormed out of the room, fists clenched and face burning, like if she didn’t get away right now, she might start screaming.

Or worse.

She might go back and kiss her.

She didn’t stop walking until her lungs stopped shaking. Until her reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like someone else.

Then, as always, she shoved everything down. Folded it tight. Buried it deep.

By the time she hit the gym floor later that afternoon, she was all smooth edges and practiced boredom.

Zara tossed the volleyball to Whitney with zero enthusiasm, her manicured fingers barely bothering to grip the grungy rubber. The gym thrummed around them—sneakers squealing on varnished wood, Light cut through the grimy upper windows in slanted beams, casting gold bars across the cracked court, dust motes flickering like lazy sparks. The faded maroon Lake Town Cinder logo loomed on the far wall like a relic no one cared enough to repaint.

“I swear to God,” Zara muttered, flicking dark strands off her cheek, “if I don’t get out of this deadass town soon, I’m going to start setting things on fire.”

Whitney caught the ball with an eye-roll and a smirk. “Here we go. Zara and her big city meltdown. Vargo lights. Fashion internships. Some indie filmmaker boyfriend who drinks matcha and calls her ‘ma muse.’”

Zara didn’t laugh. She just exhaled through her nose, sharp and flat, eyes drifting sideways—bored, itchy, like her skin didn’t fit right.

Her gaze snagged on the bleachers.

Bai.

Curled in on herself like she was made of origami and half-trying to disappear. She held a paperback in her lap, cover curled and spine broken, like it had lived in her bag for months. Round glasses, always slipping. Long legs awkwardly crossed. Frizzed curls caught in the sunlight like static fire, and when she pushed her hair behind one ear with those careful, too-quiet fingers—

Something twisted in Zara’s chest.

Not a crush.

Obviously.

Just. Curiosity. Or whatever.

“Yo,” Whitney said, tracking Zara’s stare. She let out a sharp little snort. “What, you moving to Vargo with Bai the Bookworm? Didn’t know you were into girls who wear orthopedic shoes and anxiety.”

The volleyball hit the court with a sharp, echoing thud.

Zara’s jaw tensed.

The gym didn’t go silent—but it felt like it had.

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, voice low and slicing. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Whitney blinked, startled. “It was a joke—”

Zara’s stare could’ve sliced skin.

“Maybe next time, keep me the fuck out of your jokes. And don’t ever insinuate me and her.”Whitney threw up her hands in surrender, all fake chill. “Okay, psycho. Chill. Jesus.”

Zara was already walking. Her sneakers cut clean across the court as she stalked off, braid swinging like punctuation.

“I have to piss,” she snapped, without turning back.

No one followed. No one dared.

She came back a few minutes later, like nothing had happened.

The gym had returned to motion—warm-ups, small talk, soft thuds of bouncing balls—but it moved a little quieter, like everyone had agreed not to look directly at her.

Zara strolled in through the side doors, wiping her damp hands on her shorts. Her face was blank now. Not tense. Not relaxed. Just cool. A closed door.

“You going to Brad’s party?” she asked suddenly, like the last five minutes hadn’t happened, voice smooth, almost bored.

Whitney blinked, cautious. Then—relieved. “Yeah. I think so. If my mom doesn’t go full prison warden on me about my math grade again.”

Zara snorted. “My mom couldn’t care less if I fail out. She’d probably just say I was ‘finding myself.’”

She tossed her hair back, dropped to stretch on the sideline, long limbs moving with that lazy grace that always looked like she was posing without trying.

She didn’t look angry anymore. Didn’t look like anything.

But when her eyes flicked toward the bleachers again—brief, too quick to catch They went right back to Bai.

Coach called for teams.

“Let’s keep it simple.” With efficiency, she divided the girls in two. “First to fifteen.”

Zara ended up on the vest side. She high-fived Whitney and Lucy, happy they got on the same team, then frowned.

Watching Bai tug the vest on—glasses slipping off her nose, leading to her fumbling to catch them—Zara looked away as a funny feeling twisted in her stomach the longer she looked at Bai.

The court lined up. A few girls grumbled about positions. Someone made a joke. There was some shuffling.

Zara took outside hitter. Whitney, as usual, grabbed setter.

Bai was placed in the back row, near the sideline. She didn’t argue.

The game started.

Whitney’s serve was sharp, clean. The ball arced over the net and the rally began—shoes squeaking against the floor, the soft sounds of palm slaps and shouted names.

Bai did her best to stay small.

She knew how this went.

Don’t mess up. Don’t attract attention. Just survive.

Three volleys in, the ball came toward her. Not fast. Not hard. A chance, maybe, to prove she could hold her place.

She stepped forward, hands together—missed the angle. The ball skimmed her wrists and bounced awkwardly sideways. One of the girls scrambled for it. Too late.

“Sorry,” Bai muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Zara didn’t yell.

She just turned.

Her voice was calm. Controlled.

“Would it kill you to try to not suck this bad?”

Bri blinked, mouth opening.

“I—yeah, I thought—”

Zara was already facing forward again, calling for the next serve.

The game continued.

But now every ball near Bai came with tension. Every glance Zara threw her way made Bai’s hands sweat. She stopped calling for plays. Just focused on not screwing up.

And still—

“Move to your left.”

“You’re too deep. Come up.”

“Watch the server. You’re not even looking.”

Zara never raised her voice. But each comment landed like a slap.

Whitney gave her one glance—half a frown—but didn’t say anything. She set the next ball cleanly to the front row and the team scored. A few claps followed. Zara didn’t react.

Another serve. Another rally.

The ball spun high toward the back again.

Bai didn’t even wait—she moved fast, too fast, arms out—tripped slightly. Her balance shifted and her pass went wild. Out of bounds.

Zara didn’t hide her irritation this time.

She turned sharply, hands on hips.

“Are you even trying?”

Bai stared down at the floor.

“I—I am.”

Zara exhaled through her nose. “Just try and not lose us the fucking game, kay? It’s volleyball, not heart surgery. Just move your feet. Or don’t. Just don’t take the ball if you can’t handle it.”

The team reset. Someone served.

As the game progressed, Bai didn’t find it easier. And even though no one said anything, the pressure they felt from Zara’s attitude played its part in several bad plays and stiff execution. Yet the team felt relieved that only Bai was berated and blamed, and not them.

No one dared defend her.

The ball hardly came her way again.

They lost 15–10.

Coach called game.

The girls started to drift toward the locker room. Talking. Laughing. Whitney tossed a compliment to someone’s block. A few joked about their missed plays.

Zara walked past Bai without looking at her. And despite the difference in height, she made sure her shoulder bumped against Bai, sending her tumbling to the ground, glasses off her face.

Bai sat there, arms stiff at her sides, heat crawling up her neck.

Everything was quiet again.

Then the girls quickly shuffled off, as if this was just the ordinary.

Bai stood by her locker fighting tears. Today’s P.E. had been extra bad. She was still uncertain what she’d done to garner Zara’s full attention. The small and petite cheerleader—despite her cute and friendly looks—was anything but that.

Bai turned to glance at the auburn-haired girl, but to her shock, Zara was already looking her way, a smirk playing on her lips. Bai shyly averted her eyes, and inwardly she grumbled about how unfair God was, making such a girl look all innocent yet harbor the nastiest personality.

Bai refocused her attention on her bag, looking for her neatly folded shirt. She caught sight of something pink and lacy. A frown marred her face as her fingers threaded through the fabric.

This wasn’t hers.

Just before she could lift it out and take a better look, a yell made her startle and look over—

“WHO THE FUCK STOLE MY UNDERWEAR?!”

Silence shattered.

Girls froze mid-change. Lockers slammed. Towels dropped.

“Someone’s messing around,” Zara yelled, fury rippling off her in waves. “My stuff was right here. I folded it. Now it’s gone.”

Gasps.

Confusion.

And then: panic.

Because it wasn’t just missing garments—it was Zara’s underwear. Private, intimate wear. Lacy. The kind of garment most boys in school would kill to see. And now it was missing.

Accusations bloomed like rot.

“Ew, do you think someone actually took it? Like for real?” Whitney asked, looking around with growing disgust and anger.

“Who the fuck would want her underwear? A pervert?” Lucy chimed in, squeezing her head through the throngs of gathering girls to get a better look at the scene.

The words floating about finally rearranged into order as Bai cast a glance at the lacy fabric in her gym bag.

Surely not.

She thought her dread rising from confusion to fear.

Why was Zara’s underwear in her possession? It shouldn’t be there.

She froze as a thousand scenarios and possible explanations flew through her mind, but none made a lick of sense.

Her heart stopped. Every breath came shallow.

"Why?" she whispered to no one in particular.

Then—

She looked up.

Whitney was already watching her. Narrow eyes. Head tilted. Realization dawning as her gaze flicked to Bia’s schoolbag. Her eyes shot up and met Bai’s just as Bai frantically shook her head and futilely moved the bag behind her back.

Whitney’s eyes widened.

Then a laugh peeled out of her, loud and sharp—enough to turn all eyes her way.

“Hey, Bai,” she called out, voice fake and too sweet. “You look awfully guilty.”

Bai tried to zip the bag. Fumbled. Panicked.

Too late.

Whitney reached forward and yanked it open. Held the underwear high like a trophy.

“Oh my God.”

The reaction was immediate.

Gasps. Screams. Laughter.

Then rage.

Girls swarmed her, a pack that smelled blood.

“You disgusting freak!”

“She probably sniffed it—oh my God.”

“Pervert!”

“I knew she was weird. She’s always watching us.”

Bai tried to speak, but her mouth didn’t work. Only tears came.

“It’s not—I didn’t—I don’t—someone must’ve—”

But the voices drowned her.

“She’s obsessed with Zara.”

“She’s probably been jerking off to her in the showers.”

“Fucking carpet-munching creep.”

Zara stood at the center of it all, arms folded. Silent.

Watching.

Her eyes never left Bai’s face.

Not even when Bai dropped to her knees, begging them to believe her.

Not even when Coach tried to break it up and the girls wouldn’t stop shouting.

Bai’s voice cracked, raw from crying.

Zara didn’t say a word.

She didn’t have to.

A seed had been planted in everyone’s minds—

Bai liked Zara.

And not the other way around.