Chapter One: Understanding You

The early autumn sun streamed through the classroom windows, casting a golden glow over the rows of desks. Anastasia Stretovitz slouched in her chair, one leg bouncing restlessly as she doodled in the margin of her notebook. Her shaggy brunette hair fell across her baby blue eyes, and she blew a strand away with a huff. She could feel the weight of someone’s gaze on her—again. Mr. Hargrove, the math teacher, was droning on about polynomials, but his eyes kept flicking down to her chest. She’d worn a black cropped band tee that showed off the curve of her waist and the edge of her push-up bra, paired with ripped skinny jeans and chunky platform boots. Her eyebrow piercing caught the light as she tilted her head, meeting his stare with a cold, flat glare. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat, and Anastasia smirked to herself. Pervert.

She shifted, crossing her arms over her chest, not out of modesty but out of defiance. She’d been dress-coded more times than she could count, but she didn’t care. The clothes were her armor—edgy, alternative, and unapologetically hot. They’d been her style since sophomore year, when she’d decided she was done being invisible. Now, she was the badass girl everyone knew, with a sharp tongue and a reputation for not taking shit. But beneath that exterior, there was something softer—a heart that had been bruised recently. She pushed the thought of her ex away, focusing instead on the beat of the music playing through one earbud, the wire snaking under her shirt.

The bell rang, and she gathered her things quickly, eager to escape the stuffy classroom. In the hallway, she spotted her best friend Zozie, who was holding court by the lockers. Zozie had that effortless popular-girl aura—glossy hair, perfect smile, and a designer bag slung over her shoulder. She waved Anastasia over, her eyes sparkling with the latest gossip.

“Girl, you will not believe what I heard,” Zozie said, linking her arm through Anastasia’s. “Dylan told me that Johanson got cornered by those jerks again. Like, right outside the gym.”

Anastasia’s brow furrowed. Johanson Meison. The name stirred a strange mix of emotions. He was the quiet kid with the striking mullet, black hair streaked with red, and a constellation of piercings around his lips, nose, and ears. He kept to himself, often with eyes downcast, and she’d caught him staring at her more than once in the halls. There was a vulnerability about him that she found intriguing, though they’d never really spoken. They were like opposite sides of the same coin—she all bold colors and loud laughter, he a muted melody. Yet, she knew about the rumor that had plagued him since freshman year: that he’d hooked up with a nineteen-year-old when he was just fifteen. It felt like forever ago, but high school memories were like poison, slow to fade.

“Is he okay?” Anastasia asked, her tone casual, but her eyes sharp with concern.

Zozie shrugged. “Dylan went to check on him. You know how those guys are—they have nothing better to do than pick on someone who won’t fight back.”

Anastasia’s grip tightened on her bag. She didn’t understand why Johanson never defended himself. She’d seen him in action before, taking the taunts with a bowed head, never raising his voice. It made her angry, but also curious. There was a depth to him she couldn’t quite grasp. She’d heard him play the electric guitar once, in the music room after school, and it had been raw and haunting, a language of its own. She’d been practicing piano next door and had paused, her fingers hovering over the keys, just to listen.

She told Zozie she’d catch up later and headed toward the music wing. The hallways were thinning out as students rushed to lunch, but she moved deliberately, her boots echoing on the linoleum. When she reached the music room, she pushed the door open gently. The room was dim, the only light coming from the small window above the stage. There he was, sitting on a stool with his guitar unplugged in his lap, his fingers tracing the frets without making a sound. His black hair with red streaks fell messily over his forehead, and his brown eyes were fixed on nothing. He looked so fragile in that moment, like a storm had passed through and left him hollow.

He didn’t notice her at first. She leaned against the doorframe, taking him in. His style was similar to hers in its rebelliousness, but softer—a worn band tee, black jeans, and old Converse. His piercings glinted faintly, and she could see the fading bruise on his cheekbone. The bullies hadn’t been gentle.

“Johanson,” she said, her voice low and steady.

He flinched, head snapping up, eyes wide. For a second, he looked almost terrified, but then his expression shuttered. “What do you want?” His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and he was already bracing for the worst.

She pushed off the doorframe and walked closer, her boots making soft thuds on the wooden floor. “I saw what happened. In the hall.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening. “It’s nothing. Happens all the time.”

“It’s not nothing.” She stopped a few feet from him, arms crossed loosely. “Why don’t you ever fight back?”

He let out a bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. “What’s the point? They’ll just find something else. They always do.”

She studied him, seeing the exhaustion in the lines around his mouth. There was a beat of silence, and then she decided to just ask. “The rumor about you… Is it true? About you and that older girl?”

He stiffened, and for a moment, she thought he might shut down completely. But then he met her eyes, and something in him seemed to crack open. “Yeah. It’s true.” His voice was hollow. “I lost my virginity when I was fifteen to a nineteen-year-old. She was a friend of my cousin’s… I thought I was so cool back then.” He shook his head, a painful twist to his lips. “Stupid.”

Anastasia felt a pang in her chest. She’d expected him to deny it, to deflect with sarcasm like most people would. But here he was, giving her the truth, raw and unvarnished. And he looked like he expected her to recoil, to see him as the slut everyone whispered about.

He saw her silence as judgment and turned back to his guitar, his shoulders curved inward. “You can go now. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than be here with the school pariah.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she stepped closer, until she was standing right in front of him, forcing him to look up. His brown eyes were guarded, but there was a glimmer of hope there too, something fragile.

“I don’t want to be your enemy,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I just want to understand you, Johanson. I don’t hate you at all. Whatever you need… I’m here.”

His breath caught, and his fingers stilled on the guitar strings. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the school. Then, so quietly she almost missed it, he spoke.

“Will you go out with me? Like… on a date?”

The words hung in the air, and Anastasia’s heart did a strange little flip. This was not what she’d expected. But looking at him—the bravery it must have taken for him to ask, after everything—she felt something warm bloom in her chest. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, genuine and unguarded.

“Yeah,” she said, and her voice was light, almost teasing. “I’d like that.”

A tentative smile broke across his face, transforming his features. It was like watching the sun emerge from behind the clouds. For a moment, they just stood there, connected by that tiny leap of faith.

Then the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, and the spell was broken. Johanson set his guitar aside and stood, suddenly shy again. “Um, Friday? After school? We could… get coffee or something?”

“Coffee sounds perfect,” she said. She reached out and gently touched his arm, feeling the tension there. “I’ll see you then.”

He nodded, and as she turned to leave, she caught him smiling to himself, a real smile that reached his eyes. And for the first time in weeks, she felt lighter, as if the weight of her recent breakup was finally starting to lift.

Who knew that understanding someone could be the beginning of something entirely new?