APRIL

Thud!

The sound of a racket striking a bench cracks through the hallway.

Someone dropped a racket.

Without so much as a glance in my direction, Aram turns and heads for the exit. I drag in a desperate lungful of air and realize I've been holding my breath.

As his body moves out of my line of sight, I catch a glimpse of someone standing in the shadows. The figure slides a racket into a tennis bag, turns, and begins walking toward the door at an unhurried pace.

The light spilling through the doorway is enough. I recognize the tennis bag at once. Hermès.

My arms and legs suddenly feel heavy.

If Aksel saw us, I can barely imagine what he must think.

A second wave of shock rises through me, and tears spill down my burning face.

***

I sprint toward the bus stop, hoping I haven't missed the 12:15 bus. If I do, there's no chance I'll make it to school on time.

Walking toward the Academy gates are Marine and Isabella, two of Eveline's friends. Plastic coffee cups in hand, they're coming back from the café next door, heading to the Academy for lunch.

"You just missed your bus!" Isabella calls as I run past.

The words stop me cold. I turn around, only to find the two of them looking at each other before bursting into laughter.

I don't waste time on childish taunts. I turn back and keep running.

I reach the bus stop at 12:14. The bus pulls in four minutes late.

***

I find a seat on the bus and automatically reach for my sandwich. It's what I usually eat on the way to school. But today my appetite is gone. I slide it back into my backpack.

Every few minutes, my eyes drift to the racket sticking out of it.

Aram's racket.

I replay the hallway over and over, trying to figure out whether I misunderstood what happened, or whether my body understood it perfectly and my mind simply refuses to accept it.

Tomorrow morning I'll have to restring my own rackets.

The Academy used to provide strings free of charge. Not anymore.

I need two packs. Twenty thousand drams.

I rest my forehead against the window as the bus pulls away from the Academy. Tonight I'll have to dip into the money I saved over the summer.

For the past five years, every summer has meant work. Since there's no school, I spend my mornings and evenings on the court and the rest of the day at the pastry factory where my mother works. She put in a good word for me, and they gave me a job there too. The money isn't enough to cover everything tennis costs. But every pair of shoes or pack of strings I can buy myself is one less expense for my parents.

Last summer, my goal was to save enough for Nationals. I wanted to walk onto those courts looking like I belonged there.

Appearance wasn't vanity. It was equipment.

Shoes with soles that didn't slide across the court. Clothes that dried quickly enough to keep sweat from becoming another distraction. In tennis, the smallest detail can decide an entire match.

By the end of the summer, working around my training schedule almost every day, I'd finally put aside enough for a new pair of shoes and one new outfit. My Nationals outfit.

Tennis is expensive. Most of my life, I haven't played with the equipment I needed. I've played with whatever I happened to have.

For the first two years, I played with a racket that was the wrong size for my age and weight. When my coach, Arakel, pointed it out, my parents were genuinely surprised.

My uncle had brought the racket from Russia after hearing that no matter what I was playing, I'd always find a way to turn it into tennis. No one in my family knew the first thing about tennis. He had simply walked into a sports store and chosen the racket that looked about right.

The bus lurches over a pothole.

I smile despite myself.

When I was ten, Dad could no longer afford my lessons. Arakel was the one who convinced him not to pull me out of tennis. He offered to coach me for half the price.

He treated me like his own granddaughter.

Round nose. Round body. Bright, restless eyes that always seemed younger than the rest of him.

Whenever it was time for a break, he'd clap twice, loud enough for every court to hear. And whenever he was about to give advice, he'd tap his chin thoughtfully, as though the right words needed a particular rhythm before they were willing to appear.

I learned to pay attention whenever he did that.

Arakel was patient. But he was also demanding.

"You fight with your body," he used to tell me. "Your heart gives up first."

Long before he taught me how to hit a forehand, he taught me how to survive a match.

"Your opponent's game matters," he always said before tournaments. "But what matters even more is how you respond to it."

The bus slows outside my school.

I used to think that lesson belonged only on a tennis court.

Lately, I'm not so sure.

The doors fold open.

As I'm stepping onto the sidewalk, someone rushes past me, shoulder-checking me on their way onto the bus. I stumble half a step before catching my balance.

They don't look back. For a split second, I'm tempted to turn around.

Instead, I keep walking. Not every action deserves your attention.

People will always have something to say. About your choices. Your abilities. Your family. Your friends. They'll try to pull your attention toward whatever matters to them. And when that doesn't work, they'll settle for provoking a reaction instead.

Because every step you take toward someone else's agenda is a step stolen from your own path.

The lesson is the same on and off the court: learn to block out the noise and keep moving toward your own destination.

You can't control what people think of you.

You can only control whether you let it change the way you think of yourself.

And that's a match worth winning.

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