April M. Parker, July 7th 2017, Marisol Heights, Northern California
“SUPRISE!!!” The lights flashed April and Laurel as they walked into their apartment. There was Dani, Sam, and a few members of her color guard, and friends from school all shooting party poppers into the air.
April feigned clutching her chest, “Jeez you're gonna give an old lady like me a heart attack, don't want me to be dying on you kids now.” She said pulling Jess into a half-hug. “What's the occasion?”
Dani shook her head and pointed to Laurel who was holding a shopping bag in her hand, “Laurel finally got to pick up her meds, the estrogen one.”
The room erupted in cheers and applause. Laurel's face went bright red, but she was smiling—really smiling, the kind of smile that started in her chest and radiated outward like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"You guys," she managed, her voice thick. "I can't believe you—"
"Of course we did," Sam said, stepping forward. "This is huge, Laurel. You've been waiting for this for, what, two years?"
"Two and a half," Laurel corrected, her voice barely above a whisper. She held up the small white pharmacy bag like it was made of spun glass. "I still can't believe it's real."
Dani crossed the room in three strides and pulled Laurel into a kiss, deep and celebratory and full of unspoken promises. When they broke apart, Dani was grinning. "It's real, babe. You're really doing this."
"We made a cake!" This came from Sam, who had been standing idly picking at her thumbs. "Well, technically we bought a cake and wrote on it with frosting, but it counts!"
Everyone moved into the small apartment's living room and kitchen area, which had been decorated with streamers in pink, blue, and white—the transgender pride flag colors. There was a banner strung across the wall that read "CONGRATULATIONS LAUREL!" in slightly crooked letters, clearly hand-drawn.
The cake was a sheet cake from the grocery store, white frosting with "Finally!!!" scrawled across it in pink icing, along with a slightly lopsided drawing of a pill bottle. It was ridiculous and perfect.
April stood in the doorway, watching the chaos of teenagers descending on her kitchen, and felt her eyes prickle with tears. This. This was what she had fought for. This moment of pure, uncomplicated joy on her daughter's face. This chosen family, this celebration of something that should never have been controversial in the first place—a girl getting the medical care she needed to feel at home in her own body. It was the contrast of the bone-deep exhaustion she'd felt for months, working constantly to support both Laurel and Dani. But on days like today she could be happy.
Laurel caught her mother's eye across the room and mouthed, "Thank you."
April just smiled and nodded, then busied herself with pulling out plates and forks, letting the kids have their moment.
Everything was perfect. Everything was exactly as it should be.
If only she had known how quickly it would all fall apart.
Laurel Melody Parker, October 18th 2018, Laurel Montana
The words hung in the air between them, suspended in the cold October twilight like crystallized breath. Laurel stood there, trembling, her chest heaving with ragged sobs, her face wet with tears. She had said it. She had finally said it out loud to someone who knew her as Montana, who knew Derrick, who knew this town. There was no taking it back now.
Ashton sat frozen on the bench, the basketball rolling forgotten from his lap and bouncing away across the cracked asphalt with a hollow, echoing thud. His face was a battlefield of emotions—confusion, shock, hurt, disbelief—all warring for dominance. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out.
"What?" The word finally escaped, barely a whisper, like he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.
Laurel wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly naked without the weight of his jacket. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. "I said I'm a girl," she repeated, her voice stronger now, defiant even through the tears. "My name is Laurel. Laurel Melody Parker. That's who I was in California. That's who my mom—" her voice cracked, "—that's who my mom knew I was. Before I came back here. Before I had to be Montana again."
Ashton stood abruptly, his hands going to his head, fingers threading through his hair. He took a few steps away from her, then turned back, his face a mask of confusion that was rapidly morphing into something else. Something that looked like pain.
"You're—" He stopped, shook his head like he was trying to physically dislodge the information. "I don't… Monty, what are you talking about? You're a guy. We grew up together. You're—"
"I'm not," Laurel cut him off, her voice raw but firm. "I never was. Not really. The person you knew when we were kids, the one who hated football and wrestling and everything Derrick wanted me to be, that wasn't me being a weird boy, Ash. That was me being a girl trapped in everyone else's expectations of what a boy should be."
Ashton stared at her, and she could see him trying to process it, trying to reconcile the person standing in front of him with every memories he had. The hurt was creeping in now, spreading across his features like spilt liquid.
"So when you left," he said slowly, his voice tight, "when your mom took you to California and I never heard from you again, you were—what? You were becoming… her? Becoming Laurel?" He said the name like he was testing it out, like it was a foreign word he wasn't sure how to pronounce.
"I already was her," Laurel said, her voice cracking. "I just finally got to… to be her. To live as her. My mom got me on blockers, I went to school as a girl, I had friends who only knew me as Laurel. I was happy, Ash. For the first time in my life, I was actually happy."
"And you didn't think to tell me?" The hurt in his voice was raw now, unmistakable. "You didn't think I deserved to know? We were best friends, Monty—" He stopped, winced. "Laurel. Whoever you are. We were everything to each other. And then you just… vanished. And now you're telling me it's because you were a girl the whole time and I just… I never knew?"
The accusation in his voice stung, but it also sparked something hot and defensive in Laurel's chest. "How was I supposed to tell you?" she shot back, her voice rising. "How was I supposed to explain it when I didn't even understand it myself back then? I was twelve, Ash. I was getting beaten with a baseball bat for being different. You think I could have just sent you a letter that said, 'Hey, by the way, I'm actually your best girl friend now'?"
"I would have understood!" Ashton's voice cracked, and she could see the shimmer of tears in his eyes now. "I would have—I don't know, I would have tried. You didn't even give me the chance."
"You would have tried," Laurel repeated, her voice dripping with bitter disbelief. "In Laurel, Montana? In the town where three boys put me in the hospital because I was too soft, too weird, too much of a fag for their liking? You would have understood that I was a girl?" She laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "Even you didn't see it, Ash. You were my best friend and you had no idea."
That landed like a physical blow. Ashton flinched, his jaw clenching. He turned away from her, his hands on his hips, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, deliberate breaths. She could see him fighting for control, trying to rein in the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.
The silence stretched between them, taut and painful. Laurel stood there, her arms wrapped around herself, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than she ever had in her life. She had just handed him the most fragile, precious part of herself, and she had no idea what he was going to do with it.
Finally, Ashton turned back to face her. His expression had shifted. The hurt was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was being pushed down, contained. What rose to the surface instead was concern—deep, genuine, almost overwhelming concern.
"Okay," he said, his voice steadier now, though still rough around the edges. "Okay. I… I need a minute to process this. But right now, I don't care about… about what happened then. I don't care that you didn't tell me. What I care about is you, right now, standing in front of me looking like you're about to collapse." He took a step toward her, his eyes searching her face. "...Laurel"
The way he said her name—tentative, like he was offering it back to her—made her breath hitch.
"You've been here for a few months," he continued, his voice gaining strength. "And in that time, you've been lying to everyone, pretending to be someone you're not, living with a father who would lose his mind if he knew the truth. You've been starving yourself. You've been pushing away everyone who cares about you. You look like you haven't slept in days." He paused, his eyes boring into hers. "Why have you been so reckless?"
The question hit her like a slap. "Reckless?" she repeated, her voice sharp with disbelief.
"Yes, reckless," Ashton said, his concern hardening into something almost like anger—not at her, but at the situation, at her self-destruction. "You're not eating. You're isolating yourself. You're putting yourself in danger by trying to survive in that house with Derrick while hiding who you are. What if he finds out? What if he—" He stopped himself, but the implication hung heavy in the air. "You could get hurt, Laurel. Really hurt. And you're just… you're not taking care of yourself at all."
Something inside Laurel snapped. The fear, the exhaustion, the shame—it all coalesced into a white-hot burst of defensive anger. "What the hell do you want me to do, Ash?" she shouted, her voice cracking. "You want me to take care of myself? How? By eating three meals a day and pretending everything's fine? By going to Winter Guard auditions and smiling and performing like I'm not dying inside every single second?"
"That's not what I—"
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do!" The words tore from her throat, raw and desperate. "I've never been in this situation before! I don't have a manual for 'How to Survive When You're Forced Back Into the Closet in a Town That Wants You Dead.' I don't know how to be Montana during the day and Laurel in my head at night without going insane. I don't know how to make my dad sign a permission slip for an activity that makes me feel like myself without him realizing why it makes me feel like myself. I don't know how to see people from my past—people who knew me when I was happy—without wanting to run into traffic because they can see how far I've fallen."
Her voice broke completely on the last word, dissolving into sobs. She sank back down onto the bench, her head in her hands, her whole body shaking. "I don't know what to do," she whispered, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had flared up. "I'm just trying to survive. That's all I'm doing. And I'm barely even managing that."
Ashton stood there for a long moment, frozen, watching her fall apart. Then, slowly, he moved. He crossed the distance between them and sat down beside her on the bench, close but not touching. He picked up his jacket from where it had fallen and, with gentle hands, draped it back over her shaking shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I just—" He ran a hand over his face, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. "I'm scared for you, Laurel. I'm scared that one day I'm going to get a call that something happened. That you—" He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
Laurel looked up at him, her face blotchy and wet with tears. "I'm scared too," she whispered.
They sat there in the gathering dusk, the cold seeping in around them, the distant town below them beginning to twinkle with lights. Ashton didn't try to fix it. He didn't offer solutions or platitudes. He just sat with her, a solid, warm presence in the growing dark.
After a long while, he spoke again. "I don't understand everything," he said slowly. "And I'm probably going to screw up and say the wrong thing a hundred times. But I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. Okay?"
Laurel nodded, not trusting her voice.
"And for what it's worth," Ashton continued, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips, "Laurel is a really pretty name. It suits you better than Montana ever did. Though it lacks originality."
Something inside Laurel's chest cracked open at that—not in a breaking way, but in a way that let a little bit of light in. She leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder, and he didn't pull away. He just wrapped an arm around her, anchoring her to the earth, and they sat there together as the sky turned from blue to purple to black.
They stayed at the park until the cold became unbearable, until Laurel's teeth were chattering so hard she couldn't speak. Ashton finally stood, pulling her up with him. "Come on," he said gently. "I'll drive you home. You've got practice tonight, right?"
Laurel nodded numbly. Practice. Color guard. The one place where she could still feel like herself, even if it was just for a few hours. "Yeah," she whispered.
They drove back in silence, but it was a different kind of silence than before. It wasn't empty. It was full of things unsaid, of a fragile new understanding, of a friendship that had just been tested and hadn't quite broken.
When Ashton pulled up in front of her house, he turned to look at her. "Hey," he said, waiting until she met his eyes. "Text me after practice. Let me know you're okay."
"Okay," she said.
"I mean it," he said, his voice firm. "Even if it's just a period. Just let me know you're alive."
The corner of her mouth twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't far off. "Okay," she said again.
She got out of the car, the cold hitting her immediately. She shrugged deeper into his jacket, which she realized she was still wearing. She started to take it off to give it back, but he shook his head.
"Keep it for tonight," he said. "You need it more than I do."
She nodded, clutching the heavy fabric around her. "Thanks, Ash."
He gave her a small wave, and she watched as he pulled away, his taillights disappearing into the night. Then she turned and faced her house, the looming structure that was both a shelter and a prison.
Inside, the house was dark. Derrick was out. The permission slip was still on the fridge, unsigned, a silent testament to all the ways she was failing to bridge the gap between who she was and who she was supposed to be.
Laurel stood in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at that piece of paper. Then, with a surge of desperate defiance, she grabbed a pen from the junk drawer. Her hand shook as she held it over the signature line. She could do it. She could forge Derrick's signature. She'd seen it enough times. It would be easy.
But the consequences if she got caught…
She set the pen down. Not yet. Not tonight. She needed to think.
Instead, she went upstairs, grabbed her guard bag, with the hidden uniform, and left for practice. She didn't have a ride, so she walked, Ashton's jacket wrapped around her. The cold air bit at her face, but she welcomed it. It was real. It was something she could feel.
When she arrived at the school, the band room was already buzzing with activity. She slipped in through the side door, her hood up, and made her way to the locker room to change. She was certain that Jess had seen her in Ashton's jacket, again. And a small part of herself felt guilty. She pulled on her practice clothes, loose blue tank top and black shorts, and stared at herself in the small, dingy mirror.
Chase Richardson and Drake Martinez approached her.
"Hey Monty," Chase said, his voice bright and oblivious to the storm of emotions churning inside her. He was all easy confidence, his practice clothes already perfectly in place, his sandy hair artfully tousled. "You feeling better? You missed auditions Wednesday."
Drake stood a half-step behind him, quieter, his dark eyes watchful. He was always the more observant one, content to let Chase do the talking while he took in the details.
Laurel forced herself to meet Chase's gaze. "Yeah," she said, her voice rough. "Just… had some stuff going on."
"Well, Miss Vick kept your spot open," Chase said, grinning. "She said she knew you'd show up eventually. So you're still in if you want to be. We're doing 'Shake It Out' by Florence + The Machine for the show. Jess is gonna lose her mind—she's been lobbying for that song since September."
The mention of Jess's name made Laurel's stomach twist. She glanced past Chase and Drake, scanning the practice space. The band room was its usual chaotic mess—instruments being assembled, stands clattering, voices overlapping in a discordant symphony. Through the doorway to the auditorium, where the guard would be practicing tonight, she could see Jess already on the floor, stretching with Evelyn and Charlotte. Jess's blonde ponytail was pulled high, her movements precise and controlled, but Laurel could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept glancing toward the door.
"That's… that's great," Laurel managed, pulling her gaze away. "I'll, uh, I'll talk to Miss Vick."
"Cool," Chase said, clapping her on the shoulder. The casual touch made Laurel flinch, but Chase didn't seem to notice. "See you out there."
He and Drake headed toward the auditorium, leaving Laurel alone in the locker room. She stared at her reflection in the mirror again. The face staring back at her was pale, drawn, the dark circles under her eyes a stark contrast to her skin. She looked haunted. She looked like a ghost.
But she was here. She had shown up. That had to count for something.
She grabbed her flag from her bag and made her way toward the auditorium, her heart pounding. The door was propped open, and the stage was already lit, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving. The rest of the guard was assembled—Jess, Evelyn, Charlotte, Hannah, Zoey, Daisy, Chase, and Drake. Nine of them. A small, scrappy team held together by Miss Vick's sheer force of will and Jess's relentless drive.
Miss Vick was standing center stage, clipboard in hand, her purple-streaked hair pulled back in her usual messy bun. She looked up as Laurel entered, and something in her expression softened.
"Montana," she said, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Glad you could make it."
The room went quiet. All eyes turned to Laurel. She felt exposed, pinned under the weight of their collective gaze. Jess's eyes were the hardest to meet—full of hope and hurt and a desperate, silent plea for forgiveness.
Laurel looked away first.
"Thanks," she said quietly, setting her bag down on one of the auditorium seats.
Miss Vick nodded, then clapped her hands twice, the sharp sound echoing. "All right, everyone. Warm-ups. Let's go. I want to see clean lines, good posture, and energy. We've got a lot of work to do. Last football game performance is tomorrow and it's Senior Night! Then our last competition is on Saturday. The bus leaves here at 6 am, it's a 4 and a half hour bus ride to Spokane, Washington. Make sure to pack everything you need.”
The team moved into their familiar routine—stretches, warm ups, basic tosses. Laurel fell into the rhythm, her body remembering the motions even when her mind was elsewhere. Drop spins. Flourishes. Cones. Pole Hits. Toss. Catch. Repeat. The flag was a weight in her hands, the silk whispering as it cut through the air. It was grounding. It was real.
“Alright everyone, I like what I see! Let's do a runthrough with the band's performance I have the audio on the speakers tonight so let's make this one count! Just because Winter Guard is coming up doesn't mean we can start getting lazy with our performance now.” Miss Vick's voice boomed from the empty auditorium seats and grabbed her phone from her assistant instructor Jane.
The lights dimmed, and the familiar opening notes of 'My Body is a Cage' filled the auditorium. Laurel took her starting position, flag held low, her heart pounding. This was the last time she'd perform this show. Tomorrow was Senior Night, the final home game. Then Saturday was the last competition. After that, the fall season would be over, and all that would be left was Winter Guard—if she could get that permission slip signed.
The music swelled, and she moved.
For the entire performance, she wasn't Montana. She tried to be Laurel but it wasn't helping either, not exactly. She was something else—something fluid and free, a body in motion, a story told through flags and counts and the curve of her spine. The dysphoria didn't disappear, but it receded, pushed back by the sheer physicality of the performance. Her muscles burned. Her lungs ached. Her flag spun and flew and she caught it, every single time.
She was aware of the others around her—Jess to her left, Chase to her right, the rest of the team scattered across the stage in their carefully choreographed formations. But she was also alone, suspended in the music, in the movement, in the brief, precious freedom of being nothing but herself in motion.
When the final note faded and they hit their ending pose—Laurel on one knee, flag draped across her shoulder, head down—there was a beat of silence. Then Miss Vick's voice, sharp and clear from the darkness of the auditorium.
"Better. Much better. Montana, Chase, Jess—that rifle sequence in the middle? Perfect. That's what I want to see tomorrow night. Evelyn, you're still rushing your counts in measure sixteen. Slow down. Feel the music, don't chase it. Everyone else—solid work. But I know you can give me more. This is our last game performance. I want to see fire. I want to see passion. I want people in those stands to feel something. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Miss Vick" echoed through the space.
"Good. Take five. Hydrate. Then we're running it again. And again. Until it's flawless."
The team scattered, grabbing water bottles, toweling off sweat. Laurel stayed in her ending pose for a moment longer, her chest heaving, her heart still racing. She could feel the eyes on her—Jess's gaze like a physical weight—but she didn't look up. Not yet.
Finally, she pushed herself to her feet and walked to the edge of the stage, grabbing her water bottle from her bag. She took a long, desperate drink, the cool liquid a shock to her parched throat. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was. How empty.
She then immediately left the auditorium hoping to run to the restroom and avoid Jess.
"Hey."
The voice was soft, tentative. Jess.
Laurel didn't turn around. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Can we talk?" Jess asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please?"
Laurel's jaw clenched. She wanted to say no. She wanted to walk away, to keep the wall between them intact. But something in Jess's voice—the raw, desperate hope—made her pause.
"There's nothing to talk about," Laurel said finally, her voice flat.
"Yes, there is," Jess said, stepping closer. Laurel could feel her presence at her shoulder, warm and insistent. "I know you're mad at me. I know I screwed up. But I need you to understand why I did it."
"You ambushed me," Laurel said, her voice sharp. She turned to face Jess, and the hurt in Jess's eyes was almost too much to bear. "You led me out there, knowing they were waiting. You let them see me like this." She gestured down at herself, at the body she hated. "How am I supposed to forgive that?"
Jess's face crumpled. "I didn't know you were going to react that way, I'm sorry." she said, her voice breaking. "I thought—I thought if you saw them, it would remind you. That you had people who loved you. That you weren't alone. I didn't think you'd run. I didn't think…” She stopped, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry, Laurel. I'm so, so sorry."
The use of her name—her real name—was like a knife to the chest. Laurel felt her own eyes burning, but she blinked the tears back furiously. "You don't get to call me that," she whispered. "Not after what you did."
"I know," Jess said, her voice thick with tears. "I know. But I need you to know that I never wanted to hurt you. I was jealous. And scared. I saw Dani's name on your phone and I panicked because I thought I was going to lose you, and I did the worst possible thing I could do." She took a shaky breath. "But they're still here, Laurel. Dani and Sam. They didn't leave. They're staying in town. They want to see you. They want to talk to you. And I think, I think you need them as much as they need you."
Laurel stared at her, her heart pounding. "They're still here?" she whispered.
Jess nodded. "They're at the Liberty Motel, for now, I'm trying to help them find something better. Dani gave me her number. They want you to call them. Or text. Or… anything. They just want to know you're okay."
Laurel turned away, her hands shaking. Dani was still here. In Laurel, Montana. The impossibility of it made her head spin. "I can't," she said, her voice barely audible. "I can't see them. Not like this."
"Like what?" Jess asked gently.
"Like this!" Laurel's voice rose, breaking on the words. She spun back around, her face wet with tears she could no longer hold back. "Like Montana! They knew me when I was Laurel! When I was happy and free and actually myself! And now I'm—I'm this broken, half-alive thing pretending to be a boy in a town that wants me dead! I can't let them see me like this. I can't."
Jess reached out, her hand hovering near Laurel's arm, but she didn't touch. "I still see Laurel. I don't see him, I see the same girl I saw on stage last week, and Dani and Sam wouldn't care about that," she said softly. "They just want to see you. To know you're alive. To know you remember them."
“You… don't see Montana?”
“No. It's honestly any wonder how I didn't see it when we first met in summer. Sure you look rough because you look like you haven't eaten or slept since Saturday, but I still see you. I still see Laurel.”
Laurel felt something crack open inside her chest at those words. Jess didn't see Montana. Even now, with her hair disheveled, her face gaunt, her body wrapped in boy's clothes that felt like a costume she couldn't take off—Jess still saw her.
"I don't know how you can," Laurel whispered, her voice breaking. "When I look in the mirror, all I see is him. All I see is what I'm not."
"That's because you're looking at the wrong things," Jess said, and this time she did reach out, her hand gently touching Laurel's arm. Laurel didn't flinch away. "I see the way you move when you spin. I see the way your face lights up when you catch a difficult toss. I see the way you exist when you think no one's watching. That's Laurel. That's who you are. The rest is just... noise."
The tears came harder now, and Laurel didn't try to stop them. She let herself cry, her shoulders shaking, and when Jess pulled her into a hug, she didn't resist. She just collapsed into it, into the warmth and the safety and the acceptance she had been so desperately craving.
"I'm sorry," Jess whispered into her hair. "I'm so sorry. I won't do anything like that again without asking you first. I promise."
"I was so scared," Laurel sobbed into Jess's shoulder. "Seeing them, seeing Dani, it was like all the progress I'd made just evaporated. Like I was back to being twelve years old and broken."
"You're not broken," Jess said fiercely, hugging Laurel tighter.
They stood there for a long moment, wrapped around each other in the empty hallway outside the auditorium. The sounds of the band warming up in the other room were a distant, muffled soundtrack. Finally, Laurel pulled back, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of Ashton's jacket.
"I look like a mess," she said with a weak laugh.
"You look like someone who's fighting," Jess said. She reached out and gently wiped a stray tear from Laurel's cheek with her thumb. "And you're still here. That counts for something."
"Miss Vick's going to wonder where we are," Laurel said, trying to pull herself together.
"Let her wonder," Jess said. Then, softer: "Are we okay? I mean, I know we're not all the way okay. But are we... something?"
Laurel took a shaky breath. "We're something," she said. "I'm still mad. But I also... I get it. I understand why you did it, even if it was the wrong call."
"I'll make it up to you," Jess promised. "However long it takes."
They made their way back into the auditorium, where Miss Vick was already calling everyone back to their positions. If she noticed Laurel's red eyes or Jess's tear-stained cheeks, she didn't comment. She just launched into notes for the next run-through, her voice sharp and focused.
They ran the show three more times. Each time, Laurel felt a little stronger, a little more grounded. The physical exhaustion was a relief, a way to burn off the emotional turmoil of the day. By the time Miss Vick finally called it, Laurel's muscles were screaming and her lungs burned, but she felt more alive than she had in days.
"Good work tonight, everyone," Miss Vick said, consulting her clipboard. "Tomorrow is Senior Night. I want you all here by 5:30. We'll do a quick warm-up, then it's game time. Seniors—" she looked at Jess, Evelyn, and Laurel, "—this is your last home performance. Make it count. The rest of you, support your captains. Give them something to remember. Dismissed."
As everyone started packing up, Miss Vick approached Laurel. "Montana, can I see you for a minute?"
Laurel's stomach dropped. She nodded, following Miss Vick to the edge of the stage while the others filed out. Jess shot her a concerned look, but Laurel waved her off.
"I need that permission slip by tomorrow if you want to participate in Winter Guard," Miss Vick said without preamble. "I can't hold your spot indefinitely."
"I know," Laurel said quietly. "I'm working on it."
Miss Vick studied her for a long moment. "Are you?" she asked, not unkindly.
Laurel's throat tightened. "My dad and I aren't exactly on speaking terms right now."
"I gathered," Miss Vick said. She sighed, pulling off her glasses and cleaning them on her shirt. "Look, I can't force you to do anything. But I can tell you this: your mother would want you to fight for this. For the things that make you feel like yourself. Don't let Derrick Payton take that away from you."
The mention of her mother made Laurel's eyes sting. She blinked rapidly. "What if he says no?"
"Then you make him say yes," Miss Vick said. "Or you find another way. You're almost eighteen, Montana. In a few months, he won't have a say anymore. But right now, you do what you have to do to survive. Even if that means playing the game for a little while longer."
Laurel nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Good," Miss Vick said. She put her glasses back on and picked up her clipboard. "Now go home. Eat something. Sleep. I need you sharp tomorrow."
The walk home was cold and dark. Laurel pulled Ashton's jacket tighter around her, grateful for its warmth. She thought about texting him, letting him know she was okay like she'd promised, but her phone battery was almost dead and she just wanted to get home.
The house was lit up when she arrived, which meant Derrick was home. Her stomach clenched. She considered just going to her room, avoiding him entirely, but she could smell food—actual food, something hot and savory—and her traitorous stomach growled loudly.
She found him in the kitchen, pulling a casserole out of the oven. He looked up when she entered, his expression unreadable.
"You're late," he said.
"Practice ran long," Laurel replied, dropping her bag by the door.
He set the casserole dish on the stove and gestured at the table. "Sit. Eat."
It wasn't a request. Laurel hesitated, then sat. Derrick dished out a plate for her—some kind of chicken and rice casserole that looked homemade—and set it in front of her. Then he made a plate for himself and sat across from her.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The food was good—better than good, actually—and Laurel hadn't realized how hungry she was until the first bite. She ate mechanically, not looking up.
"You're still not eating right, are you?” Derrick said finally.
Laurel didn't respond. She just kept eating with her eyes down.
Derrick sighed, switching tact.
"Tomorrow's your last home game," Derrick continued. "Senior Night."
"Yeah," Laurel said quietly.
"You want me to be there?"
The question caught her off guard. She looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. He looked tired, older than she remembered. There was something in his expression that felt off.
"Do you want to be there?" Laurel asked carefully.
Derrick was quiet for a long moment. "I don't understand it," he said finally. "The flag stuff, the dancing. It's not my world. But..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Your mother would have wanted me to show up. So I'll show up."
It wasn't much. It wasn't an apology for the things he'd said, for the cruelty, for all the ways he'd failed her. But it was something. A tiny crack in the wall between them.
"Okay," Laurel said. "The performance is at halftime. Around 7:30, probably."
Derrick nodded. They finished eating in silence. When Laurel stood to clear her plate, she noticed the permission slip still on the fridge, untouched. She stared at it for a long moment.
"What's that?" Derrick asked, following her gaze.
"Permission slip," Laurel said, her heart pounding. "For Winter Guard. The season starts in a few weeks. I need... I need you to sign it."
Derrick got up and pulled the slip from the fridge, reading it over. Laurel held her breath, waiting for the explosion, for the refusal, for another lecture about being a man and not prancing around.
Instead, he just sighed. "Are you sure you're being safe? And is this gonna affect your grades?”
"I'm being safe. And no," Laurel said quickly. "Practices are after school. Competitions are on weekends, but I'll keep my grades up. I promise."
"And it's important to you?" he asked, still not looking at her.
"Yeah," Laurel said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It is."
Derrick grabbed a pen from the counter and, without another word, scrawled his signature across the bottom line. He handed it back to her. "Don't make me regret it."
Laurel stared at the signed form in her hands, her heart racing. "I won't," she said. "Thank you."
“Listen son, I know I've been hard on you for a while. And that's my fault, it's just you remind me so much of your mother… I'm just trying to keep you safe, you understand?” Derrick said
Laurel nodded, not daring to meet his eyes.
Derrick just turned around and continued washing the dishes as Laurel escaped up the stairs and into her room.
In her room, she carefully folded the permission slip and tucked it into her guard bag. Then she plugged in her phone and collapsed onto her bed, exhaustion finally catching up with her. Her phone buzzed as it powered on, a flood of notifications lighting up the screen.
SmashinAshton: Did u make it home ok?
SmashinAshton: Laurel?
SmashinAshton: If u don't text me back im coming over there
SmashinAshton: Ok good u read it at least I can see the read receipts
Laurel smiled despite herself and typed out a reply.
ML: I'm alive. Practice was good. Talked to Jess. Got the permission slip signed.
The three dots appeared immediately.
SmashinAshton: SIGNED?? How'd u manage that?
ML: I asked. He said yes. I think hell might have frozen over.
SmashinAshton: Proud of u
SmashinAshton: U eating?
ML: Yeah. Had dinner. Dad made casserole.
SmashinAshton: Good. Keep it up.
SmashinAshton: You performing tomorrow?
ML: Yeah
SmashinAshton: I'll try to sneak out of the locker room to watch the performance, if I can't I'll have someone record it for me again
Laurel's chest felt warm. She typed out a response, deleted it, tried again.
ML: Thanks Ash
SmashinAshton: Anytime Laurel
She stared at her name on the screen for a long moment. Before locking her phone and looking over to her bookcase. She went and grabbed her mom's journal, sliding it out of the place she'd hidden it.
It felt heavy, the more Laurel remembered about herself it made being back and stuck as Montana a more and more heavy burden, but she still couldn't stop herself from opening the book. She read page after page, some more light-hearted pages, work drama, memories about Dani and Laurel and how they'd been getting close.
She turned the page to find that April had gotten into a fight with her father, about Dani.
A sharp sudden pain in Laurel's head made the room tilt. She set the book back down as gently as she could on top of the dresser. Holding her head she sat back on her bed, it was getting late, she had a long day. She closed her eyes, stopping herself from sleeping only to get undressed.
Laurel Melody Parker, September 17th 2017, Marisol Heights, California
"What about Dani?"
Richard's expression shifted, became more guarded. "What about her?"
"She lives with us. With me and….. my mom. She has nowhere else to go."
"She has other options," Richard said carefully. “I'm aware that she has family in the area that might take her in, there's also a chance she gets put in foster care. Regardless it's not on me to find a place for her.”
"No." Laurel's voice was stronger now, edged with something sharp. "My mom took her in. She's family. I'm not leaving her."
Richard sighed. "Laurel, I understand you care about this girl. But our condo has two bedrooms. Your grandmother and I need our space. And frankly..." He paused, choosing his words. "Your mother made certain choices that I didn't always agree with. Taking in stray teenagers, encouraging certain... lifestyles. I respected her right to parent as she saw fit. But now I'm responsible for you, and I have different views on what's appropriate."
The way he said 'lifestyles' made Laurel's stomach turn. "Dani isn't a stray. And being gay isn't a lifestyle."
"I didn't say it was," Richard said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But you're grieving. You're vulnerable. You need stability, structure, family. Not... complications."
"She is family."
"She's not," Richard said, his voice firmer now. "Legally, morally, biologically—she's not family. Your grandmother and I are your family. And we're asking you to trust us. Your mother..." He stopped, his jaw working. "Your mother made choices that led to this. I don't want to speak ill of her, especially now. But she was depressed, Laurel. She had been for a while. We tried to get her help, but she refused. And some of the stress in her life—the financial pressure of supporting extra people, the isolation she felt in Marisol Heights, the constant worry—it contributed to her state of mind."
The implication was clear. This is partially Dani's fault.
"That's not fair," Laurel whispered.
"Life isn't fair," Richard said. "April is missing. From what the police have told me it doesn't look good. They found her car abandoned near the beach. That's not fair. But it's reality. And the reality is that you need to come live with us. You can visit your friend. You can stay in touch. But you can't bring her with you. I'm sorry."
The argument went in circles for an hour. Richard was immovable. Eleanor, when called in, was sympathetic but agreed with her husband. Laurel was a minor. She needed a stable home. Their condo wasn't appropriate for four people. Dani would be fine.
In the end, Laurel had no choice. She was sixteen. She had no money, no job, no legal standing. Her mother was likely dead, and she didn't even have a body to bury.
Laurel Melody Parker, ???, Marisol Heights, California
A memorial service was held at Richard's insistence. Small, intimate, just Laurel, her grandparents, a few of April's coworkers from the hospital, and April's chosen family—the kids she'd collected and protected. Laurel stood at the front of the funeral home in a black dress, Dani had to sit near the back with Sam, and Laurel couldn't cry. She felt empty, hollowed out, like someone had scooped out her insides and left just a shell.
People said things. Kind things, probably. Laurel didn't hear them. She just stared at the photo of her mother on the easel, April at the beach, smiling, her hair blowing in the wind, alive—and tried to understand how someone so full of life could just... choose to stop living.
By the time Laurel made it back to the condo she had hardly remembered anything about the service. It's like her body is rejecting the cruel reality that she's not ready for. She'll never be ready for this.
The condo was beautiful in the way expensive things are beautiful, cold, precise, and untouchable. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Bay. Minimalist furniture in shades of white and gray. Abstract art that cost more than a year of Laurel's college tuition. Everything had a place, and everything was in its place.
Laurel felt like a smudge on a clean window.
Her room, the guest room, really, was nice. A queen bed with a white comforter. A desk. A bookshelf, empty and waiting. Eleanor had put fresh flowers on the nightstand, trying to make it welcoming. Her boxes were in the storage closet until Laurel had the heart to go through them, and make this feel like home… But it wasn't home. Home was a small apartment in Marisol Heights that smelled like April's tea and Dani's vanilla perfume. Home was messy and lived-in and full of love.
This was so far removed from that.
The first week, Richard and Eleanor were gentle. They gave her space. They encouraged her to rest, to grieve. Eleanor made her favorite foods—or tried to, based on what April had told them. Richard checked in daily, asking how she was feeling, if she needed anything.
The third week, Richard started inserting himself more.
"I'd like to talk to you about your medical care," he said one evening. They were in his study, a room that smelled of leather and old books. He sat behind his massive desk, Laurel in one of the uncomfortable chairs across from him. It felt like being called to the principal's office.
"Okay," Laurel said warily.
"Your mother had you on..." He consulted a file—when had he gotten her medical records?—"hormone replacement therapy. Estrogen and a testosterone blocker."
"Yes," Laurel said. "I've been on them since July.”
"I've been doing some research," Richard said, pulling out several printed articles. "And I have some concerns. These medications haven't been studied long-term in adolescents. There are potential side effects—fertility issues, bone density problems, cardiovascular risks."
"My doctor explained all that," Laurel said. "We did blood work. I'm being monitored."
"By a doctor in Marisol Heights," Richard said. "I've looked into Dr. Morrison. He's known for being... liberal with these prescriptions. Some would say reckless. I'd like you to see a specialist here in the city. Someone who can give us a more conservative assessment."
"Conservative assessment?" Laurel felt her pulse quicken. "What does that mean?"
"It means getting a second opinion from someone who will prioritize your physical health over... ideology."
"Being transgender isn't an ideology," Laurel said, her voice tight. "It's who I am."
Richard leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully neutral. "Laurel, you're sixteen. You've been through significant trauma. Your mother just died. You're living in a new place, away from your friends. This isn't the time to be making permanent medical decisions."
"I made this decision months ago.”
"And your mother was... she was struggling. She wanted to support you, I understand that. But she was also dealing with her own mental health issues. She may not have been thinking clearly."
The implication landed like a slap. "Don't you dare," Laurel said, her voice shaking. "Don't you dare blame her for this. She was the best mother I could have asked for. She saved my life."
"I'm not blaming her," Richard said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "I'm simply saying that now that I'm responsible for you, I want to make sure we're taking a measured, cautious approach. These hormones are powerful medications. I think it would be prudent to pause them while we get a proper evaluation."
"Pause them?" Laurel felt the room tilt. "No. No, I need them. If I stop, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Richard asked. "Laurel, you'll be fine. Your body will readjust. And if, after a thorough evaluation by multiple specialists, the consensus is that this is truly the best course of treatment, then we can discuss restarting. But right now, you're in crisis. You're not in a position to make rational decisions about your health."
"I'm not in crisis about being trans," Laurel said desperately. "I'm in crisis because my mother killed herself and I'm being forced to live with people who don't understand me."
Richard's expression hardened. "Understand you? Laurel, I'm trying to help you. Your grandmother and I have given you a home. We're paying for your food, your education, your medical care. We're asking for very little in return. Just that you let us guide you through this difficult time."
"By taking away my hormones?"
"By slowing down," Richard said. "By taking a breath. By not making any rash decisions while you're grieving."
"This isn't a rash decision. I've been living as a girl for three years."
"And look where that's gotten you," Richard said, and there was an edge to his voice now. "Your mother is dead, Laurel. My daughter is gone. She was clearly not in a healthy state of mind. And some of that—not all, but some—came from the stress of the choices she made. The choices she enabled."
"What choices?" Laurel asked, though she knew. She could see it in his eyes.
"Taking you out of Montana so you could 'transition,'" Richard said, the word dripping with disdain. "Supporting that lifestyle. Taking in other troubled teenagers. Isolating herself from family who could have helped her. She made choices, Laurel. And those choices had consequences."
Laurel stood up, her chair scraping loudly. "I'm not doing this."
"Sit down."
"No. You're blaming me. You're blaming me for my mother's death."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are!" Laurel's voice cracked. "You think if I hadn't been trans, if she hadn't supported me, she'd still be alive. That's what you think."
Richard's silence was answer enough.
"I'm calling Dani," Laurel said, heading for the door.
"Laurel, wait." Richard's voice stopped her. "I need you to understand something. While you're living under my roof, under my guardianship, you follow my rules. That includes your medical care. I've already spoken to your pharmacy. Your prescription refills have been canceled."
Laurel turned slowly. "What?"
"I'm your legal guardian. I have the right to make medical decisions on your behalf. The hormones are discontinued until you've been properly evaluated."
The room spun. Laurel felt like she couldn't breathe. "You can't do that."
"I can, and I have. I'm sorry if this upsets you. But someday you'll understand that I'm doing this for your own good."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing, she silently turned, with clenched fists and left the room.