Laurel Melody Parker, September 5th 2014, Marisol Heights, Northern California
This was it. This was going to be the first day of the rest of her life. She’s had many of those in the past year since moving back to California. But today was a different kind of daunting.
She was leaning on the railing of the rooftop terrace to her apartment. There was a nice cool breeze blowing through her shoulder length auburn hair, finally relenting from the exhaustive summer she had to get reacclimated to. She took a deep breath, and released it. Today was going to be her first day going to school as herself. She was extremely nervous as to how she would be perceived. It was enough of a struggle to leave the house most days, she’d often have fears of anyone finding out that she wasn’t really– well wasn’t born a girl. The only thing that’s kept her grounded from those thoughts of self-questioning is her mom. And she’s going to have to step out of this shell she’d been happy to live in.
She’s wearing a light pink crewneck sweater and black jean shorts, she’s checking her appearance in the reflection of the sliding door, fingers nervously tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The sweater is soft, her mom bought it for her the first week they moved down from San Francisco and her grandparents house. Her legs are bare except for pink and blue striped socks that will soon be inside her white converse. She catches her eyes in the glass, golden brown, uncertain for the day though.
Inside she can hear her mom call for her, bustling in the kitchen, the sound of clattering dishes and the hiss of the kettle coming to a boil. “Laurel! Breakfast!!” Her mom calls out to her. Laurel lingers only slightly, enjoying the moments she has before she must inevitably leave. She lets the cool wind calm her nerves. It’s a lovely day out. Taking another breath Laurel steps inside.
The apartment is small, but cozy, now decorated with more of their lives than had been even a few months ago. The walls are a calming yellow and sunlight is spilling into the kitchen and kitchen table. April is standing at the counter, pouring tea into a mug, glancing up and inspecting Laurel.
“Ready?” She asks, and Laurel knows it’s not just about breakfast.
Laurel nods, clutching her bag. “I think so. I mean… yeah. I hope so at least.
April offers a reassuring smile, soft but proud. “You look good, I mean it. And you can do this. First days are always scary but you aren’t in this alone.” She’s doting over Laurel now, making sure her light makeup and hair look good. “Do you have your new phone with you? I don’t care what any teacher says if you need anything, if things are too bad and you need me, I’m only a phone call away and I’ll be right over.”
Laurel nods while nibbling on her french toast, her stomach fluttery with nerves. They continue talking about her schedule, about the teachers’ names, about how to respond in case someone asks her any probing questions.
Soon it’s time to go. Laurel slips on her sneakers and shrugs on her backpack. The elevator ride to the first floor feels like a plunge and her stomach tightens. She arrives at her bus stop a little early still, there isn’t anyone there. And for a moment Laurel thinks she’s gotten herself lost already. But no, more of her eventual peers begin to show up and she boards the slightly battered yellow school bus.
Laurel twisted the end of her backpack strap until her knuckles whitened. The bus rumbling beneath her new sneakers and up into her chest, a metallic reverberation carried itself through the bus. She sat down in one of the ugly green upholstered seats. She had lain awake at night practicing every question someone might ask her. Rehearsing every answer to the questions that might never even come.
The questions of her past haunted her, an echo of a life left behind, she refused to even consider herself the same person. How could that have been her? She was Laurel Melody Parker. A clean break. Old life was someone else. And this new life was hers.
The bus braked hard at a stop sign and Laurel’s bag slipped from the seat, spilling open and her journal and pen slid across the grimy floor. She scrambled to retrieve them, face blushing in embarrassment. The girl in front of her picked up Laurel’s things for her. “Rough morning?” The girl said, her voice was contralto and she flashed a smile at Laurel before handing her back her things. She had been in a band tee and ripped jeans, her raven black hair cascading down her back. It took everything in her power for Laurel not to stare.
“Oh um, yes… first day, I just moved so…” Laurel trailed off. A smile creeped across her face as she tucked her hair behind her ears. “Something like that.” Laurel said quietly, not wanting to chance her voice cracking.
The girl’s gaze lingered for a moment, then flicked away as her friend elbowed her, launching back into their conversation. Laurel shuffled back into her seat and fixed her backpack and journal up. Outside the scenery shifted from apartment buildings and corner stores to rows of neat identical looking houses then to the low sprawling silhouette of Marisol Heights Middle School. The building was faded but sported old colorful murals of waves, dolphins, the ocean, and a banner above the main doors read: Welcome new and returning students. In crooked capital letters.
Stepping off the bus into the sea of people around her, she starts walking towards the entrance.
“Hey! New girl!” It's the girl from earlier. Laurel was startled at first but then approached her and her friend slowly.
“Stop scaring the new girl, Dani.” The friend standing next to her says. The girl's friend was a short, round faced kid with blonde shaggy hair with pink streaks in it. Like she'd tried to do it herself.
Dani rolled her eyes but was still smiling. “I'm not scary, I'm just welcoming!” she turned her attention back to Laurel. “Gotta name new girl?”
“I'm… Laurel and I just moved here from Montana.” She smiled politely at the two girls, heart pounding in her chest at the sound of her name spoken to those who didn't know any other.
“Cute. I'm Dani, and that's Sam,” the taller girl said and jerked her thumb back at her friend.
Montana Lee Payton, October 11th 2018, Laurel Montana
He walks into the music room, ignoring the congregation of instruments, stands, and marching bandmates and the auditory jumbled mess that was coming from said instruments warming up.
Into the restroom, he changed into his practice clothes, a red tank top that was likely a size too big and black basketball shorts. He didn't hate how his clothes felt on him, they were easy enough to move in. As long as there aren't any mirrors. He justifies to himself.
Just as he was about to step into the auditorium, Miss Vick and Chase Richardson sprung out the doors, followed by the rest of the guard.
Miss Vick spoke first “Alright we've been moved from the auditorium tonight, the drama kids need it, the practice field is being used by the football team, and the band room is in use by the band. I'd suggest the parking lot but it's still pretty cold out there. Looks like we'll have to practice in the cafeteria and move all the tables.”
A collective groan came across the members of the guard. Jess looked to Montana and rolled her eyes. He shrugged, and mouthed “better than nothing.” Jess nodded in begrudging agreement.
As the team shuffled toward the cafeteria, Montana fell in step beside Jess, their bags thumping against their hips. Evelyn and Charlotte were already bickering about who had to move the most tables. Chase, as always wasn't phased, and as long as he got to have a flag in his hands, would make it work. Hannah, Zoey, and Daisy locked arms and decided to make a ton of noise echo through the hallway, with their gossip. Luckily none of it had to do with Montana, Jess, or Ashton. And Drake Martinez kept himself off to the side, unspeaking.
The cafeteria was a fluorescent-lit nightmare. Echoey, cold, and smelling faintly of mop water and old cafeteria food. Montana dropped his guard bag beside one of the long folding tables and helped Jess push it to the wall. The others followed suit, pushing tables and chairs across the linoleum in a cacophony of screeches.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” Jess said dryly, brushing dust off her hands.
Montana smirked at her and stuck his tongue out.
“I'm happy you're here…I was so worried.” Jess opened up, shifting the mood quickly.
“I'll tell you more later Jess. There's not enough time right now. But I'm still in guard, to stay, I think.” He bumps shoulders with her. He'd hug her but Jess has her professional reputation to uphold as the guard's captain.
After stretching and some light warmups, Miss Vick prompts them for a runthrough of the show, she has a recording of the marching band playing Peter Gabriel's ‘My Body is a Cage’ though Montana likes the song he always found it cringe inducing that the band directors chose the 1st place winner for the Drum Corps International from this year. Such a small school could never live up to that performance and it would only make people compare them to one of his favorite performances he'd seen this year. Just one more expectation.
Jess has been pitching Florence + The Machine's ‘Shake It Out’ for Winter Guard and Montana really hopes that Miss Vick goes for it. He'd LOVE to get to perform that song.
He's feeling good, he's finally got to be here and practice after all that's happened in the last two days. Tomorrow is the last away football game, and their third to last performance. With only the ‘Senior Night’ final home football game and their last competition the day after, next week. Then he's got to make sure his dad agrees to him doing Winter Guard, and the process starts over. But for now he can just be. Free to spin and toss and dance.
His runthrough was electric, probably his best of the year. He danced and spun with all the energy he could. It's a shame his best performance was wasted on an audience of zero, and not, say at a competition or game. But beggars cannot be choosers.
By the second run, the cafeteria had become a cluster of movement, flags wisping around, poles thudding from dropped tosses, shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. Miss Vick was barking corrections over the recording. Chase was helping the younger members keep time with his counts. Jess kept matching Montana's eye and a grin tugged at her mouth.
On the third, Miss Vick killed the audio and clapped “Hold! Freeze.”
The nine bodies stopped mid-movement, their collective breaths hanging in the cool cafeteria air.
“Okay” she said, pacing around the nine of them. “Notes. Good energy across the board, but we're not trying to sacrifice technique for emotion.” She turned to Montana. “Payton! you're doing much better tonight, keep it up. Clean up your hand placements in the 16-count flourish toss in set four though.”
Montana just nodded, chest heavying slightly.
Miss Vick’s gaze skimmed over the crowd of students. “I know this isn't where we want to be practicing.” She gestured at the humming vending machines and stacked cafeteria tables while the smell of dull cleaning solution hung in the air. “We make do. We make our art anyways.” She smiled. “Also Winter Guard tryouts are next Monday and I'll be announcing the show shortly.”
Jess looked up at Montana with hopefulness and crossed her fingers for good luck.
Miss Vick gave her a look, amused. “I heard all the suggestions. That doesn't mean I'm picking Florence + The Machine because half of you are begging for it.”
A chorus of groans and laughs follow. “From the top,” Miss Vick said and this time when the first notes of ‘My Body is A Cage’ came out over the crackling cafeteria speakers, Montana stepped into the opening movement and felt the cool weight of the flag in his hands.
He didn't drop another toss the rest of practice.
They were breaking down the last of the folding cafeteria tables when the lights flickered. The custodial staff hovered at the entrance. “Wrap it up Vick.” Mr. Delaney called, “We've got a leak in one of the hallways, need you out in five.”
“On it.” Miss Vick answered. She clapped and the room dissolved into motion.
They were nearly finished re-assembling the tables when a ceiling tile fell and crashed into the floor with a wet thunk. Some of the guard flinched, others yelped, Montana did both, almost knocking into one of the cafeteria chairs as he did so.
“You okay?” Jess asked, concerned.
“Yeah, just… startled me.” He lied breathlessly as his heart beat in his throat.
Mr. Delaney and the custodial staff rushed into the room, “All right everyone out, that's our cue.” Everyone packed and rushed out the door with their things.
Miss Vick’s voice cut through the clattering of equipment, “Great practice everyone. Remember to show up early tomorrow for the away game, we've got a bus ride to Bozeman. That's an hour and a half bus ride and I want to get there early enough to warm up and stretch.” She snapped. “Oh and bring layers, it's gonna be brutal, it's not supposed to snow, wear your uniforms under your layers, we won't have time to change once we arrive.”
Montana just nodded and when they arrived at the music room the crowd started to disperse, Jess promised Montana they'd have the auditorium after the game if he needed it. Montana gave her a quick hug and Jess exited the building with Evelyn.
That left only Miss Vick, Chase, Montana, and Charlotte. There was a knock that came from the music room door, Miss Vick answered it, thinking it was Delaney. But it was Ashton, sweaty and in his football practice clothes.
Miss Vick’s brows rose a millimeter at the sight of Ashton filling the doorway like a wall.
“Brooks,” she said, neutral. “Band room’s off-limits to stray linebackers unless you’re returning a stolen music stand.”
Ashton’s mouth tugged into a sheepish grin. “Wide Receiver actually. Nevermind not important. No stands. Promise. I… was looking for Monty. Can I borrow him for a second?”
Chase shot Montana a quick, curious glance, then looked at Miss Vick. Charlotte didn’t bother hiding her smirk.
Miss Vick weighed it, then tipped her head toward the hallway. “Two minutes. In the hall. Not here. Charlotte, Chase—finish stacking those chairs and then you’re both out.”
Charlotte sighed theatrically but moved. Chase, unbothered, kept working.
Montana slung his bag over his shoulder and slid past Ashton into the empty corridor. It was cooler there, the white painted cinder block walls masking the heat from the building. Ashton leaned up against the wall, he was still slick with sweat from a rigorous practice. He was wearing a tight black tank top and purple sweatpants with the school logo printed on them.
“Hey” he said. The word carried through the hallway and left so much unsaid.
“Hey, I uh don't have long. I have to go home soon, practice just finished.” Montana supplied. “I didn't see you all day at school.”
Ashton scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah I figured you… might need space after last night.”
“I’m okay,” Montana lied, then immediately shook his head. “No. I’m not. But I’m… here.”
Ashton’s mouth twitched. “Good start.”
They stood there, the hallway hum a distant thing through cinderblock and fluorescent buzz. Montana stared at the scuffed tile by Ashton’s shoe. Anything to anchor himself.
“Sarah found me in the library,” he said, the words tumbling out too fast. “She said you… ended things.”
Ashton’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.” His voice was low but steady.
“Because of me?” Montana regretted it the second it left his mouth.
“Because of me,” Ashton said firmly. He didn’t look away. “Because I’ve felt different since you got back. Because I kept thinking about being twelve and how the air didn’t feel heavy when we were together. And because I can’t sort that out while I’m pretending everything’s fine with someone who doesn’t deserve halfway.”
Silence swelled. Montana’s pulse pounded in his ears.
“I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything,” Ashton added, softer now. “I’m not just pining for old memories, Monty. I just… I want to be where you can reach me. That’s all.”
I don't know what I'm doing, he thought. Montana swallowed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I know.” Ashton’s smile was small and real. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Something hot climbed behind Montana’s eyes. He blinked hard and looked away, catching their reflections faint and ghostly in a trophy case: Ashton, impossibly tall and steady; Montana, all sharp edges under borrowed light.
“My dad… changed his mind,” Montana said. “I can stay in guard. For now. Conditions and check-ins and—” He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “But I get to be there.”
“That’s good,” Ashton said. “I’ll be on the field tomorrow. Bozeman. If you need me, I’m on the home sideline. Text me, I’ll make up an ankle cramp or something.”
Montana huffed. “Don’t you dare.”
“Fine, a hamstring. Very legit.”
A door squealed open at the far end of the hall. Miss Vick’s voice carried. “Two minutes are up!”
Ashton dipped his head, meeting Montana’s eyes. “You’re not alone. Even when you feel like you are.”
Montana nodded. He wanted to say a hundred things—about the auditorium, about the way the uniform felt like air instead of fabric, about the journal burning a hole in his room—but all that came out was, “Okay.”
Ashton started backward, then reached out and squeezed Montana’s forearm—brief, warm, grounding. “See you later.”
Montana watched him go until Miss Vick cleared her throat behind him. He found his breath and turned back toward the band room. Grabbing his things, he walked out the door and didn't look back at Chase or Charlotte. Or Miss Vick.
By the time he made it home, the sky had gone from lavender to black. The porch light buzzed with moths. The living room was a cluttered quiet, football highlights paused on the TV. Derrick was nowhere to be seen.
Montana tiptoed past the mess and up the stairs, the muscle memory of avoiding creaks and shadows. In his room, he shoved the dresser back against the door by force of habit, then stood there, listening. Nothing but the heater knocking in the walls.
His guard bag slumped against the bed. He touched it, then let his hand fall away. His gaze found the shelf.
The journal waited where he’d put it back, smug in its stillness.
“Fine,” he breathed. “Okay.”
He sat on the floor with his back to the bed and opened to the ribbon he’d left somewhere in the middle. Pages fluttered—appointments, fragments, grocery lists in the margins, his mother’s voice rising and falling in ink.
January 1st, 2014. He almost didn’t read the date, the numbers swimming. He forced himself to.
It wasn’t a long entry. He heard her anyway.
It’s colder than the Bay gets, but we’re okay. We’re better than okay. We’re starting. She tried on the yellow dress again and cried and I held her and told her we would find the pieces that feel like her and leave the rest behind. She’s learning how to take up space without saying sorry.
“Good morning, Laurel.” I said to her as she walked out on the porch in her cute new blanket.
Montana’s lungs forgot how to work.
He read the line again. The words blurred, then sharpened, then blurred.
Laurel.
His head was swimming. His chest hurt, a sharp pain stabbing into his sides as he gasped and spluttered for air. The words confirmed that this wasn't a years long strange awakening but a horrible and nauseating time spent forgetting. forgetting her. forgetting her memories. He killed her and her ghost was crawling its way back up to take him down with her.
He couldn’t get air in. The edges of the room went fish-eye and far away, the wood paneling warping like heat over asphalt. Laurel. The name thrummed in his skull, a bell struck too hard.
Count. You know how to count. 5-6-7-8. Again.
He pressed his palms flat to the floorboards, feeling the splinters and varnish tack. 1-2-3-4. In. 5-6-7-8. Out. He tried to match breath to counts, the way Miss Vick drilled into them. The way Jess counts under her breath when she’s nervous. In. Out. In. Out. The rush in his ears eased from a roar to a river to a creek to the barely-there whisper of the heater in the wall.
He didn’t throw the journal. He dragged it into his lap like a confession and shut it gently, hands shaking. April M. Payton. Parker. April’s hand had written Laurel like it was something warm. Not a ghost. Not a threat. A daughter. It was all too overwhelming. How could he have forgotten her, his mother risked her life for her. And he was suffocating her.
His phone buzzed against the bed frame and skittered, he flinched, then fumbled for it, half expecting his father’s name, the blow he couldn’t dodge. He hadn't checked any of his messages from the days without his phone.
Jess.
CaptainJessSparrow: u up
CaptainJessSparrow: i know u hate calls but
CaptainJessSparrow: can i call
He stared at the screen until the three dots vanished. He typed, erased, typed again.
ML: yes
ML: please
The phone rang immediately.
“Monty?” Jess’s voice was small in his ear, too precise to be casual. No background noise—it sounded like she’d locked herself somewhere quiet.
He swallowed hard. His throat still hurt from the panic. “Yeah.”
A pause. “You’re breathing weird. Are you okay?”
Montana pulled his knees to his chest, curling around the journal still in his lap. “I… just read something. From my mom.” His voice cracked. “She—Jess, she called me Laurel.”
Silence. Not the shocked kind—Jess had been circling this truth for weeks now. Instead, it was a dense, waiting quiet. “Walk me through it.” she said.
Her voice steadied him more than the counting ever could.
He traced his thumb over the journal’s leather cover while forcing the words out. “It was—January, 2014. She wrote about… the yellow dress we bought that winter. I—” his chest tightened again, but he pushed through it “—I cried when I put it on, and she held me, helped me calm down. She talked about our apartment, and the dawning sky.. And then at the end, she wrote ‘Good morning, Laurel.’ Like I had been her…”
Jess stayed quiet for a beat, like she wanted to be sure he was done. “And you’d forgotten that.”
He nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “I buried it so deep I don't remember a lot. I don't know what happened..” His voice shook. “But she was real. I was real.” His knee bounced under the journal. “And now I can’t stop thinking—what if that’s still me and I’ve been lying this whole time?”
“That’s not lying,” Jess said firmly. Somewhere in the background, the faint rhythmic thump of her nail against wood carried into the call. “That’s surviving. You're still a kid in a house where being you isn't safe. Sometimes your brain hides things so you can keep going.”
He bit his lip, hard. “It feels like I killed her, Jess.”
“No,” Jess said, sharper now. “No, you didn’t kill her. Laurel’s still here. Just like she was on stage in the uniform this week. Just like she’s here right now, holding that journal.”
The name made him flinch and pull the hoodie tighter around himself, but there was something in the way Jess said it—like she wasn’t naming a ghost, but a person standing right in front of her.
“I don’t know if I can say that name, or be her,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to. Not until you want to.” Jess’s tone softened again. “But… I think you should let yourself remember how it felt, before all this.”
He closed his eyes. Could almost hear April’s voice in their sunlit kitchen in Marisol Heights. Could almost smell the tea she made every morning.
Jess breathed with her, soft and steady on the line, the way you talk to skittish animals and people you love. “Do you want me to stay while you fall asleep?” she asked, voice a warm blanket.
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” A tiny rustle, like she was rearranging her blanket. “Do you want me to… call you anything? Or do we wait?”
The name sat between them, blondingly bright and sharp. He stared at the journal in his lap until the letters blurred again.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “Just… try it? Quietly.”
“There’s no rush,” Jess said. Then, after a beat, the gentlest: “Good night, Laurel.”
The word didn’t slice this time. It landed. Soft as a hand on a shoulder. He didn’t answer for a long moment. When he did, it came out like a breath: “Good night.”
They didn’t hang up. He tucked the phone beside his pillow and curled around the journal. The heater clicked on, the house groaned, and somewhere between the click and Jess’s steady breathing in his ear, sleep finally found her.
Laurel Melody Parker, September 5th 2014, Marisol Heights, Northern California
The first school day for her went great, her voice held up, only slipping maybe twice without nobody noticing. Or at least nobody pointed it out. Mom had been able to get her voice lessons in San Francisco when she was still being homeschooled. Her voice had come a long way in the 11 months she'd been in Marisol Heights.
She was walking out the doors to the building interspersed with a crowd of students making their way out the school, down the winding pathway of stairs and onto buses when she was stopped by Dani at the door, no Sam though.
Dani leaned a shoulder into the doorway frame like she’d been waiting there all day just to catch Laurel. No Sam in sight. The late-afternoon sun cut a bright line across the steps, dust turning to glitter in the light.
“Hey, Laurel,” Dani said, trying the name out like a new song. “You survived.”
Laurel laughed, too breathy, tucking hair behind her ear. “Barely.”
Dani’s eyes did a quick sweep—sweater, shorts, socks, back to Laurel’s face. “That sweater should be illegal. You’re gonna cause hallway traffic.”
Heat flared up Laurel’s neck. “You’re… not as scary as Sam said,” she said, then immediately wished she hadn’t. “I mean—earlier—you said you weren’t scary and… you’re not.”
Dani’s grin tilted. “Good. I hate false advertising.”
They fell into step down the stairs, the tide of students spilling past them. Laurel tried to focus on the rhythm of their footsteps, not on how close Dani was or how good she smelled—like shampoo and laundry soap and something warm.
“So,” Dani said, brushing her knuckles against the strap of Laurel’s backpack like an accident that wasn’t, “what’s your thing, Montana-transplant? You look like you have a thing.”
Laurel blinked. “A… thing?”
“Yeah. Like, band, art, theater, sports… mysterious secret club.” Dani nudged her. “I’m taking bets on something dance-adjacent.”
Laurel’s mouth went dry. “I—I don’t know. I used to… I mean, I like music. but… I’m not very coordinated.”
Dani made a soft tsk. “Doubt.” She lifted her own hand, tracing an invisible curve in the air, wrist loose, fingers long. “You’ve got dancer hands. Or guard hands.”
“Guard?” Laurel echoed.
“Color guard.” Dani’s eyes lit. “Spinning flags, rifles, sabres—tossing them, catching them, being dramatic under stadium lights. It’s like dance plus fight scenes plus glitter. My sister’s on the high school team, and they’re running a clinic this weekend to recruit middle schoolers. Eighth graders can try in, and if your grades are solid, you can join for the season.”
Laurel stopped at the bottom step, the words landing like the first beat of a song. “Eighth graders… can join?”
“Uh-huh. It’s legit. You’d be great.” Dani said it like a fact, not a compliment. Then, with a sly little tilt of her chin: “Plus, I’ll be there. So you’ll at least know one very cool person.”
Laurel tried to swallow a smile and failed. “Your sister won’t mind?”
“She loves fresh victims,” Dani deadpanned, then softened. “She loves teaching. And the coaches do too. It’s beginner-friendly. You get a flag that’s almost as tall as you, you hear a bunch of counting, you mess up, you try again, everyone claps when you catch your first toss. It’ll be fun.”
Laurel’s heart was thudding in a way that wasn’t nerves anymore. “When is it?”
“Saturday, ten to one, at Marisol Heights High. Main gym if the weather’s weird, practice field if it’s nice.” Dani hooked a thumb toward the street. “You’ll need a permission form—my sister can text you the flyer. Bring water. Wear sleeves you can roll up. And if you’ve got good grades”—she wiggled her brows—“you could be performing by homecoming.”
Laurel’s laugh escaped before she could stop it. “That sounds fast.”
“Life’s short. Spin the flag.” Dani pulled her phone from her back pocket and offered it, the cracked case covered in band stickers. “Number?”
Laurel hesitated only a second before taking it, thumbs suddenly clumsy. She typed in her new digits, added her name, then handed the phone back.
Dani typed something and Laurel’s phone buzzed immediately in her backpack. “There. Now you can’t pretend you lost me.” She glanced at the contact she’d created on Laurel’s screen and smirked. “I saved myself as ‘Dani California,’ because… obviously.”
Laurel grinned. “Is that a band reference?”
“Red Hot Chili Peppers. Look at you, already getting extra credit.” Dani started backing away toward her bus, then pointed playfully at Laurel’s socks. “Saturday. I’ll meet you by the big M painted on the field. If you get scared, I’ll stand next to you and talk too much until you forget to be.”
Laurel tugged at the hem of her sweater, nerves and excitement braiding together into something bright. “I’ll ask my mom. She’ll say yes.”
“Good.” Dani took a step, then pivoted back, walking backward now. “Oh—and Laurel?”
She looked up. “Yeah?”
Dani’s smile softened. “Welcome. I’m glad you’re here.”
Laurel held onto that all the way home, the promise of Saturday humming in her chest like a held note.
Montana Lee Payton? October 12th 2018, Laurel, Montana
He woke up feeling nauseous and dizzy, a migraine creeping into his head. It was the day of the game. The last away game, in Bozeman, he stirred from his slumber and into his morning routine, he stepped into the shower and yelped in surprise at the frigid cold water that immediately poured on him. The water heater took a few seconds to kick on and he stood there, hot water ricocheting off him. After finishing the shower he got out and looked himself in the mirror, steam enveloping the room from the heat of the water. He stood there as if frozen for awhile until he shook his head to stop his thoughts and went for his phone.
At some point Jess must have gotten up before him because she wasn't still on the call, he looked down to see her messages.
CaptainJessSparrow: hey sorry i can't get to hear you wake up
CaptainJessSparrow: i have an errand to run
CaptainJessSparrow: also i have hand warmers for u
CaptainJessSparrow: and a scarf. u will wear it and say “thank you jessica”
ML: thank you jessica
He doesn't have time to dillydally he should be focusing on getting his stuff ready for tonight. Drying his hair with an old hair dryer that he definitely didn't want to question where it came from, he dressed in his male uniform for color guard, and it hung uncomfortably on him.
He bundled up over top of it, the uniform would only be on display during halftime at the game when they had to shed their layers of warm clothing to perform in the cold with only their uniforms and gloves for protection. All those times he'd joke around about band kids wearing those awful uniforms but he's gonna be in a sequined mesh top and pants in freezing weather. He envied those band kids with their long sleeves and dumb hats.
As he was collecting his things his mind drifted. Don't think about the journal. Don't think about the name. Count to relax, count the handwarmers, count the bobby pins that Jess is gonna be stabbing into my hair later. Anything to avoid facing it. It wasn't working.
The school day went by in a haze.
He kept his head down, muscles on autopilot, every bell a jolt back into the body he didn’t want to be in. He didn’t remember lunch. He didn’t remember what he said in math when called on.
The afternoon dissolved. Bells, hallways, faces he didn’t attempt to read. He let the noise carry him to the back doors and out into the brittle cold of the parking lot where the buses idled in a row, coughing steam. Breath puffed in clouds as guard kids clustered with their bags and props, purple hoods and mismatched blankets, Miss Vick striding through it all with her clipboard and a whistle she never actually blew.
“Uniforms under layers, flags accounted for, sabres secured. I’m doing headcount in two minutes,” she called, voice cutting clean through chatter.
Jess appeared at his elbow like she always did right before he started to float away. She looped the ridiculous knitted scarf around his neck tucking it in as if he were something valuable she was packaging for shipment. A pair of hand warmers thunked into his palm. “Hands,” she said.
He didn’t argue. Heat bled into his fingers, a slow thaw that made his eyes sting. He held onto the warmth until Miss Vick’s pen ticked names and they were shepherded up the narrow bus steps, vinyl seats slick with age and heat hissing from vents that smelled like dust. He rolled his eyes at Jess though.
“Thank you Jess” he said flatly, as the message from earlier commanded.
They took a seat three rows from the back on the left. Window for him. Aisle for Jess. Evelyn slid in on the seat across the aisle, earbuds in, a sideways glance that said I’m sorry for the car. Charlotte and Hannah were already trading snacks two rows ahead. Chase plopped down up front with his flag across his knees like a knight with a lance. Some of the band were playing music on their phones. Mr. Brightside by The Killers.
“makeup?” Jess asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Jess was already zipping open a small canvas pouch. She’d done this on enough away trips that her hands knew the angles of the bus better than her eyes did. A compact balanced on her knee, a clean spoolie between her fingers.
“Chin,” she murmured.
He tilted his face toward the aisle. The bus hit a pothole and everyone groaned; Jess didn’t miss. She kept it light—concealer under tired eyes, a brush of powder, a whisper of bronzer to warm his cheeks. The liner was the riskiest part, the bus rattling like an old washing machine, but she only had to redo it twice. Mascara last; she steadied her wrist against the seat in front and breathed with him.
“Look at me,” she said softly.
He did. She smiled. “There you are.”
Hot pricked at the back of his eyes. He blinked up at the bus window instead, catching a smudged ghost of his reflection between streaks of old rain. Still him. But softer around the edges, like the way she saw him.
Across the aisle, Evelyn tugged out one earbud. “Hey,” she said, voice pitched low so it didn’t travel. “About the car the other day.”
Montana tensed before he could stop it. Jess’s hand found his forearm, a question. He nodded once—go on.
Evelyn’s mouth twisted. “I - I’m sorry. I… don’t know the right words, but I can try to learn them if you want me to.” She swallowed. “You don’t owe me an answer right now. I just… yeah. I’m sorry.”
Montana stared at the pattern of tiny circles ground into the vinyl seat, the way some were darker where years of backpacks and elbows had worn them down. “Thanks,” he said finally. “I don't… have an answer right now.” Evelyn gave a thankful smile.
Jess shot Evelyn a grateful nod. Evelyn put her earbud back in and stared out the window like nothing had happened.
They rolled east, prairie flattening and then starting to buckle toward the mountains. The bus heated up and cooled down in unpredictable waves. Someone two rows up decided they were all going to sing along to Mr. Brightside and, predictably, everyone did. He didn’t. He watched breath ghost the glass and let the drums in his headphones count his heart back to a pace that wasn’t dangerous.
Bozeman’s stadium lights were already throwing pale halos into the thin blue dusk when they pulled into the visitor lot. The air slapped him the second the bus doors hissed open—dry, knifing cold that found its way under every layer like it had a grudge.
“Layers off at two-minute warning for halftime,” Miss Vick barked, flipping between clipboard and phone. “Warm-up block by the visitor bleachers. Don’t lose a glove, don’t lose a kid. We are guests: we leave this field cleaner than we found it.”
“Copy,” Jess called, then turned to tuck the scarf into his jacket one more time.
As the band assembled in their own space, the guard separating into its own circle, a text vibrated in his pocket.
Unknown Number: Blocked Message
“Huh that's weird.”
Laurel Melody Payton, September 6th 2014, Marisol Heights, Northern California
Marisol Heights High School. The sun made the worn down red bricked high school look pink and cute. She was walking onto the practice field, no sign of Dani yet, she's in athletic wear and the weather has climbed back into the 70s today. The sun was out and she had applied light sunscreen before heading over. Her mom drove her today, she said she'd be back around 1, if not earlier if Laurel decided not to join.
Marisol Heights High was smaller up close, the kind of old California campus with long glass windowed hallways and a sun-faded mural of sports alumni. The practice field unrolled behind the gym, a scuffed stretch of grass framed by a chain-link fence, the big white M with orange and teal accents adorning midfield.
Across the turf, someone had spread neat rows of loaner flags: silver poles, orange and teal silks, the school's colors, folded and rubber-banded. The air smelled like cut grass and sunscreen. Metal clacked against metal somewhere off to the left—an older girl in the team’s jacket tapping the end cap of her pole against her nikes while she talked.
Laurel wiped her sweaty palms on her shorts and scanned for Dani.
“There you are!” Dani jogged across the field, sun flashing off the tiny hoop in her ear. She had her hair knotted up and a grin that made it too easy to breathe. “You made it.”
“Hi,” Laurel said, and her voice didn’t crack. Small victories.
Dani crooked a finger. “C’mon. Sign-in’s over here. Then I’m stealing you for my line.”
At the folding table, a clipboard waited with a grid of boxes: Name, Grade, Parent Contact, Have You Ever Done Guard Before? She quickly wrote her information as Dani prodded her with questions.
“Perfect.” The woman behind the table—Coach Núñez, according to the stitched name on her windbreaker—glanced up, smile quick and kind. “Welcome, Laurel. You’re with Dani’s group? We’ll start with drop spins in two minutes.”
“Coach, she’s mine,” Dani said, mock possessive. “I called her yesterday.”
Coach Núñez raised a brow like she was totally used to Dani calling dibs on strangers. “Then make sure she doesn’t leave with bruises shaped like your ring.”
“Noted.” Dani flashed her bare, ringless fingers. “See? Responsible.”
They took their place in a loose semi-circle of middle schoolers near the fifty-yard line. The team captain—Dani’s sister, as it turned out, a tall girl with the same black hair and a steadier vibe—demonstrated how to hold the pole: right hand at the tape, left hand at the bottom, silk to the right. “Drop spins to ten,” she called. “Right-hand lead. Count out loud. Breathe.”
“Hands,” Dani murmured, stepping in. She didn’t just tell Laurel; she showed her. The gentle curl of fingers, the invisible line between knuckles and wrist, the pressure that wasn’t a death grip but wasn’t nothing either. When Laurel’s left hand drifted low, Dani tapped her thumb. “Right there. You’ve got it.”
Laurel nodded, and tried not to stare at her mouth while she talked….
Well Laurel wasn't exactly a natural at the clinic but she got to have fun with Dani, and if this is what it took, well she'll take every opportunity she gets.
They're sitting on a bench near the parking lot of the high school while Laurel waits for her mom to arrive.
They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the warm metal bench by the high school lot, the afternoon sun sliding lower, gilding the chain-link fence. The clinic broke up fifteen minutes ago, but the happy noise of it still hangs in the air—flags clacking back into bins, laughter from a cluster of high schoolers by the equipment shed, somebody’s speaker leaking a pop chorus across the grass.
“Hey,” Dani says, tipping her shoulder into Laurel’s. “You were great.”
Laurel huffs out a small laugh. “I hit myself in the shin. Twice.”
“Okay, true,” Dani concedes, grin bright, “but you also kept going, that's chapter one of color guard my big sis said so.”
Dani smirks. “Chapter two is learning to breathe when someone cute is watching you.”
Laurel’s brain stutters. “Wh—who’s cute?”
Dani lets the question hang there long enough for Laurel’s cheeks to go pink, then lifts one brow like, you know. “Anyway,” she says lightly, “you passed both.”
Laurel tucks a piece of hair behind her ear to occupy her hands. “You… really think I could be good at this?”
“I know you could,” Dani says, and there’s no tease in it now. “You listen. And you don’t flinch when you mess up—you just reset. That’s ninety percent of this all. Well, that and learning to be dramatic under stadium lights.”
Laurel laughs, soft and surprised. “I don’t know if I can be dramatic.”
“Oh, you absolutely can.” Dani turns a little on the bench to face her.
Dani waves her hand in front of Laurel’s eyes, not touching, just tracing the air. “Big eyes. Like, ‘Here comes the swell in the music, prepare to feel things.’ And when you caught that little half-toss?” She bites back a smile. “You did a tiny smile, like you were proud but trying not to show it. Weaponized cute. Danger.”
Laurel tries to swallow a noise and fails; it comes out as a squeak.
April's Sedan pulls up in the parking lot and she spots the two girls on the bench.
April’s sedan rolled to a stop, blinkers ticking, sunlight catching in the windshield. Dani straightened instinctively, then slouched a little like she remembered who she was.
“That your mom?” she asked.
Laurel nodded, heart in her throat. “Yeah.”
“C’mon.” Dani hopped up and, before Laurel could overthink it, walked with her to the curb. April stepped out, sunglasses sliding down, the wind teasing strands from her ponytail. She took them both in—the flushed cheeks, the dirt on Laurel’s shins, the flag glitter still clinging to her sweater—and something in her shoulders loosened.
“Hi,” April said, warm and careful at once. “I’m April. Laurel's mother.”
“Dani,” Dani replied, offering a hand like she’d done this a thousand times. “Your daughter’s a natural. Clinic went great. Coach says if she wants to try in for fall, she can. This is the flyer.” She held out a bright, photocopied sheet.
April glanced at it, then at Laurel, whose eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. “Do you want to?”
Laurel swallowed. “Yes,” she said, and there wasn’t a tremor in it.
April smiled the kind of smile that starts at the mouth and reaches the eyes. “Then we’ll be here.”
Dani shot Laurel a conspiratorial grin. “See you Monday, Laurel.”
April watched her daughter watch Dani go. “She seems nice,” she said, climbing back into the car.
Laurel let herself breathe. “She is.”