Montana Lee Payton? October 12th 2018, Bozeman, Montana
The visitor bus doors hissed open into a slap of cold that cut through every layer. Stadium lights washed the field in hard white, bleaching the world around them. Their breaths echoing through the wind in puffs of smoke.
Bozeman’s band was already unloading at the home tunnel. Strange, Montana thought; usually the home band took halftime. Maybe they just wanted their show out early so they could re-bundle and survive the cold. He followed the flow of purple jackets past the cheer bus and caught a flash of Ana and Sarah together, heads bent in close. He kept walking.
Miss Vick staked out a rectangle of space by the visitor bleachers and clapped them into motion. No equipment—no room for it—so they ran stretches in so many layers it was a miracle their joints still bent. The wind found the seams anyway. The collective chattering of their nine sets of teeth offset only by the howling wind and stadium rock music filling the air.
“Loosen your shoulders. Breathe into the ribs. We are not statues,” she called, pacing their shivering semi-circle, obviously noting their rigidness. They stretched for as long as they could muster before being dismissed. Chase was talking Evelyn's ears off about trying new tosses during practice.
She released them for ten minutes for food, drinks, and bathrooms; they'd have to be in the stands to watch Bozeman’s band. The smell from the concessions punched up through the cold—pretzels, hot dogs, and “walking tacos” in crinkled chip bags everywhere on the bleachers.
Finding a spot together above the away band section, Jess, Montana, and Evelyn are all huddled under a LHS blanket that Evelyn brought. He's taking stock, Drake is chatting up some of the band members, Chase is sitting with Miss Vick, Charlotte and Daisy are eating concession food, and Hannah and Zoey are doing their makeup. Better late than never he supposes. Pre-performance nerves haven't hit him just yet, but their presence continues to encroach on the night.
Bozeman’s band takes the field. marching mostly in time, he notes. They’re wearing the school's red and black, even the color guard which is slightly rare. The PA system boots on and after a quick greeting the commentator welcomes everyone to the Bozeman Band's performance with the songs being ‘On Top of The World’ by Imagine Dragons, ‘Tubthumping’ by Chumbawamba, and ‘What About Us’ by P!NK.
Montana is squinting hard at the performance trying to figure out what exactly is the theme to match these radically different songs. Resilience? He guesses. But that's kind of a stretch. He looks over to Jess and she turns her head away. She's flushed, probably from the cold.
“Jess?”
Jessica Perot, October 12th 2018, Bozeman, Montana
How long had she been staring? Fuck. Okay game face, She looked back over to Laurel. She's rambling about Bozeman’s performance and she hadn't even paid them any attention. Laurel's as pretty as ever. What the fuck Jess. Calm down.
…”Jess?” Laurel spoke.
“Oh…um yes?” Jess averted her eyes again, away from the girl huddled next to her in multiple layers of hoodies and jackets. Their thighs are touching and it's been distracting Jessica, not that she wanted to move away from her touch though.
“something wrong?” Laurel asked innocently, and Jess's heart nearly backflipped at the cute, shy smile that escaped her lips.
“I'm good… yeah good. I'm gonna umm go use the restroom.” She lied, grabbing her concession stand soda and making her exit abruptly. She needed to cool down or else she was gonna slip up and say something she shouldn't. Are unrequited love confessions good luck for performances? Surely not.
She sighed and went to take a sip of her drink while entering the concourse below but she was bumped hard by someone passing by her and she spilled soda all over the lady standing next to her.
“Oh my god, oh my god, I'm so sorry–”
“Dude what the f–” The lady turned around and met her eye. She had piercings on her ears and lower lip, a faded ‘My Chemical Romance’ hoodie layered with a grey flannel and a teal scarf. Her eyes looked Jess over and there was a minute of silence as they stared at each other. She flashed a gorgeous pure white smile and Jess lost all hope of a normal conversation.
Jess let out a small “woah.” under her breath.
“Nevermind, don't worry about it.” The girl said, wiping her hands on her flannel.
Just as Jess is about to apologize further the tin-can sounding PA system screeches to life and the commentator speaks.
“Would Laurel Parker please come to the communication booth, Laurel Parker.”
The girl turned back to Jess.
“Aaaaaand that's my cue, gotta run.” She said walking off in the direction of the booth with a wave.
Jess just stood there. Confused. At first she was worried it was ‘her’ Laurel, well not her Laurel. But the one she knows, but her last name is Payton. And that girl… she must also be named Laurel. Strange coincidence.
Montana Lee Payton? October 12th 2018, Bozeman Montana
He lost sight of Jess’s golden ponytail in the crowd as she vanished toward the concourse. The blanket slipped off his knees and he didn’t pull it back up. Below, Bozeman’s guard caught a saber like they’d rehearsed in a wind tunnel and not on this godforsaken icebox of a field. He tried to care, to pick apart their counts, to clock the theme he still couldn’t find, but an annoying squawk shattered the thin concentration he’d pieced together.
“Would Laurel Parker please come to the communication booth, Laurel Parker.”
His body tightened up and he looked around for Jess. The name hit him like a football tackle they were supposedly here to see. He almost thought he imagined it when there was no explosion of worry coming from anyone that wasn't himself. Before remembering why.
For a fraction of a second, it felt like the world tilted under the bleachers. He stared hard at the field—at a guard line he wasn’t in, at a band that wasn’t his—and forced his breath through clenched teeth. Coincidence. It had to be. The world was big. Names repeated. He told himself that twice in his head and once under his breath.
“Hey, you good?” It was Evelyn back from her excursion talking to one of the chaperones. She reentered the blanket and leaned against him. She was pretty cold from the wind.
“Oh uh yeah?... Yeah I'm good, I just umm, I don't understand their show theme.” He said pointing to the field of performers.
She didn’t push. The announcer droned some sponsors. Bozeman’s drumline rattled like hail. He pressed his thumb against the seam of his padded glove and felt the hand warmer burn into skin like proof he hadn’t floated off.
By the time Jess reappeared, Bozeman’s band was already trudging off the field, colors dimming under the lights as they re-bundled. Jess’s cheeks were bright from the cold and something else? She slid back under the blanket like she’d never left, eyes flicking to him and then away.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded, “Yeah they uh just called… a name” his eyes looked over to Evelyn beside him, none the wiser he guessed.
Jess’s mouth parted as if she was about to say it. Say her name. Before she snapped her mouth shut when she caught herself. “Weird, right?” Her voice kept light as she scooted in next to him. “Oh by the way…”
“There was this girl…” she said, trying her best to articulate what she wanted to say while Montana looked through her with his brown eyes. “I spilled soda on her when I was waiting for the restroom.” A mortified laugh escaped her lips. “She said it was fine, and when I heard the announcement she just said ‘that's my cue’ and left”
“Cool.” He said responding as if he wasn't still strung tight on the inside. Heart pounding.
She squeezed his forearm where the blanket hid it. A signal. I’m here. He nodded again.
The Laurel High School Football team was taking the field now and his eyes tried to find Ashton in the crowd. He spots Ashton on the sideline, helmet off, as the defense is starting first. Ashton's hair is looking a bit… purple? Not like anything professionally done, but like maybe one of those temporary color sprays. It's not very vibrant, and you probably wouldn't notice it right away. But with the stadium lights illuminating him, Montana is certain he's done something with it.
He shoots Ashton a text, he won't get it until the game's over but he sends a quick ‘nice hair’ message across.
He turned back over to Jess.
“So who was the girl?” he asked, finally pulling the blanket tighter around himself and receiving a groan from Evelyn who pulled it back. The Bozeman Band launched into stand tunes from across the field.
Jess’s gaze slid sideways. “She was… older I think. Maybe college, lip ring, MCR hoodie that looked like it was from 2007 but couldn't have been much older than a few years old. Tattoo on her hand.” A small smile creeped up her lips. “Hot.”
He barked a laugh that startled him with how normal it sounded. “Traitor.”
“I'm allowed to have taste,” Jess whispered. “I know what you're thinking.”
“No you don't.” he said a little too quickly.
“Okay,” she said easily. “Then I know what I’m thinking. Which is that the world is weird and small, and sometimes it drops a name on you when you’re trying very hard to be okay.” Her gloved hand found his under the blanket. “Coincidences happen. It doesn’t change what’s real.” She whispered the next part. “And if you need anything… I'm here.”
Evelyn glanced at their hands interlocked and shot a glance at Jess then to Miss Vick and mouthed “PDA” and Jess retracted her hand and sulked.
The game went by quickly in the first half, Ashton caught a touchdown pass from quarterback Brett Cole but was hit hard after the play resulting in a penalty on Bozeman and a near fight to break out early before being split up by referees. Ashton walked over to the trainer's bench gingerly after the hit and Montana's breath caught.
And then his phone buzzed.
No fucking way.
SmashinAshton: replied to ‘nice hair’
SmashinAshton: I know
SmashinAshton: it was a dare
SmashinAshton: it's temporary spray
ML: There's no way you're texting me in the middle of a game
SmashinAshton: We're winning
ML: I THOUGHT YOU WERE HURT
SmashinAshton: Didn't I tell you I'd text you
ML: i thought you were only joking
ML: are you okay after that hit though it looked rough
SmashinAshton: nothin i can't handle
SmashinAshton: I've got a friend who will record your performance later btw
SmashinAshton: wish i could be out here to see it
ML: really?
ML: shouldn't you be more focused on the game? instead of on us?
SmashinAshton: i can have multiple interests
SmashinAshton: football, basketball
SmashinAshton: certain color guard members
ML: really? i might know them I'll have to introduce you.
He saw Ashton shake his head and got up from the trainer's table, a little too quickly after the Laurel High defense got an interception. The minutes were ticking down into the end of the half as their offense drove down the field.
“Two minute warning guard!” Miss Vick yelled as the band was corralled by the band director. Blankets were shed, layers left behind leaving nine freezing color guard members shivering in the cold as they left the bleachers. Montana noticed Hunter Stevens' eyes on him as he descended the stairs. He hadn't run into him lately, but he was such a hanger-on to the football team it's no surprise he was here.
Under the bleachers the guard had huddled up, all of them put up to Jess’s scrutiny. She worked with fast hands, straightening hems, checking for guard gloves, fixing hair undone by the wind with bobby pins. She made sure they looked confident, shoulders back. Head up. Present to the audience.
When she got to him she cupped his cheek for a split second and fixed his hair into place. “You've got this, be her okay?” she whispered in his ear and he smiled, breath fogging between them.
Miss Vick did her final checkthrough, purple hair tucked into her LHS beanie and carrying her clipboard. “Does anyone need me?”
“I have to pee.” said Zoey through clattering teeth.
“After the performance. Consider it good luck.” Miss Vick smirked as the band was called to attention. The guard followed suit and marched in line until arriving at the gate to the field. This is where the anticipation started. He could feel his slight tremble in his hands as warmth spread through him.
He was born to perform. Looking out to the sea of unfamiliar faces, he smiled brightly as the final whistle of the first half was blown, LHS was winning 10-0. And the band was about to blow the stadium away. Confidence swelled inside, he could do this.
They marched to the fifty yard line before stopping in unison and breaking. The guard rushed to place their equipment before getting into their starting positions.
There was silence, the PA system announced them and it echoed.
“The Laurel High School Marching Band presents their 2018 show ‘Caged'”
There was applause that led way to silence, he mouthed the counts, as did the other members.
Peter Gabriel's ‘My Body is a Cage’ roared from the band into the ears of the entire stadium. With that the color guard launched into their choreography, with their black and gold chain pattern flags providing the backdrop for the chilling performance.
The song made its way into Kanye West's "Love Lockdown” for sabres then into Woodkid's ‘Run Boy Run’ which featured the rifle section where Chase, Jess, & Montana launched a double into the air and spun underneath it.
They caught it in time with the downbeat and the audience roared to life. Well most of it anyways.
Everything was progressing very sharp and crisp. Then when they descend back into ‘My Body is A Cage’ Montana's eyes locked onto Hunter Stevens with his older brother Erick and his buddy Matt Silverson standing in the Bozeman bleachers. He hadn't seen their faces since the night he got assaulted.
Montana nearly dropped his next toss. His heart was beating out of his chest and crushing all his ribs as his breath fluctuated. He remembers the beating. Anger and fear boil in his veins. Part of him wants to send his flag through the air like a javelin through those boys. Letting out a useless sigh, he uses the anger to perform. He's fuming, but he won't let it get to him. Not now. Not ever. He exhaled, a gust of breath visible in the freezing cold, it drifted upwards into the night sky.
The stadium was noise and breath and the distant thud of feet on metal stands; none of it got inside his bubble. He moved, he counted, he smiled with intent.
The last swell. The last run into the block. The song rose and crashed and let go. He hit the final pose—chin up, eyes bright, flag tail feathered against his shoulder like a golden wing. The clatter of applause came in pieces, and he let it through. He let himself feel it. He could breakdown after.
“Guard, off!” Miss Vick’s voice cut clean through the cheers.
Then it was all motion and breath clouds and the slap of fabric as nine bodies grabbed poles, rifles, sabres and sprinted for the gate. Under the bleachers, the cold was different—staler, huddled. Jess was already there, hands fast even through her gloves. She tugged his sleeve straight, smoothed a wrinkle in his top like it mattered to surviving.
“You were ridiculous,” she said, eyes fierce. “I mean that in a good way.”
The band and color guard were dismissed for the third quarter, allowed to walk around and mingle before they'd have to return for the fourth quarter. After they get back, the seniors of each band would typically greet each other and chitchat.
Montana just took a second for himself though. Standing up and retreating into the concourse, he could be allowed to breathe, to think, to get through this.
His breathing was ragged and his fists shaked. He wanted to go home, not to Derrick's house but back to California. Leaning against the railing and trying to let his mind wander back home, but all he saw were those three.
Montana’s lungs burned with the effort of not screaming. He braced his hands on the cold metal railing of the concourse, knuckles white, and stared down at the indifferent concrete below. The roar of the crowd, the blast of stand tunes from the home bleachers, the smell of popcorn—it all faded into a dull, distant hum. All he could see were their faces. Erick and Matt. Older now, faces harder, but the same smirking cruelty in their eyes. The same faces that had loomed over him in the snow five years ago.
The memory, once blurry, slammed into him with clarity and freshness. The crunch of snow under their boots. The hollow thud of the baseball bat against his ribs, his head. The laughter. Not angry, not frenzied, but casual, like it had been a game. He remembered the searing pain, but more than that, he remembered the chilling realization that they were doing this for fun. Because he was different. Because he was an easy target.
And Ashton… Ashton had found him. He told him so. Ashton’s panicked voice, his hands trying to stop the bleeding from the gash on his head, the Laurel football hoodie he’d been wearing getting soaked in his own blood. His mother’s face, a mask of terror in the falling snow. The world is tilting, going dark. It was like he could almost grasp the memory.
The trip to California wasn’t just an escape from Derrick. It was an escape for her.. For Laurel. His mother had risked everything, left her entire life behind, to give Laurel a chance to breathe. And he had repaid her by forgetting. By burying Laurel so deep under layers of grief and fear after his mother’s suicide that he’d convinced himself she was never real. The sight of those boys didn’t just bring back the pain of the attack; it brought back the shame of his own survival, of the person he’d abandoned to do it.
“Hey.”
He flinched, spinning around so fast the world swam. Jess stood there, her face etched with concern, the bright stadium lights catching the worry in her eyes. She held out a cup of hot chocolate, steam ghosting from the rim.
“You disappeared,” she said softly. “I saw you freeze on the field. I figured you weren’t here celebrating.”
He took the cup, his hands shaking so badly he nearly spilled it. The warmth did nothing to touch the ice in his veins. “They were here,” he whispered, his voice raw. “The guys who… from five years ago. They were in the stands.” "The ones who attacked me…” Unable to speak. He took a shaky sip of the hot chocolate, the sweetness cloying in his throat.
“Okay,” Jess said, her voice firm, grounding. She took his arm and led him to a more secluded corner, away from the foot traffic heading back to the stands. “Okay, talk to me. What happened, what do you remember?”
And so he did. The words came out in a torrent, messy and broken. He told her about the snow, the bat, the feeling of being completely helpless. He told her about Ashton finding him, the blood, the terror in his mother’s eyes. He told her about waking up in the hospital, the truth that had set their entire new life in California in motion.
“Ashton was there?” Jess asked, her voice quiet but intense. “He saw everything?”
“Not the attack,” Montana clarified, shaking his head. “He found me after. He… he saved me, I think. My mom made him go home, told him to pretend he was never there, to protect him. That's what he told me when I spent the night at his house.” He looked down at the swirling chocolate in his cup. “We were best friends, Jess. Inseparable. We were both the weird kids who didn’t fit the Laurel mold. Leaving him… it felt like cutting off a limb. I just vanished. He didn’t know why. And I'm only just remembering why... I just couldn't Jess.”
“And now you’re back,” Jess murmured, putting the pieces together. “And he’s… trying to be there for you again.”
“But he doesn’t know who he’s being there for,” Montana said, the frustration sharp in his voice. “He sees Montana Payton, the kid he used to know. He doesn’t see… me now… He doesn’t know that the reason I left was to become her. And now he’s broken up with his girlfriend and he’s texting me during games and I don’t know what to do because the person he thinks he’s getting closer to isn't me, not anymore.”
Jess was silent for a long moment, processing it all. She leaned against the cold concrete wall beside him, her gaze distant. “People can surprise you,” she said finally. “But you can’t expect them to see a part of you that you keep hidden.” She sighed, a small puff of white in the air. “God, I know a thing or two about that.”
Montana looked at her, seeing the familiar shadow pass over her features. “Ana?”
Jess nodded, her mouth twisting into a bitter line. “Kinda.” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “You asked me what happened. Freshman year. We were like you and Ashton, I guess. Joined at the hip. I… I had a massive crush on her. And she knew. She never said anything, but she knew and she used it against me.”
She stared out at the field.“Her boyfriend, this senior jock named Kyle, cheated on her. She was devastated, and I was right there, ready to be her knight in shining armor. She cried on my shoulder, told me how much he hurt her, how she wished someone would just… make him understand. She knew exactly what buttons to push. She made me feel like her protector. She… We kissed. She led me on for weeks like that.”
“So you eventually confronted him,” Montana guessed, his own story echoing in hers.
“Worse,” Jess said with a humorless laugh. “I found him at a party and I punched him. Square in the jaw. Got myself suspended from school for three days and a reputation as a hothead. And Ana? She acted horrified. Told everyone she had no idea I would do something so ‘violent.’ She played the victim, and I was the crazy, obsessed friend.”
“That was until I got back from my suspension and I was the psycho lesbian. She outed me, and I couldn't go five minutes in Laurel without hearing about it.”
Jess’s voice dropped. “The final straw was a few weeks later. I finally put it all together, realized she’d played me completely. I confronted her in the locker room. I wasn’t even yelling, I was just… hurt. I asked her why. And she laughed. She told me I was pathetic for thinking she’d ever be interested in me and that I should be grateful she even let me hang around her.” Jess’s fists clenched at her sides. “So I punched her, too. And that’s what got me kicked off the cheer squad for good.”
She finally looked at Montana, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “She used the one thing I couldn’t hide—how I felt about her—and turned it into a weapon against me. And ever since, I’ve been so careful about who I let see the real me. The me that isn’t just the tough color guard captain. Because I don't want people to know the real me. I'm jealous, I'm possessive, and I hate myself for it. And I have to be careful about the people I choose to love. I can't put up with another situation like Ana's, it'd break me.”
Jess shakes her head. “Part of me still doesn't blame her, even though I should. Her mother was awful to her, to us. And I think she was the first to figure me out. She did her best to break us apart. Guess she got her wish.”
They stood in the shared silence of their revealed wounds. Two kids from a town that had tried its best to break them, finding a fragile strength in each other’s stories. The pain was different, but the scars were shaped the same.
“I’m sorry, Jess,” Montana whispered.
“I’m sorry, too,” she replied, her voice thick. She reached out and wiped a stray tear from his cheek with her thumb. “But we’re still here. And we’re not ghosts.”
The roar of the crowd signaled a big play. The third quarter was ending soon. They had to go back.
They made their way back to the bleachers, hot chocolate gone cold in Montana's hands. The third quarter was winding down, Laurel High still ahead 17-7. The crowd had thinned slightly, some Bozeman fans retreating to their cars rather than freeze for what looked like a certain loss.
Miss Vick waved them over. "Senior exchange in five minutes. Both bands, both guards. Try to be civil."
It was tradition, the seniors from each school would meet off to the side of the field, shake hands, exchange compliments about each other's shows. A forced civility that usually devolved into awkward small talk about college plans.
He could already hear it in his head. “Wow, your band is so small.” Like yeah thanks, it's underfunded. Jess shook him out of his internal monologue, pulling at his sleeve. The three seniors, Evelyn, Jess, and Montana were gonna have to go exchange pleasantries.
The Bozeman band and color guard were already assembled and walking over to the away bleachers, Laurel High meeting them halfway, off to the side on the pavement past the track as to not block any pedestrian traffic.
Two bands’ worth of seniors made an awkward, shivering cluster of sequins, fingerless gloves, too-white smiles. A boy in a red drum major sash called out, “Good show,” at nobody in particular. A Laurel sax senior fist-bumped a Bozeman trumpet player. Formality with a side of chapped lips from the cold.
“Guard?” A girl in Bozeman red waved them over, a small arc of motion. She was tall, a sleek black ponytail looped through the back of a knit beanie, red liner at her eyes like warmth. A tiny enamel pronoun pin, she/her, sat gleaming on the lapel of her jacket, right above where her name badge had been clipped and removed. One of her teammates, a freckled boy with a messy topknot, hovered at her shoulder, a girl with braces and a nose ring on her other side.
“Jess,” Jess said, offering a gloved hand. “Captain. This is Evelyn. This is Montana.”
“Riley,” the tall girl said, shaking in turn. “Senior. Captain. That’s Victoria, and that’s Theo.” She nodded to her flank. “I’m still thawing out my face so if I make a weird expression assume it’s frozen on.”
Evelyn barked a laugh. “You all looked warm from up there.”
“It’s an illusion.” Riley tipped her chin at the field. “Your rifle line? Clean. I hate you. In a supportive way.”
Jess preened. “We’ll accept the hate.”
Theo, the topknot, leaned around Riley. “That double under ‘Run Boy Run’—It was really sick.”
“That’s them,” Jess said, jerking her thumb between Chase, across the way with the band kids still in the stands, and Montana. “Our resident show-offs.”
Montana opened his mouth to deflect, then shut it again when Riley’s eyes found him. It wasn’t the mean kind of look he’d been bracing for all night. It felt like being seen across a noisy room and recognized anyway.
He shouldn’t look. He knew better than to draw attention to himself. But his gaze kept snagging on the small, bright pin on Riley’s lapel, on the way her wrists looked easy and sure at her sides, on the familiar invisible effort of a girl standing where she’d fought to stand. He didn’t mean to stare. He still did.
Riley’s mouth kinked into a sideways smile. “You gonna eye-fuck me all night, Laurel High, or do you want my Instagram first?”
Jess made a noise somewhere between a choke and a cough and elbowed Montana in the ribs. Evelyn snorted into her scarf.
“I—what—I wasn’t—” Montana’s voice tripped over itself. The world narrowed to Riley’s grin and the roaring in his ears.
Riley let him flail another half-second, then softened. “Kidding. Mostly.” Her smile gentled at the edges. “It’s fine. People stare for worse reasons. And sometimes,” she added, quiet enough to be almost lost to the wind, “sometimes it’s nice to be looked at like the work paid off.”
She gave him her instagram anyway. Riley Vega, He nodded like he hadn’t just forgotten how to blink. “Okay.” And the two bands separated.
As they made their way back to the stands, Jess was teasing him about the interaction.
Jess needled him the whole climb back up the bleachers.
“So… Instagram, huh?” she whispered, sing-song cutting under the stadium noise.
“I didn’t—she—” He gave up and hid inside the scarf she’d forced on him earlier. “I panicked.”
“You blushed.” Jess grinned, triumphant.
“Shut up,” he said, but it landed soft. His head felt clearer than it had a minute ago. Not fixed. Just… steadier.
Fourth quarter bled into a slow grind of clock-chewing runs and wind-bitten timeouts. Laurel’s band fought their way through stand tunes with frozen fingers. The score stuck at 17–10, every snap a little gasp from the visitor stands. Montana tracked the field, trying not to let his eyes hunt for Ashton, failing anyway.
The next time Ashton came into focus, he was on the far sideline, helmet off, hair catching the light just enough for the weird purplish cast to show. He’d taped his wrist up and he was laughing at something the backup QB said, that easy, unbothered laugh Montana remembered from when they were kids, running from everything for the length of an afternoon.
The final whistle felt less like a blast and more like a relief letting out of the whole stadium. 17–10, visitors. Helmets flew. The team sprinted toward midfield for stilted handshakes. On their side, the band did what bands do: one more run of the fight song, teeth chattering.
The guard peeled off, nine purple jackets threading back through a river of bodies. Under the stands, the concrete was slick with trampled snow and spilled hot chocolate. Montana shouldered his bag, flag clipped smart, feet moving on muscle memory, when a voice like a dropped coin hit the air beside him.
“Payton.”
He turned. Hunter Stevens leaned against a support pillar like he owned it, Erick and Matt a step back, flanking.
“Keep walking,” Jess murmured without moving her mouth.
He didn’t. He stopped because he was tired of running, because his feet rooted on their own, because he could feel the journal’s weight still somehow in his bag at home and he was done pretending it wasn’t there.
“What,” he said. It came out steadier than he expected.
Hunter’s mouth tilted. “Saw the little twirls.” He tipped his chin toward the field. “Cute.”
Evelyn shifted, standing half a step in front of Montana now, deceptively casual. “We’re leaving.”
Erick’s eyes flicked over Jess, dismissed her, landed back on Montana with a mean curiosity. “You remember us?”
The bat. The snow. The taste of copper. Laurel. A scream he didn’t let out.
“I remember,” Montana said, and something inside the word edged like steel.
“Good.” Matt’s grin was all gums. “So you’ll understand when I say stay away from our section next time. Don’t want the kids around here picking up bad habits.”
Jess took a small, dangerous breath. “Say one more word.”
“Nah,” Hunter said, eyes still on Montana. “Just thought we’d say hi. From the neighborhood.” His gaze dipped to the sequined sleeve peeking from Montana’s jacket, then back up like a dare. “Tell your dad we said hey.”
They peeled off before anyone had to pretend it could get worse in public. A security guard ambled into view two seconds too late to matter. The air around Montana felt thinner. He exhaled through his nose, a long, controlled release.
“You okay?” Evelyn asked, low.
He shook his head, then said “No but I will be.”
They made it to the parking lot, unbothered, thankfully. The nine of them are stiff from the cold and the relief of being almost-done. Bus lights glowed dull yellow in the dark. The band had already begun moving cases into undercarriage compartments.
Jess took the window seat and motioned for Montana to sit next to her. He obliged and as soon as the directors made sure everyone was accounted for, the engine roared back to life and the heat finally turned on.
The bus pulled out of the parking lot and Jess had said she saw the girl with the lip piercing again from the window, by the time Montana looked out the frosted window all he saw was a crowded concourse of people leaving the field. There was only one girl leaving in the opposite direction though, he only caught a glimpse of her black hair and teal scarf before the bus pulled away.
He wasn't sure when he fell asleep but he awoke when the, too bright, lights of the bus's interior lit up. They had made it back to Laurel. The bus ride was cramped but he ended up half-cuddled up to Jess most of the ride. The bus heater made everything cozier and Jess had covered them both in her winter coat.
Once awake, Jess began removing his makeup as people poured out of the bus.
“Hold still,” she murmured, then tucked a makeup wipe into his palm. “Chapped,” she added, rubbing balm over his lower lip with a gentle thumb, like she could erase the night’s edges if she just smoothed hard enough.
“Thanks,” he said, voice rough from cold and counts and everything else. The bus aisle funneled people toward the front. Instrument cases clacked and gossip spread.
Jess peered past him, out the fogged window to the chain-link. “He’s here,” she said quietly.
Derrick Payton: Carhartt jacket, jaw set, a shape cut out of the cold by the yellow cone of a parking lot light. Hands in pockets like he didn’t trust them not to make fists. He looked bigger against the night than Montana remembered, and that made it worse.
Jess pulled the ridiculous scarf from her own neck and coiled it into his bag. “Text me from your room.”
“I might not—”
“Then send me a period. I’ll know.” She held his gaze. “Hey.” She waited until he looked at her. “You were beautiful.”
He nodded once. He blinked back tears from shedding, his heart knocking around his chest and stood.
They shuffled down the aisle with the rest, swallowed by cold and exhaust when the bus door hissed open. The parking lot smelled like diesel and winter. Derrick’s eyes tracked him the second he stepped onto the pavement. He didn’t wave.
“Night, Miss Vick!” Jess called, too bright, despite the dreariness from the busride. She gave Montana one last quick squeeze at the elbow, then peeled off toward Evelyn and the cluster heading for the student lot.
Derrick didn’t move until Montana was five feet away. “You’re late,” he said by way of hello.
“We won,” Montana said. It wasn’t an answer. He couldn’t give him one that would make anything better.
A pause. “Get in.”
The truck’s heat was too high. He pressed his palms flat to his knees and watched his breath disappear on the window.
“I don’t mind coming to get you.” Derrick said as he pulled the car away from the school's crowded parking lot.
“You used to,” Montana said, and watched Derrick’s jaw hitch.
“I’m trying,” Derrick said, and the admission landed like a dropped weight. “I’ll screw it up. A lot, probably.” He blew out a breath. “But I’m… I’m trying to do it different.”
At the house, the living room was the same mess it had been for days, only rearranged. Derrick flipped the lamp on and stood there like he didn’t know what to do with his arms. “You hungry? There’s chili.” He said it like a peace offering from a truce he wasn’t sure he had the right to call.
“I’m okay,” Montana said. His stomach felt like it had been polished hollow by fear. “I’m just… I’m going to shower and crash.”
Derrick nodded. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face, suddenly older. “I’ll be gone by eleven. Double tonight. Lock up.”
In his room, he pushed the dresser against the door out of habit, heart rate dropping notch by notch with each scrape. He flicked on the string of dull Christmas lights he’d stuck along the ceiling his first week back. The glow made the wood paneling look less like a box.
He dug his phone out of his bag. It had been buzzing on and off since the bus.
SmashinAshton: u alive?
SmashinAshton: we watched ur double on the sideline my friend Cassie got it on video
SmashinAshton: i said u would catch :)
A second thread.
RileySpins: good exchange tonight
RileySpins: sry if i was weird. hard to be normal when i can’t feel my face
RileySpins: and let me know if I'm off base here but
RileySpins: if you need to talk to someone about gender stuff
RileySpins: my line is open. It's hard enough for us out here.
Oh. Was he that obvious, he thinks. Easiest response first.
ML: alive
ML: you were a menace with the purple hair btw
SmashinAshton: :p
SmashinAshton: no injuries. promise. proud of u
The word snagged. He swallowed and typed.
ML: thanks
ML: video?
A link came through immediately, shaky phone footage from the visitor bleachers. He watched himself move. Watched the double. Watched his own face after the catch, the split second where the grin broke through. It didn’t look like pretending.
He flipped to Riley’s DM.
ML: hey thanks
ML: wasn’t weird
ML: and your liner didn’t even smudge so that’s basically witchcraft
ML: and yeah. I'm still figuring myself out.
RileySpins: That's allowed
RileySpins: Is there something you want me to call you?
Montana typed slowly and carefully… Laurel
He deleted it.
ML: idk yet
RileySpins: That's fine take your time.
A knock sounded at the bedroom door, muffled by the dresser.
“It’s me,” Derrick said. The doorframe creaked as he leaned on it from the hall. “Forgot to say. There’s… uh.” He paused. “There’s a box in the garage. Your mother’s. It’s got— it’s got some of her things. I’d been meaning to bring it up.” A breath. “If you want it.”
Montana’s mouth went dry. “What… kinds of things?”
“Books,” Derrick said, like the word tasted strange. “Photos. Maybe some notebooks.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll leave it outside the door.”
He could hear the weight of it set down. The house swallowed Derrick’s footsteps. The front door clicked. The distant boom of the truck door, the cough of the engine. Then quiet.
He stared at the dresser like he could see through it. The old familiar tightness in his chest tried to claw back in.
His phone buzzed once against the covers.
CaptainJessSparrow: .
He smiled into the dark and sent a period back, then a second one, just because he could.
He hesitated, then texted again.
ML: he left a box
ML: my moms
Three dots blinked. Then:
CaptainJessSparrow: i can come over tomorrow morning. we can open it together if u want
CaptainJessSparrow: if u don’t, i’ll bring coffee and stare at u while u play games instead
ML: creep
CaptainJessSparrow: correct
He slid off the bed and heaved the dresser back just enough to get the door open. The box sat like an animal curled on the hallway carpet. It was scuffed, corners mashed, APRIL in Derrick’s blocky print along one side.
He dragged it in and shut the door, his breath banging loud in the small room. The tape resisted and then gave with a sticky rip. Inside: a jumble of spine-cracked paperbacks; a small floral tin that rattled; a stack of old hospital shift badges on a lanyard; a Ziploc holding Polaroids. And a manila envelope with his name in April’s handwriting. Montana, underlined once.
The envelope burned. He reached for the tin instead. Inside were bobby pins, three mismatched earrings, a stub of red lipstick capped crooked, a couple of coins, and a folded paper that turned out to be a receipt from a boutique in San Francisco. Yellow sundress. Size S. He sat down on the floor so fast his knees thunked.
He put the tin back. He reached for the Polaroids next because they were less likely to shatter him. April on the beach, big sunglasses and bigger grin. April holding a baby with auburn hair and eyes like light through amber. A Polaroid of him at twelve, skinny, all elbows and stubbornness, hair growing out, a towel tied around his chest like a joke and not a joke. April’s handwriting along the white edge: 7/14 - pool day - loves the water, hates the goggles.
He put the photos down carefully and picked up the envelope that had his name. His thumb slid under the seal. The flap lifted like a held breath.
There was a single sheet of paper inside, folded in thirds.
Baby,
If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t get to say the next thing with my mouth, so I’m going to try not to make it too precious on paper. You know I get dramatic.
You are not wrong. You are not broken.
You are allowed to be safe. You are allowed to disappear if you need to and find yourself when you can. You are allowed to be you.
I picked your name because I wanted you to have something that sounded like sunlight when you said it out loud. Something that reminded you of where you came from and how hard we both fought for each other.
If something ever happens to me, I want you to know just how much I care. I want nothing more than you to live a happy life where you can be yourself. I don't care what anyone says, the only person who should dictate your future is you.
I love you Laurel,
Mom.