LAUREL Chapter 6:
??? October 12th 2018, Laurel Montana
The note had fallen through the air and onto the box, and by the time it had touched down the tears had come in droves. Tears for April Parker, tears for Laurel Parker, but no tears for Montana. He had already been gone a long time and it only took Laurel until now to realize it.
And she was Laurel.
Not because her mom had chosen the name for her, but because she was her. The weight of remembering had felt suffocating and like a weight on her shoulders at first, like her whole world was being turned upside down, she fought it. But she couldn’t fight herself any longer.
She turned to her full-length mirror. Staring at her reflection, getting more masculine by the day but she wanted to see through it. To herself. Because it hadn’t been that long ago that she had been Laurel the first time.
April M. Parker, December 24th 2014, San Francisco, California
She was cut off by another driver on her way to her parents’ residence. Swearing under her breath, she pulled into the alleyway which contained the entrance of the condo. Her father was back in town for Christmas Eve, as an international lawyer, April was used to only seeing him sporadically. It’s why she's only seen him a handful of times in the year she's been back.
Walking up to the door, she buzzed the intercom and stepped into the elevator as the doors unlocked.
April thumbed a text to Laurel as the elevator climbed, reminding her that there's food in the fridge and she'll be home in a few hours. Sliding the phone into her bag, she let out a breath that she didn't feel she was holding. The hall of her parents’ condo was just as she remembered, quiet, expensive, and a place that suggested that feelings could be left at the door.
Her mother, Eleanor, opened the door before she could knock, her smile perfectly polite, her posture immaculate in a cashmere sweater set. “April, darling. You made it.” The hug was brief, smelling of Chanel No. 5 and restraint.
“Hi, Mom.”
The condo was a study in minimalist luxury—white walls, abstract art, furniture that looked beautiful and profoundly uncomfortable. Her father, Richard Parker, sat in a leather armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, a legal brief in his lap, the city lights of San Francisco glittering behind him like a distant, cold fire. He didn’t stand.
“April,” he said, his voice the same measured baritone he used in courtrooms. “Good of you to join us.”
“Dad.” She stood in the middle of the vast living room, her worn messenger bag suddenly feeling like a prop from another, messier life.
“Drink?” Eleanor offered, already moving toward the bar cart.
“Just water is fine. I'm driving back.”
The small talk was excruciating. Her father asked about her work at the hospital with the detached interest of a board member reviewing quarterly reports. Her mother asked about the apartment, the neighborhood, the traffic.
Eleanor had already set out a tray—tea in thin porcelain cups with gold rims, neat triangles of cucumber sandwiches. She reached across the low glass table and squeezed April’s hand, thumb stroking once over her knuckles as if she could iron out the last year that way.
“You look tired, darling,” Eleanor said, and there was no judgment in it, just concern that came out dressed in cashmere. “Are you sleeping at all with those night shifts?”
“Enough,” April said. It wasn’t true. She took the water anyway, fingers grateful for something to hold.
Richard didn’t look up from the thin stack of pages he’d been reviewing until Eleanor settled beside him on the edge of the sofa, posture perfect. “You said there was something you wanted to discuss,” he prompted. Not unkind, exactly—just efficient.
April sat straighter. She’d rehearsed a dozen versions of this on the drive over, each one collapsing into another on the elevator ride up. She went with the simplest one. “It’s about my child.” She swallowed. “About Laurel.”
Eleanor’s eyes lit like someone had turned up the dimmer. “Laurel,” she repeated, tasting it. “That’s lovely.” She said it the way you say a baby name at a shower, happy and bright. “I always loved names from nature. Your grandmother wanted to name you Rose, you know—”
“Mom,” April said gently.
“Oh!” Eleanor flapped a hand at herself, apologetic, a little flustered. “Sorry. I just—It’s a pretty name.” She hesitated, then leaned forward, conspiratorial. “Is this… does he—oh goodness, does she prefer that now? I’m trying to get the words right. I watched a segment on NPR—no, not NPR, the one with the British doctor—anyway, I’m listening. I want to do this properly.” She was earnest in a way that made April love her and want to wring her neck at the same time.
“It’s okay,” April said, and some of the tightness in her chest loosened. “She’s on blockers. We found a clinic in the city. She’s… she’s doing better. School’s been—” she searched for the word—“new. But good, I think. She joined color guard. She has a friend.”
Eleanor’s eyes went misty. “Color guard! With the flags? That sounds so elegant. We should get her some proper gloves, it’s murder on the hands—I remember the blisters from tennis. Oh, and if she wants, I can take her to see Maribelle, the woman who does my hair. She’s a miracle with bangs. Do girls still wear bangs? I can never tell what’s in.” She was already picturing shopping trips and spa days and all the ways she knew how to love.
Richard set the papers down carefully on the table, aligning the corners. His silhouette was all angles against the city glittering behind him. “April,” he said, voice even, “you filed the divorce in January. You obtained physical custody, yes, but did you obtain sole legal custody?”
April’s mouth went dry. “Joint legal,” she admitted. “Sole physical. He wouldn’t sign otherwise, and I needed out.”
Richard nodded once, absorbing. “Then we have to be careful.” He steepled his fingers. “I am not opposed to your daughter being who she is, but there are practical concerns. A legal name change, for instance, would require service to Derrick. It would put a formal notice with specific information in his hands. If he decides to contest, we are in for a fight. He is volatile. I have… read the subtext in your emails. I’d rather not give him a legal hook if we can help it.”
Eleanor’s fingers fluttered toward Richard’s sleeve. “Richard, maybe—”
“I’m not saying no,” he said, anticipating her. “I am saying to be strategic.” He turned back to April. “Socially, I understand this is helpful. Legally, you may wish to wait until Laurel is older, or until we can secure a sealed proceeding. We can explore that. I will make inquiries.”
“Dad,” April said, her voice softer than she felt. “She is thirteen. Puberty is a freight train. I will not stand on the tracks and argue about docket schedules while it runs her over.”
“I am not arguing about dockets,” Richard said, and for a beat the mask slipped and she saw grief flash through the cracks—at what had happened in Montana, at what he’d failed to prevent. He set his jaw again. “I am asking you to let me defend the perimeter while you tend to the center. If you want me to draft a will that names guardians who will not put her back in danger if something happens—” his mouth tightened around the if. “I will. If you want me to retain a gender specialist for a second opinion on the blockers, I will pay for it. I do, however, have concerns about moving to cross-sex hormones at her age. There are… questions in the literature. Long‑term outcomes. Fertility. You know I read everything with a skeptical eye.”
Eleanor made a small distressed sound. “Richard, please don’t turn this into a trial.”
“It is my job to think of how this goes wrong,” he said, not unkindly. He looked at April. “Someone in this room has to. Your safety, her safety, legal exposure, school records, insurance, all of it. I will not let Derrick use a procedural misstep to drag you into court.”
April had to bite down on the urge to snap that she needed a father, not opposing counsel. She swallowed instead. “Blockers are reversible,” she said, steady as she could make it. “We’re doing the least invasive, most protective thing we can. I am not forcing anything on her, if anything, I am trying to keep anyone else from forcing anything on her. She is breathing again, Dad. She sleeps. She laughs. I know what it looks like when she’s drowning, and she isn’t.”
“I can live with caution,” April said. “I can’t live with compromise on who she is.”
He inclined his head, steely eyes meeting April. “Understood.”
Eleanor clapped her hands lightly, as if to shake off the heaviness.“Now. Will you take some sandwiches home? And the extra peppermint bark? I made far too much.”
When April left, Eleanor pressed a tupperware container of peppermint bark into her hands and kissed her cheeks twice. Richard walked her to the door and, in a rare, awkward gesture, touched her shoulder, a gesture he didn’t have words for.
“Call if anything changes,” he said.
“I will.”
“And… April?” He held her gaze. “Whatever Derrick was, you are not. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” she said, and let the elevator doors close on the kindest thing he’d said all year.
Laurel Melody Parker, December 24th 2014, Marisol Heights, California
Dani was showing Laurel a bunch of music she'd downloaded on her phone, apparently Sam had done it on her older sister's mp3 player and started showing off and it made Dani want to download a ton of songs too. They were on the couch in the living room of Laurel’s apartment, tethered by the cord of Dani’s earbuds, and April had just left to go visit her parents.
Punk music sprayed from the earbuds as they were shoulder to shoulder. Dani was bundled up in a black hoodie with the Marisol Heights High School emblem on it, as if the 60 degree weather outside had been unbearable. Laurel leaned against her, she was just wearing a pink blouse and jeans, unaffected by the supposedly cold weather.
Her shoulder pressed against Laurel’s in return, the contact was a nice contrast to the loud chaotic energy of The Distillers blaring through the earbuds, not that Laurel was listening too much to them anyways. She was too aware of the way Dani’s knee kept brushing hers, and the way she smelled like vanilla.
“You’re not paying attention,” Dani accused, nudging Laurel with her elbow and cocking an eyebrow at her.
Laurel blinked and pulled the earbud out. “I am! It’s just… you know, loud….”
Dani smirked in response. “That’s the point.” She said leaning back against the couch, arms crossed over her head. “So Christmas Eve, What’s the Parker family tradition?”
Laurel shrugged, fiddling with the hem of her blouse. “Not much. Mom usually works most years, and she’s working tomorrow so we are gonna do presents tonight, whenever she gets back from seeing my grandparents that is… We didn’t really do holidays that much together when my dad was around either.”
Not in Montana. Not in THAT house.
Dani’s expression softened, “You don’t really talk about your dad much…”
Laurel stared off into space, fidgeting with the earbuds, and wrapping the cord around her fingers. “I don't really like talking about him…” she spoke lightly. “It has a habit of killing the vibe. That and his terrible taste in music.”
Dani’s mouth twitched. “Worse than mine?”
“Worse. Country.”
“Gross, point taken.” Dani flicked to a new song. Drums kicked in, guitars fizzed, and Dani held the earbud toward Laurel like a dare. “Okay, but you have to score it. One to five.”
“Maybe three.” Laurel smirked at her.
“Rude. Next!” Dani gleefully queued another, then another, building a ridiculous ladder of genres—pop-punk into riot grrrl into a crooning holiday ballad that made them both snort.
By the third whiplash transition, Laurel was giggling into her sleeve. “You can’t just put a Christmas song on your main playlist and call it christmasy.”
“Watch me,” Dani said, victorious. She popped up suddenly. “Wait. We need cocoa for this. Official panel refreshment.”
They detangled, padded into the kitchen, and made an overcomplicated mess out of hot chocolate—two chipped mugs, too much cocoa, a mountain of mini marshmallows for Dani, two candy canes balanced across the rims like antlers. Dani stirred with the candy cane.
Back on the couch, Laurel tucked her legs underneath herself and blew on her mug. “Okay. Since we’re doing official panels—two truths and a lie, holiday edition. The winner gets to control the remote.”
Dani pointed at Laurel with her candy cane spoon, that she’d been sharpening in her mouth. “You’re on.”
Laurel thought. “One: I once tried to unwrap a present and re-wrap it so my mom wouldn’t notice. Two: I have never seen Elf. Three: I learned to fold gift bags from a YouTube video and now I’m unreasonably proud of it.”
Dani narrowed her eyes. “You are absolutely the kind of person who is secretly arrogant about gift bags. That’s true. The re-wrap thing sounds like a thing a gremlin would do.” She tapped the mug. “The lie is the Elf.”
Laurel put on an offended gasp. “Excuse you, I am a gremlin who learns from her mistakes. The lie is actually the gift-bag arrogance. I’m humble about it.”
Dani nudges her. “Right. So you did unwrap a present.”
“Look, in my defense I was like, ten and the tape was basically begging to be opened.” Laurel said, and Dani nearly snorted cocoa.
“Okay, my turn.” Dani leaned back, thinking. “One: I crochet. Two: I have already watched Home Alone twice this week. Three: When I turn eighteen I’m getting a lip ring.”
Laurel sipped, considering the sharpness of Dani’s grin. “You… don’t crochet.”
Dani’s eyes glittered. “I do not crochet,” she said, pleased, “but I do knit. Very badly.”
“You knit?” Laurel perked up. “Like… scarves?”
Dani bit her cheek, failing not to look smug. “Wow, what a specific example. Almost like you still don’t believe me!” Dani feigned indignation as she slid off the couch and disappeared into her backpack by the door, then returned with something folded. “Do not judge. This was my third try. The first two looked WAY worse.”
She unfolded a scarf. It was cute, soft, a little uneven, and the exact color of sea glass or maybe, teal that caught the light.
Laurel reached out like it might vanish if she moved too fast. “You made this.”
“It’s got personality,” Dani deflected, suddenly shy in a way Laurel had never seen on her. “And it’s for you. If you want it.”
Laurel blinked too fast and wrapped it around her neck immediately, ends draping down to her ribcage. The yarn was warm from Dani’s hands. “I love it,” she said, voice small and bright all at once. “It’s perfect.”
“Good,” Dani said, relief breaking into triumph. “Now it’s your turn. Gimme.”
Laurel scrambled up and darted to her room, tripping over the edge of the rug, scrambling back to her feet, and returned with a jewel case. A burned CD with a hand-drawn cover: a badly doodled flag with sparkles, a few tiny stars, and in bubble letters: Dani California (obviously): a playlist.
“You made me a mixtape?” Dani said, reverent, taking it like it was fragile.
“Technically a burned CD,” Laurel said. “Mixtape sounds cooler. It was also kind of a struggle, my.. Mom had to help me.”
Dani cracked it open and read the track list, grinning wider with every line. “Thanks Laurel.”
Dani hugged the CD to her chest. “I am going to roast you for your taste forever though,” she promised, and then softened. “Thank you.”
They let the cocoa cool while a claymation snowman sang on the TV, then got bored and started “teaching spins” with improvised equipment: the roll from the last of the wrapping paper, a broom handle, the cardboard tube from a finished gift bag. Laurel tried a drop spin with the paper tube and promptly thwacked the couch arm.
They ended up on the floor in front of the couch, backs against it, legs stretched out, the teal scarf a bright stripe across Laurel’s lap. Outside, the late-December sky slid from gold to a soft blue that the city reflected back in a thousand tiny windows.
“Hey,” Dani said, voice quiet under the TV. “Serious for, like, one second.”
Laurel tilted her head toward her.
“I know you said you don’t like talking about… that stuff,” Dani said, nodding vaguely in no particular direction. “But I like you. And I’m not going anywhere just because things are weird or hard sometimes.”
Laurel’s chest did a strange, swoopy thing. “That’s more than one second,” she whispered, trying for light and not quite making it.
Dani bumped her shoulder, gentle. “New timer. Also… if you need to talk or anything, I can always be there for you.”
“Are you sure? What if I’m too much?” Laurel said, looking down into her lap.
“For you?” Dani considered, then nodded, serious. “Yeah.”
Laurel leaned her head against Dani’s shoulder. The cocoa went cold. They didn’t move.
The jingle of keys at the door made them both jump. Laurel scrambled to her feet, heart thudding, and Dani shot up a beat after, smoothing her hoodie like that would make the living room less obviously filled with teenage chaos and yarn fuzz.
April stepped in, cheeks pink from the chill, hair escaping her ponytail, a Tupperware of peppermint bark balanced precariously on a stack of foil-wrapped tins. She took in the scene—the mugs, the crooked scarf around Laurel’s neck, Dani holding the cd case like a trophy—and her smile went soft around the edges.
“Hi you two,” she said, toeing off her flats. “This looks like a party I want to crash.”
“Hi Mom,” Laurel said, relief and fondness flooding her voice. “Dani brought me a present.”
“I can see that,” April said, eyes lingering on the teal like it had always belonged there. “It suits you.”
Dani, suddenly awkward again, held up the CD. “She made me one, too. It’s very… curated.”
April’s mouth quirked. She set the tins down on the counter. “I also brought too much peppermint bark. Consider it my contribution to the vibe.”
“Stay?” Laurel asked, then realized how that sounded and flailed. “I mean—eat some. And—uh—you can drive Dani later, if that’s okay.”
April’s eyes did that thing where they smiled even when her mouth didn’t move. “I can do that. But first I’m going to change into pajamas and pretend I’m not an adult for an hour.” She pointed at the TV. “Dibs on the television, I’m exhausted.”
When she disappeared down the hall, Dani let out a breath she’d been holding. “Your mom is cool,” she whispered.
“I know,” Laurel said, warmth settling under her ribs.
They ate lemon bars and peppermint bark and shouted entirely wrong commentary at the christmas movies on the tv until April returned in a ridiculous oversized sweater with cartoon reindeer. Dani wheezed laughing and declared it “high fashion.” April curtsied.
By the time the movie ended, Dani’s mom had texted twice. April grabbed her keys, and all three bundled up.
At the door, Dani adjusted the scarf around Laurel’s neck one more time, fingers lingering for a heartbeat.
“Text me when you’re finished opening presents,” Dani said.
“I will. You’ll get a detailed report,” Laurel promised. She wanted to say something bigger, something with the weight that had been sitting on her tongue all night, but she settled on, “Thank you. For the scarf. And for… being here.”
“Goodbye Laurel.” Dani said, grinning softly.
They hovered a second too long in the doorway, the kind of pause that might be a place to put a first kiss. Laurel’s breath fogged in the cooler air from the door. Dani rocked forward a fraction, then the hall light flickered and both girls startled and laughed at themselves.
“Soon,” Dani said under her breath, and then she was jogging down the stairs after April, flashing a wave over her shoulder.
The apartment door clicked shut. Laurel leaned against it, burying her face into the scarf, and listened to the echo of their laughter fade down the hallway. In the glass of the darkened window, her reflection looked back, pink-cheeked, wide-eyed, wrapped in teal.
She stood there until her phone buzzed.
Dani California: Thanks for having me! xo
Laurel smiled, typed back a flurry of candy cane and scarf emojis, and sat down to write in her journal.