Jessica Perot, October 13th 2018, Laurel Montana
The sound of Laurel's footsteps fading into the distance was the worst sound Jess had ever heard. It was the sound of trust shattering, of a door slamming that might never open again. She stood frozen on the sidewalk, her arm still outstretched in a futile, reaching gesture, her mouth open on a plea that had died in her throat.
"Laurel!" she called out one more time, her voice cracking. But the figure in the oversized hoodie had already rounded the corner, disappearing from view like smoke.
Behind her, she heard car doors slamming. Footsteps. The sharp, angry sound of someone breathing hard.
"What the fuck was that?" Dani's voice was low, dangerous, shaking with a barely controlled fury. "What the actual fuck, Jess?"
Jess turned slowly, her whole body numb. Dani was stalking toward her, her face a mask of anguish and rage. Sam was a step behind, his hand on Dani's shoulder, trying to hold her back, but his own expression was stricken, his eyes wide with shock.
"I—" Jess started, but the words died. What could she say? I'm sorry? I thought it would help? Every excuse she had sounded pathetic in the face of what had just happened.
"You said she was safe!" Dani was right in front of her now, close enough that Jess could see the tears streaming down her face, the way her hands were trembling. "You said she was going through a lot, but you didn't say—" Her voice broke. "You didn't say she'd run from us like we were—"
"I know!" Jess shouted back, her own tears starting, hot and ashamed. "I know, okay? I fucked up! I thought—I thought if she saw you, it would remind her. I thought it would help her fully remember who she was!"
"She remembered!" Dani screamed, her voice raw. "She clearly fucking remembered, Jess, because she looked at us and ran! She ran because she didn't want us to see her like that!" She pressed her hands to her face, her shoulders heaving. "Oh god. Oh god, the look on her face."
Sam stepped between them, his voice quiet but firm. "Okay. Everyone needs to calm down. We're standing in the middle of a street. We're not helping anyone like this."
Dani let out a choked, furious laugh. "Calm down? How the fuck am I supposed to calm down, Sam? That was her. That was Laurel. And she looked at me like—" Her voice cracked again. "Like I was the last person she wanted to see."
"That's not true," Jess said desperately. "It's not about you. It's about her. She's—she's drowning. Her dad is—"
"I don't give a shit about her dad," Dani spat. "I want to know where she went. I want to know if she's safe."
"She probably went home," Jess said, her voice small. "To her dad's house. It's—it's not a good place. But it's where she can be alone..."
Dani's eyes flashed. "Then we go there. We knock on the door. We tell her father to fuck off. Then we're taking her with us."
"You can't, I already told you!" Jess said, shaking her head frantically. "She's a minor. He has custody. If you try to take her, it's kidnapping. He'll call the cops. It'll make everything worse."
"It can't get worse than this!" Dani's voice was a ragged shout.
"It can," Sam said quietly, his hand still on her shoulder. His voice was steady, the voice of someone who had lived through his own nightmare and came out the other side. "Trust me, Dani. It can always get worse. Jess is right. We can't just grab her and run. Not legally. Not without making her life hell."
Dani pulled away from him, pacing in a tight, agitated circle. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, her hands shaking so badly she could barely get one out. She lit it with a cheap plastic lighter, the flame wavering in the cold air. She took a long, desperate drag, the smoke billowing out in a harsh exhale. “Fuck. It's too fucking cold here.” she muttered.
"So what, then?" she said, her voice thick. "We just… what? We came all this way. We've been looking for her for a year. A year, Jess. And now we're supposed to just… leave her here?
Jess's chest ached. She could see the desperation in every line of Dani's body, the way her hand shook as she brought the cigarette to her lips. She looked over at Sam, who had leaned against the side of the beat-up Saturn, his arms crossed, his face drawn and tired.
"I don't know," Jess admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what we do."
They stood there in a tense, miserable silence. The street was empty, the gray October afternoon settling into a colder dusk. Dani smoked, her jaw tight, her eyes red-rimmed. Sam stared at the pavement. Jess wrapped her arms around herself, the cold seeping through her jacket, but she barely felt it. The cold inside her was worse.
"Tell me about her," Dani said finally, her voice hoarse. She didn't look at Jess, just stared out at nothing, the cigarette burning down between her fingers. "Tell me what her life is like here. I need to know."
Jess swallowed hard. "It's bad," she said quietly. "Her dad… he doesn't know. About her. About who she was in California. He thinks she's his son. He wants her to be this… this masculine, football-watching, gun-toting version of a kid that she's never been. And when she doesn't fit that mold, he…" She trailed off, not sure how much to say.
"He what?" Sam's voice was sharp.
"He yells," Jess said. "He says things. Terrible things. He called her—" She couldn't say the word. "He's cruel. Not physically, I don't think, at least not yet. But he's escalating. And emotionally? He's destroying her."
Dani took another drag, the cherry of the cigarette glowing bright in the dimming light. "And you?" she said, her voice flat. "Where do you fit into all this?"
Jess flinched. "I'm her friend. I've been trying to help her. I'm the one who gave her the uniform. The makeup. The space to be herself, even if it was just for a few hours." Her voice wavered. "I thought I was helping. And then I saw your number on her phone and I—I panicked. I was jealous and stupid and I thought—"
"You thought what?" Dani turned to face her, her eyes hard. "That you owned her? That you were the one who got to save her?"
"No!" Jess's voice broke. "I thought I was losing her! I thought if you came back, she'd remember a life I was never part of, and I'd just be—nothing. A placeholder. And she'd leave." The truth of it tasted bitter. "I was selfish. I know that. And I hurt her. I know that too."
Dani stared at her for a long moment, then let out a bitter, humorless laugh. She dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and ground it out with her boot. "You know what the fucked up thing is?" she said quietly. "I get it. I understand being jealous. I understand being scared of losing her." She looked down at the smashed cigarette. "I've been losing her for a year. Every day she was gone, I lost her a little more. And now I found her, and she doesn't want me here. It feels like I've been predicating this entire situation on her wanting to see me.”
"She's still Laurel," Jess said softly. "She's starting to remember. Despite everything she tried to bury herself under, she's still her.”
Dani's head snapped up, hope and pain warring on her face.
Jess continued. "She found a letter from her mom. She's been reading her mom's journals. She knows who she is again. It's just—she's buried under so much shit. Her dad. This town. The dysphoria. She's barely surviving."
Sam spoke up, his voice quiet. "Then we help her survive," he said. "We don't leave. We stay. We figure out a way to be here for her, even if it's from a distance. Even if she doesn't want to see us right now."
Dani looked at him, her expression raw. "Stay? In Laurel, Montana? In this frozen hellhole?"
"If that's what it takes," Sam said, his voice steady. "We didn't come all this way to give up now, Dani. We stay. We wait. We let her know we're here. And when she's ready—if she's ready—we're still here."
"And if she's never ready?" Dani's voice was small, terrified.
"Then we're still here," Sam repeated. "But we don't give up on her. Not now. Not ever."
Dani closed her eyes, her face crumpling. She let out a shaky breath, then another. Jess watched her, this fierce, broken girl who had driven hundreds of miles for love, and felt a sharp pang of guilt and admiration all at once.
"What do we do in the meantime?" Dani asked, opening her eyes. "We can't just sit in a motel room and hope."
Jess took a breath. "I'll talk to her," she said. "I'll try. I know she's mad at me. I know she might not listen. But I'll try to explain. I'll tell her you're here. That you're not leaving. That you—" She swallowed. "That you still love her."
Dani's eyes welled up again. "Does she know that?" she whispered. "Does she know we never stopped looking?"
"I don't know," Jess admitted. "But I'll tell her. I promise. And… I can help you find a place, my aunt is a landlord
Sam pushed off the car. "Fine, we'll be staying at the Liberty Motel for now until we can make arrangememts." he said, pulling a crumpled receipt from his pocket and scribbling a number on it. He handed it to Jess. "That's Dani's number. You call us if anything happens. If she needs anything. If she's in danger. Anything."
Jess took the paper, nodding. "I will."
Dani looked at her, and for the first time, there was something other than anger in her eyes. It was exhaustion. Grief. A fragile, tentative trust. "Don't fuck this up again," she said quietly.
"I won't," Jess whispered. "I swear."
Dani nodded once, then turned and got into the Saturn. Sam followed, sliding into the driver's seat. The engine coughed to life, and they pulled away, the taillights disappearing into the gray Montana evening.
Jess stood alone on the sidewalk, the weight of the promise she'd just made settling over her like a lead blanket. She looked down at the crumpled receipt in her hand, at the hastily scrawled number, and felt the enormity of what she'd set in motion.
She'd wanted to protect Laurel. Instead, she'd shattered her.
Now she had to find a way to put the pieces back together.
If Laurel would even let her try.
Laurel Melody Parker, October 13th 2018, Laurel Montana
The world outside her front door ceased to exist. Laurel ran, a blind, panicked flight fueled by a terror that was wailing in her ears. It was a scream that tore through her muscles, her lungs, and her heart beating out of her chest. She didn’t hear the frantic calls of her name—not Jess’s pleading, not Sam’s worrying, and certainly not the pleas from Dani’s lips. They were sounds from a world she had just violently ejected herself from. Her feet pounded the pavement, each impact a punishment, each gasp of frigid air a reminder that she was still trapped in this body, in this town, in this nightmare.
She ended up back at her house out of instinct. It was the only burrow she knew. Her keys fumbled in her trembling hands, the metal cold in her uncooperative hands. The lock finally gave way with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the ringing silence of her ears. She slammed the door, the sound echoing through the empty house, and threw the deadbolt. It wasn’t enough. She scrambled up the stairs, her legs screaming in protest, and threw herself into her room, slamming that door too. The lock clicked. It still wasn’t enough. With a strength born of pure adrenaline, she shoved the heavy oak dresser, scraping along an ugly scar in the wooden floor as it ground its way in front of the door.
Only then did she collapse, her back sliding down the door until she was a heap on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling herself into a tight, protective ball, as if she could physically shrink away from the horror.
They saw me.
The thought was a stabbing pain in her mind.
They saw me like this.
Not as Laurel. Not as the girl Dani had kissed under a California sky. Not as the friend who had shared secrets and mix CDs and a life that felt real. They had seen Montana. A… boy in a boy’s hoodie, with a boy’s face and in a boy's life. Standing on a street corner in a town that had tried to erase her once before.
The betrayal from Jess was a white-hot, searing pain, a fresh wound on top of a mountain of old scars. Jess knew. Jess had held her, had promised her a safe space. And then she had led her out into the open, a lamb to the slaughter, to be seen by the two people in the world whose judgment she feared the most.
And Dani. Seeing Dani was like having the wind knocked out of her. Like connecting a faulty plug into an outlet and receiving a shock. Dani, who was the living, breathing embodiment of a life she thought she had lost forever. Dani, with her dark hair and her fierce eyes and that teal scarf—a reminder of the one she had knitted for Laurel all those years ago. And the look on her face… a mixture of hope and confusion and a dawning horror that mirrored Laurel’s own. The pain in Dani’s eyes was the worst part. Laurel had caused that. Her existence, in this form, had hurt her.
And Sam. He was Sam now. He was a man. He had done it. He had navigated the labyrinth and come out the other side, whole and himself. She felt a flicker of genuine, unadulterated joy for him, a bright spark immediately extinguished by the tidal wave of her own failure. He had made it. She had gone backward. He would look at her and see a boy, just like him, and he would be wrong, so fundamentally, devastatingly wrong. He would see a peer, a brother, and all Laurel wanted to do was scream I’m not like you! I was already there! I’m a girl!
They were all thoughts to bring her down, and she knew this. But it wouldn't stop her from spiralling, from not being able to catch her breath.
The house was silent. The others hadn’t chased her. The world outside her barricaded door had quieted after her retreat, leaving her to suffocate in the prison she had created.
Time lost its meaning. The sun set, casting long, distorted shadows across her floor. The moon rose. The world turned, but inside Laurel’s room, everything was frozen in that one horrific moment on the sidewalk. She didn’t move from her spot on the floor, not to eat, not to drink, not even to turn on a light. She just sat in the dark, a prisoner in her skin, while the hours bled into one another.
By the time a sliver of awareness returned, a dull gray light was filtering through the edges of her curtains. It was Sunday. A whole day had vanished into the black hole of her despair. Her stomach, which had been a tight, angry knot, was now staging a full-blown rebellion. It twisted and clenched, a hollow, acidic ache that demanded attention. She hadn’t eaten since the game on Friday night. The thought of food was nauseating, but the gnawing emptiness was a physical pain that was becoming impossible to ignore.
Her dysphoria, which had been a constant, low-grade hum for months, was now a deafening shriek. It was an entity separate from her, a predator with claws and teeth, tearing at the seams of her skin. She felt every wrong line of her body, every masculine detail of her face, every deep sob in her own throat. She wanted to claw through her own skin, to peel back the layers of this Montana costume until she found Laurel underneath, even if there was nothing left but bone and flesh. The wrongness was a physical itch, a burning fire she couldn’t extinguish.
She stumbled into her attached bathroom, the cool tile a shock against her bare feet. She retched over the toilet, her body convulsing with violent, empty heaves. Nothing came up but a thin, bitter stream of stomach acid that burned her throat and made her eyes water. The effort left her dizzy, leaning against the wall, her forehead pressed against the cool, smooth paint.
Food. She needed food. The thought was a primal, undeniable command from a body that was starting to shut down. The need was greater than the fear, greater than the shame, greater than the desire to stay locked away forever.
With a groan that was more animal than human, she pushed herself off the bathroom floor. Her legs were stiff, her joints aching from sitting in one position for so long. She moved like an old woman, her body a foreign, uncooperative machine. She heaved the dresser away from the door, the sound a groan of protest in the silent house. Unlocking the door, she stepped out into the hallway, the familiar space of her home feeling alien and hostile.
She crept down the stairs, every creak of the floorboards a potential alarm. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to get to the kitchen, grab whatever was easiest—a slice of bread, an apple, a handful of cereal—and retreat back to her cave.
But her luck, as always, had run out.
She rounded the corner into the kitchen and froze. Derrick was sitting at the table, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. He was in his work uniform, which meant he had just gotten home from a night shift. He looked tired, his face etched with lines of exhaustion. He looked up as she entered, and his expression shifted from weary to confused.
“Monty?” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “What the hell? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He took in her pale face, the dark circles under her eyes, the way she was hunched in on herself. “You sick?”
Laurel’s stomach churned. She couldn’t speak. She just shook her head, a small, jerky motion.
“You’re white as a sheet,” he said, pushing his chair back. He stood up and took a step toward her, his hand outstretched as if to feel her forehead. It was a gesture of concern, but all Laurel saw was a threat.
She flinched back, a violent, involuntary recoil that made him stop in his tracks. His hand dropped. The concern in his eyes hardened into something else—frustration, anger.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice rising. “I’m trying to see if you have a fever and you jump like I’m about to hit you. You been moping around here all weekend. What happened after the game? Did something happen with that Jess girl?”
Laurel’s throat felt like it was full of sand. She just wanted to be invisible. She shook her head again, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“Then what?” he pressed, his voice growing louder. “Talk to me, damn it! You can’t just walk around my house like a zombie and expect me to ignore it. Is this about that makeup crap again?
“No dad, I'm just hungry.”
Derrick stared at her, his face a mask of disbelief that quickly curdled into frustration. The flicker of concern he’d shown was extinguished, snuffed out by the wall she had just thrown up between them. “Hungry?” he repeated, the word laced with incredulous anger. “You disappear for a whole day, you look like you’ve been dragged through hell backwards, and all you can say is you’re hungry?”
Laurel didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat was in knots. Instead, she moved, her body acting on a primal, desperate need for normalcy, for a task to perform that wasn’t feeling. She shuffled past him, making space between them, and went to the breadbox. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely work the plastic tie off the loaf of bread. Two slices. She dropped them into the toaster, the plastic slots accepting the bread with no resistance.
The small act seemed to infuriate Derrick more than any argument could have. “That’s it? You’re just going to make toast? After you had me worried sick? After Jess had to come get you because you were having some kind of damn meltdown?”
She flinched at Jess’s name, a fresh stab of betrayal. She kept her back to him, her shoulders hunched, focusing on the red glow of the heating elements inside the toaster. It was something real. Something that followed predictable rules. It would get hot. It would turn the bread brown. It would pop up. It wouldn’t scream at her. It wouldn’t call her a name that felt like a slur. Or you know, actual slurs.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Monty,” he growled.
She didn’t. She couldn’t. If she looked at him, she would shatter. If she looked at him, he might see the ghost of a daughter he never wanted, and the raw, open wound of the son he was losing.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the quiet hum of the toaster and the frantic thumping of Laurel’s own heart. Derrick let out a long, harsh breath, a sound of utter defeat. “Fine,” he spat, the word dripping with contempt. “Fine. Be that way. Starve for all I care.”
She heard his heavy footsteps retreat, the scrape of the back door sliding open, and then the familiar, acrid smell of cigarette smoke wafting in on the cold morning air. He had retreated to his own fortress: the back porch, where he could stare at the suffocating mountains and pretend the mess inside his house didn’t exist.
The toast popped up with a startling pop. Laurel jumped, her nerves shot. She pulled the two slices out, her fingers clumsy. They were burnt around the edges. She didn’t bother with butter or a plate. She just held the warm, dry squares in her hand and turned, making her escape. She didn’t look toward the back porch as she passed the kitchen door. She just fled up the stairs, back to the only place in her world that felt remotely safe.
Back in her room, the toast sat mostly uneaten on her nightstand, a sad mark on her failed attempt at normalcy. She shoved the dresser back in front of the door, the familiar screech of wood on wood a comforting, final sound. She was sealed in. The world was locked out. She crawled back into her unmade bed, pulling the covers over her head, and let the darkness take her.
The rest of Sunday was a void. It was a long monochrome smear of time, measured not in hours but in the shifting patterns of light and shadow that filtered through her curtains. She didn’t move. She didn’t eat the toast. Her phone, which she had left on her nightstand, buzzed intermittently, a series of desperate, unanswered pleas from a world she no longer wanted to be a part of. She didn’t look at it. She knew who it was from. Each buzz was a fresh twist of the knife, a reminder of Jess’s betrayal, of Dani’s heartbroken face, of the life she had been forced to remember only to realize she couldn’t have it.
She drifted in and out of a thin, restless sleep, haunted by fragmented images. The glint of a silver ring in Dani’s lip. The impossible green of Sam’s hair. The look of dawning horror in Jess’s eyes as Laurel turned and ran. The cold, hard set of her father’s jaw. The words, ugly and sharp, that he had hurled at her. Tranny. Target. Be a man.
When she was awake, she stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster with her eyes. The dysphoria was a physical presence in the room, a heavy blanket woven from self-loathing and despair. It was in the way her clothes felt wrong against her skin, in the sound of her own breathing, in the shape of her hands lying limp on the comforter. She was a ghost in a borrowed body, and the body was starting to feel more and more like a tomb.
She didn’t cry anymore. The tears had dried up, leaving behind a barren, desolate landscape inside her. There was just a hollow ache, a profound sense of loss for a girl she had been and a girl she might never get to be again. Laurel was a name whispered in a letter, a ghost in a photograph, a dream of a California sun. Montana was a cage, and she had just been reminded how securely the door was locked.
Laurel Melody Parker, October 15th 2018, Laurel Montana
Laurel tossed and turned, her head a cloud of worry and self-pity. Barely having slept she dragged the cover off her tired face. She'd have to go back to school today. Staying home wasn't an option with Derrick Payton downstairs.
The first light of Monday morning was a cruel, invasive thing. It sliced through the gap in Laurel’s curtains, a blade of pale gray that promised a world she had no desire to rejoin. Sleep hadn’t been a refuge; it had been a series of short, frantic dives into a black, dreamless ocean, only to be violently pulled back to the surface by the memory of Dani’s face, of Jess’s betrayal, of her father’s venom. Her body ached with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that sleep couldn’t touch. It was the exhaustion of self that had been running a marathon for years, only to find itself back at the starting line again and again and again.
She lay still for a long time, listening to the house. The familiar groans of the pipes, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the absence of her father’s heavy tread. He would be asleep, having come home from his night shift hours ago. A small mercy. It meant she could move through the house as a ghost, unseen, unheard. It was a role she was becoming frighteningly good at.
The hunger was a dull, persistent ache now, a hollow space in her gut that mirrored the one in her chest. She knew she had to eat. She knew she had to get up, get dressed, and walk out the door into a day that felt like a personal affront. Survival was a series of mundane, hateful tasks.
Getting out of bed was the first. Her limbs felt like lead, her joints protesting with a series of creaks and pops. She avoided the mirror as she shuffled into the bathroom, but its presence was a malevolent force in the small space. She could feel its gaze on her, judging, reflecting a truth she couldn’t bear to see. She turned on the shower, the water pressure weak, and stood under the lukewarm spray, her eyes closed, trying to wash away the feeling of being seen, of being known in the worst possible way. The water glided over her skin, but it couldn’t reach the filth she felt clinging to her from the inside out.
Shaving was a slow, meticulous torture. Each scrape of the razor against her skin was a fresh act of violence against herself, She watched the foam and stubble swirl down the drain, a physical manifestation of the parts of herself she was trying to wash away.
When she was done, her skin was raw and stinging, but it was the face the world expected to see. It was Montana’s face. But she wanted so badly to see Laurel's face, not even the one from a few years ago, but even the one from the auditorium, under the stage lights.
Dressing was another battle. She pulled on the baggiest, most anonymous clothes she owned: a faded black hoodie that had long lost its shape, a pair of worn, loose-fitting jeans. It was armor, as antithetical as it seemed, It was easier to hide in her boy clothes than be her and be hurting. It was a shroud. It was a way to disappear in plain sight. She tugged the hood up over her damp hair, creating a tunnel of shadow around her face.
Downstairs, the kitchen was a minefield of memories. The toaster sat on the counter, a silent witness to her father’s rage. The chair he had sat in felt charged with a negative energy. She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, its crisp, cheerful red a jarring contrast to the gray landscape of her mood. She took one bite, the sweetness turning bitter in her mouth. Her stomach recoiled. She couldn’t. She dropped the apple into the trash and fled, grabbing her bag and slipping out the front door into the biting October air.
The walk to the bus stop was a gauntlet. Every passing car was a potential threat, every stranger’s glance a judgment. She kept her head down, her earbuds shoved in, the volume cranked to a level that was just shy of painful. The furious, chaotic energy of PUP's punk rock was the only thing that could drown out the screaming in her own head. It was a wall of sound, a buffer between her and a world that felt too sharp, too bright, too real.
She saw Jess waiting at the bus stop. Of course she did. Jess, with her bright blonde hair and her perpetually worried expression. Laurel’s stomach twisted into a tight, angry knot. She didn’t slow down. She didn’t make eye contact. She walked right past her, as if she were just another stranger, and stood at the far end of the curb, her back to Jess, her body a rigid line of rejection.
“Laurel,” Jess’s voice was a low, pleading whisper behind her. “Please. Just talk to me.”
Laurel didn’t turn. She just stared straight ahead at the cracked pavement, her jaw so tight it ached.
“I’m so sorry,” Jess continued, her voice thick with a desperation that, a few days ago, would have broken Laurel’s heart. Now, it just felt like another manipulation. “I didn’t think… I thought if you saw them, you’d remember. I thought it would help. I never would have… I would never hurt you on purpose. You have to know that.”
Finally, Laurel turned. She pulled one earbud out, letting the tinny shriek of the music bleed into the air between them. Her expression was flat, her eyes cold and empty. “Help?” she repeated, her voice a low, dangerous monotone. “You thought it would help? To bring them here, to let them see me like this?” She gestured down at her own body, at the baggy clothes, at the lie she was forced to inhabit. “Did you bring them to the zoo to see the freak show, Jess? Is that what this was? ‘Come see the girl who forgot how to be a girl.”
The cruelty of her own words hung in the air, sharp and ugly. She saw the blow land, saw the way Jess flinched as if she’d been physically struck. The hurt in Jess’s eyes was raw, gaping. Good, a vicious part of Laurel thought. Good. Let her feel a fraction of the pain she’s put me through on Saturday.
“No,” Jess whispered, shaking her head, tears welling in her bright blue eyes. “No, it wasn’t like that. I was jealous. And stupid. I saw her name on your phone, and I panicked. It was selfish. It was all me. But I never, ever wanted to hurt you.”
“Congratulations,” Laurel said, her voice devoid of all emotion. “You failed.”
The bus hissed to a stop beside them, its doors folding open. Laurel turned without another word, climbed the steps, and found a seat in the very back, pressing her face against the cold, vibrating glass. She watched as Jess got on a moment later, her shoulders slumped in defeat, and chose a seat near the front, as far away from Laurel as she could get. The doors closed, sealing them in their separate miseries. Laurel put her earbud back in, turned the music up until her ears rang, and let the world outside the window dissolve into a meaningless, gray blur.
School was a special kind of hell. The hallways were a claustrophobic crush of bodies and noise, a sensory overload that made Laurel's skin crawl. Every laugh was too loud, every shove was a personal attack, every whisper was about her. She moved through the crowds like a phantom, her hood up, her gaze fixed on the floor, a ghost haunting the edges of her own life.
She felt like an exhibit. The events of the past weeks had somehow seeped into the very air of Laurel High. The whispers weren't just in her head. She saw the looks, the pointed fingers, the heads bent together in conspiratorial gossip, whether about her and Ashton, or her and Jess.. Ana Yankowski and her cheer squad cronies watched her pass with predatory smiles. Hunter Stevens and his jock friends snickered as she walked by, their laughter a physical blow. She was the weird kid, the freak, she was a puzzle they were all trying to solve, a curiosity to be dissected.
First period was a blur. She sat in the back of her English class, her notebook open but untouched, staring at the whiteboard without processing a single word. The teacher's voice was a distant drone, background noise to the roaring in her own head. When the bell rang, she moved mechanically to her next class, then the next, a sleepwalker navigating a landscape of nightmares.
By third period, the hunger had evolved from a dull ache to something sharper, more insistent. Her stomach cramped and twisted, sending waves of nausea through her body. She hadn't eaten anything substantial since Friday night. The apple she'd tried that morning had been the first and last attempt. Her head felt light, detached from her body, and the fluorescent lights in the hallway seemed too bright, too harsh, like they were trying to expose every flaw, every crack in her carefully constructed facade.
In history class, Mrs. Anderson was talking about the Cold War, her voice enthusiastic in a way that felt absurd given the topic. Laurel sat in her usual spot by the window, her gaze fixed on the mountains in the distance, those oppressive peaks that seemed to close in a little more each day. She could feel Hunter Stevens' eyes on her from two rows ahead. He kept turning around, whispering something to his buddy, then laughing—a low, cruel sound that made her skin crawl.
"Mr. Payton?" Mrs. Anderson's voice cut through the fog. "Would you care to answer the question?"
Laurel blinked, her head snapping toward the front of the room. She had no idea what the question was. She hadn't been listening. The entire class was staring at her, waiting. Hunter was grinning, that smug, predatory grin that made her want to disappear into the floor.
"I… I'm sorry, could you repeat it?" Her voice came out small, barely audible.
Mrs. Anderson's expression softened slightly, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. "I asked about the significance of the Berlin Wall. Can you tell us when it was built?"
"1961," Laurel mumbled, her gaze dropping back to her desk.
"Correct." Mrs. Anderson turned back to the board, but the moment of scrutiny had left Laurel feeling raw, exposed. She could hear Hunter's snickering, could feel the weight of everyone's judgment pressing down on her.
When the bell finally rang, she gathered her things with shaking hands and fled the classroom before anyone could stop her. She didn't go to her locker. She didn't go to her next class. She went to the one place in the school where she knew she could be alone: the library.
The library was a sanctuary of sorts. It was quiet, the air thick with the smell of old paper and dust. The librarian, Mrs. Chen, barely looked up as Laurel slipped past the circulation desk and disappeared into the stacks at the back. She found a spot behind the oversized atlases and world history books, a hidden corner where she could collapse onto the floor and pull her knees to her chest.
She sat there for what felt like hours, her forehead pressed against her knees, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The panic that had been building all morning finally broke through, a tidal wave of fear and despair that threatened to drown her. She couldn't do this. She couldn't keep pretending. She couldn't keep being Montana when every fiber of her being was screaming that she was Laurel.
But Laurel was gone. Laurel had died the moment she stepped into that house in San Francisco. Laurel had been erased, buried under layers of dysphoria and survival and a father who would never, could never understand.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, her hands trembling.
SmashinAshton: U good?
She stared at the message, her vision blurring with tears. No, she wanted to scream. No, I'm not good. I'm drowning.
Instead, she typed: fine.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket and buried her face in her arms. The bell rang for fourth period, then fifth. She didn't move. She couldn't. The world outside this little corner of the library felt impossible, insurmountable.
It wasn't until the final period of the day—her free period—that she finally forced herself to move. Her body ached from sitting in the same position for so long, her legs stiff and unresponsive. She stood slowly, her head spinning, and made her way out of the stacks.
She had to find Miss Vick. She had to at least try to explain why she couldn't do Winter Guard auditions. It felt like the final thread connecting her to the person she used to be, and she was about to cut it.
The band room was a cacophony of sound when she arrived. Students were warming up their instruments, the discordant blend of brass, woodwinds, and percussion filling the air. Miss Vick was at her desk, her purple-streaked hair pulled back in a messy bun, her attention focused on a stack of sheet music. She looked up as Laurel approached, and something in her expression shifted—concern, maybe, or recognition.
"Mr. Payton," she said, setting down her pen. Her voice was warm, but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, more analytical. "I was hoping to see you. Are you ready for auditions this afternoon?"
Laurel's stomach twisted. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She felt like she was about to cry, and the last thing she wanted was to break down in front of Miss Vick, in front of the band room full of students who were already looking at her like she was an anomaly.
"I, uh, I can't make it," she finally managed, her gaze fixed on a scuff mark on the linoleum floor. "I'm not feeling well. I think I'm coming down with something."
Miss Vick set the sheet music down and folded her hands on her desk, her expression unreadable. "I see," she said, her voice carefully neutral. She didn't call her out on the lie. She didn't have to. They both knew it was bullshit. "Well, health comes first. I'll be holding make-up auditions on Wednesday for anyone who's sick. But I will need a signed permission slip from your father by then if you intend to participate this season."
She pulled a form from a stack on her desk and held it out. Laurel took it, the paper feeling flimsy and insignificant in her trembling hand. She stared at it, at the blank lines waiting to be filled, and felt the weight of impossibility settle over her.
"Thank you," she mumbled, turning to leave.
"Montana." Miss Vick's voice stopped her. It wasn't sharp, but it was firm, the kind of tone that demanded attention. Laurel turned back slowly, her shoulders hunched. Miss Vick was standing now, her arms crossed, her gaze searching. "Can we talk in private for a minute? Please."
Laurel hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to get out of this room before the walls closed in. But there was something in Miss Vick's expression—not pity, but a deep, genuine concern—that made her stay. She nodded mutely and sank into one of the plastic chairs in front of the desk.
Miss Vick closed the door behind them and sat down, leaning forward slightly, her hands clasped on the desk. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. She just looked at Laurel, really looked at her, in a way that made Laurel feel seen in the most uncomfortable, vulnerable way possible.
"You know," Miss Vick said finally, her voice softer now, "I knew your mother. April."
Laurel's head peeked up. “She… hadn't mentioned.”
Miss Vick nodded, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "We went to high school together. Different grades—she was a year ahead of me—but in Marisol Heights, I became very well acquainted with your mother. She was one of the kindest, most selfless people I knew. She helped me get settled here after I needed a place to stay.
Laurel's throat tightened. She could see her mother in that description—the woman who had held her when she cried, who had fought for her, who had risked everything to give her a chance to be herself.
"I also knew your father," Miss Vick continued, and her tone shifted, became more guarded. "Derrick was… well, he was a big deal in this town. Star wrestler, local hero. Everyone loved him. But I saw things, heard things. The way he talked about people who were different. The way he treated anyone who didn't fit his idea of what a man should be." She looked directly at Laurel, her eyes sharp. "I saw the way he treated April, too. Not physically, not that I know of. But he had a way of making her smaller, of making her doubt herself, it didn't start like that… but over time it felt like he was dragging her down. And when she left him and took you to California, I wasn't surprised. I was relieved."
Laurel felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. She couldn't breathe. Miss Vick knew. She knew more than she was saying.
"When you came back this year," Miss Vick said, her voice gentle but unflinching, "I recognized you immediately. Not just because you look like April—though you do, it's uncanny, really, especially around the eyes—but because I remembered you from when you were little. You were this quiet, creative kid who loved art and music and hated anything to do with sports. Your father used to drag you to wrestling matches, and you'd sit in the bleachers with a sketchbook, drawing instead of watching."
Laurel's hands were shaking. She clasped them together in her lap, trying to still them.
"I also heard things," Miss Vick continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "After you left. Rumors. About why April took you. About what happened at Davidson Park." She paused, her gaze intensifying. "I don't know the whole story, Montana. But I know enough to be worried. I know your father has a temper. I know this town has a way of chewing up anyone who doesn't fit the mold. And I know that you, right now, look like someone who's barely holding on."
Laurel's vision blurred. The tears she'd been holding back all day finally spilled over, hot and silent, streaming down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming, a relentless flood.
"I'm fine," she choked out, the lie spit out.
"No, you're not." Miss Vick's voice was firm but kind. She reached across the desk and gently placed her hand over Laurel's clasped ones. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine. But you also don't have to do this alone."
"I don't have a choice," Laurel whispered, her voice breaking. "I can't be who I was. Not here. Not with him. He'll never understand. He'll never—" She stopped, the words dying in her throat. She couldn't say it. She couldn't tell Miss Vick the truth, not all of it.
Miss Vick was quiet for a long moment, her thumb moving in small, soothing circles over Laurel's knuckles. "Jess told me some things," she said carefully. "Not everything, I'm sure. But enough. She told me you saw some people from your past. Old friends from California."
Laurel stiffened, pulling her hands away. "Jess needs to learn to mind her own business," she spat, the anger flaring hot and sudden.
"She was worried about you, Laurel," Miss Vick said, and the use of her name—her real name—was like a punch to the gut.
Laurel flinched, her breath catching. "Don't call me that. Why would Jess tell you that?" she whispered, her voice shaking.
Miss Vick leaned back slightly, her expression a mixture of sympathy and something else—understanding, maybe, or a deep, professional calculation. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I shouldn't have assumed. I kept in touch with April… until the end. So forgive me, but I knew that from April, not Jess. I'm deeply sorry… What would you like me to call you?"
Laurel stared at her, her mind a chaotic swirl of fear and longing. She wanted to say it. She wanted to tell Miss Vick that yes, she was Laurel, that Montana was a cage, that every day in this town was another day of suffocating. But the words wouldn't come. The fear was too strong, the walls too high.
"Montana is fine," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just… Montana."
Miss Vick nodded slowly, but the look in her eyes said she didn't believe it. "Okay, Montana," she said, her voice gentle. "But I want you to know something. This band room, this team—it's a safe space. I don't tolerate bullying. I don't tolerate bigotry. And I don't tolerate anyone making my students feel like they have to be someone they're not just to survive." She paused, her gaze unwavering. "If you need to talk, if you need help, if you need anything—you come to me. Do you understand?"
Laurel nodded, not trusting her voice.
"And one more thing," Miss Vick said, her tone shifting to something firmer, almost businesslike. "I'm not going to push you to do Winter Guard if you're not ready. But I am going to tell you this: When April was in high school, she was in the color guard. Did you know that?"
Laurel's eyes widened. She shook her head.
"She was good, too," Miss Vick said, a small smile playing on her lips. “She used to say that spinning was the only time she felt free. Like she could be anyone, do anything, and no one could touch her. She taught me a lot." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto Laurel's. "I see that same thing in you when you're on the field. I see someone who's alive, who's free. And I think you need that right now more than you need anything else."
Laurel's chest ached. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe that there was still a place where she could be free, where she could be Laurel, even if it was just for a few minutes under stadium lights. But the weight of everything—her father's expectations, the town's judgment, Dani's heartbroken face—was too much.
"I don't know if I can," she whispered.
"You can," Miss Vick said firmly. "But only if you want to. No one can make that choice for you." She stood up, signaling that the conversation was over, but her expression remained soft, concerned. "The offer stands, Montana. Wednesday, if you're up for it. And if you're not, that's okay too. But don't give up on yourself. Your mother wouldn't want that."
Laurel stood on shaky legs, clutching the permission slip in her hand like a lifeline. "Thank you," she managed, her voice thick with unshed tears.
"Anytime," Miss Vick said, and there was a weight to the word, a promise.
Laurel fled the room, her heart pounding, her mind racing. She could still feel Miss Vick's eyes on her, could still hear the echo of her mother's name in the air.
When she got home, the house was empty. Derrick was at work. The silence was a relief, a balm on her frayed nerves. She walked into the kitchen and, without thinking, stuck the permission slip to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a cartoon cactus. It was a stupid, hopeful, self-destructive act. A message in a bottle thrown into a hostile sea. She stared at it for a long moment, at the blank line where her father's signature was supposed to go. It looked like a tightrope stretched over a canyon.
Then she turned, went upstairs to her room, and locked the world out once more.
The week crawled by, each day a carbon copy of the one before. Laurel existed in a state of suspended animation, a ghost haunting the halls of her own life. She perfected the art of invisibility. She found new routes between classes to avoid Jess. She ate lunch in the library, hidden behind a stack of books, the words a meaningless blur. She responded to Ashton's concerned texts with one-word answers, just enough to keep him from showing up at her house.
SmashinAshton: U good?
ML: fine.
SmashinAshton: We need to talk.
ML: busy.
SmashinAshton: Monty, c'mon.
She didn't reply to that one.
Tuesday was worse than Monday. The hunger had evolved into something more sinister—a constant, gnawing ache that left her lightheaded and nauseous. She forced herself to eat a granola bar during lunch, sitting alone in a bathroom stall, but it felt like swallowing cardboard. Her body rejected it almost immediately, and she spent the next ten minutes heaving into the toilet, her stomach convulsing with dry, painful spasms.
By Wednesday, she was running on fumes. The dysphoria was a constant, suffocating presence, a weight pressing down on her chest that made every breath a struggle. She couldn't look at herself in the mirror anymore. She avoided reflective surfaces altogether—windows, car doors, even the polished linoleum in the hallways. The sight of her own face, of the masculine lines and angles that felt like a cruel joke, was too much to bear.
She didn't go to the make-up auditions. She couldn't. The thought of standing in front of Miss Vick, of seeing the disappointment in her eyes, was unbearable. Instead, she went home and locked herself in her room, the dresser shoved against the door, the box of her mother's things sitting in the corner like a silent, accusing witness.
The permission slip was still on the fridge, untouched. Derrick hadn't said a word about it. He moved through the house like a storm cloud, his presence heavy and oppressive, but he didn't yell. He didn't confront her. He just left her alone, and somehow, that was worse. The silence between them was a chasm, wide and unbridgeable, and Laurel felt herself falling into it a little more each day.
Thursday morning, she woke up feeling like she was underwater. Everything was muffled, distant, like she was watching her own life from behind a thick pane of glass. She went through the motions—shower, shave, dress—but it all felt mechanical, meaningless. She was a puppet, and someone else was pulling the strings.
At school, Ana Yankowski cornered her by her locker. It was deliberate, calculated. Ana had two of her cheer squad friends flanking her, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and cruelty.
"Hey, Payton," Ana said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You look rough. Everything okay?"
Laurel didn't answer. She just stared at the combination lock on her locker, her fingers fumbling with the dial.
"I heard you were supposed to try out for Winter Guard," Ana continued, leaning against the locker next to Laurel's. "But you bailed. What happened? Too scared to compete with the real performers?"
One of Ana's friends giggled. Laurel's jaw clenched. She could feel the anger building, a hot, tight knot in her chest, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn't give Ana the satisfaction.
"Leave me alone," she muttered, finally getting her locker open.
"Aw, don't be like that," Ana said, her voice turning sharp. "I'm just trying to be friendly. Though I have to say, you're not making it easy. You've been acting really weird lately. Like, weirder than usual. People are talking."
Laurel slammed her locker shut, the sound echoing down the hallway. She turned to face Ana, her expression flat, her eyes dead. "I don't care," she said, her voice cold and empty.
Ana's smile faltered for just a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. Then it was back, sharper than before. "You should," she said. "This is a small town, Payton. People don't forget. And they don't forgive."
Laurel pushed past her, her shoulder brushing against Ana's in a deliberate, aggressive move. She heard Ana's sharp intake of breath, heard the whispered insults that followed her down the hallway, but she didn't turn back. She just kept walking, her head down, her hood up, a ghost moving through a world that wanted nothing more than to erase her.
By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, Laurel felt like she was coming apart at the seams. The lack of sleep, the lack of food, the constant, grinding stress—it was all taking its toll. She felt thin, brittle, like a single wrong word could shatter her into a million pieces.
She was walking home from the bus stop, her head down, her music a roaring wall of sound, when a familiar, beat-up Honda Civic pulled up beside her. Ashton. Of course.
He rolled down the passenger window, his expression a mixture of frustration and deep, unwavering concern. "Get in," he said. It wasn't a request.
"I'm walking," she said, not breaking her stride.
"No, you're not." He put the car in park and got out, jogging to catch up with her. He was a mountain of solid, undeniable presence, and he planted himself directly in her path. "We're talking. Now."
"I have nothing to say," she said, trying to sidestep him.
He blocked her again, his hands gentle but firm on her shoulders. She looked up at him, and the familiar warmth surrounding him, his faint cologne an odd comfort. "Then you can listen," he said, his voice softer now, but with an edge of steel she had never heard from him before. "You look like hell, Monty. You're pushing away everyone who gives a damn about you. You're starving yourself. I'm not going to stand by and watch you disappear. So you can either get in the car and talk to me, or I can stand here in the middle of the street and make a scene until you do. Your choice."
She stared at him, at the stubborn set of his jaw, at the genuine, desperate worry in his dark eyes. And something inside her, some small, exhausted part that was tired of fighting, just… gave up. She was too tired to argue. She was too tired to run.
"Fine," she whispered, the word a puff of white in the cold air.
He didn't smile in triumph. He just nodded, his relief palpable, and led her to the car. He didn't drive her home. Instead, he turned toward the outskirts of town, toward the winding road that led up to Skyview Park. The place where they used to go as kids to escape.
The park was deserted. The late afternoon sun was weak, casting long, skeletal shadows from the bare trees. The air was cold and sharp, smelling of pine and impending winter. Ashton parked the car, but they didn't get out right away. They just sat in the silence, the engine ticking as it cooled.
"I have practice in a few hours," she said finally, her voice small.
"I know," he said. "Color guard. I checked the schedule."
He got out of the car and went to the trunk, pulling out a basketball. He walked over to the cracked, empty court, the netless hoop a lonely circle against the pale sky. He started shooting, the rhythmic thud of the ball on the asphalt a steady, grounding sound. He wasn't showing off. He was just moving, burning off a nervous energy she could feel from across the parking lot.
Laurel watched him for a moment, then got out of the car. The cold hit her instantly, seeping through her thin hoodie. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Ashton saw her. He stopped dribbling, walked over, and without a word, took off his heavy varsity jacket—the same purple and pewter one from the other night—and draped it over her shoulders. It was huge on her, heavy and warm, and it smelled like him, a clean, familiar scent of laundry detergent and something uniquely Ashton.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward the weathered wooden bench that overlooked the town.
She did as she was told, pulling the jacket tighter around her, the sleeves dangling past her hands. She huddled on the bench, a small, shivering figure swallowed by his coat, and watched him go back to the court. He shot hoops for another ten minutes, his movements fluid and easy, the repetitive motion a kind of meditation. Laurel just sat, wrapped in his warmth, and looked out at the sky, a vast, indifferent expanse of pale blue and gray.
Finally, he stopped. He tucked the ball under his arm and walked over, sitting on the other end of the bench, leaving a careful space between them. He didn't look at her. He looked out at the town spread below them, a miniature world of rooftops and empty streets.
"My mom's worried about you," he said quietly. "She asked if you were eating. She wants to make you pancakes again."
Laurel's throat tightened. She just shook her head.
"Jess is a wreck," he continued, his voice still low, conversational. "She keeps asking me if I've heard from you. She looks like someone kicked her puppy. Whatever happened between you two, it's eating her alive."
Laurel stared at her own hands, at the raw, red skin around her nails. "Good," she whispered.
Ashton sighed, a long, weary sound. He turned to face her, his expression serious. "Okay. Enough. Talk to me, Monty. What is going on? And don't tell me it's nothing. This isn't just about your dad. This is something else. This all started Saturday. What happened?"
The directness of the question, the genuine, unwavering concern in his eyes, it broke through the wall of apathy she had so carefully constructed. The story started to spill out, not in a torrent, but in a slow, painful trickle. She told him the version she had prepared in her head, the one that was true but not the whole truth.
"Jess… she showed up on Saturday," she began, her voice hoarse from disuse. "She brought people with her. Friends of mine… from California."
Ashton's brow furrowed. "Okay…"
"I wasn't expecting them," she continued, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains. "It was a surprise. And I… I couldn't handle it. I ran."
She left it there, a half-truth hanging in the cold air. She waited for him to connect the dots, to understand the implication. But he didn't. He just looked confused.
"Wait, that's it?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief. "You've been hiding from everyone and starving yourself and pushing everyone away because you saw some old friends? Monty, that doesn't make any sense. Why would that be a bad thing? I'd kill to see someone from my past who wasn't from this town."
And there it was. The fundamental disconnect. The chasm of understanding she knew he could never cross. He couldn't get it because he didn't have the most important piece of the puzzle. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer, soul-crushing weight of holding this secret inside her—it all came to a head. The dam broke.
"Because they didn't know me as Montana!" she cried, the words tearing from her throat, raw and ragged. She shot to her feet, the heavy jacket sliding from her shoulders. She was shaking, her fists clenched at her sides. "Because they knew me from before! They knew me when I was happy, when I was myself! They knew me as Laurel!"
Ashton stared at her, his face a mask of utter confusion. "Laurel? Who's Laurel?"
The tears she had been holding back for days finally came, hot and furious. They streamed down her face, but she didn't bother to wipe them away. She was done hiding. She was done being small. She was done being a ghost.
"I'm Laurel," she choked out, her voice breaking. She took a ragged, shuddering breath, the confession a physical weight being lifted from her chest, leaving her terrifyingly light. She looked him straight in the eye, her own gaze fierce and broken and defiant all at once.
"Because I'm not a boy, Ash," she whispered, the words a final, irrevocable truth dropped into the vast, cold silence of the Montana twilight. "I'm a girl.”