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Chapter Text

“All I’m saying,” Skye concluded dramatically as she slumped back in her seat, “is that it’s got to be at least a little illegal to make us come into school when there’s still a week of summer break left. Child labor laws or something.”

“I’m pretty sure that only applies to places of employment, not education,” chuckled Phil. He smiled at her in the rearview mirror and Skye made a face back.

“Cruel and unusual punishment, then.”

“Skye, it’s freshman orientation, not medieval torture,” Phil teased. “Besides, it’s only a couple of hours.”

“Early hours,” grumbled Skye. “It’s not even 10. I could still be in bed right now.”

“At least you didn’t have a 6 a.m. soccer practice this morning,” Bobbi mumbled from the front seat. Her head was leaning against the window, and if Skye had to guess, her eyes were probably closed against the late morning sun. “If anybody should still be in bed, it’s me.”

“You’re the one who volunteered to be an orientation leader.” Skye stuck a finger through the space under the headrest and poked at the back of Bobbi’s neck, causing her to jerk upright and squirm against the sensation.

“Cut it out!”

“I think orientation will be good,” Jemma said quickly, before Bobbi could twist around and retaliate, inciting an all-out tickling war. She reached over and tapped gently on Skye’s knee a few times, drawing a smile from both of them. “We’ll get our schedules and see where our lockers are. We’ll be better prepared for the first day. No getting lost or going to the wrong class. And we’ll get to see Fitz and Trip,” she added, her smile deepening.

“That’s the spirit, Jemma,” Phil said with a jovial wink. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

“Hey!” Skye pouted. “I thought I was your favorite.”

“Oh, you are. And Bobbi is, too. It’s a three-way tie. Dead heat,” Phil grinned. Skye rolled her eyes and Bobbi burst out laughing.

“Don’t be such a dad, Phil,” she smirked. “Saying ‘you’re all my favorite’ is totally cheating.”

“It’s not my fault, you three make it impossible to choose,” he protested, joining them in their laughter.

He eased the car into the parking lot of the high school, where gaggles of other disgruntled, almost-9^th graders were spilling from their own parents’ cars and trickling towards the front doors.

“Okay,” Phil said as he cut the engine. “Skye, Jemma, I’m pretty sure you all are starting in the auditorium. Bobbi, the other orientation leaders are meeting—”

“In the cafeteria,” Bobbi nodded.

“And I,” Phil finished, checking his watch, “am about to be late for a faculty meeting. Everybody ready? Meet me back at my room when you’re finished, okay?”

They nodded and piled out of the car, following Phil up the familiar stone steps of the high school. It might have just been Skye’s imagination, but the steps didn’t feel quite so steep or imposing as they had last year, when she’d come to the high school for tutoring. Maybe it was because she was used to them, or maybe it was because she knew these were her steps now. Or at least, they would be, starting next week. Either way, she was pleased to find that walking into the high school felt hardly more intimidating than walking to the park. This year, school was going to be different.

A wave of icy AC blasted them all as they entered, and Phil and Bobbi peeled off to go their separate ways with promises to see them soon.

“Guess we should just jump in, then,” Skye suggested, nodding towards the line of students, many of whom Skye recognized from last year, that had formed in the front hall. She watched as Jemma took a deep breath before nodding in agreement, and she realized that just because she wasn’t feeling as nervous as she thought she would about orientation, it didn’t mean that Jemma wasn’t.

“Hey, we got this.” She grabbed Jemma’s hand and gave it a squeeze, taking a deliberate breath in time with the pressure she applied. Jemma’s thumb found the back of Skye’s hand and tapped lightly, not too stressed out. “It’s just like you said,” Skye smiled. “This’ll be good. We’ll get to see how everything works today, which is a first for us with new schools.”

“It’s going to be good,” Jemma agreed, although she didn’t sound quite so convinced as Skye. “I know. I know it’s good. It’s just new. Different.”

“The last new school you’ll ever have to go to, at least until you run off to Yale or MIT or wherever it is that all the brainiacs go these days,” ribbed Skye. “Just promise me you won’t try to graduate while we’re still sophomores or something.”

“I promise,” Jemma said seriously. “You know I’m not skipping up anymore.”

Soon it was their turn at the front of the line, and the older lady working the table up front smiled at them as they approached.

“Hi, welcome to new student orientation. I’m Mrs. Alonso, I run the front office here. Names, please?”

“I’m Skye, but it probably says Mary Sue Poots on your list,” Skye said, trying not to grimace. May and Phil had told her she would get to officially change her name once and for all when their adoption got finalized, and she couldn’t wait for the day when she could finally shed her horrendous, nun-curated name for good. “And this is my sister, Jemma Simmons.” As much as it had disgusted her to say ‘Mary Sue Poots,’ the delight she felt at being able to claim Jemma as her sister in front of other people more than made up for it. Yet another thing she could hardly wait to make official.

“All right, yep, I’ve got Poots and Simmons,” Mrs. Alonso said, handing them each a folder with their names stuck on the tabs. “Nametags are in those, along with group assignments, class schedules, locker number, all that good stuff. You’re starting in the auditorium, which is down the hall and right through the left here, okay?”

Skye and Jemma nodded and thanked Mrs. Alonso, then headed in the direction of the auditorium.

“Does the blue sticker on our nametags mean we’re in the same group?” Skye wondered as she slapped her nametag across her front.

“I assume so. That’s good news.”

“Totally,” Skye grinned. “You brought a pen, right?”

“Of course.” Jemma, always prepared, slid a pen out of the spiral of the notebook she had brought along to take orientation notes with and handed it to Skye. “I told you to bring something to write with.”

“I forgot,” Skye shrugged. “Plus, I knew I could count on you.” She uncapped the pen quickly and wasted no time in scribbling out the ‘Mary Sue’ on her chest. She realized her mistake, however, when it came time to replace it with ‘Skye.’

“How do you write an upside-down S?”

“You could just take the nametag off.”

“No, no, I’ve got it,” Skye frowned, poking her tongue out through her teeth a little as she concentrated. “There,” she said triumphantly, handing the pen back to Jemma, who made no comment apart from her raised eyebrows. “Ready to go in?”

The auditorium was teeming with teenagers, some bunched up in groups in the aisles, showing off suntans and summer haircuts, others twisting back and forth in their seats as they tried to talk to friends. There was even a handful of rowdy-looking boys climbing over the backs of chairs in what looked to be some kind of poorly conceived relay race.

“Do you see Fitz or Trip anywhere?” Skye asked, craning her neck.

“Not yet,” Jemma frowned. “Maybe we ought to just sit down for now.”

They found a pocket of empty seats without too much trouble, only a few removed from a bored-looking blonde girl whom Skye didn’t recognize. After a quick exchanged glance with Jemma about whether or not they could get away with ignoring the girl, Skye relented, resigning herself to the fact that she was going to have to be polite and friendly to this stranger.

“Hi,” she said. She offered a small wave, which Jemma mirrored. The blonde girl’s eyes snapped up from her fingernails, which she’d been picking the nail polish off of, and gave Skye a long, examining look.

“I’m Skye, and this is my sister Jemma.”

“So I can see,” the girl said dryly, nodding at their nametags. “Are you making some kind of a statement or something?”

“What?” Skye blinked, then realized the girl was staring at her crossed-out name. “Oh. No, they just got my name wrong.”

“You’re not wearing a nametag,” Jemma announced abruptly. Her eyebrows dipped low over her eyes, and Skye could tell she was trying to size up if the girl was a rulebreaker or just forgetful.

“Nope.”

“Well how will people know your name, then?” Jemma pressed. She was flexing the fingers on her right hand slowly, like she was trying to work the urge to tap out of them without drawing attention to herself.

“They won’t,” the girl shrugged. “Kind of the point.”

“Oh.”

“So are you a freshman, too?” Skye asked quickly. She wanted to draw the girl’s attention away from Jemma as she processed the new information the girl had given them. Something about the cool and aloof way the girl was acting set Skye on edge. It was hard to tell if she was messing with them or not, and Skye had very little patience for people who liked to toy with her and Jemma, like it was a game to get under their skin.

The girl snorted. “God, no. I’m a junior. Transfer student. My mom made us move this summer and now I’m stuck spending my morning with a bunch of pimply pipsqueaks when I could be doing something way more fun. Soccer workouts. Long division. Waterboarding.”

Skye prickled at the ‘pipsqueaks’ remark, but chose to overlook it. She could understand feeling crabby about coming to orientation, and about being the new kid. Maybe this girl just used snark to protect herself from the inevitable unpleasantness that being new brought. Maybe she needed an olive branch.

“You play soccer?” Branch extended. The girl nodded. “Our sister Bobbi plays. She’s on varsity here. She’s a junior, too.”

“Another sister, huh?” the girl remarked. “How many of you are there?”

“Just the three of us,” Skye frowned. “Not that many.”

“And you two are both freshman? How’d that happen? I’m guessing you’re not twins,” the girl smirked. The back of Skye’s neck grew warm, but she was saved from having to respond to the irksome and somewhat befuddling girl by the boisterous arrival of Fitz. He tumbled into the seat next to Jemma and wasted no time in greeting them, ignoring the blonde girl completely.

“Hi Jemma, hi Skye,” he grinned. He pointed at the nametag stuck haphazardly across Skye’s chest. “Your ‘k’ is backwards.”

“Hello Fitz,” Jemma said warmly, allowing herself the smile she hadn’t been able to conjure while they had been talking with the blonde girl, who Skye noticed had gone back to her fingernails. “It’s good to see you.”

They had spent a fair amount of time with Fitz and Trip that summer, but Fitz had been in Chicago visiting his aunt the last few weeks, and Trip had been busy with football practice, so it had been a while since they’d all been in the same place.

“Good to see you too,” he beamed. “Did you finish that summer work packet for Mr. Vaughn’s class?”

Jemma nodded. “Ages ago. That one with the trigonometric proof—”

“Fascinating.” Fitz pumped his head up and down excitedly. “It’s so nice to finally get to do some math that’s not just basic algebra and graphing. Thought I was going to die of boredom by the end of last year.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Skye teased him. “You know, most kids would be excited to have a class they could just coast in.”

Fitz’s face wrinkled up in confusion. “But you can’t learn anything in a class where you already know the material.”

“Easy isn’t as good as interesting,” Jemma agreed. They both looked at Skye like she was trying to convince them that the sky was green and the grass was blue, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“You guys are such dorks.” She shook her head, still laughing at the pair of them, and gave Jemma a quick three taps on her knee to let her know that she was only calling her a dork out of love. Jemma smiled and tapped back. She looked more relaxed than Skye had seen her all morning.

“There’s Trip,” Fitz exclaimed then, craning his neck and nodding towards the door of the auditorium where Trip and a bunch of other sweaty-looking boys had just piled in. “Looks like he’s coming straight from practice.”

They waved until they caught Trip’s attention, and his face split into a massive grin at the sight of them. In a flash, he bounded over to where they were sitting, vaulted over the armrest of the closest chair, and flopped down in the empty seat next to Skye.

“Hey,” he greeted them warmly. “Long time no see.”

“Hard practice?” Skye asked, taking in his damp t-shirt and shiny forehead.

“Nah, this is just my natural glow.” Trip flashed her a wink, which made Skye laugh.

“You did always have a kind of a sparkle about you,” she joked back.

“We didn’t have time to shower,” he explained as he wiped his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt. “Coach kept us late and had to send all the freshmen straight over for orientation, but the upside is that the older guys actually had to pack up all the equipment today, since all the freshmen were coming here.”

“I still think it’s not fair to make all the younger players do all the work,” Jemma frowned.

“Hazing, is what it is,” Fitz nodded seriously.

“There are lots of people on the team,” Jemma continued. “Your coach should make a schedule, so the work gets distributed evenly.”

Trip crooked a sympathetic smile her way. “That’d be nice. But one of Coach Garrett’s favorite things to say is ‘football’s not fair, featherweights.’” He said the last part in an imitation of the gruff football coach who had also been their gym teacher last year, making his voice gravelly and jutting out his chin to mimic Coach Garrett’s customary scowl. That got everybody laughing again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Skye caught the older girl rolling her eyes in their direction. She frowned, but decided not to say anything. As much as she might want to call the blonde girl out for being a jerk for no reason, she knew nothing good would come from starting an argument with another kid before the first day of school had even started.

They talked for a few minutes more, Fitz telling them all about the museums that he got to visit in Chicago while he was visiting his aunt, Trip filling them in on how the football team was shaping up, and Skye and Jemma telling the boys about the time they’d spent with May, Phil, and Bobbi at the lake last weekend. It wasn’t as exciting as the Museum of Science and Industry or the power vacuum left at quarterback now that Christian Ward had graduated and Grant didn’t live in their school district anymore, but Trip and Fitz listened with just as much enthusiasm as Skye and Jemma talked about the picnic they’d packed and how they took a ferry called the SS Badger all the way across the lake to Michigan and back. It had been the first time Skye had ever left Wisconsin, so even though it might not have sounded like the most interesting trip to someone else, for Skye it had felt like a pretty big deal. They’d even had to get special permission from Miss Hand to cross state lines, since they were still foster kids. Luckily, Trip and Fitz were able to appreciate the magnitude of the moment, looking properly impressed when Skye and Jemma got to that part of the story.

Eventually, the din of the auditorium began to quiet, and Skye twisted back around in her seat to see a woman with dark brown hair cut in a pin-straight bob walking onto the stage. Her shoes clicked with authority up to the podium, and Skye noticed that she wasn’t the only kid who sat up a little straighter as the woman turned her attention on the crowd. Ms. Price tended to have that effect on people.

“Good morning,” she said, and her voice crackled over the speaker system, filling the room and silencing the few remaining kids who were still talking. “Welcome to New Student Orientation here at Manitowoc High School. My name is Ms. Price. I teach several classes here – primarily Civics, Geography, and AP Government – and I am also the freshman class advisor.”

“And the person who runs afterschool tutoring,” Skye added in an undertone, for Fitz and Trip’s sake. “Me and Jemma saw her a lot last year.”

“She’s a little scary,” Trip muttered. “She seems strict.”

“She’s not so bad once you get to know her,” Jemma told him. “She doesn’t like nonsense, though.”

“Color me shocked,” Trip snickered.

“We’ll begin this morning with a brief review of Manitowoc High’s Student Code of Conduct,” Ms. Price continued. “For many of you, this will be your first time in high school. You’re older now, more mature than last year, and as such we expect more from you. Students here are held to the highest of standards when it comes to their personal and collective conduct—”

“I guess somebody forgot to mention that to Christian Ward last year,” remarked Fitz under his breath.

“This sounds like it’s going to be boring,” Skye murmured, sagging a little in her seat. “They’re just going to tell us not to pick on people or break rules or cheat on tests and stuff like that.”

“You say that like it’s not important,” fretted Jemma. “We need to know what the rules are if we’re going to follow them.”

Skye chewed on her lip in an attempt to keep a straight face. It was very kind of Jemma to assume that Skye was as invested in following the rules as she was, but they both knew that rules were often treated more like suggestions in Skye’s mind. Still, it was true that Skye had the best of intentions for this year, so maybe paying attention to the Code of Conduct was as good a place to start as any if she was going to try and stick to the straight and narrow this time around.

That proved to be a hefty challenge, since Skye had been right about the Conduct Review being a boring way to pass thirty minutes. Ms. Price commanded attention, but even she couldn’t make a PowerPoint about the school’s zero-tolerance bullying policy, drug and alcohol restrictions, and a dress code that seemed to have twice as many rules for girls than boys all that captivating. When she finally finished the last slide, many of the students around the auditorium were, like Skye, slumped in their seats and occupied with other pursuits. Fitz and Trip were in the middle of a heated game of rock-paper-scissors (although Fitz kept saying ‘Rochambeau’ instead of ‘rock-paper-scissors,’ much to Trip’s confusion), while Jemma was taking dutiful notes as Ms. Price finished her presentation.

“There won’t be a quiz,” Ms. Price concluded, a rare smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “but you will all be responsible for following the Code of Conduct as it was discussed here, so I hope you didn’t doze off for too long.”

A few polite titters rippled across the room, and slowly the students who had been doing just that began to rouse themselves as Ms. Price shifted the topic of conversation.

“Now we get into the more exciting stuff,” she said. Skye had to smile at that. For all her sharp formality, Ms. Price still knew she was dealing with a bunch of teenagers who were sacrificing one of their last days of summer break, and Skye appreciated the self-awareness. “You’ve all been divided into orientation groups based on your homeroom, and you should each have a colored sticker on your nametag. Find your group leader up here, and they’ll walk you through the next portion of orientation.”

Ms. Price beckoned to a group of older kids who had just entered on one side of the stage, and Skye quickly spotted Bobbi and her friend Mack among the group.

“Your cousin didn’t volunteer to be an orientation leader?” she asked Fitz.

“Lance said… well, I can’t quote him exactly, because I’m not supposed to say some of the words he used,” Fitz said with an amused shrug of his shoulders. “But the gist of it was that he wasn’t going to wake up early and come to school before he absolutely had to.”

“Let’s find our group,” Trip suggested, getting to his feet and stretching his long arms over his head for a second. He glanced down at his own nametag, which bore the same blue sticker as Skye’s and Jemma’s, then checked around at everyone else’s. His face fell when he got to Fitz and saw his red sticker. “Aw, sorry, man. I guess they do the homerooms alphabetically or something. P, S, and T are all pretty close together, but F…”

“Bloody cursed,” Fitz sighed dramatically.

“At least homeroom’s only a few minutes long,” Jemma soothed. “We have nearly every other class together.” It was true. The two of them had already compared their schedules and found that they had only one class apart from each other, thanks to the advanced math and science tracks they were both on.

“Wait a minute, Skye,” Fitz said suddenly, as they began inching their way out of their row and moving with the throngs of other kids down towards the stage to find their group leaders. “How come you’re listed under P for homeroom? I thought now that they’ve got your proper birth certificate you’d be under J. For Johnson, yeah?”

Skye scrunched up her nose and shrugged. “It’s complicated. Something about how all of my paperwork from St. Agnes and fostering all has Poots on it, so that’s the name I have to use for official stuff until I can get it changed when we get adopted. I don’t know, Miss Hand explained it, but I wasn’t really paying very close attention… All I know is, once our adoption finally goes through, I get to be called whatever I want, for real.”

“Have you heard if they’re any closer on that?” Trip asked. He sidestepped a gaggle of girls who were too busy coordinating plans to meet up with each other after orientation to notice them trying to get by, and put out an arm to make space for Jemma, Skye, and Fitz to squeeze past.

“Not much news lately,” Jemma shook her head. “But Miss Hand is supposed to be coming for a visit soon. She usually brings updates.”

“Hopefully it’ll be good news this time,” Fitz nodded. “No more delays or complications.”

“At least we know they’re working on it,” said Skye. “And at least we’ve gotten to stay with May and Phil while they work it out.” The fact that they hadn’t had to worry about getting sent away or bouncing around other foster homes or (even worse) back to St. Agnes while they waited to make things official had been one of the biggest reliefs of Skye’s life. They had been living with May and Phil for almost 11 months now, longer than any other place Skye had ever stayed besides St. Agnes, and it had amazed her how much easier things felt when she felt settled in a place with good, safe people around her.

There had been plenty of bumps in the road along the way, of course. She’d struggled in a few of her classes – fighting tooth and nail to keep all her grades above passing had been a challenge – and she’d butted heads with a few of her classmates, mainly some of Grant Ward’s old friends who tried to take over his role as head bully once he’d moved away with his younger brother to go live with somebody who Miss Hand promised would take better care of them than their own parents had. But she’d finished the eighth grade with passing grades and without any other major disciplinary marks on her record, which she took as two distinct victories.

She’d been learning tai chi with May and working hard with Dr. Garner in therapy, which made dealing with tough stuff a lot easier, and when things got too heavy and hard for her to handle by herself, like when she’d had to testify against Cal in court so that he’d go to jail for what he’d done to them all last year, she had people like May and Phil and Jemma and Bobbi – her family – to help her hold all the pieces together.

She was doing good, something which she had never been able to say about herself before, and being in such a good place made it easier to be patient for the adoption to go through. She didn’t have to worry about May and Phil changing their minds, because they showed her every day how much they loved her, and she was learning to let go of the worry that something else might separate them, the longer they stayed together and the more storms they weathered.

“Well, all I can say is,” Trip said with a grin, “you all better throw one massive party when all this stuff gets sorted out. Full-scale celebration, to make up for how long you’ve had to wait.”

“And I suppose you’re looking for an invite to this party?” Skye teased him. Trip’s grin widened.

“Come on, girl. You know a party isn’t a party ‘til I get there.”

Skye snorted and gave Trip a light shove on the shoulder, but she was laughing along with him as they finally reached the front of the auditorium and began searching in earnest for their orientation leader. Fitz spotted his – a tall white girl with long, dark hair and a square jaw – and peeled off from their group with a morose wave.

“Skye! Jemma!” a deep voice called. Jemma jumped a little, and Skye swiveled her head around nervously until she spied the source of the voice and beamed. Off to one side, with a cluster of other kids with blue stickered nametags, was Mack, smiling and waving in their direction.

“We got Mack,” Skye bubbled, elbowing Jemma and pointing in Mack’s direction.

Jemma smiled and did a happy little tap on her collar bone for a moment before her face fell slightly. “Poor Fitz is going to be so jealous.”

“You know that guy?” Trip asked in awe as they made their way over to their group. “There’s no way he’s in high school.”

“That’s Mack, he’s friends with our sister and Fitz’s cousin,” Skye explained. “He’s just tall.”

“I’ll say.” Trip shook his head. “Why doesn’t he play football? He’s huge, we could totally use somebody like him on the line.”

“He’s the goalie on the soccer team, so I don’t think you’ll have much luck recruiting him,” Skye smirked. “But you can always ask him.”

“Ask me what?” Mack wondered aloud as they drew level with the rest of the group. He smiled warmly down at the three of them. “Good to see you guys.”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” Trip practically squeaked. Skye followed his gaze as he tracked his eyes all the way up to the top of Mack’s head, which had to be almost a half-foot higher than Trip’s, and bit back a giggle at how star-struck her normally very cool and collected friend was acting.

“This is our friend Trip,” Skye introduced him. She nudged Trip a little with her shoulder, and he jerked out a wave. “He thinks you should play football instead of soccer.”

“Hey man, I’m Alphonso, but most people call me Mack. Nice to meet you.” He chuckled a little. “You’re about to open an old debate, there, though. People have been trying to get me to play football for years, but soccer’s way more my speed. A little more finesse, a little less hitting people over and over again. They don’t call it the beautiful game for nothing.”

“Yeah, sure,” Trip nodded. He still seemed a little dazed. “I hear that.”

“I’m flattered you scouted me though,” said Mack jovially. “If you’re the next generation of football players here at MHS, then maybe there’s hope for the sport yet.”

Ms. Price’s voice crackled over the speakers once more, dismissing the groups from the auditorium and reminding them to convene in the cafeteria in half an hour for the activities fair, and Mack clapped his hands together.

“Okay, then. I guess we better get started.”

They followed Mack out of the auditorium and into the hallway, which was easy to do, since he was at least a head taller than most of the other people in the room and kids parted around him like the Red Sea. He took them around a few corners and explained that they would be touring around the whole high school.

Skye quickly realized, as Mack strolled up and down corridors and pointed out different classes and rooms, that the school was basically a big, two-story square, with each of the major subject areas occupying one of the sides on a given floor. English on one hall, the sciences on another, so on and so forth. She smiled when they walked down the history and social studies hallway up on the second floor, because that was the one where Phil’s room was, and it didn’t escape her notice that Jemma flitted out a hand as they passed Phil’s door to give a quick, surreptitious tap on the doorknob. They passed the library on the second floor, the cafeteria on the first, and eventually ended up in the math hallway.

“All the freshman lockers are on this hall,” Mack explained, spreading his arms wide like he was a game show host, presenting the walls of lockers to them. “Take a second to find yours, practice your combinations. That way you don’t have to worry about getting it right on the first day of school when you’re running late for class.”

“What makes you think I’d be running late for class?” Skye asked, sticking out her tongue at him.

“Just a hunch,” Mack chuckled.

Mack had been by their house a lot this summer to hang out with Bobbi, and so had been privy to a lot of their family’s comings and goings over the last several months. Skye knew he had seen her scrambling to find a wayward sneaker or getting distracted in another room as Phil was trying to get her out the door firsthand, and it didn’t take a genius to assume the same would be true for school.

“We’re not going to be running late on the first day,” Jemma said pointedly. She gave Skye a look that Skye was certain she had copied from May, and Skye threw up her hands in surrender.

“Of course not,” she assured Jemma. She didn’t quite manage to keep her teasing smile in check, though. “How could I possibly run late when I have you to be my human pocket watch?” Jemma shook her head, but she was smiling too, and Skye knew she had cracked her.

“My dad always says punctuality is like motor oil,” Mack told them. “It makes everything run smoother.”

They wandered off to find their lockers then, Jemma and Trip ending up only a few lockers apart from each other on one side of the hall and Skye off slightly by herself. There wasn’t much remarkable about her locker, aside from the fact that one of its previous owners had apparently had a bit of an anger problem. The bottom part of the locker was dented inwards, like someone had kicked it repeatedly, and it stuck out at an awkward angle, not quite closing all the way at the bottom.

Checking the combination listed inside her orientation folder, it only took Skye two tries to unlock the door, which pleased her, but didn’t exactly surprise her, either. She was, after all, pretty good with her hands when it came to stuff like cracking into things. Opening the door, however, was a much bigger challenge, since the dented bottom of her locker door stuck in the frame. She tried in vain to yank the locker open, but it wasn’t until Mack came and helped her out, giving the door a forceful tug, that the door jerked open, rattling a little from the release as it swung free.

“This is going to be fun,” she grumbled as she squatted down to examine the bottom of the now-open door for a way to maybe bend it back into shape. “I’m going to have to do a full-body takedown of the door every time I forget a textbook.”

“Maybe you can kick it back from the other side?” Mack suggested. “Pop it back into place that way?”

“I wear a size seven sneaker,” Skye smirked. “I don’t think any kick of mine is going to be doing much against a metal door.”

Mack snorted. “I know for a fact you’ve got a good kick. Don’t sell yourself short.”

She and Mack fiddled for a few minutes, trying to restore the locker door to a functional shape, but neither one of them had much luck before Mack checked his watch and realized they were about to be late for the last part of orientation.

“Activities fair in the cafeteria,” he proclaimed, dusting his hands off and standing back up to get the rest of the group’s attention. “A bunch of upper-class students are in there to tell you about all the different clubs and teams we have, so you can start to get an idea of what extracurriculars are out there. You can wander around and stop by the tables that look interesting, and then you’re done for the day.”

He made them navigate back to the cafeteria themselves, only correcting the group once as they wound their way back the way they’d come, and by the rumbling sounds of chattering kids pouring from behind the cafeteria doors when they arrived, Skye figured most of the other groups had beaten them there.

“I’m the representative at the AV club table,” he fake-whispered to Skye, Jemma, and Trip as the rest of their group scattered to the winds of the activities fair. “Be sure to come and say hi, okay? I think Bobbi’s at the Spanish club table. I know Gonzales asked her to last week, and I’m sure she didn’t want to say no to him.”

“Thanks, Mack,” Skye smiled. Mack gave them a quick wave and weaved himself into the crowd, not exactly disappearing amongst the packs of kids flowing from table to table, heading for wherever it was that the spot for AV club was supposed to be.

“Where do you suppose Fitz is?” Jemma asked. She fiddled with the collar of her shirt, her fingers a little flighty at the crowded, noisy room.

“There he is.” Trip spotted him first and pointed. Fitz was elbowing his way past people towards them, his face positively electric with excitement, although about what, Skye had no idea. Nothing they’d seen on their tour with Mack had struck her as particularly thrilling, but she and Fitz didn’t always see eye to eye about what counted as exciting.

“You have to come see,” he practically panted as he drew near them. He grabbed Jemma’s sleeve and gave her a little tug. She let out a surprised laugh.

“What’s got you all bothered?”

“I found it,” he gushed. “A club. The club. It’s the absolute best, it’s perfect for us—”

“Theoretical Physics club? Future Astronauts of America?” Skye joked. “Monkey club?” Fitz scowled at her for a second, but his enthusiasm was too powerful to let him be put out for long.

“Very funny,” he said. “They don’t have a monkey club here, I already checked. No, this is… well, not better than a monkey club, but a close second. Come on,” he stressed, tugging at Jemma again. “All you lot, come see.”

“All right, then,” Jemma relented, smiling at him. “Show us.”

“My orientation leader told me about it. She’s the president – or rather, she’s the captain,” Fitz explained over his shoulder as he led them through the bustling cafeteria. “It’s a team, competitive. She said they went to Nationals last year, and they got to travel to St. Louis for the competition.”

“A competition for what?” Trip asked. “You still haven’t even told us what the club is.”

“Here it is,” Fitz announced. He bounded up to a table staffed by the same tall, sharp-jawed white girl with long, dark hair that Skye had seen earlier. She looked practically grown-up to Skye, with her crisp blouse tucked into her pencil skirt. Skye felt her eyebrows quirk together – everybody else was wearing normal clothes – t-shirts and shorts, mostly – but this girl was dressed like she should be carrying a briefcase or talking on a Bluetooth headset about the stock market.

“A robotics team?” Jemma asked, reading a hand-stenciled sign that was perched on the front corner of the table. Skye was glad Jemma had read it out loud – the font was kind of fancy-looking, which made it harder for her to pick out the letters.

“Hello,” the older girl greeted them with a polished smile. “I’m Ophelia. Are you interested in robotics?”

“Ophelia, these are my friends,” Fitz said eagerly, nudging Jemma, Trip, and Skye forward. “The ones I told you about. They’d be great for the team.”

“Nice to meet you,” she nodded. She gave them all a look-over, and Skye got the feeling that she was being x-rayed. “Leopold spoke very highly of you.”

Skye bit down hard on her lip to keep from snickering. “Leopold?”

Fitz made a shushing motion at her. “Trip’s very mechanically minded – he loves gadgets. And Skye’s excellent with computers, and Jemma’s… well, Jemma’s brilliant.” Skye noticed the tips of his ears went pink, but she didn’t disagree with his assessment. Jemma was brilliant. “She likes a lot of the same things as me, and she’s in the advanced maths and sciences track—”

“Same as you,” Ophelia noted. She turned to address the rest of them. “Leopold was telling me about the classes he was taking, and I knew he would be a perfect addition to the team. Then he mentioned he had some friends who would be a good fit as well, and I knew I had to meet you all.”

“So what do you do, exactly?” Skye wanted to know. She wasn’t sure she could see herself fitting in well on a robotics team.

“Each year there’s a set of parameters that are given to all of the teams competing,” explained Ophelia, “some kind of challenge or task to complete. We have to build and program a robot to meet the challenge or perform the task, and then we take it to competitions to go up against other robots. We compete for fastest time, most efficient, most accurate, things like that. There are lots of components that go into it – engineering, design, construction, coding, research—”

Skye’s ears pricked up at the mention of coding, and she knew Jemma’s had latched onto research. Maybe Fitz had a point; maybe this was the perfect club for the four of them.

“You don’t have to commit to anything at this point,” Ophelia finished, “but it really is a fun experience, and a great opportunity. The faculty advisors, Mr. Radcliffe and Mr. Peterson, are very helpful and approachable, the other students on the team are friendly. If you’re interested, you can put your names on this list here, and we’ll let you know when the first meeting of the school year is.”

“We’re interested,” Fitz said quickly, scooping up the pen resting on the table and scribbling his name. “Right, guys?”

“I guess so, man,” Trip chuckled. “It’s true what you said – I do love gadgets. And building a robot doesn’t sound like such a bad way to spend some time. I play football,” he added, turning to Ophelia. “Will this conflict with our practices and games and stuff?”

Ophelia shook her head. “We try to avoid after-school practices, since that’s when all the sports teams practice. We meet during lunch a few times a week and have work days on a few Saturdays when we’ve got a lot of building to do.”

“Cool,” Trip grinned. “Then I guess I’m in. My grandma will be happy, she’s always telling me to find something else to do that doesn’t take a ball. She says colleges like it when you show you have lots of different interests.”

“That’s true,” Ophelia said. “I’m applying to colleges this year, and it’s very competitive. But a trip to Nationals with the BotLaws will look good on any application.”

“The BotLaws?”

“That’s our team nickname,” she clarified. “A portmanteau of robot and Outlaws, for the school mascot.”

“Got it.”

“What do you say, Skye? Jemma?” Fitz turned to them, making his eyes as big and pleading as he could. “It sounds fun, right?”

“I guess it could be okay,” Skye shrugged. “I’m in if you guys are.”

“It’ll be nice to have something to do together,” Jemma agreed. “And if there’s a research component…”

“Research and report writing,” enticed Fitz, waggling his eyebrows at Jemma. She bit back a smile and gave him a wave.

“Oh, go on, then.”

Chapter Text

They meandered around the cafeteria for a little while longer, checking out the various tables and displays for every kind of club imaginable. Mack was thrilled when they stopped by to see him at the AV club table, as if Skye would ever pass up on a chance to be in a club that was not only an excuse to watch movies at school, but also filled with and run by some of her favorite people.

“So is this just a social visit, or can I also convince the four of you to sign up?” he grinned.

“You don’t have to convince us,” Skye said with a laugh. “Watching movies at school sounds awesome.”

“Bobbi always talks about how much fun it is,” Jemma added, carefully writing her name on the paper under Skye’s scrawl. “She made a lot of friends in the club.”

“Plus Phil would be totally sad if we didn’t come,” Skye finished. “He pouts sometimes.”

Mack let out a surprised laugh. He had a good laugh, rich and full and very contagious. “You know, honestly, I can see it. I love Mr. C., but he’s definitely got that ‘young at heart’ vibe.”

“You have no idea.”

“So what kind of movies do you guys watch?” Trip wanted to know. He hadn’t hesitated to sign up, either, but he seemed curious to hear Mack’s answer.

“All kinds. A lot of older ones, mostly. Last year we were on kind of a sci-fi kick, and we did some monster movies around Halloween, some old-Hollywood romances around Valentine’s Day, that kind of stuff. We try to talk about the filmmaking after we watch something – the directing and acting and design, you know – but some club members are… more easily distracted than others.” Skye glanced up in time to catch a twinkle in Mack’s eye. She wasn’t the only one.

“You’re talking about Lance, aren’t you?” Fitz asked. Mack laughed again.

“I’m not naming names, but I’m also not going to tell you you’re wrong.”

Their last stop, once they’d finished their survey of the activities fair and said goodbye to Fitz and Trip, was at the Spanish club table, where Bobbi greeted them with a wave and a much cheerier look on her face than she’d had in the car an hour ago.

“Hey guys. How’d everything go?”

“Good,” Skye supplied, offering a small nod. “Mack was our group leader.”

“Lucky,” smiled Bobbi. “He showed you where everything is? You feel ready to start next week?”

“We saw all of the rooms we’ll need for our classes,” Jemma said. “It’s bigger than the middle school, but I think I figured out how best to go from class to class so we can maximize our travel time and not get lost.”

“Sounds like it was a productive morning,” Bobbi said. She glanced around the cafeteria, which was starting to empty slowly as the activities fair began to wind down. She shuffled some of the papers on her table into a stack and set the list of people interested in Spanish club on top. “Did you guys find some clubs to sign up for?”

“Fitz found a robotics club that he wanted us all to sign up for,” Jemma told her, a little breathy with excitement. “They compete against other schools and there’s a research and report-writing component.”

“That sounds like it was made for you,” Bobbi chuckled. “What about you, Skye? I don’t suppose I could get you to sign up for Spanish club?”

“I can barely read and write in English, I don’t think adding a whole new language is a smart move,” Skye joked. It wasn’t exactly true, of course. She had come a long way with her reading in the last year, once she and Mrs. Hinton had started working on some strategies to help with her dyslexia, and her spelling, while still not great, was much improved too, thanks to all the extra practice she had done with Natasha in tutoring. Still, she was only half-kidding about thinking she wasn’t quite cut out for Spanish club. She was supposed to take the introductory level Spanish class this year for part of her foreign language requirement and the prospect was already making her nervous.

“You’re plenty good enough at reading and writing for Spanish club,” Bobbi said kindly. “But it’s okay if you don’t want to sign up; I wasn’t really expecting either of you to join. I know you both have other stuff you like better. Did you find anything interesting, Skye?”

“The robotics team needs somebody who can do coding, so I said I’d give it a try,” she shrugged. Secretly, Skye was more than a little excited at the prospect of getting to write some real code for a change, not just stuff for school assignments or little side projects she made up for herself, but she didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic. If it turned out to be too hard for her, or if the rest of the team was too smart for her to keep up, she didn’t want to be too disappointed if she had to quit, and she definitely didn’t want anybody else to be disappointed that it didn’t work out, either. “And we all signed up for AV club, too.”

“Oh, that’ll make Phil’s day.”

Bobbi was right, of course. Once the last clusters of ninth graders had drifted out of the cafeteria and Skye and Jemma helped Bobbi clean up the Spanish club’s table, all three trod the now very familiar path up to Phil’s classroom, where he was sifting through stacks of old textbooks, organizing them into piles based on categories that Skye couldn’t quite discern. He grinned like a little kid who just learned he could eat ice cream for dinner when Skye and Jemma told him that they had signed up for AV club.

“That’s fantastic news,” he beamed. “I didn’t want to pressure you, of course, and it wouldn’t have hurt my feelings if you wanted to try some other clubs instead, but I’m really excited to hear that I’ll get to have all three of my girls in AV. I’m going to have to pick some really outstanding movies for us to watch this year, now that I’ve got such a distinguished audience.”

They told him about how the rest of orientation had gone, caught him up to speed on the news from Fitz and Trip about their summers, and told him about the robotics club that Fitz wanted them all to sign up for, too.

“I think that sounds like a great idea,” he said encouragingly. “I’m proud of you two for trying something new. I’ve heard good things about the team, and I think it could be a really good fit for you two.”

“You don’t think it would be too… hard for us?” Skye asked, a little hesitation tripping up her voice. She left the “too hard for me” part of her question unspoken, but she knew Phil would understand her meaning. Besides, nobody would ever make the mistake of thinking something like robotics club would be too hard for Jemma.

“I don’t,” Phil assured her. “I’m sure there will be some things about it that are challenging, but I’ve never known any of you to not rise to a challenge.” He flashed them all a little wink. “Besides, building and coding and researching are all things that are right up your alley. And if it turns out that it is too hard, which I doubt, or you don’t like it, there’s nothing wrong with trying a different club instead. You don’t have to stick with the same clubs for four years just because you put your name on a list at freshman orientation.”

“I quit playing softball after my freshman season,” Bobbi shrugged. “I liked it okay, but it made my schedule really hectic, and I wanted to spend more time focusing on soccer. Nobody at school got mad that I stopped playing after the season was over.”

“Exactly,” nodded Phil. “High school is a great time to try out lots of different things. See what you like, what you don’t like, what you’re good at and passionate about. It’s all good life experience.”

“Because we all need a lot more life experience,” Skye cracked with a smirk. As far as she was concerned, she’d had enough substantial life experiences already to last her several lifetimes’ worth. She’d be more than happy to let life be a little boring for a bit – not forever, of course, because she hated being bored, but for a little while, at least.

Phil laughed. “Fair point, but you know what I meant. Regular life experience. The average, everyday stuff that helps you grow up into a well-rounded young adult.”

“What kinds of clubs were you in when you were in high school?” Jemma asked Phil. “Did they help you grow into a well-rounded adult?” Phil was quiet for a second, continuing to sort and stack textbooks as he thought. His stacks were large enough now that Skye could tell he was separating them by book condition.

“Let’s see… well, I was on the baseball team for four years. I loved playing ball,” he said, a fond, faraway look in his eye as he thought back to his high school days. “My dad was the football coach here before he got sick, so he wanted me to play football, too, but I didn’t really like it that much, and he was supportive when I finally got up the courage to tell him I liked baseball much better. We had an AV club back then, too, although it was pretty different. Our AV club was more about running slides for school assemblies and cataloguing film reels and geeky stuff like that, but I had fun with it. Oh, and I was in the chess club for a couple years, too.”

“So you were basically Captain Cool,” Skye teased. She and Jemma and Bobbi began to help Phil sort, now that they had figured out his system, and Skye added a dogeared book with a cracked spine to the medium-sized pile of especially worn-out books.

“I was totally cool,” Phil protested with a laugh. “I got the best of both worlds. I got to hang out with my jock friends on the baseball team and got the social status of being a varsity athlete, but I also got to run projectors and talk about Captain America comics with my other friends in the other clubs.”

It didn’t really surprise Skye that Phil had been a social chameleon, now that she thought about it. He was so personable and easy to get along with that it made sense for him to have connections and friends in a bunch of different groups, and she thought she knew him well enough by now to know that he wouldn’t have been the kind of guy to stay rigidly stuck in one social box.

“How’d you become friends with May?” Bobbi wanted to know. “Don’t tell me she was in AV or chess club…” Phil laughed again.

“No, she wasn’t. She moved here our sophomore year, and she wasn’t really into a lot of extracurriculars.”

That didn’t surprise Skye, either. May had told them before that she moved around a lot growing up, and her parents had just gotten divorced before she moved to Manitowoc with her mom. Skye knew from experience that moving from school to school all the time made it hard to find after school activities to get invested in, and she also understood how difficult it was to pretend to be interested in things like clubs and sports when most of your time and energy was spent being angry at the world and the hand life had dealt you.

“She did some stuff outside of school – ice skating, martial arts – and I think she eventually ended up joining this club we used to have at school that was called a ‘multicultural club,’” Phil continued. “Some elements of it are kind of outdated nowadays,” he added with a slight wince, “but the general idea was people got together to learn about different cultures, share customs and traditions, that sort of thing. Not a bad premise for a club, by any means, although I think a lot of nuance has been added to the concept over the years. Dr. Garner was in that club, that’s how those two met. And then Andrew managed to introduce Melinda to some of his other friends, including me, and that’s how we met,” he finished with a flourish.

“And the rest is history,” Jemma said, a happy little sigh fluttering away from her as she tapped cheerfully on a stack of newer-looking books. She always got gooey over romance, a fact which never ceased to amuse Skye.

“We got there eventually,” Phil smiled. “It only took us six years after getting to know each other to decide we wanted to date, and four more after that to decide to get married.”

“And then twenty more before you decided to add some kids to the mix,” Skye teased. Phil’s eyes crinkled up in delight, one of his happiest, most Phil-like faces. The kind that always gave Skye that warm, honey feeling in her chest.

“One of the best decisions of our lives,” he glowed. “We had no idea we’d get so lucky, but Victoria really hooked us up.”

Hearing Miss Hand’s name reminded Skye of a question she’d been meaning to ask. Their earlier conversation with Trip and Fitz about her name and their adoption process had gotten her thinking. “Do you know when Miss Hand is coming over for our next meeting? Has she said if anything’s gotten closer to being ready?”

“As a matter of fact, I do know when she’s coming.” Phil finished stacking up the last of his textbooks and began to arrange all the books from the largest stack – the books that were a little careworn, but still in pretty good shape – neatly back on his bookshelves. Seeing what he was doing, Skye, Bobbi, and Jemma followed his lead. “We were trying to get a meeting scheduled for sometime this week, and it worked out that today was the best with Miss Hand’s schedule. She’s coming over for dinner tonight—”

“Is she bringing Izzy, too?” Oftentimes, if Miss Hand came for her meeting during dinnertime, Izzy would accompany her, much to Skye’s delight. She liked Izzy a lot.

“I imagine Izzy’ll come, too,” nodded Phil. “We’ll do eating and then meeting, probably. I don’t know what kind of updates Victoria might have, though. Hopefully good ones. And I know there’s probably going to be something else she’ll want to talk about with all of us, too.”

Skye felt her brow furrow at Phil’s cryptic words.

“What is it?”

“We’ll talk about it tonight,” was all Phil would say. “When we’re all together. It’s nothing bad,” he added quickly, seeing the concern flash across their faces. “I don’t want you to worry. It’s hopefully something you’ll all be excited about, but it’s something we’re going to discuss as a whole family.”

“Come on, Phil, give us a hint,” Skye wheedled. Phil shook his head and pantomimed zipping his lips.

“That’s all you’re getting out of me. Melinda would say I’ve told you too much already.”

With all of them helping, it didn’t take long to replace the newly sorted books back on Phil’s shelves. The smallest pile – the one with the books in the best condition – got added to the shelf last, near the front where they would be grabbed first, while the medium pile of more battered and tattered books got tucked up on top of the shelf by Phil and Bobbi, who were able to reach all the way up there without much trouble.

“For backup,” Phil explained. “I try not to dip into the falling apart books unless I have to, but I know better than to just get rid of them, either.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing all the days you’ve had to come to work this summer?” Jemma asked as they filed out of Phil’s room and began walking down the hall towards the back staircase that would lead them to the staff parking lot. It had surprised Skye when, last month, Phil had started coming up to the school for work. She didn’t realize teachers still had to work in the summer.

“It’s certainly a part of it,” said Phil.

He held the heavy exterior door open for them as they left the school. The August sun scorched across the blacktop of the parking lot, making the heat radiate up from the ground in waves that Skye could practically see materializing in front of them. She was glad she didn’t have to go play soccer or football in this weather, the way Bobbi and Trip did. She wasn’t sure she’d make it to the car without melting into a puddle of Skye-sweat.

“I’ve been getting my room ready, working on my lesson plans, attending faculty meetings. Lots of stuff. Last week we had some seminars about changes in state guidelines and testing policies, and the week before was a session on supporting student wellness. Principal Mace likes that kind of thing – continuing education, team building. And the summer is when we have time to fit a lot of it in.”

“So you really don’t get a summer break, do you?” Skye said, lamenting on his behalf.

“Sure I do,” he smiled. “We got to go to the lake, got to spend time with your grandparents when they each came to visit. We caught up on the latest season of the Avengers, watched the Brewers games on TV, got to see that cool movie about Pluto and the Kuiper Belt at the science museum… I had some nice time off, and we got to do plenty of fun things. My break’s just a little shorter than yours.”

They all piled into the car then, Jemma stopping to rap her knuckles against the handle of her door. She knocked five times before she opened it, something she had started doing since last year. Skye wasn’t exactly sure why Jemma had started knocking on the car before she got in, and she had never asked. Sometimes Jemma didn’t mind explaining some of the little habits and routines she had, especially back when it was sometimes up to Skye to act as a go-between for Jemma and grownups who didn’t understand her, but the one time Skye had remarked upon the new knocking trick with a casual observation, Jemma had gotten kind of flustered, so Skye let it go.

After all, it wasn’t like Jemma was the only one of them who had acquired some new behavioral quirks since last year, and Skye knew she herself wasn’t always all that interested in talking about leaving doors open or her poor sleeping habits, so she figured Jemma might not be too keen on talking about the knocking. Besides, it wasn’t bothering anybody, and if it helped Jemma get into the car, then as far as Skye was concerned, it didn’t really matter one way or another why Jemma had picked up the custom.

It also wasn’t the first time Jemma had developed a new habit, Skye remembered. Some of Jemma’s quirks were a pretty constant piece of her – Jemma had always tapped as long as Skye had known her, and she’d always been quiet, some days never talking at all – but other bits and pieces came and went. When they were much smaller, maybe eight or nine, Jemma had flapped her hands a lot more than she did now, but after staying with Mrs. Patrick, she hardly ever flapped anymore, opting instead to press her thumbs hard against her fingers if she needed to do something with her hands beyond tapping. And while Jemma had always been inclined to pick up on numbers and patterns, Skye knew that it wasn’t until after coming back from the Walkers that Jemma started counting things around her as a way of calming herself down.

A few years ago, Jemma had gone through a phase where she picked and chewed at the skin around her fingernails, but after a while she didn’t need to do that anymore, much to Skye’s relief. She didn’t like it when Jemma was hurt, and it was hard for her to just wrap Jemma’s fingers in Band-Aids every night without saying anything about it. She kept her mouth shut, though, mostly because she didn’t want to make Jemma feel bad or self-conscious, especially when so many of her other behaviors drew negative attention from other kids and the nuns at St. Agnes. Still, Skye had been glad when Jemma had found less painful alternatives, and compared to that or the self-punishment the Williamses had forced Jemma to adopt, knocking on the car door was pretty low on Skye’s list of concerns.

“Can you drop me off at Hunter’s?” Bobbi asked, looking up from her phone, an old one of May’s that she’d been using since last spring. “He DVR’d the Liverpool preseason game from this weekend and wants to know if I want to watch it with him before we both have to go to afternoon practice.”

“Sure,” Phil said. He flicked on his blinker and turned, changing direction seamlessly away from the route to their house to Hunter and Fitz’s instead. “Do you want me to drop off your soccer gear in a little bit, or do you think you’ll stop back by the house before practice?”

“We’ll stop by,” Bobbi told him, firing off a quick reply to Hunter on her phone. She smiled at Phil. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” he smiled back. “I’m glad you’re doing something fun today in between all your practices.”

“Are your other friends coming too?” Skye asked. She leaned forward a little from the backseat and flashed Bobbi a sly, teasing grin. “Or is it just you and Hunter?”

Bobbi hadn’t ever come out and said that she and Hunter were dating, not to Skye and Jemma at least, but it had definitely not escaped Skye’s notice that there was something going on between Bobbi and Hunter that didn’t exist between Bobbi and her other friends. As a younger sister, Skye considered it her duty to gently rib Bobbi about the whole thing every so often, and the half-happy, half-bashful look on Bobbi’s face just now told Skye she had succeeded for the day.

“Just me and Hunter,” Bobbi said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Well, have fun,” Phil said, as he pulled up outside of Hunter and Fitz’s house a few minutes later. “We’ll see you later this afternoon. Be safe, call me if you need anything.”

“Anything. I will,” Bobbi promised, swinging herself out of the car. “Thanks, Phil.”

“And don’t forget Victoria and Izzy are coming over for dinner tonight,” he reminded her. “Try to come home right after practice if you can.”

“If you can, if you can,” Bobbi echoed, nodding to signal that she was agreeing to what Phil asked. She didn’t get so embarrassed about her echoes anymore, which Skye thought was nice. It made her happy to know that Bobbi could echo when she was excited or happy or just liked the sounds of words, and not just when she was stressed out or anxious.

Phil waited until Bobbi had disappeared through the front door of the house before easing the car back onto the road and driving the rest of the way home. He fiddled with the radio so that some chipper, old-sounding music floated lightly out of the speakers, then glanced back at Skye and Jemma in the rearview mirror as he struck up conversation.

“What about the two of you? Any plans for the rest of the day I should know about?”

They both shook their heads.

“Just enjoying the last few days of freedom, I guess,” Skye shrugged. “Trying not to melt.”

“It’s definitely gotten warm,” agreed Phil. “Not nearly as hot as somewhere like Arizona, out where Grandad lives, but the humidity…”

“I expect it’s all the moisture from the lake,” Jemma said. “There’s more water in the air than in Arizona.”

“Exactly. The humidity is what gets you,” Phil nodded. “At least, that’s what my dad always said.”

He turned onto their street, and soon the house came into view and they were pulling into the driveway. Phil turned off the engine, then twisted around in his seat to look at them, a big grin on his face.

“Well, since we’re on the subject of melting, and you’re not doing anything this afternoon, how would you two like to help me make something special for our dinner tonight?”

“What is it?” Skye asked as they began piling out of the car. Jemma knocked five times on the handle before shutting her car door and following them up the walk towards the house.

“Have you ever made ice cream by hand before?”

Skye felt her eyes go wide, and a quick glance Jemma’s way revealed that she was feeling the same excited amazement as Skye. “No, never.”

“My mom and I used to make ice cream in the summers all the time when I was growing up,” Phil said. “We had one of those ice cream churners that you crank by hand for a while, but before we got that fancy contraption, we had to do it old school.”

“What do you mean ‘old school?’” Jemma wanted to know. “Isn’t it terribly hard to make ice cream by hand?”

“It takes a little elbow grease,” acknowledged Phil. Catching the confused look on Jemma’s face at his figure of speech, he corrected himself. “It takes some hard work, but it’s not anything we can’t do if we stick with it. And it’s definitely worth it to get ice cream at the end. What do you say? Willing to give it a try after we have some lunch?”

“I’m in,” Skye grinned. Making ice cream by hand sounded fun, even if it did turn out to be hard work. Jemma nodded along with her, and Phil beamed at the both of them.

They ate a quick lunch, and soon Phil had them all set up in the kitchen with a small collection of ingredients, some mixing bowls and spoons, a big box of rock salt, and, to Skye’s confusion, two old coffee cans and a roll of duct tape.

“What does duct tape have to do with ice cream?” she asked as they all washed their hands and Phil rolled up his sleeves.

“We’ll get to that in a little bit,” he said mysteriously, waggling his eyebrows in their direction. “First we have to mix up the base.”

He guided them through measuring out and mixing together some heavy cream, sugar, salt, and vanilla. Jemma handled the measuring and pouring, her keen eye and attention to detail serving her well as she ensured precise amounts of everything went into the bowl as Skye stirred vigorously.

“Looks good,” Phil told them, once everything had been combined. “Now for coffee can number one.” At his instruction, they poured the whole mixture into the smaller of the two coffee cans, then Phil popped on the lid and sealed the whole thing up with a generous wrapping of duct tape.

“No leaks,” he explained with a wink.

After that, they used the rock salt and practically every ice cube from the freezer to pack the inside of the second, bigger coffee can, so that when they put the first can in, there were several layers of ice and salt all insulating the whole thing. The other lid and another round of duct tape sealed the entire thing up tight.

“What’s the salt for?” Skye asked. Phil opened his mouth to answer, but Jemma wiggled a little, her fingers fluttering with the excitement she got when she knew the answer to something, and Phil promptly ceded the floor to her.

“Salt lowers the freezing temperature of water,” she said eagerly. “Normally ice from the freezer is 0 degrees Celsius, but the salt causes freezing point depression and makes it so that the ice actually has to drop in temperature in order to stay frozen.”

“So it makes the ice in the can extra cold?”

“Exactly,” Jemma nodded. She glanced up at Phil. “I suppose that’s useful for the ice cream. A super-cooled exterior helps to freeze the mixture inside the first can?”

“You got it,” Phil smiled. “Now that we’ve got it cold, all we have to do now is start shaking it to really get it mixed.”

They took turns shaking the can, and when their arms got tired of that, Skye got the idea to start rolling the can around across the kitchen floor. It was probably a good thing Phil had double-duct taped the cans, with all the back and forth they were inflicting on them. Eventually, Phil decided that they had probably mixed the ice cream enough, and he stuck the can in the freezer to keep the ice cream cold until it was time for them to eat it.

“Arms good and sore?” he asked, teasing.

“They feel like noodles.” Skye stuck out her tongue at him and giggled slightly. “You just wanted to wear us out so we’d want to be still and quiet the rest of the day, didn’t you?”

“That was always my mother’s strategy,” he chuckled. “But honestly, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re still and quiet or raucous and rowdy. I like you both any way you want to be. I’m just glad to have some company around the house in the summertime.”

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly – a little too slowly for Skye’s taste, since most of her time was spent waiting for the evening to arrive and ruminating on what mysterious conversation they were all going to have once Miss Hand was there. She and Jemma tried to distract themselves, but Jemma had a much easier time becoming absorbed in her book than Skye had in focusing on the loose circuits and wires she was fiddling with.

She had finished building her computer last month – a years-long project that was finally completed when Ma Lian had given her the last piece she needed (a good GPU to get her graphics systems up and running) for her birthday – but now she sometimes found she wasn’t really sure what to do with herself, now that the computer was actually finished and working.

Giving up on turning the wires into anything interesting, Skye flopped herself in the desk chair and punched the button to wake up the computer that now sat on her and Jemma’s desk. It hummed to life, and the screen blinked on. The monitor, keyboard, and mouse were all a little outdated, having been purchased by Skye at a garage sale in June. The man who was selling it, an old guy with hardly any hair and knobby fingers named Mr. Kranholtz who lived down the street from them, had explained that his grownup daughter was making him get rid of his dusty old computer to upgrade to a fancy new laptop so that they could video chat on the weekends. He gave Skye a good deal on the parts, since she seemed like a “reliable young woman” to him.

“What are you doing?” Jemma asked, peering up from Pride and Prejudice. Skye didn’t know why Jemma was reading that one again. She must have read it fifty times already, but she never seemed to get tired of it.

“Dunno,” Skye shrugged. She started to poke around on the desktop. “Anything. I’m bored.”

“Have you gone further on Pandora yet?”

“No.” Skye frowned and opened up the menu to Pandora’s Box, an old computer game she’d installed a few weeks ago that had quickly become one of her favorites. It was supposed to be like the story of Pandora from Greek Mythology, only when your character, Pandora, opened the box at the beginning of the game, she got sucked inside the box, instead of letting all the monsters out. You were supposed to go level by level, figuring out the mazes and fighting all the monsters, like Greed and Envy and Hunger, so that you could escape the box at the end of the game without releasing all the bad stuff into the real world, but Skye hadn’t been able to get past Pain yet. “I got three valiance bonuses in a row last time, but it still wasn’t enough. I don’t know how a person is supposed to navigate the fourth maze and do enough damage against Pain before your HP and sand timer runs out.”

“Lots of practice, I suppose,” Jemma hummed. She turned a page.

Skye began plugging away at the level, mashing keys quickly as she tried to vaporize a Fury that appeared in her path. She made conversation as she played:

“What part of the book are you on this time?”

Jemma had recounted the plot enough times to Skye that she figured she’d never have to actually read the book herself, but Jemma always got excited when she could talk about what she was reading.

"Elizabeth is staying with Lady Catherine,” Jemma said, smiling. “She’s about to turn down Mr. Darcy’s proposal. ‘You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.’” She tapped in time on the spine of the book as she recited.

“I bet you could quote that whole thing without even having the book in your hand,” Skye teased gently. “You know Phil said he would take you to the library if you ever wanted to get some new books to read.” Jemma used to devour books at a frankly alarming rate, relishing every new page she could get her hands on. These days, Skye hadn’t seen her pick up anything that wasn’t a biology or astronomy book, or a novel she already knew back to front.

“I know,” Jemma said quietly. “I don’t want new books, though. I like the ones I have. I like knowing how they’re all going to end. Everything always works out in my books. I don’t know if I’ll like the endings of new ones.”

Skye was silent for a minute, letting only the plinky sounds of monster-slaying fill the room. She mistimed the swing of her sword and Pain’s poison-tipped arrow plunged into Pandora’s digital side and depleted the last few pixels of her health bar. A dejected little doodly-doo sounded off, signaling the end of her attempt. Still no luck against Pain.

“I guess that makes sense, reading what you already know,” she finally said. “You don’t have to worry so much about the characters if you already know they’re going to get a happily-ever-after.”

“Exactly. I don’t like worrying, I like happy endings.”

“I know. Me too.”

May came home from work a little before five, and Skye nearly bounded up from her spot at the computer when May poked her head around their open bedroom door to greet her and Jemma.

“Hi, my loves,” she said warmly, smiling at their enthusiasm and stepping more fully into the room.

“Phil said Miss Hand and Izzy are coming for dinner tonight and we’re talking about something important,” Skye said in a rush. She crashed into May’s side for a hug and turned wide, gooey eyes on May, batting her lashes for good measure. “What’s the important thing we’re talking about?”

May smirked slightly and pressed a kiss onto the top of Skye’s head. Skye had to duck a little for May to reach, since they were basically the same height now. “Oh, Phil’s in trouble,” she chuckled. “And you’re not getting anything out of me, no matter what faces you pull. I’m not as easily broken as Phil is.”

“Worth a shot.”

Skye released May from her hug, so that she could go and give Jemma a similar kiss on the top of her own head. Jemma smiled, tucking a bookmark between the pages of her novel, and gave May a few light taps on the wrist before May perched herself on the foot of Jemma’s bed.

“Well, how was orientation today? I want to hear all about it.”

They filled her in, briefly touching on their tour with Mack and the different clubs they checked out. May seemed pleased to hear that they had agreed to try some things this year.

“I was never much of a joiner in high school, but I think it’ll be really good for the both of you to get involved in some activities. A good way to spend time with your friends, too.”

“Phil told us about how you didn’t do clubs in high school,” Skye teased. “You were a grumpy loner until Dr. Garner made you make friends.”

May pretended to be offended, swatting a soft hand in Skye’s direction, but she was already laughing, so Skye knew she appreciated the joke.

“I was not a grumpy loner,” May protested, still laughing. “Well, maybe I was a little grumpy. And maybe I didn’t have many friends at first, but I was new in town. I came around eventually. I was perfectly pleasant and sociable by the end of high school.”

“Because Dr. Garner helped you make friends?” Jemma asked.

May smiled. “It only takes one person to make a friend, and one friend to make a difference. Andrew helped me come out of my shell, helped me connect with other kids. That’s true. He’s always been good at that kind of thing.”

“So Phil was right?” Skye wanted to know.

“I suppose he was,” said May. A sly look spread across her face. “But don’t let it go to his head. He’s not the only one who has stories from high school. Did he tell you about chess club? Or how he and his first girlfriend got their braces stuck together sophomore year and had to get unstuck by the town orthodontist, who also happened to be the girl’s father?”

“No way,” Skye grinned. “You made that up.”

“I did not,” May said. “No matter how hard Phil will deny it if you ask him.”

“Did it hurt?” Jemma asked nervously. “Their teeth…”

“I imagine it was pretty uncomfortable,” May shrugged. “But I think it was more painful for Phil to be sitting in front of Dr. Nathan with his lips literally locked to Dr. Nathan’s daughter. Audrey, was her name. She was nice. Played the cello.”

“What happened to her?”

“Oh, she’s doing very well for herself,” May said quickly, alleviating the concern from Skye and Jemma’s faces. “Last I heard she was playing for the Madison Symphony Orchestra and teaching music on the side. She’s married to an oboe player named Greg; I think. Or maybe it’s Craig. I’m not sure, we haven’t seen her since our last high school reunion, and the details at those things get a little fuzzy…”

Just then, the sound of footsteps came on the stairs, and soon Phil’s face appeared in the doorway.

“Hi, honey. I thought I heard you come in.”

“Hi,” May greeted him, getting up to kiss him on the cheek. “Just checking in with the girls. They told me about orientation.”

“And May told us about you getting stuck to your girlfriend’s braces,” Skye said mischievously. Phil’s face went red.

“Not my finest moment,” he said, more than a little bashful. “And not a story I expected to have told to my daughters,” he added, making a face at May. “Traitor.”

“Consider us even,” May retorted playfully.

“Okay, fair.” Phil gave a small chuckle, and leaned in closer to May. “At least now I can kiss a beautiful woman and not have to worry about a trip to the orthodontist’s office.” He planted a kiss right on May’s mouth, and Skye felt her nose crinkle in embarrassment.

“Gross, Phil.”

“Mel, Bobbi should be getting home before too long, and Vic and Izzy are coming at 6,” he said, finally pulling away from the kiss and checking his watch. “If you want to get cleaned up before they get here, I’d say do it now before Bobbi comes in from practice and uses up all the hot water.”

“Sounds good,” May nodded. “I won’t be long.”

“You two want to help me get a few things ready for dinner?” Phil asked, turning to Skye and Jemma. “I’ve got the grill heating up for the chicken, but I could use a hand making the salad and setting the table.”

“Okay,” Skye agreed. She got to her feet and Jemma followed suit. “And we can check on our ice cream too, right?”

“Ice cream?” May asked, peeking back around the door with a curious eyebrow raised.

“Phil taught us to make ice cream in a coffee can,” Jemma explained eagerly. “We altered the freezing point of the ice with salt and then left it in the freezer. It should be ready soon, shouldn’t it, Phil?”

“It should be,” he said with a smile. “We’ve had a pretty busy day today.”

“So I can see,” said May, returning his smile. “And it’s not even over yet.”

Chapter Text

Miss Hand and Izzy were right on time for dinner, which surprised no one. Miss Hand greeted everyone with her usual prim warmth, while Izzy opted for a boisterous hello that left Skye powerless to stop a grin from spreading across her own face. Phil disappeared back into the kitchen shortly thereafter, May in tow to help him finish setting everything out for dinner.

“Skye, what’s shaking?” Izzy asked, once she and Miss Hand had come all the way into the living room. She chucked Skye lightly on the jaw, something that had become a familiar gesture between them. “You get past that Pandora level yet?”

“Not yet,” Skye admitted, flopping down onto the couch next to Jemma. “I got hit with the poison arrows today, so better than yesterday, but not as close as last week.”

“You still using the sword?”

Skye nodded.

“Try the axe next time,” Izzy said sagely. “You get a negative speed modifier, but it’s way better for blocking. Helps for keeping those pesky poison arrows at bay.”

Skye’s eyes went wide. “That’s a really good idea.”

“I’ve been known to have them every now and then,” joked Izzy. From the other side of the room, Miss Hand gave a little cough, like she was covering up a laugh.

“I wouldn’t have thought equipping teenagers with axes counted as a good idea,” she said dryly. It took Skye a second to realize that Miss Hand was probably teasing them. Sometimes it was hard to tell with her.

Izzy didn’t seem to have that difficulty, though, because she burst into a bouncy, barking laugh. “Oh, lighten up, Vic, it’s just a video game. An ancient one, at that. Do you remember how many hours I logged on that thing on the chunky desktop back when we first moved in together?”

“Of course,” Miss Hand smiled. “I watched you play every level.”

“My best cheerleader,” Izzy whispered conspiratorially, leaning in towards Skye and Jemma and grinning. “She’d never admit it, but Vic’s a gaming whiz. She helped me figure out the trick to beating the very last level.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not telling,” Izzy chortled. “Half the fun is figuring out the twist yourself.”

“Or letting your partner figure it out for you,” said Miss Hand with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, the other half of the fun is playing it with a pretty girl…” Izzy flashed Miss Hand a roguish wink, which made her start fiddling with her glasses. “So I had it made on both accounts.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously lucky,” Izzy shot back with a soft smile.

“Jemma, how was the book on tardigrades I brought last time?” Miss Hand asked pointedly, steering the conversation towards a new topic. “Hopefully there was something in there you didn’t already know.”

“It was wonderful,” Jemma said, smiling shyly. She tapped a buoyant little rhythm on her knee. “They’re one of the most resilient species I’ve ever read about – they can survive in high altitude hot springs, under sheets of ice in polar regions, in deep sea conditions… They can also suspend their metabolism and survive without food or water for up to thirty years.”

“Tough little guys,” Izzy remarked. “I can see why Vic thought they’d be a good match for you.”

Jemma blushed. “They also can survive unprotected in outer space. Scientists have sent them to space more than once and some of them even think tardigrades could survive on Mars without typical life support systems.”

“So when we finally decide to start colonizing other planets,” smirked Skye, “the tardigrades are going to be the first settlers.”

They talked for a little while longer, Miss Hand asking about the upcoming start of school and how things were going at home, until Bobbi came down from upstairs, her hair still a little damp from her post-soccer practice shower.

“Hey, Bobbi,” Izzy said, giving her a wave, which Bobbi happily returned. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see, good to see you, too,” smiled Bobbi. She settled herself on the couch next to Skye and Jemma and a wave of clean, flowery scent washed over them, a pleasant remnant from Bobbi’s shampoo.

“Soccer practice today?”

“We’re in two-a-days right now,” Bobbi said. “6:00am and 3:00pm.”

Izzy let out a low whistle. “That’s rough.”

Bobbi shrugged bashfully. “It’s not so bad, once you get going. I’m just glad to be on the field again. Feels good to play.”

“I’ll bet.”

“How’s the team?” Miss Hand wanted to know. “Are you making friends with your teammates?”

“Yeah,” nodded Bobbi. “Elena and I have really compatible play styles, and we’ve been training and rehabbing together ever since she was cleared to work out again. And Piper’s been cool. Really our whole midfield unit is pretty tight. We should be in line for a good season, even without Kara and Alisha from last year.”

“We met a girl today,” Skye said suddenly, remembering the surly blonde girl she and Jemma had talked with in the auditorium. “She said she was a soccer player, and a junior, like you. Did she come to practice today?”

“We don’t know her name,” Jemma added with a slight frown. “She wasn’t wearing her nametag like she was supposed to.”

“We didn’t have anybody new on the field with us today,” Bobbi shook her head. “But I did overhear Coach saying he was meeting somebody later for a skills assessment. Maybe that’s who he meant.”

“Well, if she ends up playing with you all, make sure she tells you her name,” said Jemma, a little grumpily. The corners of Bobbi’s mouth twitched.

“I’d hope it would come up, if we turn out to be teammates. Kind of hard to run plays if you can’t call somebody’s name.”

“Everything’s ready,” called May, emerging from the kitchen just then. She smiled. “And Phil’s very eager for everyone to taste the new marinade he used on the chicken.”

“Oh, well in that case…” Izzy said with a chuckle. “Let’s not keep the poor guy waiting.”

Everything tasted great, of course, and everyone made a point of telling Phil how well the meal had turned out. He acted all humble, waving away their compliments, but Skye could tell he was secretly really pleased to hear they’d liked his food. Even Jemma, who was sometimes skeptical of new things, had eaten everything on her plate. It probably helped that Phil had made sure to not include any of the little tomatoes from the garden in Jemma’s salad, even though there were plenty in everyone else’s.

He was good about that kind of thing, Skye had been happy to learn over the last year. He remembered little things, like what sorts of foods they did and didn’t like to eat, and he never made a big deal about making minor alterations to people’s plates to make sure they didn’t have to pick anything out. Some of their old foster families hadn’t been so obliging.

Some, like the Williamses, had refused to believe that something like a tomato or an olive was enough to turn Jemma’s stomach or send her into a tailspin. Mrs. Murphy had been the type to insist that Skye suck it up and eat gross stuff anyway, like the hamloaf with pineapple rings and jarred cherries on top, because, in her words, Skye should be “grateful to have anything to eat at all.” It was things like the memory of fruit-covered hamloaf that always ensured Skye never took it for granted that Phil was not only a good cook, but an accommodating one.

“I hope everyone saved room for dessert,” he announced, once all the plates had been cleared and loaded into the dishwasher. “Skye and Jemma made homemade ice cream this afternoon.”

“What a treat,” smiled Miss Hand. “I can’t remember the last time I had homemade ice cream.”

“Phil taught us,” Skye said as she hopped up to help Phil and Jemma serve the ice cream into bowls. “He said it was something he learned from his mom when he was growing up.”

“So we’re really going old school, then,” said Izzy. “I can’t wait to try it.”

The ice cream got just as many compliments as the dinner had, but the longer it took for everyone to finish their bowls, the more the conversation around the table began to dwindle and peter out. It was almost like everyone knew it was almost time to have the more serious talks of the evening, and, in Skye’s case at least, the anticipation was finally starting to get the better of her.

“I know you all have some business to get to,” Izzy finally said, once it was clear everyone was finished eating. “And I know you all could use some privacy. Confidentiality and all that. I’ll be amusing myself in the backyard if you need me. Phil, you still have all those canning jars in the shed, right?”

Phil blinked his momentary look of confusion off his face quickly as he processed Izzy’s question. “Yeah, they’re all stacked up under the windowsill on the side wall of the shed,” he said. “But what—”

“You all have your meeting,” was all Izzy would say. “Then come find me.”

She stood up from the table without any more fanfare after that, and soon the gentle slap of the screen door in the frame signaled that they should begin. 

“I’ll get right into it, then,” Miss Hand said simply. “I know the adoption process has taken longer than any of us would have hoped, and I apologize for dragging this out. The fact of the matter is, however, there are unique complications with each of you that have caused some delays. I’ve kept Melinda and Phil up to date with everything as best I could while the adoption lawyer and I have worked through them, but I wanted to take the opportunity to fill you three in as well. See if you have any questions, that sort of thing.”

“What kinds of complications?” Skye asked, furrowing her brow. Dread like a sinking wad of old, petrified chewing gum clunked down in the pit of her stomach. She should have known that this whole thing wasn’t going to be easy. Nothing about her life had been easy up to this point, so why should adoption be any different? “I’m not messing things up for Jemma and Bobbi, am I? ‘Cause I have bad paperwork or something?”

“Well, actually, Skye, yours is the least difficult to sort out,” Miss Hand said, a faint, wry smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “You’ve been a ward of the state essentially since your birth, so in terms of custody and adoption, there’s not much out of the ordinary in terms of processes and paperwork. Legally speaking, your birth father never had custody of you, since you’ve been under care at St. Agnes since infancy, so we don’t have to sort out parental rights with him now that he’s… back in the picture, so to speak. Really the only complicated matter with yours is the fact that your recently rediscovered birth certificate doesn’t align with the majority of your records, so on paper, it looks like there are two of you – one named Daisy and one named Mary Sue.”

“And none named Skye,” Skye grumbled. “I have double the paperwork and still nothing that’s actually me.” That made all the adults laugh – not unkindly, and not at her, but still in a way that prickled Skye somewhat.

“The adoption lawyer, Mr. Murdock, assured me that he’d be able to sort that out without too much trouble,” Miss Hand promised. “I’ve worked with him for years, and he’s very good at his job. He has a lot of first-hand experience with the foster care system and with the innerworkings of St. Agnes in particular, so his expertise will be a great asset to us. The only other snag we’ve hit with your adoption, Skye, is the fact that there are no official records of your birth mother’s death. There are records from the hospital that speak to her passing, but legally, as far as the state is concerned, she’s essentially vanished from the record after you were born. Again, this isn’t too much of a hurdle, since your custody comes from the state and we don’t need her to sign away parental rights or anything like that, but for the sake of due diligence and fully completed paperwork, Mr. Murdock has been trying hard to track down some more official documentation.”

“Oh. Okay.” Skye looked down, suddenly concentrating very hard on the soupy remnants of ice cream that swirled around at the bottom of her bowl. Her throat felt tight as she tried to swallow back the unexpected wave of emotion that had bubbled up inside of her at the mention of her mother’s death.

She tried not to think about that, or about what Cal had told her about her mother, most days. It honestly confused her more than anything, all the complicated feelings and questions that arose anytime she slipped up and allowed her thoughts to wander that way. It seemed wrong to feel so sad over a person Skye had never met or known, like she was playacting at grief, but that never seemed to stop a sharp ache from panging at the inside of her chest whenever she let her mind meander towards her mother.

Cal had told her some things about her, about the kind of person she was, but it hadn’t been enough. All her life Skye had wondered about her parents, about her mother, about where she came from and who she looked and sounded and acted like. It had been hard when there was nothing for her to go on, just her own imaginings and longings, but some days it felt so much harder now, now that she’d been given a glimpse, a tiny taste, of what she’d never been allowed to have. She still didn’t know hardly anything about her mother, but knowing what little bits and pieces she did know now, it made the mourning of her loss feel that much more real.

“Are you all right, Skye?” Phil asked quietly, stretching out a hand to rest softly over the top of hers. “Do you need to take a break?”

“No, I’m okay,” Skye said quickly. She gave herself a little shake and forced herself to look back up at Miss Hand. “So it’s just some paperwork stuff that’s slowing everything down for mine?”

“Essentially, yes,” nodded Miss Hand. Skye hadn’t been looking at Miss Hand earlier, but now she could see the look of quiet sympathy that softened some of her features. Skye never liked being pitied, but it was nice to know that Miss Hand felt sorry for having to talk about Skye’s mother.

“What about me and Jemma?” Bobbi asked. Skye felt gratitude well up at Bobbi for doing her best to steer the conversation onto someone else for a while.

“Jemma’s situation is probably the more complex of the two, at least from a legal standpoint,” Miss Hand said. “Mainly because with Jemma we have the issue of citizenship to sort through.”

“I’m not a citizen?” Jemma’s face was wrinkled up with confused consternation. Skye could hear the sound of her finger tapping on the tabletop. “But I’ve been living at St. Agnes. Aren’t I a ward of the state, like Skye?”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out,” explained Miss Hand. “Upon our initial dig into your paperwork, it appeared as though your parents were considered lawful permanent residents of the US – green card holders – at the time of their death, as were you, Jemma. I assume your father’s employer helped to expedite your family’s immigration process, given the relatively short timeframe we’re looking at here. After the car accident, because you were a legal resident here and you had no family back in England to stay with, the state determined that you’d stay in the US and be placed in the foster care system, which is why you came to stay at St. Agnes. So, while the state of Wisconsin was responsible for your guardianship like with Skye, as far as I can tell, no paperwork for citizenship has ever been filed on your behalf.”

“Isn’t that something St. Agnes should have taken care of?” May asked in a clipped voice. Miss Hand sighed a little and fiddled with her glasses.

“Ideally, yes, they would have at least done some of the preliminary paperwork. There wasn’t as much of a rush to do so since Jemma’s still considered a legal resident and not in danger of deportation. I also imagine they have a policy of not filing on behalf of children under their care because, again, ideally, when a child is adopted, the naturalization process can be included in the adoption. Think, for example, of when parents in the US adopt a child internationally. There are specific steps those parents can take to ensure that their child is legally recognized as a US citizen.”

“So St. Agnes didn’t pursue Jemma’s citizenship because they were hoping she’d be adopted, and her adoptive parents would be able to take care of that?” Phil clarified. Miss Hand nodded.

“That’s my understanding, yes. For us now, it’s not an insurmountable challenge by any means. Like I said, there are specific protocols in place for adoptive parents to secure citizenship for their children. It just means we have additional steps to take as we navigate Jemma’s adoption process.”

“Will I have to take the citizenship exam?” Jemma asked nervously. “We learned about that in social studies last year. You have to know American history, and about the government and the holidays and—”

“You won’t have to take the citizenship exam,” Miss Hand interjected kindly. “They don’t make kids take it. Although I’m sure you’d have no trouble acing the exam if you needed to.”

“You have the double advantage of a very good memory and a live-in American history teacher at your disposal,” joked Phil.

“I wonder if Fitz is a citizen,” Jemma wondered, more to herself than anyone seated around the table. “If he’s not, we could be noncitizens together.”

“At least, until you get adopted,” Bobbi pointed out. “You’ll be a citizen after that, right?”

“That’s the plan,” nodded Miss Hand. “Again, Mr. Murdock and I don’t foresee there being any particular challenges to this, but it’s just one more thing that’s contributed to the delays.”

“Delays, delays,” Bobbi echoed reflexively. “What about me? What are my delays?”

“Well, Skye’s are administrative, and Jemma’s are legal, and yours, Bobbi, are… more personal in nature.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know that your father’s parental rights have been terminated by the courts, correct?”

“Yeah.” Bobbi’s face slipped into the blank mask that she still sometimes wore, especially if things were getting overwhelming. It was hard to know what Bobbi was thinking or feeling when she shut down like that, but since the subject was on her father, it didn’t take a super genius to guess at what was on Bobbi’s mind at the moment.

She’d had to make a statement for the court last spring about all the stuff her dad had done to her over the years, and a judge had made it official that her dad no longer had any custody or rights over Bobbi. Bobbi had twirled a lot that week, and there were a couple days where the only way she could talk was if she was parroting what other people were saying around her, making conversation out of the fragments of other people’s words. It had been a hard time on everyone, but Bobbi especially.

“In order for your adoption to go through and be made legal, those parental rights have to be forfeited. Either by a judge’s ruling, like in your father’s case, or voluntarily. Anyone with guardianship has to acknowledge that they no longer have it, so that Melinda and Phil can become your sole, legal guardians.”

“Okay, but I don’t understand what the hold-up is,” Bobbi frowned. “You just said my dad doesn’t have rights anymore.”

“He doesn’t. But your mother does.”

“…oh.”

Skye swiveled her head around, looking from person to person as the silty sediment of this revelation settled over them all. She had kind of forgotten Bobbi even had a mom. Bobbi basically never talked about her, and Skye knew she hadn’t lived with Bobbi in years.

“She’s been remarkable difficult to get into contact with,” Miss Hand said, a hint of lemon in her words. “I’ve actually been trying to reach her ever since you were first hospitalized last year. Part of my job is attempting to contact other family members that kids can live with if they can’t stay in their current home. We try to place kids with relatives before we just automatically place them in foster care or group homes.”

“You… tried to call her? When my lung and my knee and everything were all wrecked?”

“I did,” said Miss Hand. “You mentioned to me at the time that she hadn’t been a part of your life for several years, so I knew there was a possibility that wouldn’t be a suitable option for you, but I had a responsibility to at least look into familial placements.”

“Did you find her?” Bobbi’s voice was flat and empty-sounding. Not totally unusual for Bobbi, but it still made Skye uneasy to see how blank Bobbi had gone.

“Not at first. I wasn’t having any luck locating her, which is why I went ahead and placed you with May and Phil. Eventually I did, though. She’s living in California, remarried, with a different name. She’s Susan Swift now, not Morse. That’s part of why it took me so long to track her down.”

“Down, down, down,” Bobbi murmured. “Did… did you talk to her?”

“She never returned any of my calls or emails,” Miss Hand said delicately. “Eventually I had to send her a certified letter just to ensure that she was made aware of the situation. We’ve spoken on the phone once since then.”

“Okay.”

“Essentially what needs to happen is Bobbi’s mother needs to sign away her parental rights in order for Bobbi’s adoption to go through,” Miss Hand explained, once it was clear Bobbi didn’t have anything else to say on the subject of her mother. “And so far, she has not done so.”

“What does that mean?” May wanted to know. Her jaw was stiff, and Skye could hear the tension lurking in her voice. “Is there a possibility that she would… That we might not be able to adopt Bobbi?”

“I don’t know at this point,” Miss Hand said, her tone low and even, but her expression darkening slightly. “I hope that won’t be the case. It’s possible that Susan is just taking her time with the decision, or is the type of person to put off paperwork. It’s also possible that she may express some interest in reclaiming her parental rights. Murdock and I are preparing for either scenario.”

“Can she do that?” asked Bobbi. All of her words were short and stilted, and Skye noticed that Bobbi was staring hard at the tabletop, avoiding all their gazes. “Can she just decide that she wants me back? After all this time?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Miss Hand fiddled with her glasses once again. “There are a lot of different factors we’d have to take into consideration, if that was even a situation we found ourselves facing. Family history, your current circumstances, even your personal preference could play a role, given your age and maturity level. I want to stress to you,” she said, emphasizing her words carefully, “that may not be a bridge we need to cross. Your mother may agree to sign away her rights, and then it will all be moot. But in the event that she wants to regain full custody of you, there are a great many steps we’d have to take before any final decision was made.”

“Bobbi, if…” Phil paused, cleared his throat. He spoke gently. “If your mom does decide she’d like you to live with her, we… we’ll support you however best we can. Whatever that looks like. Melinda and I, you have our word. If you decide you want to stay with us, we’ll do our very best to make that happen, and we’ll understand if… if you decide you want to go and stay with your mom—”

“I don’t want to stay with her,” Bobbi said sharply. Her hands bunched into fists and her knuckles went white. She looked like she wanted to twirl, or maybe punch something. “She doesn’t… She left me. I don’t want to live with her.”

“That’s helpful to know,” Miss Hand said quietly. “Bobbi, if it’s all right with you, then, I’ll continue moving your paperwork forward with the lawyer. We’ll still need your mother’s signature, in the end, but we can prepare as much of the rest as we can. If you’d still like to go ahead with the adoption.”

“Yeah,” Bobbi gruffed. She shook her head a little, like she was trying to clear water from her ears. “Yeah, that’s… go ahead. Go ahead.”

There was a long silence around the table, punctuated only by the faint sounds of tapping. It was like nobody really knew what to say after that.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have led with all that,” Miss Hand finally said, a little stiffly. “It’s not the easiest transition from that conversation into the other one…”

“The one we’re all supposed to talk about together?” Skye asked, perking up. She had been waiting all day to hear what big thing Phil wanted them to discuss together. He had made it sound like it was a good thing, but after all the other news Miss Hand had brought, Skye wasn’t as sure she should be excited about this new thing.

“Yes, the one we’re supposed to talk about together,” May said. “I think we could use a change of conversation. Is that okay with you, Bobbi?”

“Okay, okay.”

“All right then,” nodded Miss Hand. “Let’s switch gears. There’s a child I’ve been working with – a little boy from Valders, not too far from here. He needs a foster home for a little while, and I’ve been trying to find him a good placement. Somewhere safe and loving where he can stay while his more permanent living situation gets sorted out.”

“And the other day Victoria asked me and Melinda if we thought he could stay with us,” Phil finished. “We know there’s a lot going on right now, and bringing another kid into our home would be a big change,” he cautioned, “so we thought it was important for all of us to talk about it, as a family. We’ll decide together.”

“You’re asking us if it’s okay for you to foster another kid?” Skye asked. May nodded.

“Decisions about our family deserve to have input from everyone in the family,” she said.

“You asked us if it was okay for you to foster Bobbi,” Jemma remembered. “That turned out to be a good thing.”

“A very good thing,” agreed Phil, grinning.

“This would be a little different,” Miss Hand warned. “For one, Deke is a six-year-old boy, not a teenage girl. And for another, this is truly meant to be a short-term placement. I know I said that about Bobbi last year,” she smiled, “but things ended up going in a different direction in that case. Things with Deke aren’t quite so open-ended. His mother lost custody a while ago, and he’s been living with his grandmother since then, but she’s in poor health. Her dementia has progressed to the point where it’s not feasible for her to care for him anymore.”

“So he needs someplace to stay until his grandma gets better?” asked Skye.

“She won’t get better, Skye,” Jemma murmured sadly. “There’s no cure. Dementia is a neurocognitive disorder. It impacts all sorts of brain functions – memory, cognition, mood, motor and language skills…”

“Deke’s mother has been working to regain custody,” Miss Hand elaborated. “It’s an on-going process, but if all goes well, the goal is for Deke to return to his mother’s care eventually. For now, though, he needs a foster home while she’s still in the process of being re-awarded custody.”

“And you think the best thing for this kid will be to go back to his mom eventually?” Bobbi wanted to know.

“I do,” said Miss Hand firmly. “His mother wasn’t always able to take care of him when he was younger, but she’s in the midst of completing a number of important steps that show CPS and the courts that she’s able to do so now. We always try to keep families together when we can, when it’s the best and safest option. And barring any setbacks, I’m hopeful that Ms. Shaw will be in a position to take care of Deke long-term.”

“How come his mother couldn’t take care of him?” Jemma asked. “Has she been ill, too? Like his grandmother?”

Miss Hand paused for just a moment too long before answering, and Skye knew immediately that there was probably something more going on than a run-of-the-mill illness. Something Miss Hand didn’t want to talk about in front of them. Skye could guess, and each possibility that popped into her brain seemed worse than the last.

“I don’t think Victoria can tell us that, sweet pea,” Phil said softly, saving Miss Hand from having to answer Jemma. “It’s private.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, there’s nothing wrong with asking the question,” Miss Hand assured her. “But Phil’s right, I can’t really go into many of the details with you all. The important thing is that Deke has somewhere to stay until his mother is ready and able to care for him again.”

“And you want that place to be here?” Skye asked, looking from one adult to the other, scanning not only Miss Hand’s face, but May’s and Phil’s as well, checking to see that she understood what was being asked of them.

“We want to see what you three think about that possibility,” May corrected gently. “Phil and I think it’s important to help people, but we also want to make it very clear that you three are our priority right now. If you’re not comfortable with it, or you think bringing someone else into the home right now will be too difficult, that’s okay. We want you to be honest.”

“So, what do you three think?” Phil turned his attention on Skye, Jemma, and Bobbi, his face open in that way he used a lot of the time. Like he was hoping for a response, but not expecting a particular answer. “The floor is open. Pros, cons, questions?”

“Helping people is a good thing,” Jemma said simply, tapping on the table as she spoke. “It’s important to help. You and May helped us all a lot.”

“Other people deserve to have parents like you guys,” Bobbi added. She looked a little bashful as she spoke, but her words didn’t lack any conviction. “And we have enough to go around.”

May and Phil were nodding along as Jemma and Bobbi spoke, and Phil’s eyes were shining slightly the way they did any time he was feeling sensitive.

“Skye? What about you? What are you thinking?”

Skye paused, cocked her head to one side in thought for a moment before asking the only question that she could think of right then. “Where’s he going to sleep? The pull-out couch in the den?”

Apparently that was a funny thing to ask, because it got a good chuckle out of all the grownups, but it seemed like a reasonable thing to ask to Skye. They didn’t have any other beds – or bedrooms, for that matter – in the house.

“We’ll have to figure it out,” May said, amusement still on her face. “It’s small, but we might move the desk and filing cabinets out of the office and turn that into another bedroom. We don’t have to decide that tonight.”

“We’re really proud of you three,” Phil told them with a watery smile. “It’s not always easy to make the compassionate choice.”

“But we always have to try, right?” Skye watched as Phil’s smile widened, and he practically glowed as he nodded her way.

“You know it,” he said, flashing her a wink.

“Well, if that’s decided then, I’ll start the paperwork first thing tomorrow,” Miss Hand said. She started to rise from the table and Bobbi quickly joined her, gathering up the empty bowls to drop off in the sink. “Deke’s grandmother is transitioning to a long-term care facility at the end of the week, so we have a few days to get everything squared away. I can’t thank you all enough for agreeing to do this.”

“You know you can always call on us for help,” May told her. “God knows you’ve helped us out more than we can ever repay, so anything we can ever do to return the favor…”

“We’re all just doing our part,” said Miss Hand, cutting the conversation off before it got too far into sappy compliment land, Skye knew. Skye didn’t think she’d ever once seen Miss Hand take a compliment easily.

“Vic, what in the world is your wife doing in our backyard?” Phil asked suddenly. Skye looked over to where he was standing, peering out of the kitchen window into the backyard.

“As if I ever have any idea what kind of antics that woman gets up to,” laughed Miss Hand with a shake of her head. “We should probably let her know we’ve finished, though.”

“And see what she’s doing,” Skye added, already moving to the back door.

“Skye, your shoes—” May tried to call, but Skye was already outside, eyes adjusting to the darkening sky as she scanned the yard for Izzy.

The summer air was warm and soft, and a faint breeze brought gentle wafts of sweet lilac and honeysuckle scent to Skye’s face. A few stars had begun to pepper the distant sky, tiny pinpricks of cheery light that winked down at her, and a rotund, almost-full moon more than illuminated the yard. Izzy was crouching in the grass back near the shed, semi-hidden by the yellow rose bushes that were in full bloom these days. Skye bounded over to her, the soft, cool grass tickling the bottoms of her bare feet as she drew close to Izzy.

“What are you doing?”

“Hey,” Izzy said with a smile, looking up from her handiwork. “I guess you guys are done with your meeting?”

“Yeah,” Skye nodded. “We’re getting a foster brother soon.”

“Congrats,” Izzy chuckled. “Want to see what I’m working on?”

Skye nodded again and crouched down next to Izzy and saw several glass quart canning jars nestled in the grass, each one filled with what had to be dozens of lightning bugs.

“No way,” Skye gaped. “You caught all these?”

“With my bare hands.”

“Our meeting wasn’t even that long.”

“I happen to be an exceptionally skilled and very fast lightning bug wrangler,” Izzy grinned. “Plus, your yard was full of them. I spotted them out the window while we were eating, and I figured I could catch plenty while you guys were inside.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Let them go,” Izzy said simply. “They’re happier when they can fly around free. But it always looks super cool if you let them all go at once. I thought you and your sisters could help me open the lids all at the same time, give Vic and your parents a spectacular summer light show. What do you say?”

“Yeah,” Skye said, excitement hitching her voice up. “I’ll get them all right now.”

Skye raced inside and quickly dragged Jemma and Bobbi out to the backyard with her.

“You guys need to come, too,” she called over her shoulder to the adults before the screen door could slap closed behind her. “Don’t stay in here talking for forever. We want you to come see.”

“See what?” Jemma asked as Skye pulled her over to where Izzy was sitting guard over the jars.

“See them,” Skye said proudly, spreading her arms wide to present the glowing jars to Jemma and Bobbi. “Izzy caught us lightning bugs. We’re going to let them go all at once and make a light show.”

“Are they okay to be in the jars like that?” Bobbi asked, bending down to get a closer look at the glowing insects.

“There’s air holes in the lids,” Izzy assured her. “I’m a humane bug-catcher, I promise.”

“Beetles in the Lampyridae family are fascinating,” Jemma breathed. “There are over 2,000 different species all in the same family, and lots of them demonstrate bioluminescence, especially the nocturnal ones. Some also make special steroids in their bodies called lucibufagins that make them taste unpleasant to predators, as a defense mechanism.”

“Well, good,” Skye said cheerfully. “Because they look way too cool for them to just go and get eaten up all the time.”

Soon Phil, May, and Miss Hand had all come outside, and Izzy wasted no time in making sure everyone had a jar in hand. Skye watched the bugs in hers, a cluster of gentle, hapless little insects flitting and floating around inside. Soft yellow light pooled on her hands as she tightened her grip on the glass, preparing the remove the lid.

It was a little goofy of Izzy to insist on presenting the release of the lightning bugs like some show for the adults on the steps, and under different circumstances, Skye might have felt like it was too childish of an activity for someone about to start high school to take part in. But Izzy’s enthusiasm was contagious, and, if Skye was being honest, it felt nice to be around people who were happy to coax childishness out of her and indulge in it with her. She hadn’t gotten to do so many things that little kids were supposed to get to do – things like learning to ride a bike or swim, like making ice cream in a coffee can or catching lightning bugs to show off to your parents – so she felt like maybe it was okay to do them now, to make up for lost time, even if she was probably too old to be playing around with bugs and making May and Phil sit through a lightning bug “light show.”

“Three, two, one, go!” Izzy called from her spot in the yard, several feet away. Skye twisted the lid off her jar and waited with bated breath. It took a few seconds for any of the lightning bugs to realize that they could leave the jar, but soon the first few – the brave ones, Skye supposed – took notice and began zooming back out into the open air. Once the first few had taken off, more and more of the lightning bugs began to follow suit, and soon a whole wave of twinkling yellow lights was spilling out of the top of Skye’s jar and filling the air around her. The bugs dipped and bobbed and weaved on the breeze, dancing around her face and shoulders. One flew remarkably close to her ear, and the buzz of its wings tickled her as it passed. The lights popped and winked as the bugs relished their newfound freedom, and Skye felt like she was caught up in the world’s most cheerful tornado for a fleeting moment.

“It’s like being inside of a constellation,” came Jemma’s voice, quiet beside Skye. Jemma had drifted over to where Skye still stood transfixed, and she slipped her free hand into Skye’s and squeezed, tapping three times on the back.

“You always said we were made of star stuff,” Skye smiled.

“Carl Sagan said that,” Jemma corrected her happily. “I just like to quote him.”

Skye glanced over to the other corner of the yard, where Bobbi was cajoling the last few lightning bugs out of her jar, and quickly pulled Jemma along to join her. She wasn’t sure if Bobbi was going to want to talk about some of the things that had happened in the meeting yet, but she felt like it was important to at least show Bobbi that she wasn’t alone tonight.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Skye asked, scooping a lightning bug out of the air gently and then rotating her hand, holding it out open and flat with her palm to the sky, so they could watch the lightning bug crawl across her hand. “I think they’re pretty much the happiest bugs I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“They’re like stars,” Jemma smiled. Bobbi offered a small, half-smile. A little sad looking, Skye thought.

“Do you think a person could wish on them?” Bobbi asked quietly, after a long pause. She tipped her jar forward carefully, trying to entice the last remaining lightning bug to leave. “Since they’re like stars, I mean?”

“Totally,” grinned Skye. “Lightning bugs have to have a little magic in them, right? It can’t all just be that bio-luminance stuff.”

“Bioluminescence is magical,” Jemma agreed. “The magic of biochemistry.”

“So what are you wishing for?” Skye asked, giving Bobbi a little nudge. “There’s like a hundred lightning bugs flying around, so you can get a hundred wishes if you want.”

“I just need one.” Bobbi didn’t say anything further than that, and she fixed her attention pretty hard on the one bug still crawling around the bottom of her jar. Skye decided to let the question drop, since Bobbi seemed keen on avoiding it.

“I don’t know why this one won’t fly away,” Bobbi finally said, after the silence had lingered a beat too long. “It can go be free. Go be with the other happy bugs. Nothing’s stopping it.”

“Maybe it’s tired,” Skye shrugged. “Or maybe it doesn’t realize the jar’s open.”

“Maybe it doesn’t know how,” Jemma suggested softly. “Sometimes you get used to being stuck and you forget there’s more to the world outside. You forget to fly off and be happy because it’s been so long since you could.”

Bobbi didn’t say anything to that, but it didn’t escape Skye’s notice that she turned her head so that her long, loose hair was blocking her face from Skye and Jemma’s view for a minute. She scooped up a twig from the grass and gently poked it into the jar, trying to corral the bug into leaving.

“I just want it to get out.”

“You could leave it sitting open on the back steps,” Skye said, trying to be helpful. “It might fly away eventually. Maybe it just needs a little more time before it’s ready to go.”

“Maybe so.”

“Girls,” Phil called from the top of the steps just then. “Victoria and Izzy are getting ready to leave, come say goodbye.”

“We’re all heading inside after that,” May added. “It’s getting late and we all need to start going to bed earlier. School mornings are right around the corner, you know.”

“We know,” Skye told her, sticking out her tongue at May. “Unfortunately.”

They traipsed over to the steps, where everyone was saying their goodbyes. Bobbi set the jar down delicately on the top step before she joined the rest of the group, making sure it was on its side and with the mouth of the jar pointed out towards the yard, where the rest of the lightning bugs were still cavorting around in their merry dance of fleeting summer freedom.

“You can do it,” Skye heard Bobbi whisper to the bug still sitting inside the jar. “They’re all out there waiting for you.”

Soon Izzy and Miss Hand had gone, and everyone began making moves towards getting ready for bed. As much as Skye fussed about having to go to bed earlier and earlier, now that school was right around the corner, she couldn’t deny that May was probably right about getting some good rest now, especially with how interesting the next week was shaping up to be. There were going to be a lot of changes coming to their house; of that, Skye was certain.

Chapter Text

Not for the first time in her life, Bobbi wished she had a mood ring. And not one of those cheap knock-offs you could get in a gift shop, that just changed color based on the temperature of your skin as it sat on your finger, but an actual piece of jewelry that could actually pinpoint her feelings and pop out a little emotional analysis report for her to read. It would make things so much easier if she didn’t have to do the work of figuring out just exactly what kinds of complicated feelings were swirling around her at any given moment.

It was early, a little after five in the morning, and Bobbi was sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to convince herself to get up and start getting ready for soccer practice. She could hear the faint, and now familiar, sounds of May bustling around, probably getting ready to start the tai chi that she always began her day with. Bobbi gave her eyes a little rub, trying to fill them with enough life that when May came by to check on her – the way she always did before starting tai chi, Bobbi had discovered once she started waking up early for 6am soccer – May wouldn’t suspect that Bobbi had spent most of her night tossing and turning and struggling to figure out why she was so on-edge since last night’s conversation.

Right on cue, there was a gentle tap on Bobbi’s door, and May’s head poked around the doorframe a moment later.

“Glad you’re up,” May said. She kept her voice low, probably so she didn’t disturb the rest of the house, who were all sleeping soundly. “Sleep all right?”

All right. All right. Not true, but it wasn’t a lie if Bobbi didn’t speak. Instead, she just nodded and stretched the corners of her mouth out wide in her best imitation of a smile. It must have worked well enough, because May didn’t comment on it.

“I was thinking about doing my tai chi in the backyard this morning, if you want to join me,” May offered as she pulled away slowly, back into the hallway so she could check on Skye and Jemma too before heading downstairs. “I’ll make it quick enough that you’ll still have time to eat before we have to leave.”

Bobbi considered for a moment, then nodded again. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Great,” smiled May. “See you down there.”

Ever since Bobbi had started getting up before sunrise for soccer, May had always offered to share her early morning tai chi time. At first Bobbi hadn’t taken her up on it. She didn’t want to intrude on what she figured was one of the few times May had totally to herself during the day, and she and Skye had been doing just fine with the afternoon tai chi May did with them a few times a week. But May kept offering, morning after morning, until it finally sunk in for Bobbi that May wasn’t just being polite, and she’d agreed to join her. It was a little different than the tai chi they did with Skye in the afternoons – a lot less talking, for one, and a little slower paced, with moves that were a little more complicated. Bobbi didn’t mind in the slightest.

Bobbi dressed quickly, workout clothes that she could also wear to soccer practice in an hour, then rummaged on her desk for her batons. She didn’t have a magical mood ring, so she wasn’t exactly sure what name to give to the different things she was feeling, but she knew that a few solid twirls would at least help her clear her head and swallow down whatever bad things were clawing their way up the back of her throat enough to seem relatively normal while she worked out with May.

She grimaced slightly as she twirled, pacing a few quick steps back and forth across the small open space on her floor. She could practically hear Dr. Garner’s voice in her head, telling her that she shouldn’t be trying so hard to get rid of her bad feelings, especially not without labeling them and processing them first.

If he was here right now, he’d want her to pull the paper with the multi-colored wheel of emotions out of her desk drawer. Sit down and figure out how to classify the tightness in her stomach, the dull ache behind her eyes, and the hot, pinched feeling in her chest as something other than just ‘bad.’ That seemed like a lot of work, and Bobbi didn’t want to keep May waiting. Besides, there was no guarantee she’d actually be able to identify anything properly, so she wasn’t sure there was much point in forcing herself to go through the motions of the exercise at this moment. For now, twirling, plus several hours of good, hard, distracting workouts would have to do.

May was waiting out in the backyard for her, just like she’d said, and Bobbi inhaled deeply as she stepped out into the soft, heather-filmed space of a world only just waking up. Thin glimmers of first sunlight streamed across the air, catching the dew on the grass and making it gleam with gentle awakening.

Bobbi glanced down as she made her way down the back steps, looking at the glass jar she’d left there last night. It was empty. Something unhitched in Bobbi’s ribs, and her breath snagged for a moment in her throat. She gave a little cough to cover it and gave herself a shake. Focus. Focus. Focus. She was here to work out, not get caught up about a silly bug in a jar.

“24 forms okay with you today?” May asked. “I don’t want to rush you through breakfast after.”

“Okay, okay,” agreed Bobbi. She and May stretched first in silence, and Bobbi began to measure her breathing as she moved. It was always easier to get better breaths when she was doing something with her muscles. The clean, earthy scent of damp, early morning grass filled with sweet clover buds filled her lungs and helped her take longer, deeper breaths.

“Ready to start?”

To May’s credit, she seemed to recognize that Bobbi needed a quiet morning, and they spent the next thirty minutes in near silence as they worked. A few chickadee trills punctuated the air, accompanied every so often by the long, plaintive coo of a mourning dove. Bobbi smiled as she listened to the birdsong. A year ago, she wouldn’t have been able to identify a single birdcall, but Jemma had a good ear for them and Phil had apparently learned a lot about native Wisconsin birdsong growing up as a boy scout, so between the two of them, she had picked up a lot of information about the different birds that soundtracked her mornings now.

The sun had almost totally come up by the time she and May had finished and gone back inside, and the calm silence continued between the two as Bobbi ate a quick breakfast and May fixed herself some tea. It wasn’t until after they had put their dishes in the dishwasher and Bobbi had grabbed her cleats and soccer bag from its spot by the front door that May finally spoke again.

“Want to drive us up to the school?” She jangled the keys slightly where Bobbi could see them, offering them up for Bobbi to take. “Good practice, and there won’t be many people on the road at this hour.”

A driver’s license had been the only thing Bobbi had wanted for her 16th birthday last May. It took her a long time to work up the courage to ask May and Phil if they could help her get one, but they had, of course, been more than happy to oblige her. They’d enlisted Miss Hand’s help in processing the necessary paperwork for her to get a learner’s permit as a foster child, but it wasn’t long before she was all set to start learning.

She had been a little skittish behind the wheel at first – mostly because of how unfamiliar everything was and also, if she was being honest, because her anxiety kept deciding to pester her about how dangerous it was for her to be behind the wheel of a car – but Phil and May were good, patient teachers who knew how to push her enough to crest the hill of apprehension without pushing her too far. Between them, the mandatory driver’s ed class she’d taken at the start of the summer, and a few, possibly unorthodox, secret practice sessions with Hunter in the parking lot of an almost-abandoned shopping mall off I-43, Bobbi was actually feeling pretty well-prepared for her exam in three weeks. Still, the extra practice never hurt, and she took the keys from May with a small smile.

“You’ve been pretty quiet this morning,” May said eventually, once Bobbi had gotten on the road and was settled into the drive.

Bobbi was grateful to have the excuse of keeping her eyes on the road, because she certainly didn’t want to make eye contact with May as she offered a feeble explanation.

“Just tired. Early mornings, you know…”

“I understand.” There was a pause, and then May spoke with a playful voice: “You’ll probably be glad when school starts – you’ll get to sleep in later than you are now.”

Bobbi blew air out of her nose in a silent kind of nascent laugh and smiled. “Yeah. Almost two extra hours. That’ll be nice.”

She eased the car into the parking lot outside of the school stadium, where several of her teammates were hopping out of cars and locking up bikes, all trudging toward the gate and what would probably be a pretty grueling few hours of work. She was about to get out of the car when May made a small noise, like she was about to say something, that gave Bobbi pause.

“Look, Bobbi, I…” May hesitated. “I know there was a lot going on last night. A lot of new information. I know I’m not Phil, and I’m not as much of a conversationalist as he is, but if… If you want to talk to somebody about everything Victoria said, you know Phil or I—”

“I don’t want to talk about last night,” Bobbi said bluntly. She cringed and castigated herself internally for her rudeness. “Sorry. I just meant… There’s nothing to talk about. I’m okay. Really. Thank you, for… But it’s fine. I don’t need to talk.”

“Okay,” May said. Simple, like that was that. Bobbi always appreciated how much May seemed to trust her and accept her words, even when Bobbi knew deep down that she wasn’t being totally honest with May. “Well, the offer is always on the table if you change your mind. Have a good practice. Are you still planning on getting a ride home with Hunter?”

“Yeah. I’ll call Phil if anything changes.”

“Sounds good. See you later on today. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Bobbi returned. The words still felt funny in her mouth, like her tongue wasn’t agile enough to wrap around all the letters, but she was getting better at saying it back to them. “Bye, May.”

“Bye, Bobbi.”

After dropping her stuff off by the bench on the side of the field and quickly suiting up – cleats laced, protective athletic brace on her knee, practice pinny pulled over her shirt – Bobbi jogged lightly over to midfield, where Elena was already stationed, stretching out and chatting to Piper, a senior girl whom Bobbi had recognized from AV club last year but had only started getting to know better once she’d begun practicing with the team this summer.

“Hey Bobbi,” Elena greeted her, looking up from the hamstring stretch she was working on. “Long time, no see.” Bobbi could tell by the mischievous smile on Elena’s face that she was joking, and Bobbi mirrored the expression.

“Yeah, it’s been like, what, almost 12 hours since I last saw you guys.”

“Did you guys have like, weirdly tight quads after yesterday?” Piper asked. She stood on one foot and held her other foot up behind her, stretching the muscle in question. “I was not loose enough for all those stairs Coach made us run at the end of practice.”

“That’s because you always skimp on your stretching,” Elena teased. “You striker wannabes are always in such a rush to jump into things.”

Piper snorted. “You’re one to talk. You’re one of the most impatient people I know.”

“Maybe,” Elena conceded with a chuckle. “But at least I always stretch properly.”

That was true. Elena did like to be fast, and she liked to be first, but she also knew when to be meticulous when it counted. It was one of the things that made her such a smart, calculating midfielder, and one of the things that made her such an excellent rehab partner last spring, when she and Bobbi had been working together to get back to full strength in time for this year’s season.

Like Bobbi, Elena had been determined to get back into playing shape, laser focused on rehab as soon as she was out of the boot her doctor had put her in after she moved on from crutches. They pushed each other, but they were also strict with one another about sticking to their physical therapy regimens. Neither one wanted to reinjure themselves and set back all the progress they’d made, but sometimes it was hard to be patient for their bodies to catch up to their determination.

When Bobbi got frustrated with her knee for starting to twinge partway through their workouts, after being out of practice for so long, it was Elena who convinced her to stop pushing herself so hard and give herself grace as she rebuilt her stamina. When Elena was angry about the fact that she was still struggling to recover her full range of motion after her Achilles’ injury, it was Bobbi who helped her remember how far she’d already come and to pace herself as she continued to rehab. And when both of them had realized that there was more than a little fear lurking beneath the surface of their exterior irritations – fear that they might get hurt again, fear that they might not ever be as good as they once were – they leaned on each other to help find the courage to walk onto the field again, knee braces, ankle wraps, and all.

“We’re running formations today, right?” Piper asked, drawing Bobbi’s thoughts back to the present moment. “If we’re running 4-4-2, I’m definitely slotting up to striker. There’s no way I’m not getting a shot at it.”

“Always so eager to leave midfield behind,” tutted Elena, smirking.

“Look, somebody has to fill the Kara Palamas-shaped hole in our offense, so it might as well be me,” Piper grinned. “You and Bobbi have our midfield locked down tight. That sophomore Hannah Hutchins, who played JV last year, can take my left-wing spot. She’s solid this year. And you’ve got Grace Mulcahey back to make four. I’ll take Kara’s old spot up front with Geri, and everybody wins.”

“Sounds like you’ve got our whole offense figured out,” Bobbi said with a laugh. “Does Coach know you’re coming for his job?” That got Elena and Piper laughing, too.

“I’m just saying, it could work,” Piper said. “We’ve got the people for it this year, and as much as I love playing mid with you guys, I’ve been trying to play striker for as long as I’ve been on varsity. Now that Kara’s off at Stanford, I might actually have a shot.”

A few quick whistle blasts pierced the air then, signaling for the girls to circle up for the start of practice, and Bobbi, Elena, and Piper jogged over to join the rest of the team.

“Good morning, ladies,” Coach McCreary boomed as everyone gathered near the bench. He was a bear of a man, tall and broad, but his upbeat demeanor kept him from feeling imposing or intimidating. Bobbi liked him as a coach – fair but tough, always expecting best efforts and dedication from his players. “Before we get started today, I want to introduce you to our newest teammate. She just transferred here, and the coaching staff and I ran her through skills assessment last night.”

Bobbi blinked and realized she had forgotten about Skye and Jemma’s news last night that they’d met someone yesterday who might be joining the team. She looked around until she spotted the new face in the huddle – a white girl with pale blonde hair and a flat expression.

“Anyway, team, meet Ruby. Ruby, meet the team,” their coach concluded, gesturing wide as a means of sweeping introduction. “Make sure you all introduce yourselves at some point today.”

Ruby. Bobbi felt the corners of her mouth twitch. She’d have to tell Jemma she’d finally learned the girl’s name.

As Coach McCreary continued talking, walking them through the drills they’d be running today, movement off to one side of the stadium, near the entrance to the locker rooms, caught Bobbi’s eye. Trooping out of the locker rooms was the boys’ soccer team, apparently having just finished their pre-practice team meeting. She quickly spotted Mack and Hunter near the back of the pack, Mack swinging and stretching his arms, and Hunter dragging along behind, looking like he was still half-asleep.

Mack noticed the girls first, and he gave a friendly wave over towards Bobbi and Elena before elbowing Hunter in the side. Hunter, to his credit, snapped to attention and swiveled his head around until he saw where Mack was pointing and grinned. He waved, too, then proceeded to take things too far, first waving with one hand, then both, then doing increasingly melodramatic things like bowing their way or blowing exaggerated kisses.

Elena let out a small snort of laughter as Hunter, distracted by his own antics, ran smack into Mack’s back and reeled backwards in a daze. The boys’ coach, Coach Kitson, barked something at them, probably telling Hunter to knock it off and quit goofing around, if Bobbi had to guess. Hunter flashed her and Elena a wink and a sheepish shrug before taking off running to join the rest of his team in the empty grass field behind the stadium where they were practicing that morning while the girls’ team had the main field. Bobbi shook her head, fighting laughter. He was such a dork, but something about him always made her smile.

“We’re also running a new formation today,” Coach McCreary continued, drawing Bobbi’s focus back to the team meeting. She gave herself a little shake, reminding herself to pay attention. She was still a newcomer on the team in the grand scheme of things, and she didn’t want Coach thinking she was easily distracted. “I know we’ve run 4-4-2 the last couple of weeks, but we’re switching things up and trying 4-2-3-1.”

A dull murmur of interest washed over the group. That was a pretty serious shift, one that might mean some shake-ups across the positions. Bobbi looked around, taking in Elena’s slightly pursed lips and the crease between her eyebrows (curious face), Piper’s perturbed frown (unhappy face), and the cool, unsurprised smile – smirk? – on the new girl, Ruby’s, face. Bobbi didn’t know what to call that one.

“How come we’re switching, Coach?” Elena asked, thrusting her hand in the air as she spoke. Elena did that a lot, Bobbi noticed – raising her hand as she was speaking, opening doors as she was knocking. She somehow managed to still be polite about it all, a talent that impressed Bobbi, but you could never accuse Elena of being the type of person to wait around for other people to match her speed.

“I want to try out some new options while we still have the flexibility of preseason,” he explained. “It’s a more difficult formation to manage, but I think we’re strong enough this year to try it. And I think this new formation might fit the new team dynamic a little better.”

Bobbi frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

“Remember, this is all still just practice,” finished Coach McCreary. “We are announcing starters and final positions at the end of the week, but for now, the rest of the coaching staff and I are still just trying to see where everybody fits best. Don’t take your practice position to heart.” He flipped a page on his clipboard and began calling out names and positions for their first round of formation drills. “Red squad: Carmen, keeper; Jules, right fullback; Jess, right centerback; Sanjita, left centerback; Hannah, left fullback…”

Bobbi thought ahead quickly to how the midfield was supposed to be structured in this formation. It was pretty different from the formation that they’d been using earlier – the one Piper had mapped out positions for just a few minutes ago. Instead of four midfielders and two strikers, they’d have two centermids, three forwards, and one, solitary striker. That didn’t bode well for Piper’s dreams of moving into the position.

“Grace and Piper, centermids,” continued Coach McCreary. Bobbi watched as Piper’s face fell. “Geri, left forward; Elena center forward; Bobbi, right forward; Ruby, striker.”

Everyone whose name had been called began jogging out onto the field, while the remaining players waited for their own assignments to play opposite them on Black squad.

“What kind of bull…” Piper grumbled as they made their way across the turf. “New girl shows up and the whole team gets restructured? With her as the only striker?”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to move up,” Bobbi told her. “Central midfield’s a pretty good spot, though. Lots of chances for you to make a play on the ball.”

“And like zero chances of taking any shots or scoring any goals,” finished Piper grouchily. Bobbi gave her a sympathetic bump with her shoulder, trying to cajole her out of her bad mood.

“There’s more to a team than goal scoring.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Piper said. She gave in to Bobbi’s nudging and held up her hands in surrender, smiling. “Every position is important, I know. I just really wanted to score some more goals this year. At least I’ll get to do a lot more tackling, I guess.”

“It’s definitely weird, though,” Elena mused. “He moved Geri off striker, too… And switching the whole offense to just one? Even when we had Kara the superstar, we had more than one striker.”

“Maybe the new girl’s just that good,” Piper said, although judging by the edge in her voice, Bobbi wasn’t convinced her words were genuine.

“Guess there’s only one way to find out,” said Elena. She flashed a teasing smile Piper’s way. “Try not to hold too much of a grudge against her before you’ve seen her play or even gotten to know her, Piper.”

They drilled the new formation for the next two hours, running through switches and plays and practicing how to feed the ball from player to player with everyone in their new spots. Bobbi had to admit that there was a sharpness to the new formation that they’d been lacking when they’d practiced with the 4-4-2 earlier. Having the offense collapse on a single point up at the top of the field, bolstered by three pressing forwards, gave them a cutting drive, and the flexibility of the central midfielders to help attack or drop back on defense helped to swallow any press from the other girls who were serving as stand-in opponents as they worked.

She also understood, within the first few minutes of play, exactly why Coach had restructured the offense to center around Ruby as the solitary striker. The girl was insanely talented. Her shots sliced through the air, and her footwork struck a balance between precision and aggression that caused the girls defending her to completely lose their bearings more than once. Bobbi had been impressed with Kara Palamas last year, and watching Ruby play, it was like Kara had never left.

“All right, last play of the morning,” called Coach McCreary as their time dwindled. “Forwards, I want to see you get creative, show me something.”

Bobbi gritted her teeth and gave herself a little slap on the quadriceps – a get-up-and-go, time-to-dig-deep kind of slap to jump-start one last surge of adrenaline and power her through the final play.

“You want to run a little magic?” Elena called at her from midfield, grinning. Bobbi returned the look and spun her finger in Elena’s direction.

“Let’s roll it.”

The girls on the Black squad who were scrimmaging against them started with the ball this time, and they quickly tried to set up a standard offensive push, pressing forward with a front three. After a few minutes of back and forth where Piper and Grace shored up a solid defense for the Red squad and the Black squad’s front made a few attempts at piercing their shield, Elena found her moment to start the magic.

She had baited a forward on the Black squad, a sophomore girl named Rachel whom Bobbi hadn’t gotten to know very well yet, drawing Rachel back and trapping her around midfield. With surgical precision, Elena executed a swift steal and extricated the ball from Rachel’s fumbling feet, then quickly chipped a pass in Bobbi’s direction, over Rachel’s head and over the tangle of bodies of players who had tried to come and help Rachel out of the jam.

Bobbi tracked the ball with ease, backpedaling slightly to get in position to catch it cleanly on her chest and drop the ball right at her feet. Magic time. She pounded forward, driving the ball along with her as she turned on a burst of speed that caught the attention of the Black squad defenders and her own teammates. Up ahead, she could see Ruby matching pace, pressing forward and angling for a long pass from Bobbi that she could catch-and-shoot. It was a logical move, but Bobbi could tell that the defense was reading the move from a mile away, so she kept handling the ball herself as she continued running up the side of the field.

She was in danger of getting herself too far forward with nowhere to go, but Bobbi knew exactly what she was doing. The confidence, the awareness and certainty that she was in control electrified Bobbi’s insides almost as much as the exhilaration of running full-speed, of wind pumping into her lungs and churning legs digging in against the turf. Just as two defenders collapsed in on her, sure that they had caught her too far in the corner, Bobbi flicked a sharp pass backward, practically without looking, straight into the waiting feet of Elena, whom Bobbi had known, instinctively, would be there.

Bobbi had never played with someone like Elena before, someone whom she could anticipate as easily as if they shared the same brainwaves and who could anticipate Bobbi perfectly in return. They understood each other, read each other, connected three steps ahead. It was unlike anything Bobbi had ever experienced on a soccer field before and she couldn’t wait to put their connection to the test against some real opponents before too long.

Elena gathered Bobbi’s pass in an instant, like she’d known it was coming all along, and immediately, with only a single touch, fed the ball in the opposite direction, up the field to Geri, who had tracked them along the left sideline. No one was defending her, since they’d all shifted right to try and shut down Bobbi’s charge, and Geri had a clear look straight in. Geri dribbled in a few yards, building up a head of steam, faked out the one defender who’d come close enough to make a play on the ball, and then sent a pass beelining to the middle of the field, where Ruby was waiting to receive it. In a flash, Ruby collected the ball and drilled a shot straight into the back of the net, sending the Black squad goalkeeper, Nina, diving in the complete wrong direction.

Coach’s whistle rang out, a long blow signaling the end of play.

“Nicely done, ladies!”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Elena whooped as she pulled up alongside Bobbi and Geri, who were collected in front of the goal, exchanging high fives. “That’s the magic.”

“That trap was perfect,” Bobbi said, smacking both hands against Elena’s up over their heads with glee.

“Forget the trap, that no-look pass—”

“And the one-touch straight to Geri—”

“And Geri, that fake… you broke Dessa’s ankles on that, I swear—”

“We gotta remember that one,” Geri nodded, a huge smile on her face. “We’ll eviscerate the Mishicot D with a play like that.”

“The shot was really good, too,” Bobbi added, raising her voice a little as Ruby walked past them on her way back to the bench. “You’ve got some serious talent, Ruby.”

“I know,” was all the blonde girl said in reply. She did at least pause and give the rest of the group an appraising look. “The set up was decent. I could have made the shot if you’d passed it to me first thing, but I guess the more… creative approach works, too.”

Bobbi bristled a little at Ruby’s standoffishness. “Coach said to be more creative on that last play. Besides, you would have been swamped with defenders if we’d passed up right away.”

“You don’t have to get so defensive,” Ruby said with a slight drawl. “I said the set up was good.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Bobbi felt her cheeks go warm, which was saying a lot since she was already pretty hot and sweaty from practice. She chastised herself for misinterpreting Ruby’s comments and assuming the worst. It was hard to tell what Ruby meant, with the way she talked and how little she moved her face. Not a lot of context clues for Bobbi to pick up on and assess. “Um, thanks. I guess we’ll just keep working on the feeds, so I know when to get the ball to you.”

“Sure,” Ruby shrugged. “Get it to me and I’ll score. Easiest way for us to win.”

“Right,” Bobbi said slowly. Remembering her manners then, she held out a hand. “I’m Bobbi, by the way. Figure we should know each other’s names if we’re playing together.”

Elena and Geri quickly introduced themselves, too, but Ruby’s attention stayed mostly on Bobbi.

“So you must be the other member of the Brady Bunch, then.”

Bobbi frowned, confused. “What?”

“I met your sisters yesterday,” Ruby said. She made that smile again, that one that Bobbi couldn’t tell if it was really a smile, or more of a snide smirk. “They talked about you. A lot. Wouldn’t stop talking, honestly.”

While that did sound like Skye, Bobbi wasn’t sure she appreciated the way Ruby made it seem like Skye had been a pest about their encounter yesterday.

“We’re pretty close, I guess.” That was the only thing Bobbi could think to say.

“Bobbi’s sisters are great,” Elena chimed in. “They came to a bunch of our games last year, and that was before Bobbi was even on the team.”

“This is your first year on varsity?” Ruby asked. Her voice sounded sticky, almost overly nice now.

“I was injured last year, and a transfer student mid-season,” Bobbi told her. She gestured to her knee brace. Despite her efforts to stay calm, she could feel herself getting defensive again. Something about Ruby just set Bobbi on edge. “I played varsity at my old school, though.”

“Me too,” said Ruby. She flashed a smile – one with a too-wide mouth and empty eyes, a false smile. “I guess we have one thing in common.”

She walked away then, without another word, leaving Bobbi, Elena, and Geri all standing there in varying degrees of disbelief.

“Well, she’s a delight,” Elena muttered. Sarcasm so strong that even Bobbi could clock it from a mile away.

“She’s making me miss Kara,” Geri agreed. “Kara could be intense, but at least she was just serious about soccer, not a total dick for no reason.”

“You guys thought she was being rude?” Bobbi glanced between the two girls for confirmation that she hadn’t been wrong to feel prickly towards Ruby.

“For sure,” Elena told Bobbi with a shake of her head. “I don’t know what bug crawled up her shorts, but she was definitely not in a good mood.”

“Hopefully it’s just first day nerves,” shrugged Geri. “I’m not interested in catering to her ego all season.”

“She is a damn good player, though,” Elena conceded. “I can see why Coach wanted to try the new formation now that she’s on the team.”

“I just hope she’s worth it,” said Geri. All three started trudging over to the bench to grab some water and switch out of their cleats. “Who knows, maybe we’ll actually make it to States this year. Between Miss ‘Get it to me and I’ll score’ and you two with your telepathic dynamic-duo routine, we’ve got as good a shot as we’ve ever had.”

“Maybe,” hummed Elena. “Our defense is young, though, and we’ll have to make sure everybody stays healthy this season. No injuries right before playoffs this time.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Bobbi said quietly. “It was a bad tackle—”

“I was reckless, and I was playing on a bad ankle when I should have been protecting it. I’m not taking stupid risks like that again. The team deserves better, and I can’t afford another nine months of rehab.”

“Well, you’re back now,” Geri said as they reached the bench and each plunked down to start undoing their laces. “And we’re all one year older. We’re smarter, more focused, more driven. This year’s going to be our year. I can feel it.”

Chapter Text

Bobbi lingered outside the stadium once practice was over and she’d collected all her things from the bench, waiting for Hunter to emerge from his own practice. It was just after eight now, the sun fully risen and the heat already starting to tick upwards, although standing on the edge of a parking lot after running around for two hours probably had more to do with Bobbi feeling hot than the early morning sun did.

It didn’t take long for the boys to spill out of the gate, all just as sweaty and shiny as Bobbi felt. As much as she couldn’t wait to hop in a cold shower and rinse off the evidence of her hard work that morning, though, Bobbi had to admit there was something about the post-practice feeling that she relished. The satisfyingly tired muscles, the extra adrenaline still flowing through her veins, the expansion of her lungs as she slowly returned her breathing to normal and the sweaty proof that her body was doing its job of keeping her cool… all of it gave her a feeling of accomplishment and a job well-done.

Hunter was one of the last ones out, his sweaty hair sticking up in eleven wrong directions and the front of his shirt dark with perspiration. He looked beat, but he was laughing at something Mack had said, and he lit up when he saw Bobbi waiting for them.

“Hey Bob,” he grinned. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“You’ve already seen me today,” Bobbi said with a playful roll of her eyes. “And all afternoon yesterday.”

“I’m not allowed to miss you?” Hunter teased.

“Pretty sure it has to be at least a few hours before it counts as ‘missing’ someone,” ribbed Mack. Hunter gave him a lighthearted shove.

“Says the guy who was lamenting the fact that he didn’t get to have his pre-practice phone call with Elena this morning.”

“You and Elena talk on the phone every morning?” Bobbi asked. She was surprised, not by the fact that Mack and Elena talked often, but by the fact that she hadn’t known it was a part of their morning routine. Mack gave a bashful smile and shrugged.

“Not every morning. But we do it a lot. Phone, or video chat… It’s a nice way to start the day.”

“He likes for Elena to be the first thing he hears in the morning,” Hunter said in a little sing-song-y voice. He was still grinning, but Bobbi could tell by the shape of his smile and the gentleness in his eyes that he wasn’t actually making fun of Mack.

“That’s really sweet, Mack,” she said.

“It is,” Hunter agreed, speaking more seriously this time. “It sounds like something a couple of senior citizens would do, but it’s honestly a nice thing you two have, so good on you, mate.”

“How come you didn’t get to talk to her this morning?” Bobbi wanted to know.

“Timing,” Mack shrugged. “My dad wanted to show me some new parts he got for the bike we’re working on before he left for work, and Elena’s mom needed help with breakfast this morning, so we both were a little busy, and then it was time to get ready to come here.”

“Yet another reason to hate crack of dawn football practices,” Hunter joked. “Bloody early and an obstacle to young love.”

“But just think,” Mack said, “now we’re all up and wide awake. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us, at least until afternoon practice. There’re so many things we can get done between now and then.”

“Speak for yourself,” grimaced Hunter. “I’m going back to bed once I get home.” He paused then, and flashed a mischievous wink. “Maybe if I’m feeling productive after that I’ll play a few video games before I have to drag my broken-down body back here for another round of wind sprints and tackling drills.”

“Well, let me know if you do,” Mack laughed. “I’ll hop online and play with you. Just because I’m using my day to get things done doesn’t mean ‘zombie crushing’ isn’t included in that list of things.”

They parted ways then, Mack wanting to catch up with Elena, and Bobbi and Hunter ready to head for home.

“Can I still catch a ride with you?” she asked.

“Like you have to ask.”

They waved goodbye to Mack and crossed the parking lot over to Hunter’s claptrap car. He jimmied the passenger side door open for her, and after a couple failed starts, they were rumbling out of the parking lot and down the road.

“Fancy taking the scenic route?”

Bobbi smiled. ‘The scenic route’ had become somewhat of an inside joke between them, an excuse to take the long way home so they could spend a few extra minutes in the car together. She hadn’t understood that’s what Hunter was getting at the first few times he’d asked, until she finally just asked him what was supposed to be scenic about the longer way home. When he’d answered that she was supposed to be the scenic thing… well, she was glad no one else had been around to see how red her face got. Still, it was fun to laugh about with him now, and she certainly enjoyed the extra time with him.

“How was your practice?” Hunter asked, once they’d been driving for a bit.

“Good,” Bobbi mused. “We have a new player. Transfer. She’s a striker, really good, so Coach had us trying a new formation to work her in better.”

Hunter let out a low whistle. “Restructuring the game strategy for one player? She must be bloody brilliant.”

“She’s definitely one of the best I’ve seen,” Bobbi admitted. “She hasn’t exactly fit in with the rest of the team yet, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just some of the things she said,” Bobbi trailed off. “We were trying to talk to her after practice and she… I don’t know, she’s just confident, I guess.”

“Confident, or arrogant?” Hunter asked sagely.

“To be determined, maybe. It was only her first day.”

They were both quiet for a little bit after that, until Hunter started fiddling with the tape deck on his car. Soon the plucks of tinny, driving guitar chords and thrumming bass notes filled the car air. The music sounded like the kind of thing that people recorded in their garages, which, based on what Bobbi knew about Hunter’s recent taste in music, might have actually been true.

“Which one is this?”

“Emily’s Sassy Lime,” Hunter said. “One of Izzy’s recommendations from her younger days. I’ve only just started checking them out, but I like them so far. Izzy dropped off the tape before she went over to your place last night.”

Bobbi laughed a little and shook her head. “I still don’t know how I feel about you being friends with my social worker’s wife. It seems like it should be weird, but it’s strangely not.”

After meeting properly at Bobbi’s birthday party last spring (since no one considered a brief run-in outside of Cal’s creepy warehouse of doom a proper meeting), Hunter and Izzy had hit it off almost right away. Bobbi wasn’t sure if it was their shared love of Hawaiian pizza or their shared dislike of Manchester United that had really sealed the deal between them, but whatever it was, the two were clearly kindred spirits.

“Izzy’s awesome,” Hunter sighed. “She’s like… the cool queer aunt I never had. Which I desperately need since my actual aunts are a sweet-but-shy, divorced single mum and an obsessed-with-her work federal agent dating the most milquetoast man I’ve ever met. Did I tell you we had dinner with him one of the nights we were visiting Aunt Sharon in Chicago?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“He was nice,” Hunter shrugged. “Very polite. Kind of bland. He does something with finance, selling bonds or something.”

“Sounds riveting.”

“So you can see why I need somebody like Izzy as a mentor,” Hunter continued, only half teasing. “Who else is going to properly debate me on Premier League opinions and teach me about random, old school rock bands I’d otherwise never’ve heard of?”

“She’s definitely got a unique skill set,” laughed Bobbi.

“Did you know she used to be in a rock band?” Hunter asked. “Back in college, down south. Apparently she and Victoria were both into ‘the scene,’ whatever that means. That’s how they met.”

“No way.”

“Honest to god,” he insisted. “She was telling me all about it when we were all at that barbeque Mr. Coulson hosted in your backyard over Fourth of July weekend.” He flashed her a sly smile. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised that the social worker with bright red streaks in her hair used to have some edge to her.”

“I guess I just never thought about it,” Bobbi admitted. “She’s just… Miss Hand. She’s usually all business.”

“I’m telling you Bob, you’ve got to ask her about The Iliad-iots sometime. Or just mention Franny’s Saloon. You’ll get a right laugh from seeing her try to downplay all the stuff she and Izzy got up to.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” said Bobbi, still somewhat incredulous at this new piece of information about the straightlaced and formal Miss Hand. “If I ever need a quick change of subject with her or something.”

“So, speaking of Miss Hand and subject changes,” Hunter said delicately, “you never said how the meeting went last night. I thought you might text me after it was over…”

“Sorry. I meant to, but it was late, and… I didn’t really know what to say, I guess.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he assured her. “It’s fine you didn’t want to talk last night. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk now. I was just curious is all, but you know you can always tell me to take my curiosity and shove it. You don’t have to tell me anything.” He cut his eyes over to her and flashed her a quick grin to put her at ease.

“You hate it when people don’t tell you things.”

“I hate it when people keep secrets from me,” he amended. “Mostly because I don’t like being lied to. But there’s a difference between secrets and things that you’d just rather not talk about, as I’ve learned. So if the meeting’s off-limits—”

“No, it’s not off-limits,” Bobbi decided. “There’s not much to say, but we can talk about it.”

“All right. So, what happened? Are you closer on the adoption, then?”

Bobbi frowned. “Not really. I mean, Miss Hand was trying to make it seem like we’re closer, but all she really had to update us on was everything that’s still holding the process up. Skye’s paperwork, Jemma’s immigration status—”

“Damn, I hadn’t thought about that. That whole process can be a bloody nightmare.”

“Apparently there’s a plan in place, but it’s just one more thing, you know?”

“Your paperwork must be all sorted by now, though, right?” Hunter cocked his head in her direction. “You don’t have shoddy orphanage files or citizenship issues to work through, so…”

Bobbi was quite for a minute, and she found herself staring hard out the window instead of looking at Hunter. She didn’t mean to shut him out, but it was hard to make herself look at him as the confusing swirl of feelings from the night before came rushing back up into her throat. Eventually she managed to spit something out. “There’s a holdup on mine, too.”

 “Oh.” Hunter’s voice was softer now, a delicate voice, a pacifying one. “What’s… what’s the holdup?”

“My mom.”

“Your…” Hunter trailed off. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the problem?”

Bobbi gave a harsh noise of disdain. “We’d need a longer car ride for me to tell you what all’s the problem with my mom.”

“What about just with the paperwork, then?”

“The problem with the paperwork is that I can’t get adopted until she signs away her rights, and apparently she hasn’t done it yet.”

“How does she still even have rights to sign away?” Hunter’s brow creased low over his narrowed eyes and his mouth turned down. More like an agitated or frustrated face than a truly angry one, but the underlying sentiment was all the same. “You haven’t seen her in eight and a half years.”

“I don’t know. Something about her still technically having custody because of the way my parents handled their divorce. ‘Bifurcation’ or something. Miss Hand explained it, but…”

“Not easy to pay attention in that scenario,” nodded Hunter. He had softened again. “I get it.”

“Miss Hand sent her the paperwork a while ago, but so far nothing. She apparently tried calling my mom last year, too. Back when I was first in the hospital and Miss Hand was trying to find someone to take care of me after I got taken away from my dad.” Bobbi turned away again, her eyes locking onto the slowly passing scenery as she blinked them hard to clear the emotion that was brimming up. “I guess she didn’t think me being in the hospital was a good enough reason to pick up the phone.”

“Shit, Bob. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bobbi said quickly. A little sharper than she really meant to. “She doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Hunter murmured. “It’s about you, your life. It’s impacting you. So it matters.” He paused for a little while before asking a new question. “So, what’s the best-case scenario here? What are we looking for?”

“I want to get adopted,” Bobbi told him without a moment’s hesitation. “That’s best-case. And May and Phil and Miss Hand know that.”

“That’s good.”

“But it’s… complicated,” she faltered. “I want to get adopted, because being a part of Phil and May’s family is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. And for me to get adopted, my mom has to sign the papers. So I want her to sign the papers. If she cares about me at all – which is a big ‘if’ at this point – she’ll sign the papers so I can get what I want.”

“But?” Hunter prompted, sensing her hesitancy and knowing that there was a part she wasn’t saying.

“But, but, but it still feels weird,” Bobbi finished softly. She ducked her head, staring now at her hands in her lap, which had bunched into fists. She wished she had her batons to help loosen the taut muscles that were locking her hands and arms up. They were veering into unknown territory, into the mysterious waters that had kept her awake last night as she tried to make sense of how mixed-up hearing about her mom last night had made her.

“It makes me feel weird. It’s like… her signing away her rights would be her caring about me, because it would mean I could get adopted. So she’d be giving me what I want, which means she cares. But it would also mean she doesn’t care about me. Not at all, not anymore. Because she doesn’t want anything to do with me ever again. She doesn’t want to be attached to me in any way. Which I knew already. I mean, she left me eight years ago and never looked back. She didn’t pick up the phone when my dad put me in the hospital. I know she doesn’t care about me. But it’s still… it’s just weird. Weird to want her to get rid of me for good. Make it official, I guess.”

“And it’s not like I want her to try and get me back,” she continued, frustration prickling up in her throat. “I don’t want her to decide to be a parent again all of the sudden. I don’t want some horrible custody battle, and I don’t want her to be interested in me again just because somebody else wants me. That’s not what I’m saying. I want her to sign the papers and to be done with me. But I… it still doesn’t feel… good.”

Hunter was quiet for a minute. Bobbi still wasn’t looking at him, so she couldn’t tell by his face if he understood what she was trying to say, or if she had lost him completely. She hoped it was the former, even with her inability to accurately identify exactly how she was feeling about the whole thing, but she couldn’t make herself turn to check.

“This whole situation is shit,” Hunter finally said. “And, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I really hate your parents for putting you in this damn mess.”

Bobbi let out a surprised laugh, a little weak, but mostly overwhelmed with gratitude at the fact that Hunter was with her. She glanced over at him. His eyes were on the road, which made it easier for her to study his face. His mouth was pulled tight in a grimace, but it seemed more like remorse than anything else.

“It seems to me,” he continued, “that no matter what happens, you’re probably going to get hurt. And that’s rubbish and I wish I could stop it from happening, because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Always my knight in shining armor,” Bobbi said with a faint smile.

“But it also seems like, as much as it’s going to hurt to have your mum cut ties for good, at least you know it’s going to create a lot more good in the long run. Doesn’t really make it suck less, but…”

“Makes it feel like it might be worth it,” finished Bobbi quietly. “Yeah, I know. You’re right.”

Hunter shrugged. “It’s not about being right. You said it yourself; you want her to sign the papers. That’ll be good. It just won’t feel good in the moment, and that’s okay to be upset about that.”

“Have I told you how glad I am to have somebody like you?”

Hunter smiled and removed his right hand from the steering wheel, laying it down, palm up, on the center console between their two seats. “Feeling’s mutual, Bob.” She rested her hand in his, feeling her muscles shift to fit into the shape of his hand, holding on, gentle and tight all at the same time. Some of the tension she’d been carrying in her hands melted into Hunter’s skin. It wasn’t quite the same as holding her baton, but the effect was awfully similar.

After a few minutes more, they pulled up outside Bobbi’s house, and Hunter turned to look at her once he’d put the car in park. “Have you talked to your foster parents about any of this? All the stuff you’re feeling about your mom?”

“Not yet,” she admitted. “They both offered to talk, but I… I didn’t really know what to say. I’ll talk to them, eventually. Now that I’ve had some time to figure stuff out.” She flashed him a side smile and gave his hand a squeeze, a silent thank-you for being such a good sounding board.

“Happy to help,” he said softly, returning the smile and squeeze. “I’m here for you. We all are. And I’m glad you’re still trying to get adopted. I’d be bloody miserable if you had to move away to wherever it is that your mum’s been hiding out.”

“California, apparently.”

“See? That’s too damn far. You can’t leave me for California,” he grinned.

“I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll pick you up for afternoon practice, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “See you then. Thanks, Hunter.”

“Anytime, Bob.”

Chapter Text

By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, Melinda was already beat. It wasn’t for no reason, by any means. Things had been busy at work, and there was still plenty to do to get the girls ready for the start of school next week – last minute supply shopping, finalizing accommodations paperwork and scheduling therapy and tutoring sessions around school hours, trying to squeeze in as much as they could before their life shifted totally back towards homework and soccer games. There’d been workouts and driving practice with Bobbi, tai chi and reading practice with Skye, puzzle working and trips to the library with Jemma… all of it good, and all of it keeping Melinda busier than she’d been in a long time.

Jemma had needed new shoes, and Skye had outgrown the jeans they’d bought last fall, so there were shopping trips to fit in, all full of gentle coaxing as they helped Jemma ease into the idea of new shoes and the difference in the way the new ones felt. It had been obvious that Jemma was trying her best to seem amenable and easy-going about the change, but it was equally obvious that the effort was costing her as she forced herself to lace up the new sneakers and tried to not grimace at the sensation of newness.

Honestly, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Jemma’s old ones were literally coming apart at the seams, they might have just let her keep wearing the old ones until she was ready to pick out new ones on her own terms. That was something she and Phil had been trying to be attentive to with all the girls, especially after some of their conversations with Andrew. Letting the girls set terms when and where it was safe and appropriate for them to do so. Giving them more ownership of their lives. It was a natural thing to be encouraging for teenagers regardless, but after everything Bobbi, Skye, and Jemma had been through, Melinda knew it was particularly important for them to feel like they had control over parts of their lives. With the shoes, though, she wasn’t sure Jemma would have ever made the switch voluntarily, and it wasn’t good for her to be walking around in falling apart shoes that offered no support or protection, so they’d had to step in with some encouragement.

It had helped when Phil suggested Jemma could still keep her old shoes, and Melinda had done her best to find some options that were as close to the old ones as possible for Jemma to try on at home, away from the pressure and stress of the store. Once Jemma had settled on a pair, Melinda had taken the others back to the store and returned them. She knew to an outsider, it might have seemed like an unnecessarily complicated system, but it worked for them, and it worked for Jemma, so Melinda was willing to deal with complicated if it meant it was easier for her youngest daughter to transition through and accept small changes.

On top of all that, they’d spent the last several days getting things ready for their newest arrival. Phil and the girls had moved all of the old furniture out of the office, squeezing the desk into a corner of the living room and finding an empty-enough section of hallway to stick the file cabinet. It wasn’t until after they’d gotten Deke’s bed delivered and had spent the better part of Thursday night putting it together that she and Phil realized that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to put the 6-year-old in a room by himself on the first floor while the rest of them slept on the second.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of that sooner,” she’d said, falling back onto the newly assembled bed in a dejected huff. “Of course we can’t let him sleep down here all alone. What were we thinking? He’s so young; there’s no way we’re prepared for this, Phil…”

“We’ll figure it out,” Phil assured her. He joined her on the bed and ran a soothing hand up and down on her shoulder, massaging out the stress and self-doubt. “The girls might be willing to all share a room, and we can put Deke in the other bedroom while he’s here. Or maybe Bobbi would be interested in moving down here for the time being. I seem to recall you being more than eager to move your bedroom into your basement when you were her age.”

“I was trying to put as much distance between me and my mother as possible back then,” she smirked. “I was so mad at her for making me move to Wisconsin.”

“It worked out in the end,” smiled Phil.

“Yes, it did.” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “Okay, you’re right, let’s just ask the girls what they want to do. Thanks for not letting me spiral too much.”

Ultimately, Bobbi had decided she’d rather move into the made-over office than cram in with Skye and Jemma. Even though Skye had been disappointed by the decision, Bobbi seemed more than happy to have a little more space and privacy, even if the room itself was smaller. Melinda knew they were probably all busy at home now, working away with Phil to get Bobbi’s things moved and Bobbi’s old room ready for Deke, while she sat behind her desk at the precinct, finishing up some backlogged paperwork and trying not to get too nervous about meeting their new foster son that night.

It was hard to say what was more distracting that afternoon – the drudgery of paperwork, the anticipation of that evening, or maybe just her general worry about the girls and how they were adjusting to everything – but whatever the reason, when Melinda’s phone rang at her desk near the end of her workday, she didn’t pay close attention to the number that flashed on the caller ID. If she had, she would have seen that it was a number she’d been ignoring for months now, and she wouldn’t have picked up. Instead, she answered without thinking.

“Hello?”

“Is this Detective Melinda May?” came a flat voice on the other end.

“Speaking.”

“This is the Milwaukee Secure Detention Facility. We have an outgoing call for you from an inmate here. Would you like to accept?”

Melinda’s heart turned to lead in her chest as she glanced down at the ID and registered what she’d done by picking up the phone. Suspecting the answer already, she asked: “Which inmate?”

“Calvin Johnson.”

Cal had been calling her as often as his phone privileges allowed, ever since he’d been sentenced to MSDF several months ago and had somehow figured out her work phone number. She’d never accepted one of his calls, and often she didn’t even pick up the phone if she could see it was the detention facility calling. At least he hadn’t been able to get ahold of their home phone number. The last thing she wanted was him trying to call there and for one of the girls – Skye especially – to hear.

“Detective? Would you like to accept the call?”

Melinda gave herself a little shake and pulled herself out of her thoughts and back to the situation at hand. She was about to say no, to hang up and start packing up to go home, but for some reason, something stopped her. She was getting a feeling, one of her hunches, like maybe this time she ought to just answer him. Not one to dismiss her intuition, even if maybe it went against her better judgment, Melinda heard herself telling the phone operator “yes.” At the very least she could tell Cal to stop calling her.

There was a brief pause while the phone line transferred, then a click, the automated reminder that their call was being recorded, and suddenly, although there was nothing but silence on the other end, Melinda could tell that Cal was there. Waiting like a spider on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Mr. Johnson?”

A man’s voice made a surprised little sound, and there was a long beat before he spoke. His voice was a little hoarse, but it was unmistakably the voice of the man who she’d found terrorizing her children nearly nine months ago. She knew she would never forget the sound of it. “Hel--? Oh, I… My apologies, I… I wasn’t expecting you to pick up, Detective May. This is a momentous first for us.”

Melinda felt her expression harden, her face go stony as she listened to his puttering little mannerisms work their way over the phoneline. When she spoke, there was steel in her tone.

“What do you want, Mr. Johnson?”

“It’s… it’s Doctor, actually. Did you know that? I’m not allowed to practice anymore, of course, but I am a… was a doctor. You can call me Cal, though.”

“Is there some reason for your call?”

“Well, I want what any father wants…”

Melinda’s eyes narrowed. “You must be out of your mind if you think for a second I’m going to let you anywhere near Skye. If that’s all this is about, you can stop calling me, because my answer will not change.”

“Please, I just want to see Daisy. To talk to her. She’s my little girl, and we left things on such bad terms last time…”

“You mean when you kidnapped her? Or when she testified against you in court?”

Cal made a pained noise, almost like a groan. “You see, that’s no way for a girl to remember her father. I have so many things I want to tell her.”

“This conversation is over. Don’t call again, Mr. Johnson.”

“Wait!”

Perhaps foolishly, Melinda hesitated. Cal spoke in a rush, like he knew she was about to hang up.

“Daisy’s in danger. I need to tell her. To warn her. I have information, things she needs to know, for her own safety.”

“In danger how?” Melinda asked. It sounded to her like a desperate last attempt on Cal’s part to get what he wanted.

“It’s really the sort of thing she ought to hear from me herself,” Cal started to say. Melinda cut him off sharply.

“Anything you have to say about Skye’s safety can be said to me, not to her. And frankly, Mr. Johnson, if you were truly worried about Skye’s safety and not just using an empty threat as a bargaining chip, I think you would have shared that information a long time ago.”

“It’s about Daniel Whitehall.”

Melinda’s blood ran cold. “What?”

There was a slight pause, and she could almost imagine the sickening, satisfied smile spreading across Cal’s face as he spoke. “I thought that name might mean something to you.”

It certainly did. Memories of ominous, half-filled police reports, of vague but frightening comments from hospital staff and deliberately evasive paper trails about Dr. Daniel Whitehall’s dismissal from Ames’ Memorial Hospital and subsequent stripping of his medical license over ‘ethics violations’ flooded Melinda’s mind. He was the doctor who had delivered Skye on the day she was born, the doctor who had signed Skye’s mother’s death certificate, the doctor that Cal had attacked just days after Skye’s birth… and yet, for all the digging she had done into Skye’s past, Whitehall was one bone-chilling piece of the puzzle that she hadn’t quite been able to figure out.

“What about Daniel Whitehall?”

“I want to see Daisy.”

“This isn’t a game,” Melinda said harshly, trying to keep the snarl out of her voice. The cold fear that had flooded her a moment ago changed to hot anger. “Either you know something, or you don’t. You care about Skye’s safety, or you don’t. That’s not conditional, and it’s not a negotiation tactic.”

“Have you even asked her?” Cal needled. “Did it ever cross your mind that Daisy might want to see me, too? I mean, she left you for me once before…”

“We’re done here.” And with that, Melinda hung up the phone with a resolute snap of plastic against plastic as she crashed the phone back into the receiver with more force than was probably necessary. Her heart was thrumming in her chest like she’d just run a mile, and she tried to force herself to take a deep breath. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if she let her emotions get the best of her. Cal was a known manipulator, a man with no qualms about hurting people or forcing them to bend to his cockamamie will.

Even if what he’d said was true, that he did actually know something about Daniel Whitehall, there was no way in hell she’d ever let Skye anywhere near him ever again. She remembered all too well how much Skye had suffered at his hand last year, how much she had struggled when she’d had to face him again in court a few months ago. She would never let Skye hurt like that again, never put her through that pain; Whitehall or no Whitehall, and Cal Johnson be damned.

The house was a tidal wave of activity when Melinda stepped through the front door half an hour later, casting any hope she’d had of a quiet moment to unwind before Victoria arrived with Deke out the window and into the thick summer air. Skye darted past her with barely an over-the-shoulder hello, barreling towards the kitchen with an old towel in her hands, and Jemma and Bobbi were on their way up the stairs, their arms full of linens – much cleaner and newer than the towel Skye had been carrying.

“Hi May,” Jemma chirped on her way upstairs. Melinda gave her a bemused little wave as she set down her work things and hung her keys on the hook by the door.

“Do I even want to know what’s going on around here?” she asked with a faint chuckle. Bobbi, who had paused at the base of the stairs, made an apologetic face.

“Phil was making a lasagna for supper. Skye was helping, and now there’s a whole bunch of tomato sauce on the floor.”

“Hence the towel.”

“Phil said he was going to finish putting the clean sheets on Deke’s bed once the lasagna was in the oven, but he’s a little distracted right now,” Bobbi continued. “So I figured I could do that while he and Skye clean the kitchen. Jemma’s helping me to get her mind off the…” Bobbi trailed off and waved a hand listlessly in the air, trying to capture the spirit of the word she couldn’t place. “The everything. She’s… a little nervous, I think.”

Melinda hummed a thoughtful little sound and wrapped an arm around Bobbi’s shoulders, stretching up to squeeze her tallest daughter in a side hug. “We’re lucky to have someone as thoughtful and responsible as you around,” she said warmly. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Melinda told her. “You’ve been stepping up a lot lately, and it’s not nothing. I want you to know that Phil and I see that. That we appreciate everything you do.”

“Thanks.” Bobbi gave a bashful little shrug, her cheeks pinkening slightly.

“You said Jemma was feeling nervous?” asked Melinda. “Did she say anything to you?” She and Phil had been trying their best to check in with the girls about everything, but she knew there were plenty of things they missed, plenty of things the girls saved to share only with each other.

“Not really,” Bobbi shook her head. “She’s just… you know… Being nervous. Tappy. Quiet. She rearranged her bookshelf three times this afternoon.”

“What about you? How are you feeling?”

Bobbi was quiet for a moment. “Feeling… feeling, feeling okay, I guess. I don’t really know that much about little kids. I don’t really know how to talk to them, so I’m kind of…” She paused and considered, and Melinda knew she was choosing her feeling word. “Apprehensive. But I think it’s going to be okay.”

“Me too,” Melinda said. “I’m apprehensive too, but I agree. I think it’s going to be okay. We’ll all just do our best and take things one step at a time.”

“Time, time,” Bobbi agreed. For a fleeting second, she looked like she was on the verge of saying something more, but she was cut short by the reappearance of Jemma, who had come back downstairs and drawn up to Bobbi’s side. She tugged lightly on the sleeve of Bobbi’s t-shirt, tapping a couple times on Bobbi’s elbow as she spoke.

“I need help,” she admitted. “I couldn’t put the fitted sheet on. The elastic is too difficult to do by myself.”

“It’s not really a one-person job,” Bobbi said kindly. “I’m coming.”

“Do you want help?” Melinda asked, the question directed at the two girls’ retreating backs as they headed for the stairs.

Bobbi shook her head and glanced back at Melinda. “We’ve got it. Thanks, though.”

“Phil and Skye could probably use some help,” Jemma suggested, also turning back to face Melinda. Her eyes darted toward the kitchen, and she winced a little. “Things are a bit of a mess in there.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” said Melinda with a wry smile. Taking Jemma’s suggestion, she made her way back into the kitchen and found that “a bit of a mess” was a more than apt description of the scene.

Phil was on his hands and knees, mopping the towel back and forth over a puddle of tomato sauce that has splattered across the linoleum. The front of his white shirt was speckled with a spray of red, and there was a blob of sauce splashed across his cheek, too. Melinda almost laughed out loud at the sorry sight of him, covered practically head to toe in the mess, but she caught herself when she spotted Skye standing nervously off to one side, thumping the knuckles on her right hand against her left wrist almost absent-mindedly.

“That’s quite a spill,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. She didn’t want to alarm anyone. “Everything okay in here?”

“We’re okay,” Phil said delicately, panting a little as he wiped up the last of the sauce and got to his feet. He deposited the towel in the sink and turned on the faucet, speaking over his shoulder as he began to wash his hands. “I got a little clumsy with the jar of tomato sauce—”

“I dropped it,” Skye interrupted him, frowning. “I couldn’t get the lid off, and I was handing it to Phil so he could try, but it slipped.”

“It was a team effort,” soothed Phil. “The glass broke, but we got up all the pieces. I had Skye get the towel, and now here we are. No harm done.”

“I guess it’s a good thing there was a buy-one-get-one special on tomato sauce at the grocery store last week.” Melinda smiled, taking her cue from Phil and trying to keep things light. She got the sense from his intentional nonchalance that, right now, it was better not to comment on the unanchored look in Skye’s eyes or the fact that she had put as much distance between herself and the spill as possible.

“Didn’t I say it’s always a good idea to have extra on hand?” chuckled Phil.

“You did. I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Oh, that I have to get in writing,” Phil grinned. Melinda swatted playfully at his shoulder and smirked, although she retreated quickly when he brandished his soapy hands at her, threatening to douse her with bubbles.

“Don’t you dare, Phil.”

“You’re no fun,” he teased, craning his neck back her way to kiss her jaw, right in the spot he knew she loved. He finished washing his hands and wrung out the now rinsed towel in the sink. “Skye, do you need to wash your hands? Got any sauce on you?”

Skye shook her head. “I’m okay.” She was still thumping her knuckles against her wrist. Melinda had gotten Phil’s silent message about not pressing Skye loud and clear, but she couldn’t let the knuckles go. They were supposed to be working on transitioning away from that habit.

“Can you open your fist, please, Skye?”

Skye looked bashful and quickly removed her hand from her wrist, jamming her now-unclenched fist into her pocket. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” Melinda smiled. “That’s what reminders are for. I don’t want you hurting your arm. Do you want to run through first form, to help you focus on relaxing your palm?” The was one of the unexpected benefits of doing tai chi with Skye, they had discovered. Most of the forms required an open hand, and it was an easy way to redirect some of her energy while also encouraging her to safely release the tension that built up inside of her.

“No, I’m okay.”

Skye shuffled a little, and Melinda fought the urge to chastise herself. She hadn’t meant to make Skye feel self-conscious. She had just opened her mouth to say so when Skye spoke first.

“Can I go find Jemma and Bobbi? Maybe I could help them instead?”

“Sure, sweetheart,” Phil nodded. “We’ll be in here if you change your mind and want to come back and help cook. Victoria will probably be here with Deke in about half an hour.”

Skye scampered off then with barely a backwards glance, and Phil sagged a little once it was just him and Melinda left alone in the kitchen.

“Damnit. That could have gone better.”

“What happened?” Melinda asked. “Was it like the thing with the juice all over again?”

“Not as bad as the juice thing,” Phil told her. He pulled the replacement jar of tomato sauce down from the cabinet and started to resume the cooking that he’d presumably been doing prior to the broken jar fiasco. “She weathered it better this time. But essentially… yes. As far as I could tell, it was like the juice thing.”

A few months ago, not that long after Skye’d had to testify against Cal in court, there had been a morning where a carton of juice – cranberry – had tipped over and spilled all over the kitchen floor. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, just a simple clean up, but something about the spill had struck a nerve with Skye. It was Melinda who had figured it out first, had put two and two together and realized just what the dark red juice stain might be conjuring in Skye’s mind, but she hadn’t been quick enough to keep Skye from slipping into an almost-fugue state, practically paralyzed until the spill had been wiped away completely. They’d tried to get her to talk about the incident with Andrew a couple of times, but so far, Skye had stubbornly refused to acknowledge that anything had even happened.

“She was doing that thing with her knuckles again…” Melinda pointed out. She began pulling things out of the fridge for Phil as he worked.

“I know. I should have made her stop sooner, but—”

“You had a lot to manage,” she interrupted him kindly. “Cleaning up the mess was the right first priority.”

“It’s become a habit,” he sighed with a shake of his head. “I kept thinking, once the cast was off, she wouldn’t want to knock her arm on herself anymore, but then she just switched to the knuckles and I let it go on too long before we tried to address it. Now it’s something she’ll have to unlearn, and it’s going to turn into a whole thing...”

“You’re not the only one who let it go on too long,” said Melinda. “I kept hoping it would resolve itself once we got things a little more settled, made her feel more safe. I should have seen the signs earlier, intervened sooner. But this is where we are now, and all we can do is move forward. We know she’s trying, at least.”

“It just breaks my heart that her impulse when she’s upset is to hurt herself,” Phil said sadly. “I don’t even think she realizes it half the time.”

“Which is why we just need to keep reminding her. Like Andrew said, gentle correction until the impulse changes to something less harmful.”

“I know, you’re right,” Phil smiled. “Just hard to trust the process.”

“I know.” She drew up beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. “I hope we’re doing the right thing, here.”

“With Skye? I think so. I trust Andrew—”

“No, I meant… Tonight. Bringing someone new into our home. I know it’s only temporary, and the boy needs our help, but… I don’t know. Skye’s still struggling, we just saw that. Bobbi said Jemma was nervous all day today, and Bobbi’s been freezing us out this whole week. Maybe we’re biting off more than we can chew.”

“I’ve been worrying about that, too,” Phil hummed. He passed her a knife to start mincing onions for the new and improved tomato sauce he was working on. “But we talked to the girls about it, more than once. We made sure to check in with them about it. They said they wanted to foster Deke, said they were okay with it. I feel like we owe it to them to believe them, take their words at face value.”

“That’s true. I want them to know we trust them when they tell us things.”

“We’ll just do our best, and lean on our resources to help us out,” Phil continued. “And it’s not like the girls haven’t made a lot of really good progress. They’re so different from how they were this time last year. There’ll always be tricky things and they’ll always need love and support, but we’ve all come so far. I want to believe that we’re in a good place. Or at least, a better place.”

“We are,” nodded Melinda. She tipped the chopped onion into Phil’s pot and watched as he stirred. “Of course we are. You’re right. I’ve just been worried, is all. Between school and adoption and therapy, there’s just a lot going on right now. And that stupid nonsense at work today has me all on edge…”

“What happened at work today?” Phil looked up, suddenly very curious and concerned. “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “Or, it will be. Just a phone call I had near the end of the day from—” Her phone buzzed in her pocket then, stopping her short. She pulled it out to find a text from Victoria. She was leaving Deke’s house and would be there in 20 minutes. “Vic’s on her way.”

“Not enough time in the day,” Phil said with a faint, maybe a little on the weary-side, chuckle. “Can you watch the pot while I go put on a clean shirt? Don’t touch anything, just stir,” he teased.

“There’s no way I can ruin your sauce in the five minutes it takes you to change,” she protested, laughing.

Phil raised his eyebrows her way and bit back a smile. “Your track record says otherwise, dear.”

That got another laugh of mock-outrage from her. “You know, a pettier person than I would take that insult as an opportunity to oversalt the sauce out of spite.”

“Which is why I said it only out of love,” Phil smiled. “And because I know you’d rather prove me wrong than sabotage the meal.”

“Go change,” she said, shooing him with the sauce-covered spoon. “They’ll be here soon.”

Chapter Text

“What do you think he’s going to be like?”

Skye sat at the foot of Deke’s freshly-made bed, which she’d just finished helping Bobbi and Jemma with, and swung her feet back and forth a little. Away from the kitchen and Phil and May’s worried stares, she’d been able to calm herself down a little, although she found herself wanting to rub her thumb back and forth across the spot on her wrist where she’d rapped her knuckles. It felt like maybe it might turn into a bruise at some point, but she couldn’t make herself stop fussing with it.

 Jemma, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, tapped thoughtfully on the bedpost and shrugged. “Who knows? Mostly like a little boy, I suppose.”

“I’ve never really spent that much time around little kids,” Bobbi said. “Did you two spend a lot of time with them at St. Agnes?”

“Some,” Skye said. She ran her hand across the dark blue bedspread they’d just put on the bed, but she didn’t find any loose threads to fiddle with like on her own quilt, so she went back to swinging her feet. “The really little ones have their own space, the nursery wing, that you stay in until you’re old enough to go to kindergarten. Sister McKenna was in charge there. Then once you’re five you move into the regular dormitories with the older kids. Those rooms are mostly split up by age, too, and the very oldest ones, like high schoolers, have their own wing.” With a small lurch of her stomach, Skye realized that, if she had still been living at St. Agnes right now, she’d probably be in the high school wing by now, kept apart from Jemma for much of the day. Yet another reason to be grateful she was living with May and Phil.

“There wasn’t a lot of intermixing encouraged,” elaborated Jemma. “Besides mealtimes and mass, when everyone was together, we typically stayed with our dormitory groups.”

“Which really sucks when you’ve got to share your room with somebody like Michaela Dodson,” Skye grimaced, recalling their old roommate who took a special kind of pleasure in tormenting Skye and Jemma.

“Surely Deke won’t be like that,” Jemma murmured, tapping a little faster on the bedpost.

“I doubt it,” Bobbi assuaged. “I mean, he’s six. He’s probably not going to be trying to push us around. If anything, he might be afraid of us.”

“Or he could be a handful,” Skye suggested. “That’s what the nuns called me when I was six. A handful. Or difficult. They used that one a lot, too.”

“What about you, Jemma? What were you like when you were six?”

“Sensitive. Or peculiar. I got difficult a few times as well, but I think the nuns meant it differently than the way they used it for Skye.”

“They definitely did,” Skye snorted.

“My parents didn’t say things like that, though,” Jemma continued. The frown she’d worn when quoting the nuns melted into a soft, faraway kind of smile. “I remember my mum called me ‘clever girl’ a lot. And ‘duckie.’ She liked to call me that because I loved to go to the duck pond down the road from our house with her when I was very small. I would try to study the ducks by mimicking them, waddling along behind them, you know.”

Bobbi and Skye both smiled at that, and Skye got a sudden image in her mind’s eye of a tiny Jemma toddling after a flock of ducks on chubby legs.

“My father always told me I was remarkable,” Jemma said softly. “He loved to use that word, but he only saved it for really special things, like the stars or his research.”

“And you,” Skye pointed out. Jemma was practically glowing, but she still ducked her head bashfully.

“And me,” she agreed.

“My dad still liked me okay when I was six,” Bobbi said then, like she was remembering something. “He wasn’t around a whole lot, but he liked watching Star Wars with me and playing sports. I think the fact that I could catch and throw a ball made up for the fact that I wasn’t a boy, in his mind. I got on my mom’s nerves a lot, though, I think. And they both thought I was kind of weird, maybe. I don’t know, I don’t actually remember that much about what things were like before my mom left. Just that they weren’t great. But better than after she left, I guess.”

“I’m sorry, Bobbi.”

“It’s fine,” she said matter-of-factly with a wave of her hand. “It’s long-gone. And it’s not like I’m the only one here who had a crummy childhood.”

“Fair point,” Skye smirked. “That’s not really a competition any of us needs to have.”

“And things are good now,” Jemma said with a contented sigh. She leaned back against the bed, resting her head right next to Skye’s dangling leg and tapping softly on her own knee while Bobbi echoed Jemma’s “good” a few times in agreement. “That’s what’s most important.”

Phil’s voice drifted up the stairs then, floating in through the open bedroom door and calling them to come down to the living room. Miss Hand and Deke were here.

Everyone was already seated in the living room by the time Skye, Jemma, and Bobbi came downstairs, May and Phil on the couch and Miss Hand in one of the armchairs. It took Skye a second to realize that there was someone sitting in the other armchair – a small, skinny white boy who Skye figured could only be Deke. He was all knees and elbows, with a sharp nose, thick eyelashes framing his light-colored eyes, and rumpled brown hair that was so full of cowlicks it looked like he had just rolled out of bed. His feet didn’t touch the floor, but Skye knew better than to comment on that fact. She remembered the indignance she felt at that age whenever people – usually dopey adults who wanted to comment saccharinely on how cute you looked – pointed out her size.

“Hello Bobbi, Skye, Jemma,” Miss Hand greeted them as they all squeezed onto the couch with May and Phil. “Good to see you all.” She was using her work voice, which sounded almost foreign to Skye now, after she had spent so much time with off-the-clock Miss Hand. Not that off-the-clock Miss Hand was especially informal, particularly when compared to someone like Izzy, but still, Skye had to take a moment to reacclimate herself to the “strictly business” tone Miss Hand was using right then.

They all greeted her in return, but none of them had much else to say, since it had only been a few days since they last saw her and it was clear this wasn’t exactly a social visit.

“Miss Hand was just introducing us to Deke,” Phil said then, smiling wide and buoyantly filling the awkward gaps that filled the room as no one knew what to say. “Deke, this is Jemma, Skye, and Bobbi,” he said, going down the line and indicating each of them in turn. They all waved, Jemma a little shyly and Bobbi a little unsure of herself, and Deke waved back. He flashed them a grin that was missing several teeth.

“Hi.”

“We’d love to get to know you a little bit, Deke,” May said kindly. “What are some things you like to do?”

“I like drawing, and computer games, and playing space explorers with my friends,” Deke said. He lisped slightly around his missing teeth, and he talked like the words couldn’t fly out of his mouth fast enough to keep up with his ideas. Skye could relate to that feeling. “And I like monkey bars, and swings, and building inventions with Bobo’s tools in the garage. I like using Bobo’s tools the best, but Nana doesn’t like it when I use the saw or the soldering iron, so m’not allowed to touch those anymore, except on days she forgets. I can use ‘em on those days.”

“Sounds like you’re a busy guy,” Phil said, a little bemused at Deke’s eclectic list of favorite activities. “We don’t have a soldering iron, I’m afraid, but sometimes I like to work on the car or fix up things around the house. Maybe you could help me with some of those projects while you’re here.”

“I’m a good fixer,” Deke nodded. “Really good. Nana says so. I’m her best fixer.”

May and Phil asked Deke a few more questions, and soon they learned that his favorite color was yellow, his favorite food was ice cream, and his favorite superhero was a tie between Iron Man and some hero named Quake that Skye had never heard of before.

“I’m a big Captain America fan, myself,” Phil told him playfully, “so I’ll do my best not to hold your love of Iron Man against you too much.”

Eventually they reached the point where there wasn’t a whole lot more small talk to make with the little guy, and Miss Hand cleared her throat.

“Girls, maybe you could show Deke where he’ll be sleeping. Deke, you can take your things and start getting settled in.”

Skye wasn’t surprised by the suggestion in the least – she knew it was Miss Hand’s way of signaling to them all that it was time for them to leave the adults alone for a while so they could talk, most likely about Deke. She was more than a little curious what Miss Hand had to say about him, but she caught May’s eye as she, Jemma, and Bobbi stood up from the couch and saw the look May was sending her way. One of those ‘no funny business’ looks May was so good at conjuring. It wasn’t the first time Skye had felt like May could read her mind. Still, Skye wasn’t interested in stirring up any more trouble that night, no matter how badly she wanted to know what Miss Hand was going to share about Deke, so she flashed May a small gesture of playful surrender – hands up and smiling – to signal that she heard May’s silent instruction.

“Come on, Deke, let’s go,” she said, beckoning. Deke scrambled down from the chair and picked up a small rucksack from the floor, cradling it to his chest.

“Is this yours, too?” Bobbi asked. She pointed to a duffle bag that was closer to Miss Hand’s chair and Deke nodded.

“Yep. All my clothes n’stuff. It’s kind of heavy.”

“I’m pretty strong,” Bobbi assured him, swinging the duffle up in one fluid motion and hoisting it over her shoulder. Deke’s eyes went wide.

“Super strong,” he said in awe. Skye coughed loudly to cover the snort that escaped her. She knew Bobbi was strong, but she suspected that a duffle bag full of little kids’ clothes wasn’t quite as heavy as Deke thought it was. She didn’t want to burst his bubble, though, so she forced herself to keep a straight face.

“Your room’s up here,” she told him as they made their way to the stairs. “Jemma can show you.” She knew that it might take Jemma a little while to warm up to him and start talking, but she figured that giving Jemma an opportunity to show Deke who she was without having to say anything would be the best way for the two of them to get to know each other for now.

Before anybody realized what he was doing, Deke bounced over to where Jemma was standing and slipped his hand into hers.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Jemma stood frozen for a second, and Skye could see the muscles in her arms and shoulders tensing up at unexpected touch, from a stranger, no less. There was a beat where Skye wasn’t sure what Jemma was going to do – pull her hand away, maybe, or flinch or tuck her arms into herself like a turtle in a shell – but then the moment passed, and Jemma unstuck herself. She still seemed stiff, like she wasn’t super enthused about holding a stranger’s hand, but she closed her fingers around Deke’s small hand and began climbing the stairs with him in tow. Skye cut her eyes over to Bobbi and saw that she looked as surprised as Skye felt.

Upstairs, Deke seemed to be making himself right at home in his new bedroom. He hopped up on the edge of the bed and bounced a few times, grinning, before he flumped back down and popped over to inspect the rest of the room. He still clutched his rucksack in one hand and Jemma’s hand in the other.

“This is all mine?” he asked, glancing up at Jemma.

Jemma nodded. “It’s yours.”

“Have you ever had your own room before?” Bobbi asked him. She set the duffle bag down near the dresser and leaned against the piece of furniture, watching him with a bemused sort of look on her face.

“I have my own room at my house,” Deke said, like that should have been obvious. “I have my room and Nana has her room. She used to share it with Bobo but now he’s gone and Nana doesn’t know where he went, so she doesn’t have to share her room anymore. I only have to share when I go stay at foster houses when Nana’s sick.”

“Nana’s your grandmother?” Skye clarified. She remembered Miss Hand saying that Deke lived with his grandmother, but she wasn’t sure about the other person Deke kept mentioning. “And Bobo is your…?”

“He’s my grandpa,” Deke explained, nodding. “He went to heaven when I was five and a half but now sometimes Nana doesn’t know where he is, so maybe he’s just at the store or something. Sometimes she thinks we need to wait for him to come back, but Miss Hand said he won’t, probably. My mom might come back, though. Miss Hand said my mom is getting better and I can maybe see her again soon.”

“That… that’ll be nice,” Bobbi said blankly. It was obvious that none of them really knew what to say to that.

“Yeah,” he said with a happy sigh. “I love my mom. Sometimes she gets sick and it makes her feel sad, so she takes bad medicine. But when she’s not sick anymore, we’re going to play at the park, and she’ll read me stories, and give me hugs and kisses again. It’s gonna be so fun.”

He seemed wholly unfazed by everything he was telling them, but Jemma’s face pinched up with worry, and Skye could feel her own stomach tightening with discomfort as she put the pieces of his story together. She hoped for Deke’s sake that what Miss Hand had told them, about how his mother was working to get custody back, would prove to be true.

“Do you want to unpack?” she finally asked, after the silence had gone on too long and left her feeling too uncomfortable. “Or we can show you the rest of the house. There’re some toys down in the den. Phil pulled out his old Legos and Captain America action figures for us last year, but you can play with them.”

Deke looked tempted by the offer of Legos, but he shook his head. “I’m s’posed to unpack first.” He quickly dropped Jemma’s hand and opened up the duffle bag. He grabbed out handfuls of clothes and shoved them haphazardly into the dresser drawer that Bobbi pulled open for him, not really paying attention to where anything was going. Jemma looked like she wanted to interject and sort his things out for him, but she held herself back. Skye noticed she slipped her hand into her pocket, probably to tap where Deke couldn’t see, once Deke let go of her.

After Deke finished throwing his clothes into the dresser, he turned his attention to the rucksack, which he hadn’t let out of his grip since coming upstairs. He took a lot more care with the contents of that bag, gently lifting each item out and setting it in a line across his bed. First came a battered, stuffed sock monkey with a slightly mangled tail that looked like someone had chewed on it years ago. After that, he pulled out a plastic keychain in the shape of a lemon, three rather nondescript gray rocks, a slightly tattered postcard with a picture of a lighthouse on it and a handwritten note on the back that Skye couldn’t get a close enough look at to read, a dog-eared spiral notebook, and, lastly, an action figure of a superhero Skye had never seen before. She was wearing a black-and-purple suit with silver arm guards and had short, dark hair.

“I left a lot of my toys at my house,” Deke said, carefully adjusting the arms and legs on the action figure so she was in the right pose. “’Cause I’m going back there once my mom’s better. But I always take Quake. She’s got earthquake powers and can blast the bad guys.” He held out a hand, pantomiming a superhero blast coming from his hand, complete with sound effect. “She’s the best.”

“Earthquake powers do sound pretty cool,” Bobbi admitted. “Dangerous, but cool.”

“Quake would never use her powers for evil,” Deke said seriously. “She’s not dangerous, she’s a hero.”

Satisfied that his Quake figure was in the proper pose – feet planted heroically with one arm raised, ready to blast, Skye figured – Deke turned his attention to the notebook. He flipped it open to a page somewhere in the middle, which Skye could see was full of the same two words written over and over again: Deke Shaw.

Deke fished a stubby pencil out of the spiral and gripped it hard, concentrating as he painstakingly wrote out his name, extending the repeating chain of ‘Deke Shaw’s that filled the page.

“I have to write my name every night,” he explained as he scratched his second ‘e’ onto the paper. “I’m s’posed to practice writing until I get really good at it and my letters look as nice as Nana’s. I write my name every night and she writes her name every night for remembering.”

“Like neurocognitive strength training,” Jemma murmured.

“Or muscle memory,” suggested Bobbi.

“There are a number of studies about the efficacy of—"

Not particularly interested in going down a rabbit hole of brain training or in getting too deep in a conversation that might make Deke feel homesick on his first night, Skye decided, almost instantaneously with the words flying out of her mouth, to change the subject slightly. If she had given herself a second to think about it, she probably would have found a more polite way to do so, but as it was, the question escaped her before she had a chance to soften it.

“So what kind of a name is Deke?”

Deke blinked and cocked his head at her, confused. “It’s my name.”

“I just mean, I’ve never heard anybody named Deke before,” Skye backtracked slightly. “Where’d it come from? Your name?”

“It came from my mom,” Deke said, unsure. He spoke like what he was saying should be obvious and he didn’t understand why Skye would be asking something so foolish. “She gave it to me when I was born. That’s how everybody gets their names.”

“Not Skye,” said Jemma quickly. Skye knew she couldn’t help herself sometimes when she knew a correction to something. “Skye picked out her own name.”

Deke turned his attention back to Skye, eyes wide. “You did? But what about when you were born? Didn’t your mom give you a name?”

“She did,” Skye said. She shifted her weight back and forth slightly, a little awkward under the gravity of Deke’s undivided curiosity. It wasn’t like she wasn’t comfortable talking about her name or her past – she’d had a lot of practice over the years – but she’d only just met Deke an hour ago, and she wasn’t sure he was quite old enough to fully grasp the entirety of her story.

“She gave me a name when I was born, Daisy. But she died right after and I got taken to an orphanage. Nobody there knew that I already had a name, so the nuns there picked out a new one for me. I didn’t like it, so when I was five, I chose a different one for myself. Skye.”

“Daisy’s pretty, but Skye is good, too. If I could pick a new name, I think maybe I’d be called Megalodon,” Deke said thoughtfully. “Or Ralph. But I think I like Deke best.”

“Then Deke it is,” Bobbi smiled.

“It suits you,” agreed Skye, who was trying very hard not to laugh at the idea of calling the scrawny kid in front of her ‘Megalodon.’

“I think your names suit you, too.” Deke closed up his notebook and tucked it back into his rucksack, then turned to them all and beamed, flashing his gap-toothed grin. “Are we going to get to eat soon? I’m really hungry and something down there smells good.”

Chapter Text

5-year-old Mary Sue Poots was the only child who came to school alone on the first day of kindergarten, but that fact didn’t bother her in the least. She had spent years watching the older children at St. Agnes outgrow the nursery wing and start going to school. School meant backpacks and reading and math and homework and recess. School meant time away from St. Agnes, or in her case on this particular morning, time away from her foster parents.

The Lumleys weren’t all bad, but in the few weeks she had been staying there, she hadn’t gotten the impression that they particularly liked her all that much. Mrs. Lumley lost interest in her once she realized that Mary Sue wasn’t interested in being dressed up in frilly dresses or doing dopey things like playing tea party, and Mr. Lumley was at work most of the time. When he came home, all he usually said to her was to stop running around the house like a tornado or to stop making so much noise.

Mrs. Lumley had dropped her off outside the front door of the school that morning on her way to the country club she spent most of her time at, and told her she’d see her at the end of the day.

“Try not to get sent to the office on the first day,” she’d snapped, as Mary Sue unfastened the buckles on her booster seat and clambered out of the car. She wasn’t really sure what Mrs. Lumley meant, but The Office didn’t sound like a place she wanted to go, especially if it was anything like Sister Margaret’s office. Still, she wasn’t deterred by Mrs. Lumley’s warning. She was going to school. She was one of the big kids now.

The front door of the school was much heavier than she had expected, and it wasn’t until someone else came and opened it that she was able to get inside.

“Are you by yourself, honey?” the woman who had opened the door asked. A little boy Mary Sue’s age was clutching the woman’s hand, and he looked like he had been crying.

“I’m going to kindergarten,” Mary Sue announced proudly.

“So is Timmy,” the woman said, gesturing to the boy. “Would you like to walk with us to find your teacher?”

“No thank you,” Mary Sue recited. “I can go by myself. I’m big enough.”

“Well, all right then. It was nice to meet you, sweetie.”

Mary Sue watched as the woman and the boy, Timmy, made their way through the rapidly filling hallway, picking past parents and teachers and kids who looked much older and bigger than Mary Sue had anticipated. She wasn’t exactly sure where her classroom was, but she guessed that if Timmy was in kindergarten like her, then maybe her classroom would be in the direction he and his mother had gone.

After ducking elbows and darting around the knees of grownups, Mary Sue was able to make it to a new hallway that was filled with kids who looked more her own age. Teachers were all waiting outside of their rooms, checking students into each class and helping the teary ones, like Timmy, say goodbye to their parents.

“Are you looking for your class?” asked the teacher standing closest to Mary Sue. She was an older lady, almost as old as Sister Margaret, maybe. She had grey hair and sparkly glasses.

“I’m in Miss Avery’s class,” Mary Sue said, a little shyly. The teacher smiled.

“She’s the one at the end of the hall,” she told Mary Sue, pointing to a young woman in a polka dotted dress. “She’s very lucky to have a girl like you in her class.”

“Thank you.” Mary Sue waved goodbye and darted down the hallway towards her teacher. Her very own teacher for her very own class. She could barely contain her excitement.

“Hi there,” the teacher said, once she had finished checking in the girl in front of Mary Sue on a clipboard and had given her a nametag to stick on her shirt. She had a nice smile and friendly eyes. “I’m Miss Avery. What’s your name?”

“Do I have to tell you?” she asked reluctantly. There weren’t very many things in the world that she hated, but her name was almost always at the very top of the list. People only used her name when they were mad at her, or if they wanted her to stop doing something interesting, like climbing under the rotting part of the porch to see what kind of animals might be living under there. And she knew that it wasn’t really her real name. Sister Beatrice had told her that they picked out the name for her when she came to St. Agnes, because they didn’t know what her real name was.

“Well, I have to know what to call you,” Miss Avery explained kindly. “How else will you know when I want to talk to you?”

Mary Sue thought hard about that, then offered a shrug of surrender. Her new teacher had a point, there.

“Is there a reason why you don’t want to tell me your name?” wondered Miss Avery.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “It’s not a good name.”

“What is it?”

“Mary Sue.”

Miss Avery made a thoughtful sound and made a small checkmark on the clipboard in her hand. “Sometimes people use nicknames if they don’t like their full names,” she suggested. “Do you have a nickname you like better?”

“Nick is a boy’s name. I’m not a boy.”

“No, of course not,” Miss Avery chuckled. “I’m sorry, I meant nickname. That’s like another name that people can call you. Something that you can pick out.”

“I can pick?”

“I don’t see why not,” smiled Miss Avery. “I want to call you something you like.”

“I like pizza. And peaches. And playing tag,” Mary Sue offered. She wrinkled her nose. None of those sounded like very good names to her. Miss Avery looked like she was trying not to laugh, which only confirmed Mary Sue’s suspicions.

“What are some other things you like?”

“I like the color purple. I like when the sky turns purple when the sun goes down.”

“Why is that?”

“I like that it’s silly,” Mary Sue giggled. “The sky is supposed to be blue or sometimes grey if it’s a rainy day. But for a little bit every day it gets to be purple for fun. And then after the purple it goes dark and the stars come out. I like the stars, and the moon, too. Purple sky means the stars are coming soon.”

“The night sky is a beautiful thing,” agreed Miss Avery.

“I could be Skye,” Mary Sue said tentatively. “I like the sky.” She rolled the sounds around in her brain. They sounded good. Definitely better than being called Nick or Peaches or Purple. Skye. Skye. Skye. It sounded like her, more than Mary Sue ever had. The sky was colorful and expansive and full of shiny things, just like her.

“I think Sky sounds like an excellent name.” Miss Avery smiled again. “How should we spell it?”

Skye shrugged. She wasn’t very good with her letters yet.

“What’s the first sound?”

“Sss,” intoned Skye dutifully. Miss Avery nodded.

“Sss. Do you know what letter makes the ‘sss’ sound?”

Skye felt her face grow warm and she shook her head. She hadn’t expected school to get so hard right on the very first day.

“That’s okay,” Miss Avery said kindly. “That’s what we come to school to learn. Sss-sky starts with an ‘s’.”

“S,” echoed Skye. She watched as Miss Avery wrote the letter on the sticky nametag in purple marker. A smile twitched across Skye’s face.

Miss Avery helped her make the sounds for K and Y, and soon all three letters were written on the nametag that now bore her brand new, almost perfect name.

“I only get three letters?” Skye asked sadly. The girl in front of her had been named Isabella, and she had gotten way more than three letters in her name.

“Well, that’s how sky is spelled,” explained Miss Avery. “I guess if you wanted to have one more letter, you could add something like an E on the end. That way it would still say sky, just spelled a little differently. It would certainly be unique.”

“Sister McKenna says I’m unique,” Skye piped. “She says she’s never met someone like me.”

“I’m not surprised,” Miss Avery said, fighting off laughter once again.

“Will you show me E?” Skye asked. She couldn’t remember which letter that one was and she wanted to make sure she liked the way it looked before she added it to her name.

Miss Avery demonstrated the letter on the corner of the paper on her clipboard, and Skye decided that she appreciated its shape. It seemed to fit nicely on the end of her name.

“I have an E in my name,” she declared, and to her delight, Miss Avery wasted no time in adding the fourth letter to the nametag. Skye beamed down at the word that was now stuck to her shirt, and she couldn’t help but repeat it out loud, over and over again. “Skye, Skye, Skye. My name is Skye.” She loved the way the word felt on her tongue and the sounds it made as it danced out into the air. She was Skye. She was full of light and colors and stars. She held clouds and the moon and all of outer space now. She was Skye and she could fly.

Chapter Text

Much to Skye’s chagrin, the last week of summer vacation flew by at a lightning quick pace. Between all the back-to-school preparation, which Phil and Jemma got way too excited about, in Skye’s opinion (how someone could get giddy picking out new pens and notebooks, Skye would never understand…), trying to cram in as much last-minute leisure as she could, and getting used to a whole new person living across the hall from her, the last few days were really a ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ kind of whirlwind for Skye, which really sucked when she blinked awake to the sound of Phil’s voice that morning, torpid and groggy.

“Time to get up,” he called gently. “Don’t want to be late on the first day.”

Skye groaned a little and fought the urge to bury her head under pillow. She hadn’t slept well and, contrary to what Phil might think, she didn’t think it would be the worst thing to be late, if it meant she got another hour in bed.

“Come on, Skye,” Jemma urged. Skye could hear the sounds of Jemma moving around the room, probably gathering her things to get dressed and ready. “Phil’s right, we don’t want to be late. And you have your meeting with Mr. Randolph before homeroom.”

Begrudgingly, Skye pulled herself up and out of bed, squinting bleary eyes against the early morning sunlight that was streaming in their window. Jemma was already dressed, which wasn’t surprising given she’d picked out her clothes last night and she probably had bounced right out of bed when Phil first tapped on their half-cracked door. She stood near the foot of Skye’s bed and tapped lightly on the bedpost as Skye got up.

“What time did you go to bed last night?” Jemma asked, concern folding up her brow. Skye tugged open a dresser draw to look for a clean shirt and shrugged.

“I don’t know, I kind of lost track of time. Kind of late, I guess. You were sound asleep.”

These days, when Skye was having trouble falling asleep, she’d taken to finding other things to occupy herself, rather than lying in bed fruitlessly. Last night she’d been playing Pandora’s Box, and although she hadn’t managed to beat the level she was still stuck on, Izzy’s suggestion of adding the axe to her arsenal had helped her get farther against Pain than she’d ever made it before, so Skye counted that as a small victory.

She wasn’t sure that May and Phil would be all that pleased to know she’d stayed up so late playing computer games, and she had no intention of telling them, but she figured it was no worse than staying up late fiddling around with computer code or battling with her brain to keep unpleasant thoughts from creeping into the forefront instead of staying tightly locked away in a dark corner where she didn’t have to think about them most of the time. Something about the middle of the night always made that dark corner much slipperier and easier to escape, it seemed.

The kitchen was bustling when she came downstairs twenty minutes later, dressed, with hair and teeth brushed. May was drinking her tea with one hand and trying to keep Deke from tipping over the whole milk carton into his cereal with the other. Phil flitted back and forth between the fridge and the sink and the counter, rising dishes, pulling out lunches, and trying to finish his own breakfast while also tying his tie and looking for his ID badge that teachers at the high school had to wear.

Skye flopped into a seat in between Bobbi and Jemma and pulled the cheerios towards her.

“Morning,” May greeted her. She extracted the milk from Deke’s overzealous hands and passed it to Skye, who doused her bowl with it.

“Morning.”

“Still sleepy?” asked May kindly. “You didn’t stay up too late, did you?” Skye pumped one shoulder up and down as she dug her spoon into her bowl. Beside her, Jemma shifted in her seat and made a fretful little sound, but she remained focused on counting her cornflakes and didn’t say anything about Skye’s late night.

“Just hard to get used to waking up early again,” Skye said, evading the question slightly and taking big bite of cereal to avoid answering any follow-ups.

Bobbi nodded sympathetically. “I had trouble getting up for soccer the first few days we had 6am practice. It gets easier once your body clock switches.”

“You’re just saying that because you got to sleep in this morning,” Skye teased around her mouthful.

“Maybe,” Bobbi smiled. She stood from the table and began rinsing her bowl to put in the dishwasher.

“Honey, do you have any idea where I left my badge?” Phil asked, coming back over to the table and setting down three glasses of juice and three of those day-of-the-week pill boxes – blue for Bobbi, green for Jemma, and purple for Skye.

“Did you check your dresser? And your satchel?”

“Yes and yes,” Phil nodded. “No luck in either place. I’ve looked everywhere I can think of…”

“What about the car?” May suggested. “Did you take it off on your way home and leave it there?”

Phil blinked, and Skye could practically see the lightbulb go off in his brain. “Mel, you’re a genius.”

“I have my moments.”

“I’m going to go check,” he said. “Girls, meds, and then get your stuff and meet me by the door in five minutes, okay? We need to leave soon if we’re going to be on time. Deke, if I don’t see you again before we have to leave, have a great first day, okay, buddy?”

Skye wolfed down the last few bites of her breakfast, then joined Bobbi and Jemma in popping open the ‘Monday’ square and fishing out the pill inside. Deke watched them intently as they took their pills, as he had every morning since he arrived. The first day he’d asked them very seriously if the medicine they took was “good medicine or bad medicine.”

“Nana takes good medicine to help her brain and so her blood doesn’t have too much pressure,” he’d said. “She forgets sometimes but I help her remember. Is yours good for you, or is it…” He trailed off with a frown, and Skye suspected that he was thinking of his mother. She still hadn’t quite figured out everything that might have been going on with that situation, but she wasn’t naïve enough to not put two and two together. Deke wasn’t the first kid she’d met whose parent took “bad medicine” and couldn’t take care of their kids, and sadly, she knew he likely wouldn’t be the last.

They’d assured him that their medicine was good and that it helped them – helped Skye with her ADHD and helped Jemma and Bobbi with their anxiety – but Deke still paid militant attention to them every morning when Phil passed out the pill boxes. It made Skye a little sad to see how fixated on the whole thing Deke was – he was only six, after all – but she also knew that kids who’d had hard lives, kids in the foster system, kids like him, like her, like Jemma, like Bobbi, just had to grow up a little faster than other kids. They had to pay attention to things like that, things that should have just gone over their heads like the kinds of medication people took or how much food was in the cabinet or how fast a parent’s hand could close into a fist, otherwise things could go bad fast. Still, it didn’t make it any easier to watch, and she could tell that May and Phil felt the same way.

She wondered if that was how May and Phil had felt about her and Jemma and Bobbi when they’d first shown up at their house, scared and skittish and defensive, watching for trouble at every interaction, or how they felt now when one of them had a hard day or a setback. She hoped that May and Phil didn’t feel sad every time they looked at her anymore. She didn’t want them pitying her or worrying about her too much. That was why she avoided telling them things, sometimes. She didn’t mean to keep things from them, but she didn’t want to upset them or make them look at her the same way she wanted to look at Deke sometimes. Like there was still something wrong with her, even after everything she’d done to fix herself.

“Well,” May said, once they’d finished their juice and collected their backpacks and lunch bags, “have a great first day. I can’t wait to hear all about it.” She gave them each a quick, tight hug as they made their way to the front door, and Skye did her best to ignore the pancake-like flip-flop that her belly did as the reality of the day began to really sink in. Even though she’d come a long way from last year, sometimes a little sliver of separation anxiety sliced its way back into her brain. Besides, it wasn’t every day that you started high school.

“Bye,” Deke chirped after them, waving from the table. The elementary school started thirty minutes later than the high school, so May was taking him to school in a little bit on her way to work. “Have fun and do good on your tests.”

“It’s the first day,” Bobbi told him kindly. “We probably won’t be taking any tests today. But thanks. I hope you have a good first day, too.”

“Try to make a friend today,” Jemma said. She flashed a quick smile over to May, and Skye could tell she was quoting something May had said not so long ago. “It only takes one person to make a friend, and one friend to make a difference.”

“At lunch time, pick your milk carton from the back of the crate,” Skye advised. “The coldest ones are always at the back. And don’t let the second graders push you around. You’re a first grader, not a little kindergartener anymore; you can stand up for yourself.”

“Hopefully there won’t be anybody trying to push anyone around,” May said, a gentle but firm interruption. “And you know you can always go to a teacher if you need help, Deke. Isn’t that right Skye?” She said that last part a little louder than normal and gave Skye a pointed look. Skye felt the tips of her ears grow warm.

“Oh, um. Yeah. Right,” Skye nodded. “Definitely ask a teacher first.”

The wry smirk on May’s face gave away the fact that she knew good and well Skye hadn’t been entirely genuine in her correction, but Deke didn’t seem to notice, so hopefully that meant Skye hadn’t been too bad of an influence on him. At least, she thought with a smirk of her own, not yet.

The first big difference between the middle school and the high school, Skye realized as they pulled into the teacher parking lot around the back, was that the students didn’t have to wait outside until the first bell rang. She supposed that made sense, since there was no blacktop or playground for the students to congregate on until first bell, but still, it caught her off guard a little when they all just walked straight in from the car to the building. She had to admit it did make her feel more grown up to be able to just come into school when she was ready, and not when the bell or the yard monitor said they could.

“Bobbi, Jemma, you have your schedules?” Phil asked, once they had made it inside. “Know where you’re going?”

They both nodded, and Phil smiled broadly at them. “Great. Well, good luck today. I’ll see you after school, unless we run into each other in the hall. Just meet me in my classroom after seventh period and we’ll head out together. Sound good?”

“Sounds good, sounds good,” Bobbi agreed. “See you guys. I’m going to try and catch Mack and Hunter before homeroom.”

“You’re coming straight to homeroom after your meeting, right?” Jemma asked Skye, her voice a little lost in the growing din of the rapidly filling hallway. She tapped a few times on Skye’s wrist, but it was a soft, steady tap. More like a reassuring one than a panicked one, Skye could feel.

“Yeah, I’m coming straight,” Skye promised. “You and Trip save me a seat, okay?”

“We will. Unless there’s assigned seats. Then I can’t,” Jemma said seriously. Skye cracked a grin at that.

“I’d never ask you to break a rule as important as assigned seating for me.”

Jemma raised her eyebrows and gave Skye and incredulous look, which only made Skye smile wider.

“Okay, I’d never ask you to break a rule like assigned seating on the first day, at least,” she amended, laughing. “That’s like, second week of school kind of rule breaking.”

That got a smile out of Jemma, and her shoulders even relaxed a little. She said goodbye to Phil, giving him three taps, her ‘I-Love-You’ taps, and then gave Skye three taps for good measure, too.

“See you in a bit.”

“It’s just you and me, kiddo,” Phil said, turning to Skye once only the two of them remained. “Ready to see Mr. Randolph?”

“Guess so.” If Skye’d had her way, she wouldn’t have to go meet Mr. Randolph before school on the first day at all, but he’d said at their last meeting – back in the summer, when she and May and Phil were meeting with him to figure out her IEP for the coming year – that he wanted to check in before the first day started to make sure “everything was in order,” whatever that meant.

Skye didn’t dislike Mr. Randolph, per se. He was certainly better than some of the other guidance counselors she’d had to work with over the years, but he was no Mrs. Hinton, that was for sure. He wasn’t quite as good a listener, and he seemed a little more preoccupied with doing things his way, full of paperwork and protocol, than Mrs. Hinton had been. Skye got the impression that she was one student on a long list for him, which was probably true, and that she didn’t exactly matter as much to him as Mrs. Hinton had made her feel. He was nice enough, though, even if he was a little stuffy and stuck-up sometimes, and he hadn’t been too hard to work with when Skye and May and Phil had started planning ahead for the school year.

“Come in, come in,” he called, when she and Phil knocked on his office door a few minutes later. He didn’t get up from his desk, just waved them in, but he smiled as they sat down.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he said, pulling out Skye’s updated IEP file and flipping it open. “I know you have homeroom to get to, Skye, and a class to teach, Phil. I just like to review details right at the start of the year, so there are no first-day surprises.”

“Which we appreciate,” Phil said. “No first-day surprises is always a good thing.”

“Skye, your Individualized Education Program has been approved for the coming year, with the few modifications we made from your program last year,” Mr. Randolph explained. He held out the file folder where she and Phil could see it, but he flipped through the pages too quickly for her to be able to read any of it. “You’ll receive extended time on tests and a separate testing location. You have permission to record lectures or take pictures of the board, should you want to, to assist with your note-taking process. We’re removing auditory testing from last year’s plan, based on your reading-level progress, but we can revisit that option in the future should we find we need to reinstate it. Does that all make sense? Any questions?”

Skye shook her head. Her brain wasn’t moving fast enough to think of any questions, and she didn’t exactly want to drag the meeting out anyways.

“I saw we got an update on the doors,” Phil began, nodding in Mr. Randolph’s direction. “The email from Principal Mace…”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Randolph said. He made that face grownups made sometimes when they didn’t like something but didn’t want to say so out loud, with his mouth drawn flat in a tight line. “Jeffrey and his new-age ideas. I’m sure whatever study or magazine article he read last month swears that a school-wide open-door policy is supposed to create an environment of trust and community, but to me it sounds like a security issue waiting to happen.”

“Well, I know my family is grateful for the happy coincidence,” Phil said delicately. He gave Skye’s knee a little squeeze. “One less thing to navigate, right, Skye?”

“Right.” She’d done a lot of practice with Dr. Garner over the last several months getting comfortable with closed doors again, and she did feel like she could handle closed classroom doors if she needed to. Still, it had been a nice surprise when Phil had told her about the principal’s new idea for all the classroom doors to stay open most of the day. Something about ‘making the building more welcoming and building trust between the staff and students.’

“Of course,” Mr. Randolph sighed. “And it’s not like we can’t close the doors if we need to. Regardless, it’s out of our hands and off our plates, so there’s nothing more to say about it.”

“Thanks for your time, Elliott.” Phil stood then and shook Mr. Randolph’s hand. Skye got to her feet as well, but didn’t extend her hand. Mr. Randolph didn’t seem to mind, or maybe he just didn’t notice. “We’ll get out of your hair. Ready, Skye?”

Skye nodded and followed Phil out of the office as quickly as she could without making it obvious that she was rushing to leave. She practically clipped at the backs of Phil’s heels, which made him chuckle once they were back out in the main hall and they both slowed their pace somewhat.

“Glad that’s done with?” he asked, smiling.

“No offense, Phil, but that meeting kind of seemed like a waste of time.”

“Mr. Randolph’s been doing this a long time, and he’s definitely got a particular way of doing things,” Phil admitted. “I don’t pretend to understand all of his methods, but he’s a good educator. And hey,” he added with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “at least he didn’t spend ten minutes telling us about his fancy new pen set this time.”

Skye laughed. “I almost forgot about that. Yeah, he talked forever about those dumb pens last time. He would have made me late for homeroom.”

“I’d have rescued you before then,” Phil told her cheekily. “Can’t have you late on your first day.”

“Especially because Ms. Price is my homeroom teacher,” said Skye. “I bet she’s a stickler about tardies.”

“She is,” nodded Phil. He checked his watch. “Which means you better get a move-on, kiddo. Have a good day, Skye. I’m proud of you.”

“What for?”

“For being you,” he smiled. “For trying your best. For being a big, grown-up high schooler.”

Skye rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight the humongous smile that split her face open at Phil’s mushy sentiment. “You’re so sappy, Phil.”

“Can’t help it,” he teased, shooing her a little. “I love you. Get to class.”

“I love you, too.”

“What is a citizen?” Ms. Price was standing at the front of the classroom, having just finished taking role for Skye’s first period freshman seminar class. She wrote the word ‘citizen’ in large letters across the whiteboard, then turned back to face the class again, her sleek bobbed hair whipping under her chin as she moved crisply away so they could see the board.

Skye furrowed her brow and shot Jemma, whose assigned seat happened to be right next to her, a quizzical look. A quick glance around the room revealed that Skye wasn’t the only one confused by Ms. Price’s abrupt start to their first ever class of high school. Fitz, on the other side of the classroom, had his whole face scrunched up in puzzlement and Trip, two rows back from Skye and Jemma, was staring blankly at Ms. Price, eyebrows raised.

“It’s not a trick question,” Ms. Price said. “Somebody raise your hand and tell me what a citizen is.”

“Somebody who lives somewhere?” a girl near the front offered. “Like if you live in a city or a country, you’re a citizen there.”

Ms. Price gave a little nod. “Yes, that’s a good place to start. Location. Residency. Citizenship can be geographically based.”

“You have to be born somewhere to be a citizen,” suggested a boy.

“Only to be a natural-born citizen,” Fitz corrected. “You can be a native citizen or a naturalized one. And citizenship can be gained or lost. It’s not all about birth.”

“Yeah, like a person can immigrate to a new country and become a citizen there,” added Trip, nodding along with Fitz. Skye caught him flash a smile in Jemma’s direction.

“Okay, good,” nodded Ms. Price again. “So there’s different ways to acquire citizenship, and different types of citizenship that we can talk about. There’s legal citizenship, which has certain requirements and regulations. Birth, naturalization, immigration. Those are probably words you’ve heard get thrown around before. We’ll certainly spend some time digging into them as the year goes on. What else do we need to add to our definition of ‘citizen?’ What else does being a citizen entail?”

“Citizens have rights,” called another girl. “Like freedom of speech or being able to vote.”

“And they have to pay taxes and stuff!”

Kids were growing bolder, throwing out ideas faster and faster. If Skye had to guess, not all of them were exactly on the right track, but Ms. Price seemed more interested in hearing what everyone had to say than correcting people at the moment.

“You can make a citizen’s arrest!”

“They have to say the Pledge of Allegiance—”

Skye glanced to her right and saw Jemma crooked over her notebook, writing something hastily. Cocking her head Jemma’s way, Skye stared hard at Jemma’s paper and concentrated on piecing the letters together so she could read what Jemma was scratching across the page. Social Contract.

“Say it,” Skye hissed, giving Jemma a little nudge with her elbow. Jemma blanched slightly and shook her head. Skye didn’t push it. She knew better than to think Jemma would want to start talking in class. Still, she would have bet money that Jemma was onto something. She didn’t exactly know what the phrase ‘social contract’ was supposed to mean, but it sounded smart, and Jemma was rarely wrong when it came to answering teachers’ questions.

“You say it,” Jemma whispered. She pushed the notebook onto Skye’s desk, and Skye, very used to this sort of arrangement between the two of them, plunged her hand in the air.

“Yes, Skye?”

“Social contract,” she said confidently.

Ms. Price made a thoughtful noise. “Interesting. Say more about that.”

Skye’s heart leapt up into her throat and her ears went hot. “Oh. Um. Well…” she trailed off and shot a desperate look over to Jemma, who looked just as panicked as Skye felt.

“Well, a contract is like an agreement?” she ventured. Beside her, Jemma gave a quick little nod to signal that Skye was on the right track, but Skye wasn’t sure she could come up with anything else to say. “And citizens… agree to… I don’t know…”

“You’re onto something,” Ms. Price encouraged. “Yes, there’s an agreement. Several of you gave some good examples of this just now. Citizens agree to certain things, like following the rules of a group or laws of a nation, and the collective – the group or the nation or whatever it might be – also agrees to certain things, like protecting the citizens or granting them certain rights and privileges that those outside of the agreement may not have. Each side has a responsibility to uphold their end of the agreement in order for it to work.”

“So a citizen is like a part of a whole?” Trip suggested. “They’re one piece of a whole group and they all have to work together to make the whole thing function.”

“The society,” Fitz said with sudden realization. “That’s the whole. That’s the social in social contract. It’s an agreement for the members of a society that defines what part everyone plays.”

“For the purposes of today’s discussion, yes,” said Ms. Price. “So let’s build on that idea. If to be a citizen is to agree to be a part of a larger whole and to agree to all that requires of and affords to you, then here’s my next question: what makes a good citizen?”

There was a momentary pause, but before long, kids were calling out ideas just as quickly as before.

“Following the rules.”

“Yeah, like holding up your end of the agreement.”

“Somebody who works to make the society the best it can be.”

“Sure. What else?” prompted Ms. Price. She had added the word ‘good’ over the word ‘citizen’ on the whiteboard, and was now writing down some of the class’s suggestions, each one shooting off from the ‘good citizen’ in the center. “What are some qualities of a good citizen?”

Soon words like kind, responsible, honest, and hard-working were filling the whiteboard, and a pensive lull settled over the room as everyone tried to think of what else Ms. Price might be looking for.

“What about sacrifice?” Trip finally asked quietly. “Sometimes a good citizen has to give something up to help the society, make it stronger. Like maybe it’s not in the agreement, not something you have to do, but if you know it’s the right thing, maybe you give up some of your money to help people, or you spend your weekend picking up litter at the park, or you agree to do a job that puts you in danger so that you can help protect people, like being a firefighter or something.”

Ms. Price hummed in agreement as she wrote down Trip’s addition. “Yes. Absolutely. Sacrifice. A commitment to the right thing, to the greater good.”

 Something about what Trip and Ms. Price were saying lodged itself in Skye’s brain, and she felt herself frown as her thoughts began to churn, turning over a half-formed idea. Ms. Price must have noticed that something wasn’t sitting right with her.

“Skye? You look like you’re thinking about something. Do you want to add something to the board?”

“I just…” Skye began. She stopped herself, not sure if what she wanted to say was such a good idea after all. She wasn’t sure it belonged up on the board with honesty and sacrifice and all the other noble words people had thrown out. “It’s nothing.”

Ms. Price gave her an encouraging nod. “It might not be. Just put it out there and we’ll see what we can make of it. That’s part of why we’re doing this as a class, so we can work together to fine-tune our ideas.”

“I just was thinking,” Skye tried again. “We said a good citizen would do the right thing. And we said a good citizen would follow all the rules of the society. But I just think, sometimes, you can’t have both. Like sometimes doing the right thing might mean you have to go against the rules. Like what if the rules aren’t fair to everyone, or the rules stop you from helping somebody that needs it? Would a good citizen think it’s more important to follow the rules and stick to the agreement, or would they think it’s more important to do something they know is right?”

“Isn’t that the million-dollar question?” Ms. Price said with a faint smile. “That’s something people have been trying to figure out for centuries. What do you think, Skye? In the event that the two don’t align, is good citizenship more about being lawful or being moral?”

“I guess… I guess if a law doesn’t help you do the right thing, then it’s not really that good of a law,” Skye said slowly. “And I think people matter more than rules. So doing the right thing, the thing that would help people or make the society or whatever the best it can be, that’s more important than sticking to a rule that doesn’t help make the society better.”

“But if people stopped following the rules because they didn’t like them, then people could just do whatever they wanted,” countered a girl up at the front of the room. “People could just start robbing banks or something if they believed it was the right thing to do. Then the agreement would fall apart because no one wanted to hold up their end of the bargain.”

“And therein lies the debate,” nodded Ms. Price. “Skye, Ellen, you both make some good points. One of the things we’re going to try and do this year in Freshman seminar is help you – all of you – start to figure out what you think about things and, perhaps more importantly, how to communicate those things. We’ll learn how to write strong essays, how to lay out an argument, how to think deeply and critically about the viewpoints that the world presents to us and the questions that our society raises.

“This is the benefit of the hybrid model we have in this class, of blending Freshman seminar with Freshman civics,” she continued. “Not only will we learn academic skills – how to study, how to take notes, how to manage your time – but we will also learn what it means to engage in the social and intellectual challenges of our times. We’ll learn what it means to be a citizen of our country, our state, our school, and explore how our systems work, how our government works, what rights and responsibilities you have. We’ll learn what we value, what we believe in. Part of being a good citizen is deepening an understanding of yourself and your own convictions. Understanding who you are and where you’re coming from. Which is why,” she said with the flourish of someone pivoting slightly into an announcement, “I always like to begin the year with the following project.”

She crossed over to her desk and picked up a stack of papers, then began handing them out amongst the desks. Skye studied the front of hers, her eyes stumbling a little over the word “genealogy” at the top. She wasn’t sure she’d ever encountered that word before, and she didn’t know how to read it in her head, much less what it meant.

“What’s a jenny-law-gy project?” she whispered to Jemma as Ms. Price continued passing out the papers.

“What?” Jemma frowned, not understanding her. Skye pointed at the word headlining the assignment.

“Jenny-law-gy. Or whatever this is supposed to say. Genie-a-low-gy.”

“Genealogy,” Jemma corrected. “It’s like… the study of your family history.”

“Oh.” Something cold and leaden clunked down in the pit of Skye’s stomach as she realized what Ms. Price was probably going to be asking them to do for this project.

“I know.” Jemma’s face puckered with consternation. Her eyes were zipping back and forth, skimming across the paper, reading faster than Skye would ever be able to. “This… might be difficult.”

“Now I know what some of you might be thinking,” Ms. Price said as she returned to the front of the classroom. If Skye had to guess, whatever it was that Ms. Price was about to say was probably not what she and Jemma were thinking. “What does a genealogy project have to do with civics, or with freshman seminar?”

Skye had been right.

“Well, to understand who you might be and what role you might play as you grow into mature young adults and, hopefully, good citizens, you’ll have to learn who you are. Part of that begins in understanding your own history and where you fit into that. This semester we’ll focus on the smaller scale, on the self, and next semester we’ll move into the larger scale – that is, where your self fits into our larger world.”

“As for the freshman seminar element,” Ms. Price said with a wry smile, “you’ll see that there are several components to this assignment, to be completed over the course of the next few months, that will each help us hone our skills in different academic areas. Research, interview skills, essay writing, public speaking…”

Ms. Price continued talking, walking them through each individual assignment in the project, and Skye felt herself growing more and more despondent as each section got introduced. Researching your family history and making a family tree. Interviewing a member of your family about your family’s past. Writing an essay about the ways your family history influences you. Giving an oral presentation on someone from your family tree who inspires you. They ranged from sounding just shy of torture to sounding downright impossible to Skye. She felt sick. How was she supposed to do any of this? Her only family was in jail. With a jolt, she looked to her right and another thought occurred to her. How was Jemma supposed to do any of this? No one from her family was alive anymore at all.

When the bell finally rang at the end of class, Skye had all but worked herself into a huff over the whole thing, angry at Ms. Price for assigning something that she ought to know they wouldn’t be able to do.

“Skye, Jemma?” Ms. Price called as everyone began packing up their things to leave. “Would you two minding staying behind for a moment? It won’t take long, and I can write you a late pass if you need one for next period.”

Not really with any choice in the matter, both girls remained in their seats as the rest of the class filtered out. Trip and Fitz both lingered in the doorway, casting them curious glances, and Skye crooked a resigned half-grimace their way.

“This isn’t a bad thing,” Ms. Price assured Skye and Jemma as she came over to where they were both sitting. “I just had a few things I wanted to discuss with you both more privately.”

“Okay,” Skye said flatly.

“Firstly, I wanted to draw your attention to the last paragraph on the genealogy assignment sheet,” Ms. Price said. She waited for Skye and Jemma to flip to the last page, then she pointed to the last section, which they hadn’t really talked about in class. “I always put this section in for those for whom this assignment might be more complicated. I understand that family history isn’t always so cut and dry for everyone.”

“Oh.” Skye blinked and squinted at the paper, doing her best to read it as quickly as she could while Ms. Price was standing there in front of them. She only got through the heading – Project Modifications – before Ms. Price started talking again.

“You can read it more closely later on, but for now, let me just say that whatever form your project takes, so long as it meets the requirements on the rubric, that’s fine with me. If you’d like to study your biological families, you’re welcome to. If you’d like to study your adoptive family, that’s also more than fine. It’s also all right if you’d like to incorporate both in some way. I’m the only one who will be reading and grading everything, so anything you turn in will be kept private. And whatever you decide is fine with me, no questions asked.”

“Thank you,” Jemma said quietly. Skye noticed she was tapping on the edge of her desk, a little faster than was normal for her.

“Yeah, thanks,” Skye nodded.

“No two families look alike, so a project like this needs some flexibility to it,” Ms. Price said kindly. “Now the other thing—”

Skey had forgotten there were supposed to be two things. She couldn’t imagine what Ms. Price wanted to say. She didn’t think they had done anything wrong yet.

“In the future, Jemma, I would love if you could share your ideas during discussions with the rest of the class yourself,” Ms. Price said. “Your voice is important and deserves to be a part of our conversations. However, if that’s not something you’re comfortable with, it’s okay with me if you’d like to continue using Skye as your spokesperson.” Ms. Price flashed a knowing smile at both of them, and Skye and Jemma both blushed, realizing they hadn’t been as slick earlier as they’d thought.

“I’d appreciate it if you let me take a look at some of the things you write down in class from time to time, just so I can get some insight into what you’re thinking during discussions if you’re not sharing them out loud. Does that seem fair?”

Jemma looked a little panicked, and her tapping sped up, but she nodded and squeaked out an “okay” that drew another smile from Ms. Price, this one a little softer than the one before.

“And Skye, I really appreciated what you brought to discussion today as well,” Ms. Price said, turning to her. “You’re asking good questions. Thinking deeply about things beyond just the simple, yes-or-no binary. Keep it up, both of you. I think we’ve got a good year in store for us.”

Chapter Text

As far as new schools went, Jemma had to admit that Manitowoc High School really wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. For one thing, it wasn’t nearly as different as some of her other new schools had been – the building was different, yes, as were her teachers, but many of her classmates were familiar faces from last year, and she already knew Ms. Price, and Phil, of course. The only other school she’d been to where the faces around her weren’t total strangers had been Our Lady of Mercy, the school where all the children at St. Agnes attended, but nothing about the faces there, familiar as they might have been, had felt comforting in the way that seeing Phil or Ms. Price, or Bobbi and her friends, or Skye and their friends intermixed throughout the halls did now.

It also helped that the structure of the school day here – which she had committed to memory as soon as she’d received her timetable – was virtually identical to how things had run at the middle school, too. There was routine here – a familiar routine – and there was something comforting in that, even if the timings were sometimes a little unusual. There was a five-minute homeroom, four fifty-minute class periods in the morning, then a forty-seven-minute lunch, then the final three fifty-minute periods of the day, all with three minutes in between to move from room to room.

While the schedule meant that some classes ran at uneven times, like her geometry class, which ran from 9:01 am until 9:51a.m., she appreciated how finely tuned the whole schedule felt, with all the little snippets of time adding up to a full, round seven hours by the end of the day. On their own, the pieces might seem fragmented and jagged, but all together they made for a smooth day, balanced and whole, almost like an intricate mosaic made from shards of broken glass.

Best of all, there was only one class on her schedule that she didn’t share with at least one of her friends. They all had Ms. Price’s class together, then she and Fitz went to Mr. Vaughn’s geometry class, and honors earth science with Mr. Hall, and level-one Spanish class with Mr. Gonzales, whom Bobbi had spoken fondly of last year. Skye was in that class with them, too, although Trip had opted for French. Apparently, he had French-speaking family down in Louisiana (a US state that Jemma, having never left Wisconsin after immigrating from England, had to admit she rarely thought of outside of learning the names and geographic locations of each state in social studies), and he was eager to learn some phrases to use amongst them during his next visit.

Still, there was also a lot of new to take in – new building, new classes, new teachers, new sounds and smells and unspoken rules – and by the time the bell rang to signal the end of Spanish class and the beginning of lunch, Jemma was feeling more than a little worn down. She had gotten used to the slower pace of summer, the small social circle, the familiar expectations and routines. The rapid adjustment period back to the fast-moving classes, crowds of students pressing in on her in the hallways and filling up seats around her in the classrooms, and as-of-yet unlearned patterns and rules that drove the school day left her somewhat on edge, feeling like she was playing an off-kilter game of catch-up that everyone else but her seemed to have gotten an instruction manual for.

She packed her things slowly as the rest of the Spanish class flooded out of the room and off to lunch. She always packed her things slowly, of course – she liked to be deliberate, and it was important that her things were put away correctly, not higgledy-piggledy, as her mother used to say – but she could feel herself moving even slower than her normal tempo. She just wanted a moment to catch her figurative breath before she had to jump forward into lunch, which she worried might be the most difficult part of her day, without the structure of a classroom to provide any kind of shield to hide behind.

Her hands felt tight – arthritic, almost – as she closed her notebook and carefully slid it into her backpack, between the notebook for earth science and the notebook for biology, which she had after lunch. Her fingers had spent most of the day curled tightly in on themselves, and they were starting to hurt.

“You doing okay?”

Skye had drawn up beside her, backpack slung over one shoulder, and she was looking at Jemma’s tense, stiff hands as they fumbled to navigate around the zipper. She looked worried, but she waited for Jemma to cultivate her answer.

“I’m okay,” Jemma said. She finished zipping up her backpack and flexed her hands a few times, fingers squeezing in and out of a fist as she tried to work the stiff ache out of them. When that didn’t work, she gave them a little shake, a small little 1-2-3 flap of futility that failed to sap the real urge that was building in her muscles.

Of course, what she really wanted to do was tap, to truly release the tension, but she was trying not to do that so much today. Doing it in the car or sharing I-love-you taps was okay, and she had given herself a little slack when she and Skye had been alone in the classroom with Ms. Price, since Ms. Price already knew about the tapping. But part of the first day routine in a new environment was always taking stock of the surroundings to try and identify how things worked, and Jemma had been watching the other students throughout the day. She didn’t notice anyone who moved the way she moved.

Maybe no one at this school would mind if she allowed herself to tap, but she wasn’t sure yet. She hadn’t gathered enough data. Some schools didn’t seem to notice or care all that much, but other schools looked down on you for being disruptive or had students who were eager to latch onto anything that set you apart and marked you as weak prey for the predators of popularity to hunt. As much as it made her hands buzz with the need for release and her muscles feel tight with stress, she knew it was safer and smarter to force herself to wait until she knew for sure if it was all right for her to let her guard down in that way.

“I think I just need a minute,” she said, wrapping her arms around her backpack and squeezing it tight to her chest, relishing the firm pressure on her body. “A little break from people for a moment.”

“From all people?” Fitz asked. He said it like a little joke, but Jemma knew him well enough to know that if she told him yes, he’d take her seriously. Luckily, she didn’t have to.

“No.” She smiled a small smile, a 20% smile. “Not all people. Just new people.”

“It has been a lot of new today,” Skye said sympathetically. She plopped down in the desk next to Jemma and reclined. “At least we haven’t gotten too lost yet. I’m counting that as a victory.”

“There’s quite a lot to take in all at once,” Fitz agreed. “And how they expect us to make it from the science room to our lockers to switch books and then to the Spanish room – all in three minutes, mind you – is beyond me. None of us has super speed.”

“As far as you know,” Skye joked, waggling her eyebrows at Fitz. “For all you know, I just ran to the door and back faster than the speed of light this very second.”

“That’s scientifically impossible, Skye,” Fitz frowned. “Do you know how fast light travels?”

“No, but I bet you two could tell me without any trouble.”

“299,792,458 meters per second,” Jemma and Fitz said, almost in perfect unison.

“It’s a universal physical constant,” Jemma continued as Skye held her hands out in a proud, ‘see, what did I tell you?’ kind of gesture. “Typically denoted by the letter ‘c’ in equations.”

“Like the ‘c’ in E=mc²,” added Fitz.

“The Einstein thingy,” Skye said with an impish smile.

“Yes, the ‘Einstein thingy.’” Fitz rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, too. “As far as science is concerned, nothing can pass the speed of light, at least, in theory. So I’m not convinced by your claims of super speed, Skye.”

“You caught me,” Skye shrugged. “I’m not a speedster. Honestly, if I had superpowers, I don’t think I’d want superspeed anyway.”

“I don’t think you get to choose your superpowers,” Jemma giggled, thinking to the Avengers cartoons that Phil liked to watch with them on Saturday mornings. “There’s no way of knowing what you might become after radiation exposure or taking a super soldier serum or having your DNA tampered with.”

“Or being bitten by a radioactive animal,” Fitz added thoughtfully. “That works, too, sometimes. Spiders, obviously. But probably any animal. I expect the powers you’d get from a radioactive monkey bite, for example, would create substantial subatomic change…"

“Probably you should just avoid excessive radioactivity in general,” Jemma mused. “And animal bites.”

“Well, you guys are no fun,” said Skye. Jemma could tell she was teasing them. “Now I have to come up with new plans for this weekend.”

“We should go soon,” Fitz said suddenly, looking at the clock hanging on the wall. “The robotics team meeting is starting in a few minutes, and Trip said he was meeting us there. Don’t want to be late.”

“Do you want to tap a little before we go?” Skye asked gently as they got to their feet and headed for the door. She dropped her voice slightly. “While it’s just us in here? I know you’re trying not to do it right now. I’ve seen you.”

Jemma blushed and ducked her head a smidge, but she didn’t hesitate to take advantage of Skye’s offer and she tapped a stout 1-2-1-2, right on her hip, hard and fast, like water being released from a dam. The sensation throughout the rest of her body was like that too, the relief of letting go of the tension that needing to tap had been causing to build up washing over her in a sweeping wave. Soon, her tempo slowed to a more relaxed 1-2-3-4 as she settled back into her old, familiar rhythms and took some of the deep breaths that she hadn’t been able to swallow since last night.

“Better?” grinned Skye. Jemma nodded and gave her a grateful smile.

“Good.” Skye took her hand and pulled her along out into the hall, which was much quieter now that most students had gone to lunch. “Now, let’s go find Trip.”

After only two wrong turns, one of which required a small amount of backtracking, the three of them were able to find the room tucked in the back of the shop class lab where the rest of the robotics team was congregating. A handful of students were still filtering inside the room, much to Jemma’s relief. She hated being late, for several reasons. There was the obvious, that being late was frowned upon, only a few steps shy of breaking the rules, but there was also the fact that being late meant more eyes on you as you entered a room. Being on time or, better yet, being early, meant she could slip in unnoticed and assess the environment ahead of time.

“Hey guys!” Trip was parked at a worktable near the window, his lunch tray from the cafeteria in front of him. He waved his plastic fork in their direction. “I got us stools. Come sit!”

Phil had asked her and Skye and Bobbi if they wanted to switch to buying their lunches at school, but none of them had been all that keen on the idea. Bobbi claimed that the cafeteria food wasn’t as good as what they packed from home, and Jemma knew that bringing her own lunch could guarantee that she’d have foods she liked to eat every day. Skye hadn’t given a reason, but Jemma suspected it was because she liked seeing the little cartoons and messages that Phil often wrote on their lunch bags. She always wore an extra-large smile when she inspected the brown paper bag for doodles of Captain America or notes sending love or well wishes from Phil and May.

She, Skye, and Fitz settled at the worktable with Trip, and all four began to dig into their lunches – a slice of pizza cut into a rectangle for Trip, what looked like pieces of leftover pot roast sandwiched between two slices of white bread for Fitz, peanut butter and jelly for Skye, and a jam sandwich for Jemma. She had learned to like peanut butter well enough once she’d moved to America and, more specifically, once she’d moved to St. Agnes, where it was a staple. But now that she lived with May and Phil, who paid attention and liked for her to eat things the way she wanted them, she was more than happy to switch back to plain jam, just like her mother had once made.

“How was French class?” Skye asked Trip around a mouthful of food. “Learn anything French?”

“Oui,” Trip grinned. “Je m’appelle Antoine.”

Skye snorted. “It sounds like you’re saying ‘Jem Apple.’” She picked up one of Jemma’s apple slices that she’d just unwrapped and wiggled it in Trip’s face. She spoke in a high-pitched voice with a bad French accent, like a character from a children’s television program. “Bonjour, Monsieur Trip. I’m Jem’s Apple.”

“Come on, girl,” Trip laughed, grabbing the apple slice from Skye and popping it into his mouth. “I didn’t sound that bad.”

He picked up the cup of applesauce on his tray and slid it across the worktable towards Jemma, flashing her a sheepish smile. “Here, since I ate some of your apple. Trade me.”

“You don’t need to—”

“It’s only fair,” Trip insisted. “Come on, please? I want you to have it.”

“Oh, all right, then.” Jemma smiled and took the applesauce from him, tapping a few times on the foil lid of the cup without really thinking. It was the plain kind, the kind she liked best. “At least let me give you a few more apple slices. To balance the trade.”

“Deal,” agreed Trip. He munched happily for a minute before speaking again. “Your folks always have the best apples. My grandma always buys the green ones, the really sour ones, you know? I think it’s ‘cause she uses them to bake a lot of the time, so she just buys them for everything nowadays. But the apples from your guys’ house? Way better.”

“My mum likes the dark red ones, Red Delicious. Talk about an oxymoron,” Fitz grumbled. “I don’t understand how she likes them.”

“Phil’s very particular about his apples,” Skye said. “Which didn’t really surprise me once I learned that about him.”

“He said we might get to go pick some at an orchard,” Jemma added. “Once it’s fall and they’re more in season.”

“Oh, you’ve got to go to Strader’s, over in Maribel,” Trip said excitedly. “My parents and I have gone there a couple of times. They grow really good apples there, plus they make their own applesauce. Super good.”

“Who knew you were such a connoisseur of apples?” Fitz teased.

“Hey, I’ve got layers, man,” grinned Trip. “Lots and lots of appley layers.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, comparing how their mornings had gone, catching up on Trip’s latest updates about the football team, and hearing how Skye and Fitz’s meetings with Mr. Randolph had gone. Jemma was glad to know that they would both still be getting their accommodations this year, and that they would likely be utilizing some of them together, but she was a little perturbed to hear that Mr. Randolph was moving forward with his recommended plan of removing auditory testing from Skye’s IEP. Being able to hear her test questions out loud had made such a difference for Skye, and while the idea of having someone read her questions out loud made Jemma feel queasy with anxiety just thinking about it, she knew that it had done wonders for Skye’s grades and self-confidence. Still, Mr. Randolph was the counselor, not her, so Jemma supposed she had to trust his judgement.

She was about to ask Fitz if he’d had auditory testing dropped from his plan as well, when two teachers stood up at the front of the room and called the group to order.

“All right, settle down you lot,” called the first teacher, a white man with grey hair and stubble speckling his long face. He spoke with a thick Scottish accent, not so dissimilar from Fitz’s, and his eyes glinted as he smiled around at the group. “I think you’ve had enough time to chit-chat. For our newcomers, welcome. I’m Mr. Radcliffe, one of the advisors for the BotLaws.”

“I think I have him for computer science later on today,” Skye murmured out of the corner of her mouth. “I recognize his name from my schedule.”

“And I’m Mr. Peterson,” said the other teacher, a Black man with a shaved head and what looked like some old scarring on one side of his face. He seemed much younger than Mr. Radcliffe, and his eyes struck Jemma as being very kind. “I’m the other advisor and I also teach shop classes here.”

“The Manitowoc Robotics team is an organization with a long and proud history,” Mr. Radcliffe said, “of about ten years.” He paused, and a few of the older students around the room chuckled good-naturedly. “All right, so we haven’t been around forever, but neither has competitive robotics. Regardless, we’re a well-established program with a decent track record.”

“This meeting is more informational in nature,” Mr. Peterson continued. “We’ll walk you through the basics, answer questions, get to know one another. It’s a no-pressure meeting for our newcomers to see if they want to stick around for the rest of the year and for our returning team members to reconnect.”

“Our role as advisors is just that, to advise,” said Mr. Radcliffe. “We’ll oversee things, help out, settle disputes should they arise. But one of the unique elements of this team is that it’s much more student-run than some of the other groups at school. Mr. Peterson or I will always be present at meetings or workdays for safety purposes, of course, but most of the day-to-day running of the team is up to you all, and in particular, your captain.”

He nodded to the front row of worktables, and the girl that they had met at the activities fair, Ophelia, stood and turned to face the group. She gave a pressed and polished smile and a small wave before introducing herself.

“It’s good to have so many of you back from last year,” she said. Her eyes scanned across the room, and she gave little nods of acknowledgement to the students whom she recognized. “And wonderful to see so many new faces again from orientation. I think we have the makings of a very competitive team this year. After our failure to place at Nationals last year, I’m confident we can improve upon our record with enough hard work and dedication.”

“Here we go,” a long-haired boy sitting at the table in front of Jemma’s group said in an undertone to the short-haired boy sitting next to him. They looked slightly older, maybe sophomores or juniors.

“Two minutes in and she’s already reminding us about last year,” the short-haired boy muttered back to his companion. “No surprise there.”

“Is it too early to say I already miss Callie?” whispered the long-haired boy.

“Seth, Donnie,” Ophelia said suddenly. The two boys in front of Jemma snapped to attention. “Did you have something you wanted to tell the team?”

“Just talking strategy for how to do better than last year,” the long-haired boy – Seth, Jemma supposed – said, flashing Ophelia a smile that seemed somewhat false in Jemma’s opinion. Although that could have just been because she knew he was lying.

“Hey, captain?” The other boy, Donnie, called. “Can we go around and do names or something? Like half the people in this room are freshman and I don’t know any of them.”

“As a matter of fact, that was the first thing on my agenda,” Ophelia said smoothly. “So thank you for the segue, Donnie. Yes, there are a number of new faces and I think it would do us well to introduce ourselves. Maybe let’s all go around and say our name, what grade you’re in, and what skills or roles you might bring to the team.”

Something tightened in Jemma’s chest and suddenly she felt as if her jam sandwich had lodged itself in her throat. Under the table, her hand jumped with the urge to tap, but she forced herself to press her palm down hard against her knee instead. No one else in the room was moving, and Ophelia seemed like she had sharp eyes and exacting standards. She almost reminded Jemma of Sister Margaret in that way, which wasn’t a particularly pleasant comparison to think of at the moment.

They went around the room reasonably quickly, since there weren’t too many people to begin with. Seth and Donnie introduced themselves, informing everyone that they were juniors who typically worked on designs for the team’s robot constructions. Next to go was an older boy who introduced himself as a senior named Trevor, a programmer, and a girl sitting next to him who Jemma learned was a junior named Sequoia who specialized in some of the engineering work. Judging by the way Trevor’s arm stayed draped around Sequoia’s shoulders as they spoke and the way Sequoia popped little bites of her lunch into Trevor’s mouth, Jemma supposed the pair of them must be close friends. They seemed nice, though, even if they were acting a bit silly around one another.

The only other person in the room whom Jemma didn’t recognize was a boy who looked closer to their age and seemed vaguely familiar, like perhaps Jemma had seen him around the halls last year at the middle school. He ran a hand through his rumpled blonde hair, making it stick up even more than it already was, before he introduced himself.

“Um, hi. I’m Lincoln. I’m a freshman. I don’t really know what role I might do on the team, but I took computer science last year and I’m pretty good with circuits and stuff. My dad’s an electrician, so I know a lot about all that.”

“Welcome, Lincoln,” Ophelia nodded. Jemma got the impression that Ophelia was sizing Lincoln up as he spoke, scanning him for potential usefulness. “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble plugging you in.”

Beside her, Skye giggled. “Plugging him in,” she whispered gleefully. “Get it? ‘Cause he likes electricity?”

Fitz tittered slightly and Jemma fought a small smile, while Trip groaned from their other side. “That’s just bad, Skye.”

“It sounds like our table in the back is ready to introduce themselves,” Ophelia said pointedly, silencing the small ripple of laughter that was coming from their table. “Leopold, why don’t you and your friends tell us about yourselves?”

Fitz, Trip, and Skye all introduced themselves quickly, all going down the line and having no trouble producing the necessary information for the rest of the group. Things weren’t quite so smooth when they got to Jemma, however. She felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten as nearly a dozen pairs of eyes all turned on her, many expectant and some even demanding. She wished she could just speak as easily as Skye had moments before her, with as much charisma as Trip or as much confidence as Fitz, but her voice felt like it had shriveled up and died somewhere around her submandibular gland and her lungs felt like they had compressed themselves into hummingbird lungs, too small to bring her the proper amount of oxygen. She wished Skye could just speak for the both of them, but she knew that wouldn’t stop the other students from staring at her with their too sharp eyes and their unspoken questions.

“I’m Jemma,” she said. She could tell that her voice wasn’t as loud as it should be, but it was already taking so much effort just to form the words. She didn’t think she had the fortitude to manage her volume, too. “I’m in ninth grade, too.” Without thinking, her finger found her knee under the table and began drumming out a small, quick beat 1-2-3 1-2-3 just-calm-down. The rhythm seeped into her skin and soothed her tight, tense muscles.

“And what are you good at, Jemma?” Ophelia asked. Her tone was saccharine, and she tilted her head slightly to one side as she spoke. She spaced out her words as she asked Jemma the question, like she needed to speak slowly so Jemma could keep up. The whole thing reminded Jemma sharply of the type of adults she’d encountered before that assumed that, just because she didn’t speak, she wasn’t intelligent. They spoke to her like she was a young child – a not-particularly-bright child, no less – and sometimes even raised their voices, too, like she had difficulty hearing as well as speaking.

Jemma didn’t care much for adults like that. She didn’t appreciate being talked down to or underestimated, but she also wasn’t brash enough to correct them most of the time. Usually she just kept quiet and let her work – her homework assignments, her test scores, her grades – speak for itself. But something about today – perhaps the fact that Ophelia, while several years her senior, wasn’t really an adult, or the fact that, if she was being honest, she wanted to impress these people that Fitz was so eager for them to fit in with, or that fact that she had her friends sitting close by and Skye’s spirit pumping gumption into her veins – made her feel suddenly bolder than she hardly ever did.

“I imagine I could excel at any of the tasks required by this aggregate endeavor, given my propensity for mathematics and various scientific pursuits,” she said quietly, deliberately adjusting her speech to use as many rich vocabulary words as she could think of on the spot, so as to demonstrate for Ophelia, and the rest of the room, that her reluctance to speak didn’t stem from a lack of linguistic prowess. “Although if given the choice, I believe my predilection would tend towards the research and report-writing facets of our work. My appetence for knowledge can be insatiable at times, which I believe could be an asset to the team.”

There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then, slowly, tentative laughter started bubbling up around the room.

“Damn, she sure told you, Ophelia,” snickered Trevor.

“Can she write my reports, too?” Seth asked, elbowing his friend Donnie in the side with a smirk.

“Yes, well, thank you, Jemma.” Ophelia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes as she spoke. “I’m sure we can find something to suit you. And for future reference, if you do end up contributing to our research, the judging panels tend to dislike overly flowery language in our reports. People tend to use… decorative words to cover up the fact that they don’t have much substance in their writing, you know.”

Abashed, Jemma felt her whole face flash up with hot embarrassment. The momentary courage that had flared up inside her and spurred her to speak evaporated, leaving nothing but a sour whisp of regret-filled smoke in her chest. She should have known better. Nothing good ever came from talking in front of strangers. Now everyone would think she was substance-less. An empty, air-headed ninny who couldn’t help the team. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Fitz, who was probably disappointed that she’d spoiled their chances of joining the club.

Something hard bumped into her knee under the table, and it took Jemma a second to realize that it was Skye’s knee, knocking gently into her own with a steady beat. At least Skye was still her friend, her sister. Skye would never think she was substance-less. A quick glance over to Skye revealed a hard look on her face, an angry expression that Jemma had seen cross Skye’s countenance plenty of times before. Skye’s temper was always very short when it came to people who made them feel small.

“Don’t,” Jemma whispered, the second she saw Skye open her mouth to fire back a retort at Ophelia. Jemma rested a soft hand over Skye’s balled-up fist, tapped her pointer finger against Skye’s knuckles with a light touch. “It’s not worth it.”

With what looked like a great deal of energy and effort, Skye wrenched her mouth closed and glared at the tabletop. Jemma could see the muscles working in her jaw as she forced herself to swallow whatever noble defense she had wanted to announce on Jemma’s behalf. Jemma deeply appreciated Skye’s willingness to go to war for her, but she also didn’t want to make any more of a scene than she already had this hour. It was just easier to put your head down and accept the sharp words. They passed more quickly that way, in Jemma’s experience. Besides, if they wanted any hope of being allowed to stay in the club, they couldn’t be starting arguments with the captain on day one.

The rest of the meeting passed without event, as Ophelia and Mr. Peterson and Mr. Radcliffe went over some basic information about the team and passed out a schedule for the next several upcoming meetings and workdays.

“That’s all we have for now,” Mr. Peterson concluded with a smile. “Hopefully we’ll see you all back for our next one.”

Everyone began milling about, gathering lunch trash to take to the bin and moving for the door. Well, everyone except Jemma. She couldn’t make herself move yet. It was like there was too much commotion swirling around her, and the only way she could keep herself from being swept up in the tornado was to remain affixed to her chair for the time being. At least until her head stopped spinning so much and the burning feeling of failure subsided in her throat. Her hands ached, and she gripped the edges of her chair as hard as she could to try and relieve some of the pressure without moving them. She didn’t exactly know why, but she had this deep feeling that she would be better off making herself as unremarkable as possible until Ophelia was out of the room.

“You okay?” Skye asked quietly as she returned to her seat, trash disposed of. Jemma gave her a tiny nod, but didn’t lift her eyes from the tabletop.

Fitz and Trip had come back, too, and Fitz in particular seemed buoyant as he bounced up to them.

“Well, that was just brilliant, wasn’t it?” he beamed. “This is going to be the absolute best. We’ve all got specialties we can work in, and we’ll be doing all the work ourselves, ground up, no adults interfering at all—”

“It definitely has potential,” Trip agreed. “Busy schedule, though. My free time is disappearing before my eyes.”

“But it’ll be worth it,” said Fitz. “I mean, we’re building an amphibious machine. That’s bloody amazing. And to have to identify and classify materials underwater to bring them back to the surface… think about all the marine research you’ll get to do.” He directed that last part Jemma’s way, and, out of the corner of her eye, she could see him grinning at her with eyes sparkling. “You love studying the ocean just about as much as the cosmos.”

“Yes,” she agreed. He wasn’t wrong about that, and he was so excited about the whole thing that she couldn’t bring herself to do anything that would dampen his enthusiasm. So she just nodded along. It didn’t even feel real, just bob-bob-bob, nod-nod-nod along with everyone as they spoke, barely taking in a single word. A little Jemma puppet cresting along with simple compliance. A robot, programmed to confirm without connection. It all felt so wrong, but it wasn’t anything she could identify or understand, not really. Just wrong.

“We’ve got like ten more minutes until the bell,” Trip pointed out then. “What do you guys want to do before class?

“Maybe you have ten minutes,” Skye teased, sticking out her tongue at him playfully. “You and Fitz are staying here for shop class, but I have computer science all the way on the other side of the school. It’s going to take me at least half that time to get over there.”

“Okay, okay,” laughed Trip. “Then I guess we’ll just see you guys later in English, then.”

“See you,” Skye smiled. She beckoned for Jemma to follow, and something about Skye’s gentle hand was able to wrench Jemma from her stuck position. She rose and trailed after her, leaving Fitz and Trip with a small wave.

“You can tap now, no one’s paying attention,” Skye murmured to her as they made their way back out into the bustling hallway. “It’s too busy out here for anyone to notice your hands.”

Jemma let out a shaky, but grateful, breath and began drilling a tense 1-1-1-1 just below her hip. Skey slowed her pace and drifted over to a relatively secluded alcove in between a few sections of lockers.

“Thank you,” Jemma said softly. The initial tension in her hands released with the first flurry of taps, she could feel her tempo slowing first to a 1-2-1-2 and then eventually down to a steady, soothing 1-2-3-4.

“I fibbed a little bit about how long it’s going to take me to get to the computer lab,” Skye said with a glib shrug. “I needed to get out of that room. Thought you might want a few minutes to yourself before class, too.”

Jemma nodded. “A break would be good.”

“Hey, just so you know,” Skye said then, very seriously, “we don’t have to do the club if you don’t want to. I mean, the actual work seems like it might be fun, and getting to write the code for the unmanned section sounded cool, but if it’s going to stress you out—”

“No, it’s not… I’m all right. Fitz likes it, and so do you and Trip. And the research is going to be about things I already like. I’m just having a bad day.”

Skye gave her a long, searching look, like she was trying to deduce exactly how honest Jemma was being in that moment. A likely very difficult task, since Jemma wasn’t sure herself how much of what she’d just said was truth and how much was hope.

“Okay. Whatever you want, I’m with you. Walk you to class?” Skye offered. “What do you have next, again?”

“Biology.”

“That’s right.” Skye waggled her eyebrows at her playfully. “Your super special smart biology class with all the sophomores. I think that’s on the way to the computer lab…”

“That’s okay.” Jemma surprised herself with the answer, but she found it was true once she’d said it. “You can go on. I’m going to walk a few minutes, I think.”

Skye didn’t object, and parted ways with a smile and an encouraging shoulder bump. Jemma had always appreciated that about Skye. No matter how stubborn or hard-headed Skye could be about other things, she always went out of her way to defer to what Jemma needed when she was having trouble. Skye, who so often preferred noise and movement, knew when to lead with gentleness and quiet. She never complained when Jemma needed space, even though Jemma knew Skye didn’t like being alone most of the time. She was just good that way, and Jemma tried to return in kind when she could.

Without really realizing it, Jemma’s feet carried her towards the history wing of the school, and before she’d quite registered what she’d done, she found herself lingering outside of Phil’s door. Peering inside, she spotted him at his desk, tidying up the crumbs from his own lunch. Like he had a sixth sense about him, Phil looked up and saw her almost right away, and his face broke into a broad smile.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m glad to see you. Want to come in for a second?”

Jemma nodded and stepped into his familiar classroom. She slid into the desk she used to sit in last year on the days when she and Bobbi would wait in here while Skye went to tutoring. It felt good to be back in a familiar place, in a familiar seat, with a familiar person. Someone who she knew wouldn’t criticize her words or her flighty fingers.

“How’s the day?” Phil asked. He stayed in his chair behind the desk, but he rolled out a little so there wasn’t quite such a barrier between them. Close enough to feel nice, but with enough space for comfort. “Did you go to that robotics team meeting just now?”

She nodded again and felt her finger skip a beat on the desktop.

“Is everything okay?”

Jemma wanted to nod once more and just let everything keep skimming along, to just draw a little stability out of Phil to help her get through the next few hours, but something about the tender concern in his voice kept her from doing that. She didn’t want to lie to him, even if it was only a nod.

“Did something happen at the meeting? Where’s Skye?”

“She went to class. She’s fine.”

“Okay. That’s good. What about you?”

“I…” Jemma wasn’t really sure what to say. She wasn’t really sure what was wrong, except that there had just been so much of everything today that it was making her muscles hurt and she still couldn’t get rid of that sour burn in the back of her throat that reminded her of her failing with Ophelia. She tried to take a deep breath, call to mind some of Dr. Garner’s words. She needed to slow down. Identify. Try to find one thing to focus on so she could communicate her needs.

“Overwhelmed,” she finally said, settling on the word. “I’m feeling… overwhelmed.”

“That’s understandable,” Phil said, nodding. “There’s a lot to take in today. A lot of new things. I know that can be hard. This is a good place to take a break for the last few minutes of lunch, if you need it. Or if you need to take some time with the nurse or the guidance counselor—”

Jemma shook her head. “I’m all right.”

“Did something in particular happen that felt overwhelming,” Phil asked, “or is it just everything all at once?”

“Some of both,” Jemma decided eventually. “It’s everything, but… the robotics team meeting… I didn’t do it correctly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I can… I don’t think I’m… I don’t know how to be with them.” Jemma could feel frustration building in her chest as she struggled to articulate the problem from earlier. “I don’t know if I can fit in the proper way.”

“Well,” Phil said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, “here’s my two cents, if you want it.”

Jemma nodded, and he continued once she’d given him the okay.

“First, as your almost-official dad, I have to tell you that you’re perfect the way you are, because it’s true. And that the only ‘proper’ way for you to fit is for you to be yourself, because you fit just right, just as you are. Second, it’s completely fine to decide you don’t want to be on the robotics team,” he said. “Part of high school is trying out different things to find what you like and those places where you do fit, as you. If the robotics team isn’t it, that’s okay. Even if all your friends feel differently, you’re not required to join all the same clubs and teams as them. Nobody will be upset with you.”

“Fitz is so excited, though. He was so happy to find something we could do together.”

“There will be plenty of things you all can do together over the next four years,” smiled Phil. “Robots, or no robots. The other thing I want to tell you, though, is that first impressions can be really hard. On both sides. Maybe you don’t feel like you made the right first impression today with the team, but maybe the team didn’t make the right first impression with you, either. Sometimes that’s all the sign you need to leave something behind, but sometimes it takes a little while to see the real person underneath. And that’s okay, too. But it means you have to wait a little longer, stick with something for a while to really get a feel for it. I think you’d do a great job on the robotics team, and I think you might have fun, but you might have to keep trying it out until you can really get settled in. Give it some time to grow on you and give the other kids on the team a chance to get to know you – the real you – too.”

The warning bell sounded overhead, and Jemma knew she’d have to leave soon if she wanted to avoid being late for the class she was most looking forward to.

“Whatever you decide to do is okay,” Phil assured her. He crossed over to her and gave her a light squeeze on the shoulder. “And you don’t have to make up your mind right now. But it’s worth considering, I think. They’d be lucky to have someone as special as you, but only if you want to be there.”

Jemma thanked him and leaned into his touch, pressing her cheek lightly against the back of his hand. She tapped three times on his wrist and smiled. Maybe it was the calmness of the quiet room, or Phil’s sure presence, or his kind words, but she felt better than she had for most of the day.

“You think you’re okay to finish the day?” he asked.

“Yes. I have biology next,” she told him, smiling at the prospect.

“Well, you definitely don’t want to miss that,” grinned Phil. “I’ll see you after school, okay? Have a great rest of your day. I love you.”

She tapped on the door frame three times for him as she left the room, and she felt the rhythm of those three taps reverberating in her fingertips as she waded back through the hallway toward Mrs. Diaz’s classroom. I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you. With that kind of beat keeping her heart in time, she suddenly felt like Phil’s words could come true, and maybe the rest of the day really could be better. Maybe it could even be great.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so, tell me – how was everyone’s first day? I’ve been dying to hear all about it.” Melinda looked from face to face around the table, now that they had all finally managed to sit down together for dinner.

“My day was super good,” Deke piped up first, around a mouthful of food. He shoveled a fistful of peas (picked earlier from the garden in the backyard and shelled under Phil’s watchful eye, Melinda was sure) into his mouth, hardly stopping to chew before he tried to speak again.

She and Phil had both noticed early on that Deke often ate that way – always in a rush, like he was worried the food would vanish if he didn’t eat it quickly enough. They found themselves reminding him to slow down at least once or twice at most meals.

“Take a second to chew, there, pal,” Phil prompted gently. “We don’t want you to choke. And remember to use your spoon, yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” Deke flashed a bashful, gap-toothed grin and slowed his eating. He really was a cute little boy, even if his table manners were a work in progress.

“Why don’t we let someone else tell us about their day while you focus on eating,” Melinda suggested. “That way you don’t have to rush.”

Deke agreed, and May glanced over at the others, searching for a volunteer. Her eyes lingered on Skye, who took that moment to take a massive bite of her hamburger. Melinda had a sneaking suspicion that the bite had less to do with Skye’s hunger and more to do with the easy excuse to avoid going first that a full mouth provided, and the self-aware, almost sassy little shrug that Skye flashed her all but confirmed it.

Bobbi, picking up on Skye’s trick as well, smiled and shook her head at Skye’s antics, but she still volunteered to go first instead.

“My day was good. Good, good. It was a little weird not having Natasha and Clint around, but I have some classes with Mack and Hunter, and we ate lunch with Elena, too, so that was nice. Mack and I think our world history teacher, Mr. Blake, seems like he’s going to be kind of tough. And I think Hunter’s going to get me in trouble in ceramic art this semester.”

“How so?” Phil asked, smiling.

Bobbi laughed. “Well, we only took the class because we needed a fine art credit, and it was the only one that fit into our schedule, so he’s already not taking it very seriously. And the teacher’s… she’s a little…” Bobbi tipped her head from one side to the other, trying to settle on her words. “She’s very artsy. Kind of a free spirit, I guess.”

“Eccentric?” Jemma suggested.

“Yeah, you could say that,” nodded Bobbi. “She talked a lot about the energy of the clay and how we’re supposed to capture the fleeting spirit and ethereal essence in a tangible fixture.” Bobbi changed her voice as she said the last part, mimicking the flowy intonation of her hippy-dippy art teacher with what Melinda was sure was perfect pitch. If there was something about Bobbi she never doubted, it was her ability to echo other people’s words.

“Anyway, Hunter was cracking up the whole time. And him cracking up made me want to crack up, so…” Bobbi blushed a little. “I’m not sure we’re going to make it through the semester without getting some flack.”

“Well, just try your best,” Phil chuckled. “And if you make something nice, you can bring it home and we’ll find somewhere to put it where we can show it off. Honestly, if you make something ugly, we’ll still probably want to show it off. I’ve been saying for years that we need more art in this house.”

Skye and Jemma went next, tag-teaming their day somewhat. Melinda didn’t mind the combined report. She was just happy to hear the day had gone reasonably well, considering how big a transition it was for the both of them.

“What about the robotics team?” May asked. “You had your first team meeting today, right?”

“It was okay,” Skye said. “The project we’re going to work on seems like it might be cool. We’re supposed to design a robot that can work on land and underwater. It’s got to go in the water and collect different colored balls – those are supposed to represent the different kinds of marine samples a real-life robot might gather – and then bring them onto land and sort them out by color, so there’s a lot of tricky coding and design stuff that we’d have to do. And the research part will be all about oceans and biology and stuff.”

“That sounds like it could be a lot of fun,” May said. “Challenging, too, I’m sure. And Jemma, the research sounds like it would be right up your alley.”

Jemma nodded, but didn’t stop picking at her mashed potatoes.

“Did it seem like something you’d want to try and do this year?”

“Yes,” said Jemma eventually. “I want to try. I think it will be good, and everyone wants to do it together, which will be good. The meeting was just… a bit overwhelming today. But I’m going to try it.”

“That’s great news, love. Really great.”

“How about your classes?” Phil asked the girls. “Did they seem good? You like your teachers so far?”

“Biology was my favorite, even though I was by myself with the sophomores,” Jemma said, perking up almost immediately. “Mrs. Diaz was very nice, and she showed us all the things we’re going to be studying this year on the syllabus.”

“I knew you were going to like her,” Bobbi smiled. “Bio was one of my favorite classes last year, too. And Mrs. Diaz is awesome.”

“We were assigned textbooks,” Jemma continued, “and the one I got has Natasha’s name in it from when she was a sophomore.”

“No way,” Skye’s mouth fell open slightly. “You didn’t tell me that. We have to tell Natasha when I video call her for tutoring next week.”

“I’ll bring the book,” Jemma agreed. “Bobbi, don’t spoil the surprise when you talk to her before then. Promise?”

“I won’t, I promise, promise,” Bobbi assured her.

Skye told them a little about her computer science class, highlighting some of the things she was excited for in the class. Then Jemma popped back in with one more remark about their day, and Skye’s demeanor shifted abruptly.

“And we got assigned the project in freshman seminar,” Jemma told them. She nudged Skye to elaborate, and Skye obliged her, although she spoke quickly, almost like she was hoping she could sneak it in without anyone noticing.

“It’s this huge project from Ms. Price that we’re going to work on all semester. We’re doing a gen… a gene… a family tree thing. We have to write out the people in our family or whatever and write essays and stuff.”

That certainly caught the attention of both Melinda and Phil. They exchanged a quick glance between the pair of them. Melinda could read Phil plain as day, in part because she was thinking the exact same thing. What exactly was this project going to entail, and how difficult was it going to be on Skye and Jemma?

“I had forgotten that was the big freshman project Ms. Price likes to assign,” Phil said with carefully manufactured nonchalance. “It’s a big undertaking. Lots of steps and skill-building. It can be a tricky one, I know, so if you and Jemma ever want any help—”

“Ms. Price already told us we could make modifications to our assignment,” Jemma said, correctly interpreting the ulterior layer to Phil’s offer for assistance. “There are options she gave us.”

“So we’ll probably just make the tree with your guys’ families or something,” said Skye quickly. She was staring hard at her plate all of a sudden, and she speared a few peas on her fork with more force than was probably necessary. “Make it easier.”

“We should look at the options,” Jemma pushed back. “We don’t have to decide yet.”

“And you don’t have to decide the same thing,” May reminded them. “I assume it’s not a partner project.”

“It’s not,” Skye said flatly. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter right now, it’s not due for forever. Jemma’s right, we don’t have to decide yet.”

As much as Melinda wanted nothing more than to probe a little deeper on the subject of the project – get some more details, gain some more insight into how Skye and Jemma felt about the whole thing – she could tell that the topic was closed for now and that Skye in particular wasn’t going to entertain the conversation any further. Maybe it was for the best, to leave the deeper conversation for when there wasn’t quite such a large audience. Either way, Melinda knew they needed a change of subject, and Deke’s empty plate provided the perfect opportunity.

“Okay, Deke, are you ready to tell us about your day?”

“It was so good,” he gushed, bouncing up and down in his seat a little. “The playground at this school is way bigger than my old school. They have big swings and a tunnel slide, and nobody cared that I climbed up it instead of going down. And my teacher taught us a song – a ‘welcome to my school’ song – and we played a game to find all the stuff in our classroom. It was a…”

Deke paused and his face scrunched in serious thought. “A hunt. But not treasure. A cabbage-er hunt.”

“A scavenger hunt?” Bobbi asked.

Deke’s expression lit up. “Yeah, that’s it! We got a clipper board to check off all the things on our list and if we got ‘em all, then we got to pick out a sticker. I picked the one of a lemon wearing sunglasses and I stuck it right next to my name in the cubbies so I can see it every day. It’s really cool.”

“That does sound really cool,” agreed Phil. “Did you make any friends today?”

“Oh, yeah,” Deke grinned again.

May forced herself not to shake her head in amazement at children’s ability to form bonds with one another without any hesitation.

“I played freeze tag with Flint and Tess and they’re really good. Tess is the fastest runner and Flint is the best climber. I’m the best at jumping, but later on I’m gonna show them that I’m also the best at inventing, and maybe I’ll invent a ray gun that can unfreeze you in freeze tag. And my best friend that I met today is Robin. She’s my neighbor at the table and she’s so good at drawing. Like really good. I drew one picture during centers today and she drew three pictures and they were the best ones in the whole class. We traded my picture and her picture ‘cause I liked hers so much.

“She doesn’t really like to talk so much,” Deke continued, hardly stopping for air. “But she’s good at listening and her friend Mr. Coltrane is nice, too. He helped Robin say hi to me and he gave me a high five when I showed him my picture when it was done.”

Something Deke said must have caught Phil’s attention, because May watched him perk up suddenly.

“Robin, like Robin Hinton? Was that your friend Robin’s last name?”

Deke shrugged. “I dunno. We didn’t say our last names.”

“It very well could be,” May mused. “I remember Polly mentioned something about Robin’s in-school aide before, and she’d be right about Deke’s age by now.”

“I think we’re friends with Robin’s mom,” Phil explained with a smile when Deke gave them both a perplexed look. That didn’t seem to mean much to Deke either way.

“Never mind,” Phil laughed. “I’m glad you had such a good first day, buddy. And your teacher, you liked her okay?”

Deke nodded. “Her name is Miss Inara and she’s real nice and guess what,” Deke said. He bounced in his seat once again.

“What?” May asked, her lips pressing into an amused smile.

Deke leaned forward, like her had a big secret. His elbow almost knocked over his glass of milk, but luckily Phil was paying attention and scooped up the glass before it could be toppled over.

“She has blue hair,” Deke announced. He said it with the same gravitas one might use if they were announcing that Captain America himself had just moved in next door. The corners of Phil’s mouth twitched, and Melinda caught Bobbi biting back a laugh, too.

“Blue in it, like Miss Hand's red?” Jemma wanted to know. Deke shook his head.

“No. All blue. Her whole hair. She looks like a superhero. It’s so cool.”

“Totally cool,” Phil told him, composure regained.

“Could I dye my hair?” Skye asked suddenly. It was hard to tell from her tone if she was joking or not, and all eyes snapped over to her in surprise. Clearly not expecting the abrupt reaction, Skye backpedaled a little. “Not all blue, but like, I don’t know, maybe some purple on the ends or something.”

For a brief, horrifying moment, Melinda felt like she’d been taken over by a foreign entity and possessed by her mother’s spirit, and she could feel the immediate, knee-jerk ‘no’ forming on her lips. The same ‘no’ that her own mother had rattled off automatically to every mention of hair dye, piercings, or tattoos when Melinda had been that age.

Luckily, she caught herself in enough time to regain her senses before her mother’s old ‘no’ flew out of her own mouth, and she found herself asking a far more productive question.

“Do you want to dye your hair?”

 There was really no reason why Skye – or anyone in their family, for that matter – shouldn’t dye their hair if they wanted to. It didn’t hurt anything, and, despite her mother’s insistence that ‘looking like a troublemaker’ would ruin one’s future prospects, Melinda and Phil had long ago agreed to support their kids’ exploration of self-expression, so long as it was safe for them.

Skye shrugged one shoulder up and down noncommittally. “I don’t know. Not really, I guess. I like my hair the way it is. I was just wondering.”

“If that’s something you want, Skye, we can always talk about it,” Phil said. “We can figure out a way to help you with that.”

“Thanks,” she said, a little shyly now that it was obvious she didn’t have to be defensive about it. “We were never allowed to do anything like that at St. Agnes, you know. No dyeing. Not even haircuts besides trims. Not for the girls, at least. I guess the boys got haircuts, since their hair was always short.”

She laughed then, almost to herself. “One time, when I was little, I wanted short hair so bad, and I was mad that the nuns wouldn’t let me get it cut, so I took safety scissors at school and cut it myself, like just to my chin. I got in so much trouble after that, remember, Jemma?”

“Sister Margaret was so angry she broke the chalk in her hand when she found out,” Jemma nodded. “She made you wear a hat until it grew back, and she had you scraping candle wax off things at the church from Christmas until Easter.”

“The funny part was, no matter what punishment she gave me, it didn’t change the fact that my hair was too short and my scissorwork looked terrible,” Skye continued, laughing for real now. “That’s one of the only times where I got exactly what I wanted at St. Agnes and nobody could do anything about it until my hair just grew back on its own.”

The rest of the table joined Skye’s laughter then, although Melinda’s was tinged somewhat with sadness at the thought of Skye and Jemma, but especially Skye – independent, rambunctious, rebellious Skye – being denied any autonomy over their hair or appearance.

“Well, just so we’re all clear,” Phil said definitively, “if anybody here wants a haircut at any point, all they have to do is ask. We’ll find a professional to do it. No need for DIY styling, and definitely not with safety scissors. Deal?”

“Deal,” Skye agreed, and Jemma nodded along with her.

“Deal, deal, deal,” Bobbi smiled.

“I don’t even like haircuts,” Deke said, making a face. “I don’t want to get one until I’m seven, I think.”

With no homework to do, being the first day of school, everyone drifted off to entertain themselves once the table was cleared and the dishes were loaded into the dishwasher. Deke dragged Phil into the den to build Legos with him, which Melinda was positive Phil was secretly thrilled about, and Bobbi and Skye disappeared to their bedrooms. Melinda thought Jemma would be right behind Skye, but instead her youngest daughter lingered in the doorway of the kitchen as Melinda finished tucking the last Tupperware of leftovers into the fridge.

“May?”

“Mm-hm? What’s up, love?”

Melinda shut the fridge and turned to smile softly at Jemma, who tapped lightly on the doorframe and smiled back. It still awed her sometimes at how far they had come from the girl who wouldn’t say a word when they first met her.

“I know we have a long time to work on the project, and I don’t have to decide anything right now,” Jemma began, “but I’m trying to consider all my options, and I want to start thinking so that I have enough time to decide without being rushed.”

“That seems like a good idea.” Melinda began to make her way out of the kitchen, and she beckoned for Jemma to follow as she moved into the living room and toward a more comfortable seat on the couch. Jemma tucked herself right beside her as they sat, burrowing into May’s side and resting her pointer finger on May’s knee, where she tapped out a soft beat. Even though it wasn’t an unfamiliar position for either one of them these days, it still took all of Melinda’s strength and composure not to erupt into giddy butterflies at the closeness and comfort that now felt like second nature between them.

“So what are some of the options you have to consider?” May asked, once they were settled in together on the couch. Jemma kept her eyes on her fingers, which were still tapping lightly on Melinda’s knee. She wasn’t sure if Jemma realized it or not, but her tapping was almost perfectly in sync with Melinda’s heartbeat – slow and relaxed and very happy.

“Well, the project was originally intended to be done about your biological family,” Jemma began. “That’s the situation most students are in, I expect. Even if their living arrangements are unique in some way – some might have single parents or stepfamilies or something, I suppose – most students probably live with at least one biological relative. Statistically, I imagine at least one, if not both, biological parents are available to most students who complete the project. So someone could just ask their biological family about their genealogy and record the answers. There are other components to the project, of course, but the family tree is one of the first steps that the other components—” Jemma paused for a moment and giggled slightly. “—branch out from.” 

“We walked right into that one,” May chuckled with a shake of her head. Phil was rubbing off on them.

“Of course, that option seems a bit troublesome for me,” continued Jemma. “Since I’m the only one left of my biological family. I don’t have anyone to ask about my genealogy. I know my parents’ names and my grandparents’, but I don’t know if that’s enough to fill out a whole tree. Ms. Price seemed like she was willing to be flexible. She said families all look different, but… I’m still not sure if that’s the best option.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“I want to be thorough,” Jemma said. “A tree with only seven names feels… incomplete to me, even if Ms. Price would accept it. And… and my family’s got more people in it than just the ones I’m related to by blood these days,” she added shyly.

Melinda felt her throat grow thick, but she swallowed the surge of emotion quickly. “You and Skye mentioned that Ms. Price said you could do our family for your tree if you wanted. Is that option two?”

Jemma nodded. “We can record the family that we have here in this house, and you and Phil can tell us about your ancestors so we can fill out the older parts. The tree would have more information on it that way.”

“That certainly seems like a good alternative. I’m sure you’re not the only students with adoptive families that Ms. Price has worked with before.”

“I think that’s the one Skye wants to pick… That’s what she said earlier, at least. So maybe I should just pick it, too.”

Melinda could sense Jemma’s hesitation from her voice, but the finger frozen in midair over Melinda’s knee was an even bigger giveaway that there was something not sitting right with Jemma.

“You don’t have to pick something just because Skye wants to,” she reminded Jemma gently. “You can each do things your own way. I know you and Skye are close, and you’ve done everything together for a long time, but you’re two different people. It’s okay to make your own choices when you want to. If there’s something that makes you feel like you’re not ready to choose that option, that’s okay.”

“I just feel like…” Jemma paused, a frown creasing her forehead. “Like…” Her voice puckered along with her face, and she pulled her hand back in close to her chest, tapping now on her own collarbone instead of Melinda’s knee. When she finally spoke again, her voice was fretful.

“I feel like that option would be incomplete, too. Not that our family is incomplete,” she said quickly. She turned worried eyes up to May, the frown from earlier melting away and pooling into a concern that she had offended. “I don’t think there’s anything incomplete about our family at all. I like our family the way it is.”

“I know, love,” May assured her. “I know what you mean. You have a unique situation.”

“A complication,” Jemma said, the frown returning.

“An exceptionality. You don’t come from just one place. You come from a rich, multilayered history that just so happens to have more than one family that’s played a role in your story. If you ask me, it would do you and your project a disservice to limit yourself to only one piece of your story.”

“So, you think I should include everyone in project? Make a family tree with two families, even though that’s awfully complicated?”

“It’s the truth,” May pointed out. “You have two families. A project without both would be inaccurate. Incomplete, to borrow your word. Maybe it makes your project a little bit more complicated, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with having two families on your tree, and there’s nothing wrong with complicated,” smiled May. “Consider it a third option. I always liked third options.”

“A compromise.”

“Exactly. Best of both worlds, as they say.”

“Whoever ‘they’ are,” Jemma remarked. “‘They’ tend to say a lot of rather trite things, you know.”

Melinda laughed, and a quick glance at Jemma’s expression revealed a mischievous sparkle. Melinda wasn’t sure if she’d fully solved Jemma’s internal conflict, but it was nice to hear Jemma was put at ease enough to be making jokes.

“Do you think Skye’s feelings will be hurt?” Jemma asked after a few minutes had passed.

“That you’re doing your project differently than her? No, not at all, love.”

“No, that I… that I’m including my biological family in mine and she’s not. Can’t, maybe. I mean, I understand why she wouldn’t want to include her biological family in hers, even if she did manage to find more information…”

Melinda was quiet for a few moments, deep in thought. “I certainly don’t think she’ll be upset with you,” she said. “She knows your situations are different, and I know she’d never hold that against you. She loves you way too much for that.” She paused again, weighing how much of her own concern for Skye to admit to Jemma just then. “I can’t promise that this will be easy for her. I can’t promise that this will be easy for either one of you. I’m glad that Ms. Price is giving you both some flexibility on how you do the project, but still… it’s got the potential to bring up a lot of old pain.”

“I don’t like it when Skye’s hurting,” Jemma said softly. “It makes me so sad.”

“Me too, love. Me too. Seeing any of you kids hurting is one of the worst feelings I’ve ever had in my whole life,” Melinda admitted. Anticipating Jemma’s guilt, she continued quickly. “But that’s just because I love you all more than I’ve loved almost anyone. Sometimes I think that the occasional sadness is the cost of great big boundless love. But it’s worth it. Always worth it. And makes it that much sweeter when we can help each other get through the things that hurt.”

“You’ll help Skye, right?” Jemma wanted to know, suddenly very serious. “I’m going to help her, but you and Phil will help, too?”

“We’ll do everything we possibly can,” promised Melinda. “We’re not leaving her to fend for herself anymore. None of you.”

“Because we’re a family.” Melinda could feel Jemma relaxing again, melting back into her side. She moved her hand again, her fingers back to May’s knee, tapping out a three-count rhythm over and over. One that May knew well. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. I-love-you. “And families take care of each other.”

They sat together for a few more minutes in a comfortable silence. As much as Melinda adored each of the children under her roof, she had to admit there was something nice about taking a moment to be still and quiet. She had always appreciated a tranquil silence, but those moments were few and far between most days now.

Eventually, though, Jemma broke the spell, looking up at her. “I think I’m going to go see what Lego creation Phil and Deke have made,” she said.

“Okay.” Melinda tried not to chuckle. It was unlike Jemma to make an announcement about her movements like that. She waited for the real reason behind the odd statement, which came in Jemma’s next breath.

“I think Skye’s up in our room,” she said, her words heavy with intention. “Maybe someone should go check on her and talk to her while there’s no one else there.”

Melinda had to practically bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Jemma was many things, but subtle was apparently not one of them. Still, she didn’t want to burst her bubble, so Melinda played along.

“You know, I was just thinking about heading upstairs for a minute,” she said. “Since I got to check in with you, it’s only fair that I go do the same with the others, right?”

“Yes,” Jemma nodded. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

Once Jemma was sure May was going to carry out their plan and had scampered off to the den, Melinda made her own way up the stairs to do what she had been hoping to do ever since Skye had acted so standoffishly at the table. She paused outside of the partially open door for a moment, listening. She caught the faint sounds of mouse and keys clicking, and the little doodle-doos and chirps of that game Skye liked to play on her computer, the one Izzy had told her about weeks ago, but nothing that indicated any particular distress. That was a good sign.

She knocked on the door lightly.

“Yeah?”

“Skye? It’s May. Could I come in for a second?”

“Sure.”

Melinda eased the door open and found Skye sitting, as expected, at the desk, pecking away at the computer. Her little digital character was wielding a battle axe and was chopping away at what looked like some sort of reptilian-bat hybrid creature with glowing red eyes. Skye glanced over her shoulder as Melinda entered, but quickly returned her focus to the screen while Melinda sat down on the foot of Skye’s bed.

“Which one is this one again?”

“Pandora’s Box.”

“And who’s that you’re fighting?”

“Those are Pain Minions. Like little demon-guys that pop up in the maze while I’m trying to find my way to Pain, who’s the boss monster this level. I’ve fought them a bunch of times before, but I keep getting killed by Pain at the end, and this game is so old that there aren’t a ton of save points, so every time I die I have to restart the whole fourth maze over again.”

“That sounds frustrating.”

“Kinda. I basically have the map memorized at this point, so I can usually get through this first part pretty fast now.”

Melinda watched as Skye fiddled with the keys in rapid succession, timing them with the click of her mouse. On the screen, the little woman swung her axe one way, then spun it back the other, taking out two of the winged minions in a single, fluid motion. The creatures snarled and popped out of existence, leaving behind silver coins in their wake. Skye navigated her character down the passage with the quick confidence of someone who definitely knew where they were going.

“Do you think you could pause that for a second? So we can talk a little?”

“What do we have to talk about?” Skye paused the game, but she sounded suspicious, and she didn’t turn around in her seat. “It’s only been one day of school,” she cracked, clearly trying to deflect with a joke. “I haven’t done anything to get in trouble yet.”

“No, you’re not in trouble,” May agreed. She chuckled lightly, humoring Skye’s obvious avoidance tactic, but with no intention of letting her off the hook quite yet. “But I was hoping we could talk about your project for Ms. Price a little bit.”

“Not really much to talk about,” Skye shrugged, still not looking at May. “It’s just another dumb school project. They all suck no matter what.”

“You liked some of your projects last year. Your computer science project at the end of the year, and that one you did on Egypt with Trip for social studies.”

“Yeah, I guess those were okay.” Skye had turned a little now, and Melinda caught a half-crook of a smile flash across Skye’s face. “But I don’t think this one is going to be like those.”

“How come?”

“Well, those were fun,” Skye joked. She was fully turned in her seat now, facing Melinda full-on. “And this one is all about writing papers and doing research about our identity and a whole bunch of dumb teacher mumbo-jumbo like that. We have to give a speech at some point, too, I think, which is basically torture. Do you know how much teenagers hate having to give oral presentations?”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Melinda smiled. “A lot of adults still hate having to give oral presentations. One of life’s necessary evils, I’m afraid.”

“I have no idea how Jemma is supposed to get up there and give a speech in front of the whole class,” Skye shook her head. “She didn’t even want to raise her hand today when we were all shouting out ideas in class. She showed me her answer and I said it for her, but I don’t think I can give her speech for her.”

“No, probably not,” agreed Melinda. “But maybe Jemma will surprise you. She’s come a long way, and she’s pretty tough.”

“You can say that again.”

“Or maybe Ms. Price can help her come up with some alternative options. It sounds like she’s already been proactive about that with the project.”

“You mean about what she told us? That we could do the family tree thing on you and Phil, since we don’t have… since it would be too hard to do it on our birth families?”

May nodded. “I was glad to hear she already had accounted for everyone’s different family makeups. Jemma and I were talking downstairs about the different options there are for the project, trying to decide which one might work the best for her. Have you thought about what option you might do?”

“Well, there’s not really any point in trying to do it on my birth parents,” Skye said flatly. She sagged a little in the chair, and suddenly was staring very hard at the rug instead of May. “My mom’s dead and my dad’s in jail. It’s not like I can go ask them about my family tree. I don’t even know what my mom’s name was before she got married.”

“I wouldn’t say there’s no point,” May said gently. “If that’s something that’s important to you, finding out that kind of information—”

“It’s not.” Skye spoke quickly, cutting May off. “I mean, not exactly. I… I don’t really want to know anything else about my dad. I don’t want to think about him at all, really. And my mom… I’d rather just think about you guys and do the project on our family. This is my family, and our tree is supposed to be about our family. End of story.”

“Okay,” May nodded. “That’s totally okay. It’s your project, so it’s up to you how you want to do it. Nobody here is going to question that. Mostly I wanted to check in with you. See how you were feeling about all this.”

“Fine.”

“So I can see,” Melinda said with a wry smile. “Is that a ‘fine’ as in really fine, or ‘fine’ as in, I don’t want to talk about it?”

Skye gave a bashful little duck of the head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, too.” May stood up then and crossed over to where Skye was still sitting slouched in her desk chair. She cupped her fingers under Skye’s chin and tipped Skye’s face up to meet her own, so Skye could see that she really did mean it when she told Skye it was okay not to know. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. Just know that we’re all here for you if you need us while you do figure it out. If working on this project gets to be too hard or too much, you can let us know. If there’s something we can help you with – research or information or just someone to talk things through with – Phil and I, we’re more than happy to help. With anything. I mean it, Skye.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Will you show me how you do that spin trick with the battle axe?” Melinda asked then, pointing to the frozen computer screen. Skye’s face spit into a grin, and she launched into a detailed description of the different moves and combos one could perform in the game. Melinda didn’t really understand a lot of what Skye was talking about, but she was happy to watch as Skye navigated the character – Pandora, apparently – through the twists and turns of the maze, vanquishing demons every few minutes.

“And then here’s where Pain always shows up,” Skye said, as Pandora crossed into a cavernous, torchlit chamber. The music coming from the computer changed, and soon a woman with wings and claws appeared on-screen. Her face was twisted in agony and one of her arms hung limp at her side, cradled like she was in pain. Oh. Of course.

Melinda found herself watching Skye more than the action on the screen as Skye clicked and pecked through the battle. Her eyes were locked in concentration, jaw set with determination. She was more still and focused than Melinda was used to seeing, apart from her hands, which flew across the computer, guiding Pandora and the battle axe.

“I’ve gotten good at dodging the claw strikes,” Skye explained. Pandora jumped out of the way of Pain’s claws. “And now that I’ve got the axe like Izzy said, I can block the poison arrows a lot easier.”

Now Pandora deflected a slew of glowing green arrows that Pain unleashed from the folds of her wings. Skye let out a satisfied huff and smirked at the computer. “You missed!”

A chilling, rattly sound escaped from the creature on the screen, and soon a greenish-grey mist began filling the chamber, swirling around Pandora’s feet.

“This is the part that’s still getting me,” Skye frowned. “Her three attacks cycle through, and I can get past the first two, but then I lose a bunch of health every time Pain uses the Cloud of Agony, and I die before I can get enough good hits on her.”

“Is there a way to stop it from coming?”

“Not that I can tell,” grimaced Skye. The bar over her character’s head began to flash red, and suddenly it was half the length it was before. “I think you just have to endure the Cloud of Agony and then go after her, but so far, it’s been too hard to survive it. What’s the worst about it is it debuffs almost all of my stats, and even though I had valiance bonuses, too, they basically go away after the cloud.”

“Where is the cloud coming from?” Melinda asked. “Is it from Pain or the room itself? Maybe if you could find the source, you could do something about it.”

“That’s… yeah, maybe,” Skye said, clearly deep in thought about the suggestion. She dodged a new set of claw attacks and landed a few good hits on Pain before deflecting the next round of poison arrows with ease.

“No way,” Skye said suddenly, her eyes going wide.

“What?”

“You’re totally right,” she said. She clicked rapidly, and Pandora darted away from Pain, well outside her reach. “Look. The cloud’s just coming from her. It’s not the whole room, like I thought. If I put distance between me and Pain, then the Cloud of Agony doesn’t hurt me as badly. I’ve been playing it wrong, trying to stay close to her so I can keep hitting her. But I’ve got to get away from her for this part, look—”

The mist curled around Pandora’s legs and made the bar sink smaller, but Skye was correct that the damage was greatly reduced when she had distanced herself from Pain. Once the cloud had dissipated, Skye sent Pandora back in, axe swinging powerfully, and with just a few more clicks, a triumphant little musical cue erupted as Pain writhed on the ground with a shriek before disappearing and leaving a key behind in her place.

“We did it!” Skye cheered, beaming over at May. “I can’t believe I finally beat the level. Or that the answer was so much easier than I was making it. I feel kind of dumb for not realizing it ages ago…”

“You’re still miles better at this than I would ever be,” May assured her. “Sometimes a problem just needs a fresh set of eyes.”

“I can’t wait to tell Izzy that I beat Pain, and that you’re the one who figured it out,” Skye grinned. “She’ll never believe it.”

“I have my moments. Does that mean you win the game?”

“No, not yet,” Skye shook her head. “I only have four keys right now, and I need twelve in all to close up Pandora’s box and keep all the monsters from getting out.”

“So you still have a ways to go, then.”

“Yeah, but that’s a good thing,” Skye smiled. “Because it means I get to keep playing.”

That got a laugh out of Melinda. “Fair enough,” she said. “But maybe not anymore tonight. It’s getting late, and you all should be getting ready for bed soon.”

“Fine.” Skye sighed, but obliged May and began the process of saving and shutting down the game.

“I’ll be back up to say goodnight,” May told her as she made her way out of the room. “I’m going to go start wrangling everybody else.”

“Hey, May?” Skye asked quickly, looking up from the computer. Melinda stopped in the doorway.

“Mm?”

Skye looked a little embarrassed for a fleeting moment, like she was wrestling with whether or not to say whatever it was that was on her mind. Melinda waited patiently, and was rewarded after a few seconds.

“There’s… there’s one thing I was wondering, about the project. Something that maybe you could help me with.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“There’s something that I think I’d like to try to find… One thing about my birth family. It’s… it’s the only thing I think I want to include about them, but I’ve been wondering about it before this, even.”

“What is it?” May could tell by the roundabout way Skye was talking that whatever it was, Skye was clearly nervous about asking for it. She wondered, for a brief, panicked moment, if Skye was going to ask to see her father, but then quickly shook the notion from her head. Skye had already said she didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, much to Melinda’s relief.

“I… I want to visit my mother’s grave,” Skye finally said, her voice small and uncertain, like she was afraid she was asking something far too greedy. “I want to see her name and see where she’s buried. See… her.”

Melinda’s heart ached for the child in front of her, so long denied information about herself, answers about her history, closure for her past. How was someone supposed to distance themselves from old pain, to start to heal from it and conquer it and move beyond it, if the thread tethering you to it had never been given a chance to break?

“Skye, I… of course. Yes. I’ll do my very best, I promise. I’ll see what I can find out. Just give me a little time to do some digging, okay?”

“Sure,” Skye said with a sad little nod. “I know it might not be something we can find, but I just thought… it was worth a try, you know?”

“It’s absolutely worth a try,” May told her. “And I’m going to try my hardest.”

“Thanks, May. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Skye.”

Chapter Text

It took a couple of weeks, but before long, everything around Skye began to settle into a new, familiar routine. While there were plenty of things about being in high school that were different from middle school, at the end of the day, school was still school. There were still classes and lessons and notes to take. There were meetings with Mr. Randolph and regular check-ins with Ms. Price to make sure she was “staying on track,” which Skye felt was a little overkill, especially since she hadn’t been back in school long enough to get off track, and there was lunch, which often got filled with club meetings.

Phil’s AV club was a bright spot, not just because they got to watch movies at school, but because Phil and Bobbi were there, too, plus all their friends, which made the whole thing feel a little bit like some of the summer afternoons they’d all spent together in the den, laughing through some of Phil’s cheesiest 80’s sci-fi flicks when the weather got too hot to spend time outside. Even the Robotics team, with its somewhat rocky start, had evened out and become a decent constant, full of interesting – albeit challenging – work. Skye found she actually didn’t mind the challenges that the BotLaws presented, though, despite their difficulty. At least those challenges felt like something she could eventually figure out and fix. It didn’t seem pointless to wrestle with them the way some of the other difficult things in her life felt.

When Mr. Radcliffe came by the workstation where she and the senior boy, Trevor, were working together to start building the code that would program their robot and told them about new parameters they’d have to account for, she found herself feeling excited to try different ideas about how to make things work. When she spent yet another night lying awake, however, trying desperately to force her brain to think about anything other than the gruesome flashes of every bad thing and mistake that clung to her bones like a toxic smoke, twisting and clouding and choking her, she didn’t feel anything but helpless frustration.

Angry nuns. Toss. Sneering foster parents. Turn. Dim warehouse, cold steel, red hands, red, red, red. Shove the pillow over your face and try to snuff the bad thoughts out. Try to sleep. Try and fail. Fail. Fail, until you eventually pass out for a few hours, wake up, and start a new day.

Part of her knew that she should tell somebody she was still having such a hard time, especially because it had definitely been getting worse ever since school had started up again.

Back when things had been bad before, last winter and spring, May and Phil had done their best to help her. They made sure she got plenty of time with Dr. Garner, who helped her not get so freaked out when they couldn’t be together or when a door was closed. They listened and talked and shared and comforted, which was all plenty nice, and wasn’t unhelpful exactly, but it never lasted. Once they were gone, once the lights were out and everyone else was asleep, all the old, bad stuff slunk back in and sliced into her brain with jagged claws.

She should have told them a long time ago, but she didn’t want to bother them, not after everything they’d done for her, and especially not after they were so proud and happy every time she seemed like she was making progress, getting better. She didn’t want to see their sad, disappointed faces when they found out she wasn’t better, not really. And besides, it’s not like there was anything they could do to really fix it. Nobody could. It wasn’t like a bug in a line of code, that could be spotted and corrected, or like the door thing, which had a tangible problem and concrete steps to work on. It was just her stupid brain causing problems yet again.

The whole family history project for Ms. Price’s class hadn’t helped things, either, if she was being honest. Even if she wasn’t going to write about her biological family, just having to think about the possibility was enough to add new images to her nighttime imaginings – jail bars, Cal’s crooked smile, and the face of a woman whose features were too unfocused for Skye’s mind to make out, save for her eyes, which gave Skye the uncomfortable, prickly-necked feeling of staring too hard into a mirror.

It was stuff like that that made Skye feel certain she would never tell another living soul about her hard nights. It was too personal, too private, too embarrassing, and too much like the kind of thing Skye was certain would get her sent to a doctor far more serious and far less understanding than Dr. Garner.

Still, she knew she just had to suck it up and get through the project. No way out but forward, because not doing it would only make things worse. Not doing it would mean more academic check-ins, more people getting on her case about school, more people prying into her heart to try and figure her out, more people asking if she was doing okay in that delicate little voice that Skye had come to hate. No, she just had to do the minimum, meet the requirements, survive and move on. She certainly had plenty of experience with that.

That was why, as she fired up her computer one afternoon to get ready for her tutoring video chat with Natasha, she had every intention of using her tutoring time to make as much headway on the project as possible. Natasha was always good at helping her get through the parts of school she liked the least. Natasha was how Skye had passed math last year, making worksheets full of fractions and ratios manageable, and how she had improved so much on her reading. So if anyone was going to help make this stupid family project bearable, it was going to be Natasha.

“Hey, Skye,” Natasha said as her smiling face popped up into the video chat window with a ping. Skye couldn’t help but smile back. Natasha was one of those people you just naturally felt safe around, no matter how rotten everything around you was.

“Hey.”

“You look tired. Long day?”

“Long week.”

“It’s only Tuesday,” Natasha teased lightly. “Must really be rough.”

“You can say that again,” Skye said. She propped her head against her fist and let out a huffy puff of air.

“Something specific weighing on you?” asked Natasha. “Or has the general drudgery of high school just already gotten to you?”

“Some of both, maybe,” Skye admitted. “School’s a lot. There’s this big project we’re doing for Freshman seminar, plus it’s just a lot of long days, and all my classes are harder. Which I know is how it’s supposed to work, and it’s supposed to be a good thing because I did so much better than I normally do last year that I’m mainstreaming pretty much all my classes, but still… it’s kind of exhausting to have to try so hard all the time.”

“I definitely understand that. People see you can rise to the occasion, so they keep pushing you to be better,” nodded Natasha. “It’s fine for a time, but eventually it wears you out. I know it sucks to have to talk about stuff like that with people, but you should tell your folks at some point if it feels like you’re doing too much. I waited for weeks to tell my cousins that I was in over my head with AP Chem, because I didn’t want to let them down, but once I finally came clean about it and transferred into the regular chemistry class, everything got so much better. People are like rubber bands. Some stretching is good, but there’s no point in stretching yourself as far as you can if it just means you’re going to snap in two at some point.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Did I hear you say you’re doing the big freshman seminar project? The family tree one?”

“Yeah.” Skye cocked her head to one side. “How did you know it was that one?”

“Ms. Price has been assigning that project for years,” Natasha smiled. “I had to do when I was in ninth grade.”

“Did it suck as much back then as it does now?” It came out sounding more surly and rude than Skye meant it to, but it was truthfully how she felt about the project. Luckily, Natasha wasn’t bothered by Skye’s sulking, and she actually laughed a little as she answered.

“Probably so, yeah. I know it’s not all bad, and I do remember actually learning a lot from it, but I also remember hating most of it,” she smirked. “Family trees aren’t always very fun, especially for people like us.”

“How did you do yours?” Skye asked, suddenly very curious. She recalled some of what Natasha had shared about her family history with her and Jemma last year, and she had a hunch that Natasha probably had been directed to the “modifications” section of the assignment as well.

“I filled out what parts I could from my own memory,” Natasha said. “I was 8 when I moved to the US, so I knew some stuff about my immediate family and a few of my grandparents, plus by then I had Wanda and Pietro who I could ask about some of our other relatives. The rest, though… Honestly, some of it I left blank. Some of it I just made up.”

“You made it up?”

“Yeah,” laughed Natasha. “Clint and I had a great time inventing wild stories for my distant ancestors. It’s not like Ms. Price could prove me wrong. I’m pretty sure any record of my family has been long destroyed. Plus, it’s just a high school project. Not really worth a whole lot of my energy or strife in the grand scheme of things.”

“I wish I could just make stuff up on mine,” Skye grumbled. “Ms. Price knows too much about our family for me to get away with that, I think.”

That made Natasha laugh again. “That’s probably true. So, have you thought about what you want to do? Since making stuff up isn’t an option?”

Skye shrugged one shoulder listlessly. “Everybody keeps asking me like it’s some big decision. Ms. Price said I could do the tree based on May and Phil’s family, and since I don’t have anything that I could fill out for my bio family, it seems like kind of an obvious choice.”

“That’s a fair point.”

“I do think it’ll be cool to learn more about May and Phil’s families,” Skye said, “since they’re my family now, too. And I definitely don’t want to have to talk about my dad or anything with him. Most of the time I wish I could forget he even exists. Which is weird, I know. For basically my whole life all I wanted was to know about my parents, where I came from. But then once I found out, all I’ve tried to do since then is forget.”

“That doesn’t sound weird to me at all,” Natasha said. Her voice got a little softer, but it lacked the dripping pity that grownups usually carried in their soft voices, which Skye appreciated. “I think that sounds really understandable given everything that happened last year.”

“The part that really doesn’t make sense, though,” Skye murmured, “is that there’s still a little part of me that feels like I still don’t have enough. Like, I got the answers I was looking for, but then that gave me all new questions, and I can’t let them go. So no matter how hard I try to forget, there’s always going to be a part of me that secretly doesn’t want to. That always wants more, even though the wanting got me into so much trouble before.”

“Can I tell you something? Something personal?” Natasha asked. Skye nodded.

“A few years ago,” Natasha began, “my cousins and I had a chance to try and find out some information about our family – the people we left behind when we came to the US. Because of the way things worked out, once we fled our home, we had no way of keeping in touch, no way of knowing if our family was alive, if they had gotten out, or…not. Until there was this chance, this investigator who was trying to gather information on all the displaced families from our country during that time period. Pietro really wanted to find out. He kept saying he needed to know. The not knowing was driving him crazy, and he would rather know for sure, even if it was bad news. Wanda, my other cousin, was the opposite. She didn’t want to know at all. She was afraid that she might not like the answer, and she would rather live in the not knowing – in the chance that the happier answer might still be a possibility – than the reality if the truth was grim. And I felt so stuck between them, because I could see both sides. Part of me really wanted to know, no matter what the answer turned out to be, just so I could have closure either way. But the other part of me was so scared that if the news was bad news, I might not ever be able to move past it.”

“So what did you do?”

“We ended up not trying to find out,” Natasha said quietly. “For Wanda’s sake, mostly. It would have killed her to hear bad news, especially back then, when she was already going through a hard time. And it would have killed Pietro if Wanda was hurting because of something he’d done, so he let it go, for her. It was the right decision back then. We had worked so hard to move on and rebuild, and Wanda needed that from us. But sometimes I still wonder, and sometimes I still feel that part of me that’s never going to be able to let it go.”

“Do you think knowing would help you let it go?” Skye asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Natasha said, after a pause. “I’m not sure. Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe there are some things you just have to carry with you, no matter how many answers you get.”

“I asked May if she would help me find my mother’s grave,” Skye admitted. “I thought maybe if I could see it – see her, see her name – then that would be enough. Then I wouldn’t have to think about any of it anymore and I could just move on for good.”

“Worth a try, at least,” said Natasha kindly. “I think if that’s something you think you want – something you think would help you – it’s definitely worth trying.”

The sound of footsteps in the hall caught Skye’s attention, and she swiveled around in her seat to see a red-faced and sweaty Bobbi poke her head around the half-open door.

“Hey,” she grinned. “I thought I heard Natasha’s voice. Can I come in and say hi for a sec?”

Skye nodded and scooted the chair over to make room for Bobbi. She was still in her practice jersey, and there was mud flecking up her arms and legs. They must have practiced on the bad field today. Bobbi always came home muddy after days on the bad field.

“Good practice?” Natasha asked. The video feed jumped a little and made her voice sound like a robot for a second.

“Not too bad,” Bobbi said. After a beat, she frowned slightly. “There’s this new player who’s giving me a little bit of a hard time. We’re not really clicking on the field, so it’s just hard to run plays and execute when we’re not on the same page.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha told her. “That’s never easy.”

“It’s okay, we’ll get there,” Bobbi shrugged. “We’ll have to, if we want to win games.”

“I miss you guys,” Natasha said. “Everything’s good?”

“Yeah. It feels weird to say it, but everything’s good,” Bobbi smiled.

“How’s Mack?”

“He’s good.”

“And how’s Hunter?” Skye could tell Natasha was teasing Bobbi a little bit with the way she smiled as she drew out Hunter’s name. Bobbi’s already red face went a shade redder, but she returned the smile and rolled her eyes in the direction of the computer screen, nonetheless.

 “He’s fine,” she ribbed back, before changing the subject quickly. Skye had to admit it was sweet how easily flustered Bobbi still got when talking about Hunter, but it also made it almost impossible not to tease her good-naturedly about it. Clearly Natasha felt the same way. “What about you? How’s life in college?”

“It’s pretty great,” Natasha beamed. “It’s weird sometimes. Parts of it feel like a whole different world, but my classes are mostly interesting, and we’ve met some cool people already. Clint likes his teammates, and already hates his roommate. My roommate, Jane, is nice, though, and she doesn’t mind that Clint’s over all the time. She and her friends are astrophysics majors. Which reminds me—” Natasha said suddenly, turning her attention back to Skye, “tell Jemma when you see her that I’ve got a new practice packet that Jane gave me from her Geodynamics class. I’ll email it to her this week and she can send it back whenever she’s finished working on it.”

“I’ll let her know,” Skye nodded, with a faint, playful smile. “She’ll be over the moon.”

“Where is Jemma, by the way?” Bobbi asked. “Doesn’t she usually join in for some of the time while you two do tutoring?”

“She and Phil went to go pick up Fitz and Trip,” said Skye. She did her best not to grimace. “They’re coming over so we can all work on our projects for Ms. Price together.”

“At least you’ll have good company while you work on it,” Natasha said sympathetically.

“Well, if they’re coming over soon, then I’ll leave you two to do a little more work together before they get here,” Bobbi said, straightening up and making her way back to the door. “I should grab a shower, anyway.”

“Yes, you should,” Skye smirked. Bobbi made a face at her.

“Bye, Nat. I’ll call you one night this week so we can catch up for real.”

“I’d like that,” Natasha nodded. “See you, Bobbi.”

Skye and Natasha worked together for about twenty more minutes, before the sound of several voices coming in through the front door marked the arrival of Jemma and their friends. Natasha was able to help Skye go through the different pieces of the project and think about how she wanted to tackle each one, sketching out a game plan that broke everything down into smaller, less daunting steps. Skye still didn’t really want to have anything to do with the project, but at least now she didn’t feel like the whole thing was completely insurmountable. At least now she had some ideas about where to start.

“I think I have to go,” Skye told her, craning in the direction of the noise from downstairs. “Thanks for helping me today.”

“You know it’s always my pleasure,” Natasha grinned.

“You don’t have to say that,” Skye pointed out. “I know May and Phil pay you to still tutor me. But still, thanks. Not just for help with homework, either.”

“I’d do it for free every time,” she said kindly. “I hope you know that. I’ll see you next week, Skye. Hang in there.”

Skye said goodbye and signed off, just as Jemma, Fitz, and Trip all traipsed into the bedroom, backpacks in tow and mid-conversation.

“But think of all the practical applications x-ray glasses could pose,” Jemma was saying as she led the boys in. “Engineers could identify structural damage in buildings or bridges and repair them before they collapsed, doctors could spot broken bones or tumors in a patient and know exactly where to operate—”

“Okay, yeah, I’m not saying they wouldn’t useful,” Trip grinned. He slung his backpack off his shoulder and let it fall to the floor before he flopped himself onto Skye’s bed – his favorite spot to sit when he came over. “But just think about how much cooler a laser disguised as a pen would be. You could hide it, take it anywhere. People would think you were getting ready to write when instead, bam! You’re blasting them with a laser beam. And not like a dinky laser pointer light, like a real laser.”

“We’re discussing which type of spy gadget would be best to have in real life,” Fitz explained for Skye’s benefit as he joined Jemma in perching on the edge of her bed.

“Are you team ‘x-ray specs’ or team ‘laser pen?’” Skye asked.

“Well, I was team ‘animal translator,’ but I got outvoted,” he grumbled.

“For the monkeys?”

“…yes, for the monkeys.” Fitz threw up his hands in mock protest. “Who wouldn’t want to know what’s going on in those adorable little minds?”

“What about you, Skye?” Trip asked. “Best spy gadget?”

“How about a homework machine?” she said dryly. “Immediate life-improvement there, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know if that counts as a gadget,” Jemma frowned. “It’s more of a device. Besides, homework is important. It’s how you practice your skills outside of the classroom.”

“Okay, well that’s a debate I know you’re going to lose,” Skye laughed. “Nobody likes homework, Jemma. Except for you, obviously.”

“Which we love and appreciate about you,” Trip said kindly. He paused for a beat, then flashed a cheeky smile. “We just don’t understand it.”

“Speaking of which,” Skye said, remembering, “Natasha said to tell you she has new Geo…metrics homework for you from her roommate. She’s emailing it soon.”

“The Geodynamics class?”

“That sounds right,” nodded Skye. “I knew it was geo-something.”

“Glad we only have to work on a genealogy project and not a geodynamics project,” Trip said in a pretend undertone. “I’m not sure I even know what that is… like rocks moving around or something?”

“In a sense,” Fitz said. “It has all sorts to do with the dynamics of the Earth. Magnetic fields, seismic waves—”

“—Tectonic plates, mantle convection, seafloor spreading,” Jemma continued, not missing a beat.

“And, of course, nearly any methods used in geodynamics can be just as easily applied to other planetary bodies,” Fitz added.

“Of course,” deadpanned Skye.

“It’s key to understanding how a given planet functions,” Jemma bubbled. “How it’s formed, how it’s deformed. How it changes and ages and adapts…”

“So, what I’m hearing is, I really wasn’t too far off with moving rocks,” chuckled Trip.

“No, you weren’t,” Jemma said, smiling.

They chatted for a few more minutes before admitting that they really did need to start working on their actual homework, not just talk about Jemma’s bonus homework, and soon all four were chipping away at their projects. Fitz and Jemma had taken over the computer, heads together and huddled in front of the screen as they researched, while Trip and Skye found themselves spreading out across the floor, bouncing ideas back forth between them about what types of questions they could use in the interview they were supposed to conduct with a family member.

“I think we can scrap ‘what’s your biggest achievement,’” Trip said thoughtfully, dragging his pencil across the page and crossing out that question from their initial list of ideas. “I know my grandma would feel uncomfortable answering that one. She doesn’t like to talk about herself that way.”

“We could change it to something like ‘what’s something in your life that you’re proud of,” suggested Skye. “That way we could still learn something about their accomplishments, but it doesn’t feel so braggy.”

“That’s good, yeah.”

Somewhere from the other side of the room, Fitz spoke to Jemma: “…I don’t know, maybe Skye can figure it out.”

Hearing her own name, Skye’s ears pricked up and she looked over at the other two, who were still hunched in front of the computer.

“What is it?”

“Well,” Jemma began slowly. She chewed on her lip and Skye could hear the sound of her finger tapping against the desk. “We were trying to find out some information. Look something up. But we’re having some difficulty.”

“You know I’m, like, the queen of Google,” Skye grinned, popping up from the floor and crossing over to the desk to join them. “What are we looking for?”

“My… my father,” Jemma admitted. She wouldn’t look at Skye when she said it, and Skye could see pink embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I was hoping we could do this bit without needing your help…”

“Don’t be sorry,” Skye said gently.

She appreciated how sensitive Jemma was trying to be about the situation, about how she was including both of her families while Skye had chosen to only do one of hers, but Skye honestly wasn’t upset at all that Jemma wanted to include her parents in her own project. None of Skye’s frustrations and hangups with the project had anything to do with what Jemma was doing, and she had tried to explain that, but Jemma being Jemma, she couldn’t help but still try and protect Skye’s feelings.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I love a good internet sleuthing session, so loop me in. What are you trying to find out about your dad?”

“I had this idea,” Jemma explained, visible relief washing over her face at Skye’s words, “that maybe I could learn more about his work. I thought if I could find some information about his company and the research he was doing, then that would help me learn more about him beyond the things I remember. He told me some things about his work, of course, but I was still rather small back then, so I don’t think he went into much detail.”

“Jemma remembered the name of the company he worked for,” Fitz continued, “and we went to their website to see what info we could gather, but everything on there is current. Nothing about old projects or former employees. And a web search didn’t turn up much.”

“Challenge accepted,” Skye grinned. “Somebody should time me.”

She took her seat at the computer and scooped up the mouse with a surge of confidence. On the screen was the homepage for something called the Roxxon Corporation.

“This is your dad’s old company?” she asked, clicking through a few of the promotional pictures. The page suggested a sleek, corporate image of advanced science and technology-focused research.

“I remembered the name,” Jemma nodded. “He was a scientist for them, a researcher. I don’t know what kinds of projects he worked on though.”

“Probably something super smart, by the looks of this website,” Skye murmured. She found her way to the company’s About Us page and was met with a polished wall of text and a few more photos that looked like they could have been stock photos for ‘research’ with how clean and nondescript they were.

“‘The Roxxon Corporation has long been a leader in the world of science, technology, energy, and manufacturing research and development,’” Trip, who had joined them, read over Skye’s shoulder. “‘Founded in 1901 by the prominent Malick family, it soon secured its position as one of the most respected and sought-after R&D firms in the world.’ Wow, somebody thinks highly of themselves.”

Skye furrowed her brow as Trip read. Something about the name Malick was sticking in her brain, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.

“We probably don’t need to know any of this ‘glorious history’ promotional stuff,” she said, clicking away from the About page and over into the projects section. Her eyes widened as she scanned over the list of current projects.

“You can’t deny their work doesn’t sound impressive,” Fitz said. “I mean, look at some of this stuff: Momentum Labs, pioneers in quantum technology; Project StatiCorp, development of a particle accelerator; Project Isodyne, zero matter; Project Asano, robotics… the sheer volume of cutting-edge projects…”

“Do any of those sound like something your dad would have worked on?” Skye asked.

Jemma shook her head. “No. He was a biologist by training. None of those sound like him.”

Skey poked around on the Roxxon website for a few more minutes before deciding that the site was probably too current and too corporate-approved and commercialized to have any real information of value to them.

“I’m going to try some independent searches,” she told the others as she began pecking away at the search bar, using as many tricks as she could remember from the data and information section of her computer science class last year to narrow and refine her results. Her first search, for Roxxon employee records, only took her a few seconds to find her way to the entry portal into what looked to be some kind of company-wide internal server. Unfortunately for them, it required a username and password to gain access.

“I bet that would have everything we’d need,” she groaned as she glared at the empty password box taunting her. “It’s all employees-only, and I bet even internally stuff is shielded by layers of admin access. Stupid company with its stupid security measures.”

“So that means we’re stuck?” asked Trip.

“No, that just means we have to go to plan B,” Skye said. “Or plan C or D or whatever letter we’re on at this point.”

She backed out of the Roxxon portal and into the search program again, this time redirecting her search for archived Roxxon project promotional pages and coupling it with Jemma’s dad’s name. “Let’s see if anybody at Roxxon cares about scrubbing their old stuff from the internet’s digital archives.”

The first several hits were quickly determined to be dead ends, but soon they started wading into materials that held some promise. The first was a link to an archived page from a Sheboygan newspaper. Upon opening it, Skye discovered that it was a snippet of an article talking about a car accident. She blanched as her brain caught up with her eyes as they dragged across the page. Not just a car accident. The car accident.

“Questions Remain in Fatal Crash,” the article read. The words slipped around in Skye’s head as she tried to catch onto them. A line a few rows down jumped out at her. “While no other vehicle was found at the scene, initial reports suggest that the crash may have involved another driver, however police declined to comment on a potential investigation. Dr. Simmons, who was a researcher with the Roxxon Corporation, and his wife are survived by their young daughter.”

“We… we probably don’t really need that,” Skye spluttered, clicking away as fast as she could make her numb fingers move. “That didn’t tell us anything about what he was working on.”

“Does that mean… the accident wasn’t an accident?” Fitz asked quietly.

“Not necessarily,” Trip said. “It just said there might have been another car. It could still have been an accident. Maybe somebody else lost control of their car and hit them, and then they drove off before…”

“What’s the next result say, Skye?” Jemma asked abruptly, her voice more stilted and louder than it normally sounded. Out of the corner of her eye, Skye could see Jemma’s arm wrapped up tightly around herself, her fingers plucking at her shirt collar and drumming out an agitated beat against her clavicle. Not a good sign.

“Oh, um… yeah. Let’s see, moving on,” Skye said, rambling a little as she scrambled to find another suitable result to click on. “Okay, here, what about this? This looks like archived pages from the Roxxon site – old versions of the pages that are on there now. So maybe if we can adjust the date window…” She trailed off momentarily while she fiddled with the timeframe slider on the archival platform. “There. That should let us see what the Roxxon website looked like back when your dad was working there.”

The webpage still bore some of the same hallmarks as the Roxxon website they’d been perusing earlier, but the logo was clunkier, the layout blockier, and there were hardly any photos. It almost felt like looking into a time machine, to see the website age before their eyes like that.

“They still have a projects list page,” Trip said, pointing. Skye clicked on it.

“Any of these sound promising?” asked Fitz. “Project Cybertek, Project Centipede, Project Hydra—”

“Hydra,” Jemma said suddenly. “That’s got to be it.”

“You’re sure?”

Jemma frowned. “I’m not positive, I suppose. But we talked about cnidarians a lot when I was small – hydras, jellies, anemones. He told me all sorts of things about them, because they were his favorites. I remember we would look at the jellyfish page and the cephalopod page in my biology encyclopedia more than any other pages in the marine section. The jellies for him and the cephalopod page for me, because I liked the cuttlefish.”

Skye knew better than to doubt Jemma’s memory, especially when it came to important things like marine biology or her father, so she nodded and clicked the Project Hydra button. “Seems as good a lead as any. Let’s see what Project Hydra’s all about.”

The link took them to a very small, sad-looking page with only a couple lines of text floating in an otherwise empty screen. Trip took it upon himself to read this one out loud for them, too, which Skye appreciated. It was nice to not have to spend the extra time wading through the swimming letters, made worse by the old choice of font, which made it even more difficult for her to focus on getting the letters to stay put. She also knew, even though he would never admit it, Fitz probably appreciated it, too. Reading too much for too long, especially on computer screens, still gave him headaches from time to time. Trip, gentleman that he was, never made a big deal about any of it, and just naturally had become their group’s de facto reader last year.

“‘Project Hydra uses cutting-edge technology and research to explore the limitless possibilities of stem-cell research and trans-differentiation in the animal kingdom. With an eye towards cellular regeneration, genetic self-repair, and…’ okay, I don’t know how to say that one,” he admitted, pointing.

“Non-senescence,” Jemma said. “It means not aging, I think.”

“‘With an eye towards cellular regeneration, genetic self-repair, and non-senescence, Project Hydra hopes to change the future of medicine with its discoveries,’” Trip finished reading, a frown on his face. “So your dad was working on a project about stem cells and not aging? I though you said he liked jellyfish.”

“A lot of scientists think that hydras are functionally immortal. Their cells can perform self-renewal and their DNA can repair itself, so they essentially never age. And there’s this one species of jellyfish, the Turritopsis dohrnii, that can revert itself back to a polyp state under stress. It’s like it flips a reset switch and de-ages itself,” Jemma said.

“So it turns itself back into a kid and does a do-over at growing up?” Skye asked. Jemma nodded.

“There’s still a lot that’s unknown about them, but if the project was interested in stem cells and regeneration, hydras and Turritopsis dohrnii would be a good place to start researching.”

“And your dad must have known a lot about them,” Fitz pointed out. “Which would make him a valuable part of that research team.”

“I wish they gave us more information about the project,” Jemma fretted. “It’s a very generalized description. It doesn’t even specify what specific goals they were hoping to achieve, or their methodologies, or their team, or anything.”

“It’s like a little promotional teaser, but not much in the way of real information,” nodded Trip.

“Guess they didn’t want too many of their findings getting out there for other researchers to poach from,” Fitz said.

“I can try running a search with Project Hydra as one of the terms,” Skye suggested. “See if there’s any other records or reports or anything that might tell us more.”

She tried for the next several minutes, using as many of her tricks and keyword variations as she could think of, but it soon became apparent that there was nothing to be found on the internet about Project Hydra or its team. Outside of that one archived Roxxon page, it was like Project Hydra didn’t exist.

“That’s so weird,” Skye frowned. “There should be something else out there. But there’s nothing. I mean, I guess the Roxxon guys could have scrubbed the project from the web once they weren’t running it anymore, so people didn’t stumble across it and think they were still doing that research, but why get rid of every single public record altogether? It’s like they wanted people to forget that Project Hydra was ever a thing at all.”

“If there even was a public record to begin with,” Trip said. “Maybe there wasn’t ever anything out there besides the one mention on the project list. Depending on how badly they wanted to keep the project secret from competition or whatever, they might not have let a lot of information about it get out in the first place.”

“It’s still odd, though,” said Fitz. “Most big tech and R&D companies like that love publicity about their big, flashy projects. Looks good for investors and whatnot. And a project that’s supposed to ‘change the future of medicine’ would definitely be newsworthy.”

“Unless it wasn’t going well,” Jemma said quietly. “They wouldn’t want that getting out if they weren’t having much success. And they certainly wouldn’t have anything to publish if they weren’t making any progress or discoveries. My father was a lot unhappier after we moved here for his work. He never seemed as excited to talk about his studies once we moved. Maybe things weren’t going as hoped.”

Skye made a frustrated noise and clicked out of the web browser with more force than was probably necessary. “It’s all too many maybes. There’s way too much we don’t know, too many holes. I’m sorry, Jemma, I really thought I could find some answers for you. All I got us was more questions.”

“It’s okay, Skye. Thank you for trying,” Jemma told her, tapping gently on Skye’s shoulder. “And we did find a few things out, at least.”

“Do you think there’s someone at Roxxon that we could ask?” Trip wondered. “Like, somebody who keeps track of company history or something who would be able to tell us more about old projects like Hydra?”

“Do you think they’d really just tell that kind of stuff to a bunch of kids?” Skye asked.

“Worth a shot,” Trip shrugged. “Maybe if you tell them it’s for a school project, or that Jemma’s dad worked for them a long time ago, they’d be more open to helping out. My dad always says you never know until you ask.”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt.” Skye reopened the internet browser and made her way back to the Roxxon website and began looking for a contact page.

“I suppose I could ask my aunt Sharon, too,” Fitz added. “I mean, not that she knows a lot about tech companies or stem cell research, but still, with her job and everything… I’d imagine the FBI would have an easier time finding answers than some kids in a bedroom on a homemade computer.”

“That better not be a dig at my computer,” Skye teased, sticking her tongue out at Fitz. “My computer hasn’t failed me once. It’s not the computer’s fault there’s nothing to find on the web.”

They found a place where they could submit a form to contact a Roxxon representative, and after some back and forth about the content of the message, the four of them eventually cobbled together something to send in.

“And you should be the one to sign it, Jemma,” Trip said. “Since you’re the one with the personal connection, and you know the most about hydras and stuff.”

“We’ll use your email for the contact, too,” Skye agreed. “So you’ll be the one they write back to.”

“If they write back,” Fitz clarified.

“Don’t know until we try,” Skye said as she clicked the ‘submit’ button. An automated message popped up in a window thanking them for their submission.

“It says you can expect a response in 1-2 business weeks,” Trip read for them. “And look, it’s signed by their Director of Public Relations and Communications. That seems like a good sign, that’s a big, important person. So maybe somebody high up will see your message, not just some intern or something.”

Skey squinted at the screen, at the name of the person who “signed” the auto response. That same tickling scratched at the back of her brain. Stephanie Malick. Malick. Why couldn’t she remember why that name seemed so familiar?

“Well, I think that’s more than enough homework for one day,” Fitz said, getting up from the desk and zipping up his backpack.

“Agreed,” Trip nodded.

“We could do something fun until you have to go home,” Jemma said, following suit and packing up her own stuff. Skye thought her voice sounded a little off, in that far away kind of way, like she was trying hard to keep things together and wasn’t so focused on what she was actually saying. Skye suspected that was probably true, but she opted not to comment on it. Better to let Jemma keep a good face up now, be distracted by other things, by their friends, and then give her a chance to open up and shed the composed exterior once it was just the two of them. Besides, Skye was still too distracted by the nagging feeling in the back of her mind about the Malicks to be much help right now.

“You know, I have been waiting for that Uno rematch,” Trip said jovially, blissfully unaware of Skye or Jemma’s inner turmoil.

“I’m in,” Fitz grinned. “Let’s get the cards.”

The boys and Jemma started out the door, heading off to retrieve the deck of Uno cards from the games closet downstairs, but Skye didn’t get up from her seat at the computer.

“Aren’t you coming, Skye?” Jemma asked, lingering in the doorway and tapping a nervous beat on the frame.

“Um, yeah,” Skye told her, giving herself a shake. “Yeah, I’ll be right there. Just give me one second and I’ll meet you guys.”

“Okay.” Jemma turned her eyes, large and heavy-looking, towards Skye’s. “Don’t take too long. I… I want… just… Just don’t take too long.”

“I won’t,” Skye said softly. “I’ll be there soon. I won’t leave you alone.”

Jemma gave a little smile, relieved that Skye had understood what she was trying to say, then disappeared after the boys, leaving Skye alone.

Unable to ignore the bothersome itch of a missing piece she knew she should recognize, Skye’s fingers started flying across the keyboard before she really knew what she was doing, and soon she was scrolling through the results page of a Google search of Stephanie Malick. A lot of the results were stuff related to Roxxon and Stephanie’s job there – press releases, news articles, that sort of thing – but eventually Skye found a stubby, half-baked Wikipedia article for the woman.

The article itself didn’t have much in the way of useful information. It listed Stephanie’s birthdate, her job at Roxxon, and where she had gone to college, none of which Skye found especially helpful. Then she got to the Personal Life section, and something caught her eye.

Daughter of businessman Gideon Malick, she is a member of the prominent Malick family…

The Roxxon ‘About Us’ page had used that same phrasing, she remembered. By some stroke of luck, the words ‘Malick family’ were hyperlinked to its own article, and Skye wasted no time in clicking it.

This article was a little bit more robust than Stephanie’s had been. Skye skipped over the History section, hoping that she wasn’t missing anything important. She could feel her brain starting to slip, struggling to catch ahold of the words and letters, and she was trying to conserve her focus. Besides, she didn’t think she really needed to know what the Malicks were up to in the 1800s or how they competed with oil barons at the start of the 20^th century. Whatever it was that was bugging her about them surely had to be more recent than that, if she’d heard the name somewhere before.

She landed on a section with the heading Today and began to read as quickly as she could without losing track of the words. She found herself holding her breath involuntarily as she searched and scanned for anything remotely useful. Then, she found it, and it felt like her entire body had been filled with concrete, she was so frozen in place as the weight of what she was seeing set in.

The Malick family still retains control of several companies and organizations today. Nathaniel is listed as the CEO and is a major shareholder for Maveth Medical, while Gideon holds the same position for the revamped Roxxon Corporation. Gideon is also the owner and director of a network of hospitals under the Gothamite, Inc. umbrella including Calumet County General Hospital, Riverside Medical Center, Lakeshore Research Hospital, and Ames’ Memorial Hospital, which was founded by Malick’s father, Wilfred Malick, and named for Wilfred’s mother, Eudora Ames Malick.

Malick. All the times she had trolled through the Ames’ Memorial website, looking for answers about her birth family, his name had been right there. When she had tried to ask for records, she had been told that the director was very strict about what types of information were released to the public – a Mr. Malick.

Skye felt like her head was spinning. What did it mean? Why was the same guy who ran the company where Jemma’s dad worked also the guy who ran the hospital where Skye had been born, where her mother had died? With a jolt, Skye remembered something else, something that had been sneered at Jemma in a cold warehouse months ago. ‘I know things about your father that would make your hair curl,’ Cal had said, when Jemma had tried to defend her family to him.

Skye pressed her fingers into her closed eyes, trying desperately to slow her brain down enough to make it all make sense. Except it didn’t make sense, none of it. There were too many pieces that didn’t seem to fit together, too many missing parts that left too many gaps for any of it to mean anything. Maybe it was all just one big coincidence. But even as she thought it, Skye felt in the pit of her stomach that couldn’t be true.

No, there had to be some bigger explanation, some bigger picture that she just couldn’t see yet. It was just like she and Natasha had talked about – how every attempt at finding answers just left her with more questions than before. Only this time, it wasn’t just her who was impacted by the gaping, soul-sucking hole that all the questions left. This time, they were trying to suck Jemma in, too, but Skye knew she couldn’t let Jemma get devoured the way Skye had been, chewed up and spit out and left with nothing but nightmares and emptiness. She wouldn’t let it happen. She’d just have to put the pieces together herself.

Chapter Text

For all the things that caused Bobbi’s anxiety to flare, soccer had never been one of them. She’d never been the type of person who got nervous before a game, instead finding the narrow focus and anticipation leading up to the first whistle energizing and steadying. Today, though, she found herself in somewhat unfamiliar territory as she sat on a bench in the locker room, lacing up her cleats and trying not to pay attention to the tornado of butterflies in her stomach or the fact that her hands really wanted something to twirl.

Maybe it was because this was her first game in over a year, her first game on her rehabbed knee, her first game in a Manitowoc jersey. Or maybe it was because she knew she still wasn’t as in sync with Ruby as she wanted to be, and she didn’t feel as prepared as she had in the past. Or maybe it was because she wanted it more this time around. She’d always loved soccer, of course, but now, now that she had real friends on the team, now that she had people watching her in the stands, now that she had to work harder to be the standout, now it all felt like mattered more than it ever had before.

“You ready?” Elena asked, joining her on the bench and beginning to tie her own cleats. Ready, ready, ready. It was time to get ready, get her head in the game. Focus, laser focus. X’s and O’s and the ball on the field. She was ready.

“Think so,” she said gruffly with a sharp little nod. She adjusted the athletic brace on her knee a little, tightening it and flexing her knee a few times to make sure she could move it the way she wanted. “You?”

“Definitely,” Elena nodded. “I’ve got that lightning feeling. I just need to get out on the field and let it loose. I’ve missed this. The excitement, you know?”

“Yeah.” That was true. While the fluttering nerves were a new pre-game sensation, the electric buzzing of excitement that was building in Bobbi’s arms and legs was like falling back into the comforting arms of an old friend. It charged her up, building and building until she could explode out onto the pitch and fly.

“Huddle in sixty,” called one of the assistant coaches, the familiar warning spurring Elena to finish with her cleats and reminding Bobbi to tuck her jersey in as she stood up from the bench. She and Elena joined the rest of the team then, the whole group traipsing out of the changing area and into the central part of the locker room, where Coach McCreary was waiting for them.

“All right, ladies, listen up,” he boomed. “Valders should be running a soft 4-3-1-2, so we’re in good shape to test out the 4-2-3-1 schematic we’ve been running in practice. You all know your assignments. Fullbacks, I want to see strength from you – don’t get pulled out too far. Forwards, I want a lot of high press – create space, create two-on-ones, control the tempo. We should own every minute of this game. Own it. Two things for today: Discipline and Communication. What do I want?”

“Discipline and Communication,” the team shouted back at him in unison.

“Discipline and Communication,” he repeated. “Hit your marks, hold your positions. Work with precision. And for god’s sake, talk to your teammates. This won’t work if you all don’t talk to each other. Understood?”

“Yes, Coach!”

“All right,” he nodded, a grin slowly spreading across his face. Confident face, excited face. “Let’s have some fun, shall we? Bring it in.”

He raised a burly fist in the air, and the team swarmed him, raising their own fists together and knocking their knuckles and wrists together as they formed an almost pyramid of arms and hands over their heads. The buzzing in Bobbi’s body was almost completely overpowering at this point. The vibrations of everyone’s anticipation, the jostling of elbow and shoulder and jaw as they piled together, the sound of cleats clacking against the concrete floor of the locker room – all of it lasered into her brain and her muscles, narrowing everything inside of her to a single, consuming vision. Ball. Field. Go, go, go.

“We are--?” shouted Coach.

“Outlaws!” returned the team, full volume. Bobbi felt a strength rising in her chest that she had struggled to find in the months she’d spent without soccer.

“Outlaws?” Coach called back.

“Fight on!”

And with that, they all pumped their hands down, collapsing the huddle with a grunt and bulldozing forward out of the locker room, fully pumped and ready for action. Bobbi charged out with the rest of them, almost stride for stride with Elena, the warm, late August evening sun spilling across her face. The sound of cheering applause rippled towards her ears, making her vaguely aware of the crowd that must be watching from above them in the bleachers.

Her heart skipped a beat when she remembered all the people that would be out there for her this time – May and Phil, Skye and Jemma, Hunter and Mack, and even little Deke. She’d never had that many people come out to watch her play before. She’d always played soccer for herself before – it was something she was good at, something she loved, somewhere she belonged – but she had to admit there was something nice about knowing she was playing for more than just herself this time.

A quick glance up at the scoreboard told Bobbi they had about five more minutes of time left in pregame to do a few, last-minute warm-ups. She quickly found a spot in the grass and began working through her old, familiar pregame routine.

A few extra stretches for her quads, hamstrings, and calves. Rotations to loosen the core and liven up her shoulders. Roll the neck, three deep breaths. Then some jumps, high jumps where she pulled her knees up as far into her chest as she could before she had to reextend for the landing. She probably could have jumped higher than she did, but it seemed unwise to put undue strain on her knee before the game had even started, so she tempered her leap somewhat, careful to control the landing.

Bobbi allowed herself a peek over into the stands as the national anthem and the Manitowoc fight song both played over the crackly PA system, and she had to force herself not to smile as she spied May and Phil, along with Skye, Jemma, Deke, Mack, Hunter, and his cousin Fitz all sitting together about midway up the bleachers. Phil caught her eye and flashed her a thumbs up, while Hunter mouthed something at her. She was too far away to really read his lips, but she was sure she knew what he was saying – he was probably telling her the same thing he’d texted her an hour ago, the last thing she’d looked at on her phone before stowing it deep in her duffel bag inside her locker.

Don’t die out there.

It had started as a joke between them, mainly. A little thing to say to one another as they headed out for particularly grueling practices or workouts on scorching hot days that poked fun at Hunter’s tendency for melodrama and Bobbi’s need to take things a little less seriously. But as they continued saying it, it turned into more than just a joke. It was a reminder to stay tough when things got hard, but also to remember that there was more to life than just soccer.

Don’t die out there. Dig deep. Don’t quit. Stay strong, but remember to make it off the field, too. Remember to come home. Remember there’s still a life to live on the other side.

Now, Bobbi couldn’t imagine doing anything important without exchanging those words with Hunter. She wasn’t superstitious, exactly, but every athlete Bobbi had ever known each had their own little rituals to hang onto. Maybe this one was hers.

Then, suddenly, the music was over, and whistles were sounding. As if on autopilot, Bobbi felt her feet start to move, and her legs jogged her out into position at right forward. The sounds of the crowd dulled around Bobbi while her other senses seemed to almost heighten. She scanned the field, zeroing in on every minute detail about her surroundings and the other team that she could take in:

The Valders player closest to her, one of their defenders, was nearly a whole head shorter than her. Short legs, short strides. Bobbi could outpace her, could probably get good angles to tackle or take the ball away.

The girl on Valders who wore their captain’s armband was situated in the attacking midfielder spot. She was likely the one who’d play the general on the field, driving the action and directing traffic. If they could unbalance her, they could pull the engine out from the rest of the Valders team.

The whole Valders squad was lined up in a nearly textbook 4-3-1-2 formation, as Coach McCreary had warned them they would. They were stacked narrow and could get caught with a congested middle if Manitowoc played it right. If they managed to force a spread and take play to the outside, they could probably have Valders completely on their heels before halftime.

“Check the middle,” she called out, gesturing across the field so Elena, Geri, and their centermids could all see what she meant.

“Time to spread the bread,” Elena grinned. Bobbi hoped that was her way of saying she understood they needed to force play to spread, but it was a little hard to tell exactly what Elena meant by that.

Ruby, who was taking her time getting into position, passed by Bobbi on her way to her striker spot.

“They’re playing with a tight middle,” Bobbi said, when Ruby was close enough to hear her. “If we can force the spread—”

“I see it,” Ruby said. Bobbi couldn’t exactly tell what expression was draped across Ruby’s face. It almost looked like a bored face, but Bobbi couldn’t possibly imagine how anyone could be bored seconds before the start of a soccer game. “Look, Valders is going to be easy pickings. Look at them. They’ll be slow, undisciplined, and nonaggressive. You don’t need to try so hard to analyze them, Sherlock. Just get me the ball and we won’t have anything to worry about.”

Bobbi blinked, but by the time she had processed what Ruby said and opened her mouth to reply, Ruby was already yards away, sidling into her spot for the start of the game. She didn’t fully understand it, but she felt herself bristling at Ruby’s words, feeling almost deflated that her attempt at teamwork had crashed into a brick wall.

She hadn’t been going out of her way to analyze things, she’d just noticed. That was how soccer had always been for her – she could see and understand things about people on the soccer field. Real life was a different story. Real life was complicated and muddied by people who performed, who lied, who said one thing and did another, or who said something but really meant the opposite. People were harder to decode in real life, but on the soccer field? Bobbi could read those people like a book, and she figured she ought to communicate what she saw. Wasn’t that what Coach had asked them for this game? Discipline and communication?

There wasn’t any more time to dwell on her failure to connect with Ruby, because the atmosphere around her was changing now, the particles in the air charging up with anticipatory electricity, the ripple of quiet that lapped over the world as everyone held their breath for the opening whistle.

The referees took their positions. Bobbi’s eye caught the gleam of silver resting between the head referee’s teeth as he prepared to blow the whistle. She took one last deep breath. She was finally back where she had worked all year to be. 3…2…1…

Being the season opener, everyone had some rust to shake off as they began unfolding play across the pitch, but despite some early miscues, it didn’t take long for everything to click right into place the way Bobbi had hoped it would.

She had been right about the congested middle – with the schematic that Coach McCreary had them running they were able to easily jam up the narrow Valders formation and force play towards the outsides of the field, giving Manitowoc more room to set up long plays, fast breaks, and mismatches.

Valders had clearly been training for controlled tempo play, and they were trying desperately to keep the game slow and methodical. Any time they had possession, Bobbi could tell they were trying to slow things down and set up deliberate, long-execution plays. The problem for Valders, of course, was that Manitowoc was playing with an aggressive, high pressure, full-field press, and their constant pushing was forcing Valders to speed up or get completely blown away. The long, slow plays were interrupted by zippy Manitowoc defenders, and Bobbi and the other forwards and midfielders were relentless in pushing the ball up the field as quickly as they could any time they got their feet on it, which in turn meant Valders was spending a lot of time on their heels, playing catch-up.

On top of that, all the conditioning that Coach McCreary had been having them do all summer was clearly paying off – they were all playing faster and with more strength and endurance than the Valders players. It was obvious that they were in a good position to almost completely overwhelm the entire Valders team well before halftime.

Bobbi felt more alive than she had in ages – totally locked in, aware of and absorbing everything around her at what felt like twice her normal rate. The weather was perfect, still warm from August heat, but with enough breeze to keep the air fresh on her face. She could feel the ground digging in under her spikes with each step, her lungs expanding with sweet breeze each time she took a breath, the energizing almost-burn of muscles just starting to really work. And best of all, better than any of the physical feelings she had, now that she was back out on the field and not just practicing but playing for real, was the other feeling she had as she tore up and down the turf. Not a physical one, but an emotional one – one even she could identify, despite the alexithymia that often tripped her up. She was happy.

It had been so long since she’d played a real game that she’d almost forgotten how much fun it was to be out on the field, running, chasing down loose balls, scanning for opportunities and weaknesses to exploit, anticipating her opponents moves and seeing the plays spring to formation in her mind’s eye seconds before they took shape in real life in front of her. As the minutes ticked by in the game, she began to remember more and more just how playful playing soccer actually felt, how human and natural it all was to her. It was like a piece of her had finally clicked back into place, making her feel more like her whole, real self.

The girl on Valders who was defending Bobbi, number 6, had a hard time keeping pace with her, as Bobbi had suspected, but she made up for it by compensating with a lot of very physical play. She hung close to Bobbi when she could, locking her forearm into Bobbi’s side or bumping her shoulder into Bobbi’s arm, trying to tie her up or slow her down before Bobbi could take off and outpace her. It was annoying, but not unexpected.

Also not unexpected was the fact that the referee seemed not to pay any mind to their tangles. Most of the play was clean, so Bobbi couldn’t really complain beyond the irritation, but there were a few times where 6’s physicality veered a little hot for Bobbi’s liking, or for the rules, technically. But that was just the reality of being a bigger player – you had to take a lot more pushing and shoving than the smaller players, and it took a lot more contact to get the refs to notice you were getting fouled.

Bobbi didn’t really care, though. It just made her tougher, made it more satisfying when she could brush 6 off, could use some fancy footwork and slip right past her, could blow by with long strides, not even giving her a chance to catch up. Really the only part of it that bothered her was how close 6 got to her knee from time to time.

Obviously, Bobbi’s brace would have caught the notice of 6, and like any smart player, she was going to test out how far she could push Bobbi and see how much of a weakness it might be. As much as she hated giving 6 a weakness to exploit, Bobbi couldn’t help but feel protective of her knee, and she started shifting her body every time she locked up with 6, making sure to keep her braced knee on the outside of their tangle or to bump back against 6’s hip check with one of her own… just with the hip that was opposite her bad knee.

It didn’t take long for Manitowoc to score their first goal. The central midfielder for Valders, their captain, had barely gotten the ball across midfield, trying to direct traffic and set up a play, when Piper swooped and created a hard stop, cutting off the Valders captain’s route and bottling up her passing lane with tight, man-to-man defense. Flustered by her lack of options, the Valders captain tried to dribble away from Piper, only to get caught in the trap laid by Elena, who was waiting with a perfectly timed tackle to take the ball clean out from the captain’s feet.

Bobbi, who had been shadowing the play from the right, scooped up the ball knocked loose by Elena and swiftly began driving down the right-hand side of the field. 6 was charging forward to meet her, but she telegraphed her plan far too openly, and Bobbi could see her preparing to slide tackle for the ball from a mile away. Deftly, Bobbi crossed the ball over her own foot and side-stepped 6’s slide, leaving her with a wide-open lane down the side of the field.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ruby drawing out wide, down closer to the goal, but not offsides. They had practiced this a few times last week, where Bobbi baited the defense for as long as she could before passing at the last second to Ruby, who would sink the shot before the goalie had a chance to shift back. Sometimes it worked, but other times Ruby got too impatient and managed to work herself out of position in her haste, or Bobbi waited too long and allowed the defense to catch up and clog the box.

Discipline. They needed to stay focused, disciplined, hold their positions and trust their timing.

Bobbi drove forward, feinted left, then right, squared her shoulders and hips towards the goal, doing everything she could to appear like she was heading straight for the back of the net herself.

It worked.

The goalie bit hard, coming over to the corner of the box to meet her. Without changing anything about her position, save for her kicking foot, Bobbi sliced a no-look pass back to the forgotten and very open Ruby, who, with a single touch, immediately drilled the ball right in the top left corner of the net in one, fluid motion. The goalie was hung out to dry on the right side, too slow in shifting her attention from Bobbi to fling herself back in time to even put a single glove on the ball.

The thwip of ball smacking against net reverberated in Bobbi’s ears for a split second before a din of roaring cheers overtook all other sounds. A swarm of Manitowoc jerseys rushed to her and Ruby, everyone piling together for celebratory whoops, high-fives, and smacks on the back before returning to position for the game to continue.

And continue it did. Ruby scored again about ten minutes later, after intercepting a bad Valders pass in the backfield and weaving through a thicket of confused defenders to sink the solo shot without any difficulty. Elena and Geri each scored a goal apiece as well before halftime – Elena on a beautiful long ball sent her way from Piper, and Geri with a crafty header that Bobbi set up for her with a sharp cross.

When they gathered in the locker room at halftime, Coach McCreary was beaming.

“Very nice work so far,” he said as they circled up. “You played sharp, you played in control. That’s what we want to see. Second half, I want you to maintain our tempo, maintain the intensity – more for yourselves than for the sake of the game or the scoreboard. I want you to get used to the experience of going full out for the whole game, not easing up halfway through, clear?”

“Yes, Coach!”

“Offense, it’s looking really good. Tight play, good control, great aggression. For the second half, I still want to see more communication, more ball movement. We’re up four goals, so for the whole second half, to help you focus on fine-tuning that movement, I’m instituting a new rule for you all: Once the ball crosses midfield and you go on the attack, I want to see at least five separate touches before anyone takes their first shot. Got it? At least five passes before you even start thinking about the net.”

Bobbi nodded along with the rest of the offense as they all called out their agreement. She wasn’t surprised. It was a familiar coaching trick to force them to pay better attention to the skills they needed to practice, and it made sense to implement something to slow their goal scoring, too. It was unlikely that Valders would be able to catch up, and it wasn’t very sportsmanlike to continue racking up goal after goal on them. The five-pass policy would help them ease up on the blowout without just giving up and going easy on Valders, which in Bobbi’s experience was almost more insulting than a totally lopsided loss.

“Defense, stellar work, you’re talking to each other really well. You’ve been fluid, sliding over for help spots nicely, so keep that up. Second half adjustments: Pay attention to the shifts, and keep watching that you don’t get drawn to far up or out.”

Coach gave a few more notes to the defense, and Bobbi took a minute to visit the water cooler, adjusting her brace as she did. Elena was nearby, getting water of her own.

“Not a bad start to the season,” Elena said quietly, smiling over the lip of her paper cup. “4-0 at the half and I’m not even out of breath.”

“That’s because you have the stamina of the Energizer bunny,” Bobbi smirked.

“Chalk it up to a good training partner,” returned Elena. “Honestly, it’s kind of unbelievable that I’m back out here playing at all, never mind playing well. After last year…” She trailed off and shook her head. “I feel like I’m living the impossible, and I hope you know how big a part of that you are.”

Bobbi’s face, still flushed from all the running she’d been doing, grew even warmer. “I can say the same about you.”

“Couple of miracle stories, the pair of us,” Elena grinned. “Somebody should call ESPN. Make us a 30-for-30 special or something.”

“I think you have to be more noteworthy than a couple of high school girls who got a little banged up to qualify for a documentary crew,” came a dry voice from behind them. Bobbi turned around to see Ruby, an unimpressed look on her face.

“It was a joke,” Elena said flatly. “And for the record, we were more than ‘a little banged up.’ Between Bobbi’s knee and my Achilles’, it’s a wonder we’re both up and walking. We worked our tails off last year to get back—”

“Jeez, calm down, would you?” Ruby’s face pickled with disdain, and she sniffed defensively. “You act like I’m the one who can’t take a joke. You’re both inspirations, fine, whatever.”

Elena rolled her eyes and turned away without a reply. She drifted over towards the athletic trainer, who began helping her retape her ankle.

Ruby cleared her throat then, snapping Bobbi’s attention off Elena and back to her. “I came over here to tell you that you need to stop letting 6 push you around so much. You’ve got the size advantage, but you’re not using it. She’s going to come out playing mad after halftime and she’s going to try and put you in your place, so you have to put her in her place instead.”

“I thought I was holding my own pretty well.”

Ruby shrugged, but didn’t say anything to that. “That pass on the bait-and-switch was good. If you keep feeding me like that, we’ll be in good shape.”

“We’re up 4-0. Seems fine to me.”

Ruby gave her an incredulous look. “Valders is a pushover. If we want our record to actually reflect our talent, then we can’t settle for first-half scores. We should be playing to the best of our ability at all times. We should demand excellence of ourselves. And walking out of here with four goals when we could have scored seven or eight doesn’t look like excellence. Or would you rather peak at mediocre?”

“No, obviously, I don’t want to be mediocre.”

“Good. Neither do I. So let’s play like it and not settle for fine.”

And with that, Ruby gave her a stout nod and walked away, leaving Bobbi alone by the water cooler with only her spinning head to keep her company.

She didn’t know what it was, but it felt like every conversation with Ruby left her unsure of where things stood between them. Was Ruby rude and overly critical, or was Bobbi just misreading things? Maybe she was being too sensitive, taking Ruby’s bluntness and obviously strong drive to win as some kind of personal attack when that wasn’t Ruby’s intention.

It wasn’t like Bobbi didn’t also want to win, to be the best player she could be. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t been blunt herself plenty of times. She’d probably stepped on plenty of people’s toes, too, so maybe she should just cut Ruby some slack. Still, it didn’t change the fact that Bobbi often left their interactions feeling like she’d done something wrong.

The second half got underway without any trouble. Despite Coach’s urging for them to maintain their tempo and intensity from the first half, there was a definitely dip in energy as they resumed play. Nothing too serious, but there was a calmer, slower pace to the play that hadn’t been there in the almost frenetic first half of the game. Still, Manitowoc continued to dominate the possessions, control of the game never really slipping away from them at all.

Much to Bobbi’s chagrin, Ruby had been right about 6’s renewed aggression at the start of the second half: The other girl seemed determined to play as tight on Bobbi as possible, tangling and tussling with her on just about every play in an attempt to slow her down. Bobbi found herself playing more and more defensively, working hard to protect her weak side and shake off 6 where she could.

Half the time, she felt like she was more focused on creating some distance between the two of them than the rest of the play, which was more than a little annoying, and when she was handling the ball, she caught herself playing almost keep-away style, handling on the far side and passing away as quickly as she could before 6 tried to execute a tackle or a rough steal that endangered Bobbi’s knee.

The rest of the game passed without much fanfare. The five touches rule meant that it took a lot longer and a lot more effort on Manitowoc’s part to score. Elena had managed to sneak a crafty little feinting shot in the bottom corner after she, Bobbi, and Geri executed the 3-man weave they’d been running in practice – a give and go, back and forth kind of pattern that lulled the defense into complacency, causing them not to realize how far the ball had advanced until they were all practically on top of the box. But beyond that one goal, there wasn’t much excitement in the second half, at least until the final few minutes.

The Valders offense was making a last-gasp attempt at pushing forward some sort of play, but the Manitowoc defense, who had been hitting their marks all night, saw the play coming from a mile away and smothered it easily. Jess, their right center back, cleanly tackled the ball away from an exhausted-looking Valders forward and fed it quickly up to Piper, who in turn fed it Bobbi’s way.

Bobbi collected the pass at midfield and began working her way up the right-hand side of the pitch. She kept one eye on her players, trying to read where they were going and how they were setting themselves up, but her other eye was firmly on 6, who was charging forward to meet Bobbi.

It was like time itself changed, the whole world going into slow motion as Bobbi analyzed the field in front of her. Ruby was sitting ahead in no-man’s-land, lying in wait for a pass. Bobbi would have to beat 6 outright to clear the way for a pass to Ruby, either by speed or by force, but Ruby was calling for the ball anyway. Ruby looked like she thought she had a clear path to the goal – her shoulders were already signaling that she planned on turning and shooting the second she got it, despite the fact that they hadn’t reached five passes yet – but, Bobbi realized, as she scanned the rest of the field, there was a Valders defender lurking back in Ruby’s blind spot. Ruby didn’t see her, but the defender would be all over Ruby in a heartbeat if Bobbi sent the ball that way.

Bobbi changed direction.

She hesitated a split second, then stutter-stepped as 6 barreled down on her, flicking the ball just enough out of reach that 6 wouldn’t knock it away from her as they collided near the sideline. Bobbi twisted as 6 plowed into her, turning so her stronger side took the brunt of the impact. She wasn’t sure if it was the collision or the turning that did it, but she could feel herself losing her balance as she and 6 tussled to regain control of the loose ball.

In desperation, Bobbi flung her foot out as she fell. She managed to find the ball, poking it towards the center of the field where Elena was waiting. Then she and 6 both landed on the turf, legs tangled and arms splayed. Instinctively, Bobbi tucked her bad knee inward and rolled as she hit the ground, trying to minimize the impact. It helped a little, but she still felt the wind get knocked out of her chest when she slammed into the ground, and it took her a second to get her bearings before she shoved herself back up.

The field spun around her momentarily, and Bobbi tried to suck air back into her lungs while she gave herself a little shake. Finally, everything locked back into place around her, and she could see that Elena had advanced the ball to Geri, who was cutting back to the center again. Bobbi crossed behind the play, stacking up behind Geri about 20 yards back, and she waved, hoping to get either Elena or Ruby’s attention. Ruby was distracted, trying to close the distance between herself and Geri, but Elena caught Bobbi’s gesture and began shifting down and around, filling the hole on the right side that Bobbi had left open as she moved.

Bobbi called for the ball, and Geri passed it back. 6 was nipping right at Bobbi’s heels, but Bobbi didn’t wait for her to attempt another tackle before she launched a missile of a pass down to the bottom right corner, where Elena had placed herself perfectly.

As soon as Bobbi had passed, she cut hard to the goal, right down the middle of the field. She ran as fast she could, finally leaving 6 in her dust and ignoring the burning in her lungs and the ache in her knee. She blazed past Geri, past Ruby, who was trying to move toward Elena and the ball, and angled herself right behind the last Valders defender, ready for the return pass that she could feel coming her way from Elena.

She trapped the ball on her chest, dropped it down to her feet, took aim, and fired right for the back of the net.

It was a nice shot. Maybe not as clean as Bobbi would have liked, but she was still a little disoriented from the fall a few seconds ago. Still, it was nice. Just not nice enough.

The Valders goalie managed to get a hand on the ball, blocking the shot and sending the ball spinning out towards the waiting foot of 6, who cleared it out to their midfielder as time expired.

Several Manitowoc players began celebrating with the final whistle, rightfully pleased with a 5-0 victory. Bobbi stood down by the goal for a minute, hands folded on the top of her head as she tried to catch her breath and tried not to feel disappointed that the score hadn’t been 6-0.

“You good?” Elena had come up behind Bobbi, placed a hand near Bobbi’s elbow. “That was a hard fall.”

“Fine. Just trying to catch my breath.”

“That was a genius play design,” Elena said. She offered a small, half-smile. A comforting face. “Too bad about the save, but we should definitely run that one again.”

“Yeah.”

They exchanged high-fives and calls of ‘good game’ with the Valders players and coaches, and met briefly with their own coach, who had nothing but praise for their performance that night.

“We’ll keep working, keep polishing in practice,” he said, looking around the locker room. “And we’ll work on developing our strategies for on-field adjustments for when we face tougher teams this season. But overall, great work tonight. You should all be very proud.”

Slowly, the team trickled out of the locker room, bags packed, and gear stowed. Some of the girls were talking about homework they still had left to finish, others about getting home in time to catch something on TV. All of it just sounded like buzzing to Bobbi’s ears.

Before she realized it, she and Ruby were the only ones left in the locker room. Like Bobbi, Ruby didn’t seem as enthusiastic about the end of the game as the rest of the team.

“You should have passed it to me.”

“What?” Bobbi blinked and realized Ruby had said something to her.

“At the end of the game. I had that goal. I was wide open.”

“You didn’t have it,” Bobbi shook her head. “Their defender was lurking in your blind spot. She would have been on you before you got your feet under you.”

“Who, that number 11? I can blow by leadfoots like her any—”

“Besides,” Bobbi said, frowning, “we hadn’t gotten our five touches. I had to pass. You were going to take the shot and we had only had two passes past midfield at that point.”

“Oh, don’t hide behind that five touches bullshit,” Ruby griped with a roll of her eyes. “Who cares about a stupid self-imposed rule like that? We both know the reason you didn’t pass me the ball is because you were playing scared. You were scared of 6, you hesitated, you took the easy pass out.”

“I wasn’t playing scared.”

“Yes, you were. Everybody could see it. 6 controlled your space all game.”

“Well, I’d rather play scared than play selfish,” Bobbi shot back. “You were hardly paying attention to the rest of the offense. You don’t pay attention to anything but the ball. We set up a whole play around you and you couldn’t be bothered to notice because all you care about is taking the shots yourself.”

“I’m the striker,” Ruby spat. “It’s my job to take shots, and it’s my job to focus on the ball. I do my job. Next game, you should try doing yours.”

She turned on her heel then and stalked out of the locker room. Bobbi groaned and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. A bad feeling was seeping into her system, flooding in from somewhere around her shoulders and washing over her, erasing all the fun and joy that she’d had earlier in the game. Dr. Garner would want her to label the feeling. She was too bent out of shape to care much about labels right now. Sitting calmly and trying name and address the bad feeling didn’t seem nearly as appealing as chucking her cleats across the floor until they skittered into the side of a metal locker, which is what Bobbi was doing when a voice rang out from the door of the locker room.

“Bob? All right in there?”

It was Hunter. She glanced over her shoulder to see his face poking around the door.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“I waited until it seemed like everybody else had cleared out. Elena said you might need a friendly face.”

Hunter slipped into the locker room and came to sit next to her on the bench. “I brought you something.” He slipped the backpack he’d been wearing off his shoulders and rummaged inside for a minute before producing—

“My batons.” Bobbi took them gratefully and began to twirl almost immediately. As soon as she did, the bad feeling began siphoning away, retreating back into her shoulders until it was almost entirely contained near her collarbone instead of washing over her whole body. She stood as she twirled and began to pace slowly across the locker room floor. Her steps were ginger, the fatigue in her muscles finally showing itself. “Thanks.”

“What’s the matter, Bob? Is it your knee? Does it hurt?” Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Did it hurt?

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if your knee hurts?” Hunter chuckled a little at that. “Come on, Bob, either it hurts, or it doesn’t.”

“I don’t know,” Bobbi repeated flatly. “I can’t tell right now. Everything’s too…” She waved a baton listlessly in the air in lieu of the right adjective.

“You played a bloody good game,” Hunter offered. “Mack thought so, too. Some great assists, lots of good reads…”

“I missed the last shot.”

“Their keeper blocked it. Poor girl was bound to block one at some point. But the shot was good, on target. You can’t beat yourself up over one shot.”

“Do you think I was playing scared?” Bobbi asked abruptly. She stopped pacing and turned towards Hunter directly, glancing up quickly to check his face for an expression that might give away what his answer kept hidden.

“No,” Hunter frowned. His expression held steady – a face that held fragments of honest and confused. “6 was riding you hard, and you had to make adjustments. You were a little protective of your weak side at points, I suppose, but you had to, the way 6 was playing…”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

“What are you talking about?” asked Hunter. His tone was gentle in a way that he didn’t often use.

“I don’t know why she doesn’t… I don’t know what’s…” Bobbi huffed in frustration and resumed her pacing, twirling faster. “I feel like I’m the only one she has issues with. I don’t know what’s wrong about me that makes her feel like she has to come after me like that. Criticize me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.” She knocked her batons hard against her thighs on the last wrong and shook her head, trying to shake loose words that would actually make sense.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Ruby,” Bobbi said flatly. “She won’t get off my case.”

“Screw her,” said Hunter with a breezy flip of his hand. Like it was just that easy. Maybe for him it was, easy to brush away the bothersome things, ignore the troublesome people. “Seriously, Bob. She’s not the captain, and she’s not the coach. She’s a 16-year-old striker with a bit of talent and twice that amount of ego. Don’t let her get in your head like that.”

“I know. I know.”

“If she thinks you’re playing poorly, then she clearly doesn’t know shit about football,” he continued. “I happen to be an expert when it comes to football, and I say you’re brilliant. Case closed.”

“You’re a little biased,” Bobbi said. She slowed her twirling and felt the beginnings of a smile creeping onto her face. “Seeing as how you’re my… friend.”

The last word stuck in her throat somewhat, not because she had trouble calling Hunter a friend, but because there was another word that had almost leapt out instead. A word that she and Hunter hadn’t used yet. A word that felt like too big a step for her to take right now, but that still tried to sneak its way out into the world. Luckily for Bobbi, Hunter was kind enough and liked her enough to be willing to take things slow and be patient with her as they took their time to figure out exactly what they were to each other, and smart enough to know that ‘friend’ didn’t exactly cover all the ways she felt about him.

“I don’t think it counts as bias when I’m just stating an objective fact,” Hunter grinned. “Friend or no friend, you’ll always be brilliant, Bobbi.”

Bobbi felt her face, already hot and sweaty from the game, flush.

“Although I much prefer friends over not friends,” he added.

“Agreed.”

Bobbi set down her batons and slipped her hands into Hunter’s instead, giving them a squeeze. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” he smiled. “Would you mind a quick snog before we go out to find your family? Between friends, of course.” Playful face. Teasing face.

“I’m sweaty…”

“I don’t mind.”

“Okay, then,” Bobbi smiled back. “Just because we’re friends.” Even if they weren’t quite ready for the other word, there was no denying that the way they felt about each other was a little more than friendly, and there was no denying that kissing Hunter gave Bobbi the same electric feeling in her veins that she felt before the soccer game.

Happy. Happy. Happy.

Good. Good. Good.

“Bobbi, that was a great game!” Phil exclaimed as she and Hunter approached. He reached over to hug her with one arm, since Deke was hanging off his other arm.

“It was okay,” Bobbi agreed.

“You guys crushed the other team,” Skye pointed out. “That’s way better than okay.”

“How did you feel?” May asked. “You looked good. Sharp plays, easy movement, no trouble running…”

“Felt good,” smiled Bobbi. That was true. Apart from her collision with number 6 and the emotional battering from Ruby, she had felt good all game. She still couldn’t quite tell if her knee was sore or if she was just imagining the pain because of everything else that had happened, but she figured some ice and elevation at home would do the trick either way.

“You didn’t get hurt when that other girl knocked you down, did you?” Jemma wanted to know.

Bobbi smiled at her. “No, I’m okay. It took me a second to catch my breath, but no damage done. Just a hard knock, but I know how to fall. The important part is getting back up.”

“And if anybody knows how to get back up, it’s you, Bob,” Hunter glowed. “I mean, you managed to direct traffic and nearly score a goal all in about ten seconds after you got your feet taken clean out from under you.”

“Too bad I didn’t manage to actually score,” she shrugged.

“There’s always next game,” Phil said kindly. “I would say three assists and a 5-0 victory is pretty good for your Manitowoc debut, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, pretty good,” Bobbi echoed, a little ember of pride heating up inside her.

“Bobbi, guess what?” Deke said excitedly. He was practically upside down, the way he was dangling off Phil, and he grinned his wide, crooked grin.

“What?”

“My tooth came out!”

Bobbi looked more carefully at Deke’s gap-toothed smile and realized that he was, in fact, sporting a new empty spot amongst his other missing teeth.

“It came out when we were eating snacks,” Deke told her. “Phil said we could pick one thing, and Skye and Jemma picked popcorn, but I picked candy apple. And I chomped my apple and my tooth just came out.”

“Do you still have it?” Bobbi asked.

“We wrapped it up in a napkin and I have it in my pocket for safe keeping,” May said.

“Don’t want to lose it before you can put it under your pillow for the tooth fairy,” Phil added with a wink.

Skye’s brow furrowed at that. Confused face. “Phil, the tooth fairy’s not real—”

She was interrupted by an elbow to the side, Jemma giving her a very pointed look before tipping her head towards Deke. Quickly, Skye’s eyes widened as she realized her mistake.

“—real…ly… uh… smart,” Skye corrected clumsily. “She’s not really smart. So she might not think about checking under Deke’s pillow. It’s kind of hidden under there.”

“Skye’s right,” Deke said. He flipped himself right-side up and gave Phil a very serious look. “Sometimes the tooth fairy didn’t find my other teeth before, and Nana would have to take my tooth for her and put it in the fairy mail. Then later I’d get my quarter back.”

“Maybe you could leave the tooth fairy some kind of clue,” May suggested. “Something to help her know where to look.”

“You could write her a note,” piped up Jemma.

Deke turned his wide eyes on May and Jemma, with a look on his face that seemed like he thought they were the smartest people in the world. “I can do that?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Can we go home now?” Deke asked suddenly. “So I can write my note?”

“If Bobbi’s ready,” Phil agreed. “Got all your stuff? All set with your coach and everything?”

“I’m good.” She turned to tell Hunter goodbye. “See you at school tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” he smiled. “Although I might not make it to tomorrow alive if I don’t find Fitz before then. My mum would have me buried in the backyard if I lost the little monkey for real.”

“I think he followed Mack and Elena to the bike rack past the gate,” Skye said helpfully. “They were still talking about that last play Bobbi and Elena made.”

“Guess I’ll start there.” Hunter offered Bobbi one last smile before he turned and disappeared beyond the gate. “Good show tonight, Bob. I mean it.”

As the rest of them all made their way to the gate at the front of the stadium, Bobbi hung back with Skye and Jemma a little. She watched Deke swinging his arms back and forth, one hand in Phil’s and the other in May’s. He was chattering away at them, probably discussing what he was going to put in his note. The three of them made a nice picture together, a happy little family.

“Nice save on the tooth fairy thing,” she murmured to Skye. Skye squinched her face into a bashful expression.

“I forgot other kids actually believe in that stuff. We never had a tooth fairy growing up. The nuns never did anything like that with us. I shouldn’t have said anything, but it just kind of slipped out…”

“I don’t think Deke really noticed,” Jemma said kindly.

“Yeah, he seems pretty content to just enjoy the magic of the story,” Bobbi observed. “I don’t think you ruined the tooth fairy for him.”

“Thankfully. I don’t need that kind of guilt,” Skye joked. She paused for a minute, and her expression changed into something Bobbi couldn’t quite identify. Not quite wanting, not quite sad. Wistful, maybe.

“Must be nice. Being able to believe in good things like that without any question about whether or not they’re real. I’m glad he still gets to have that.”

Bobbi hummed her agreement, not quite able to make her voice work as her throat tightened around Skye’s words. She watched as Jemma scooped up Skye’s hand and tapped tenderly on the back of it.

Must be nice, indeed.

Chapter Text

6-year-old Bobbi was having an exceptionally good day. Her loose tooth – her very first one – was getting looser, for one. For another, it had been her classmate Graham’s birthday, so his mom brought in treats for the whole class to share after lunch recess, and Bobbi had gotten a cupcake with blue frosting, which was the one she had been hoping for. She’d also known all the right answers when they practiced counting by twos and fives and had been picked to be the eraser monitor, which meant she got to clap out all the erasers at the end of the day. She loved the sound the erasers made as she banged them together, and it was fun to watch the clouds of chalk dust billow up around her like she was a magician.

She had tried to tell her mom all about her great day in the car on the way home from school, but Bobbi’s mom didn’t seem like she was listening very closely. She always got this look on her face when she wasn’t really listening – Bobbi could always tell. Her eyes got heavy and her lips tightened into a thin, white line. It was an exasperated face. Bobbi had learned that word from a story her teacher read out loud one day last week, and she loved the way it felt in her mouth, relished the snap of the ‘x’ at the beginning and the way the pop of the ‘p’ cut off the slow ‘s’ sound. She didn’t exactly love it when her mother wore her exasperated face, though, and she decided it was better to be quiet in the car. Maybe then her mother wouldn’t feel quite so exasperated with her.

When they got home, Bobbi dropped her backpack on the floor by the door like she always did, making a dull thump sound.

“Bobbi, can’t you be a little quieter?” her mom asked. She must be in one of her bad moods, Bobbi realized. Her mom didn’t like loud noises when she was in one her bad moods.

“Quieter,” Bobbi nodded. “I’ll be quieter. Quieter. Quieter. Quiet.” She smiled up at her mother, pleased to demonstrate that she had heard, understood, and was going to do as she was told. Her mom’s face pinched into a sour look.

“Starting now, Bobbi. Why don’t you go play in your room?”

“No snack?” Bobbi asked, a little sadly. She had hoped today would be a snack day. Her lunch hadn’t been very big, and she was hungry again.

“No snack,” her mother clipped. “I’m too tired to make you something. You’ll just have to wait until supper.”

“Supper, supper, supper,” Bobbi whispered to herself, a sing-song-y little pattern that lilted and lifted into what she thought was a nice tune. It wasn’t that long until supper, anyway. She’d be okay.

She pattered off to her room and quickly immersed herself in playing with her Star Wars figures. First, she lined them up in movie order – New Hope, Empire, Return of the Jedi. She had a few from Phantom Menace – a Qui-Gon and a Padmé and a Jar-Jar, but she was hoping for a Darth Maul for her birthday. She only had an Obi-Wan from Attack of the Clones, since that movie was still pretty new and those figures didn’t go on sale as much. After movie order, she lined them up in order of her favorites. Princess Leia was always in first place, obviously, then her R2-D2, her Luke, and her Padmé. The other ones changed positions from time to time. Sometimes Han was near the top, along with Boba Fett and Lando, if she was feeling more inclined to her figures with blasters, but other times she was in more of a Jedi mood, so Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, and Darth Vader moved up in the ranks.

Once the ordering was finished, it was time to set up the scene, and Bobbi spent the next hour carefully positioning and arranging the figures amongst the spaceships and secret bases she had built out of cereal boxes and old pieces of Styrofoam from her dad’s work. In today’s episode, Darth Vader had captured Jar-Jar and it was up to Leia, Obi-Wan, and Lando to infiltrate the secret Sith fortress to get him back. The other figures would battle out front to provide the distraction, while the heroes of the day would sneak around the back and make their way inside.

As she worked, Bobbi poked her tongue against the loose tooth dangling in her mouth, prodding it back and forth and delighting in the grownup feeling that having your first loose tooth gives you. She was so immersed in her work and her tooth-wiggling that she didn’t notice the sky had grown dark outside her window until her stomach gave a pitiful grumble, reminding her that it was probably well-past time to eat.

Surprised at how late it had gotten, Bobbi gingerly set down her figures in just the right spots, gave her tooth one more good wobble, and wandered back towards the kitchen to see if it was suppertime yet or not. The lights in the kitchen were on, but there was no sound coming from the room. Curious, Bobbi poked her head around the doorframe and spotted her mother sitting hunched at the table, grumbling under her breath and flipping through papers and envelopes. A half-empty bottle of that stuff that looked like plain water but smelled like permanent markers and tasted just as bad sat next to her, and every so often Bobbi’s mom would tip more of the stuff into the glass in front of her and drink it down in a single swallow.

“Momma?” Bobbi asked nervously. The not-water usually meant Bobbi’s mom was having a bad day, and Bobbi didn’t want to upset her, but she was hungry and the clock on the microwave said it was 8:51, which meant it was already past time for Bobbi to go to bed.

“What, Bobbi?” her mother snapped. Bobbi squeezed her eyes shut. Bad mood. She heard a sigh, and when she opened her eyes again, her mom was looking around wearily, taking in the dark sky and Bobbi peering up at her expectantly. “I thought I told you to go play.”

“It’s late,” Bobbi said. “And we haven’t had supper yet.”

“Everybody always wants something,” her mom muttered. “Bobbi, your dad’s working late – again – so I didn’t make anything to eat. No point in fixing something until he’s home.”

“Home, home,” Bobbi echoed. “Will Daddy be home soon?”

“Don’t copy,” her mother said reflexively. “I don’t know. I never know with him.”

“Can we eat something else?”

“Do we have to?”

Bobbi crinkled up her eyebrows at her mother’s question. “I’m hungry,” she explained.

“Fine,” her mom sighed. “I’ll find something. Just stop pestering me about it, would you?”

Bobbi perched in her chair at the table and watched as her mother shuffled around the kitchen, rifling through cabinets and the refrigerator. Eventually her mom pulled out a box of cereal and the milk carton.

“This satisfy you?”

Bobbi nodded, knowing better than to point out that cereal was a breakfast food, and it was most certainly not breakfast time. She was just glad to be eating something at all. Her mom shook out the bran flakes into a bowl and sloshed some milk over the whole thing before sliding the bowl across the table and into Bobbi’s outstretched hands. “Eat up.”

“Eat up,” Bobbi chirped, digging in. She caught her mother rolling her eyes, but Bobbi didn’t care.

She was about halfway through her bowl when the sound of the front door clapping shut signaled the arrival of her father. Bobbi sat up straight in her chair and craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of him as he came into the house.

“About time,” she heard her mom mumble just before her dad came into the kitchen, still wearing his coat and looking tired and excited and a little grumpy all rolled into one. As soon as he came into view, Bobbi’s mom forced her mouth up into a stiff smile. “Welcome home.”

“Yeah,” her dad grunted, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the back of his chair.

“Late night at the office?”

“Something like that,” he said. Her mom took a step closer to him, her pretend smile slipping back into a pucker when she caught a whiff of him.

“Jesus, Mike, you blow your whole paycheck at the bar tonight?”

“How I spend my money is none of your business,” he growled.

“It is my business if I just spent all afternoon trying to figure out how we’re going to keep the lights on and get the bank to stop bothering us about the mortgage payments.”

“Well you don’t exactly smell like a basket of roses yourself, Suze, so I’d watch where I was throwing stones if I were you.” Her dad’s eyes flashed angrily. “I’ll make it work. You know I’m getting promoted next quarter. Just get off my back, all right? Have I ever let a bill go unpaid?”

“No.”

“Exactly, so why claw at my neck about it now?” he huffed.

Her mom didn’t have anything to say to that, and her dad smirked triumphantly before turning his attention on Bobbi and softening somewhat. He leaned over to rumple the hair on top of Bobbi’s head, but stopped short, frowning at the bowl of cereal. “Why the hell is our kid eating bran flakes at 9 o’clock at night?”

“It’s our supper, Daddy,” Bobbi announced. She realized there was something in his hand that he was working hard to keep out of sight, and she twisted around in her seat to try and get a better look.

“We’re eating bran flakes for dinner?” he asked grouchily.

“I didn’t know when you were coming home,” her mom said tersely. “I didn’t want to go to a lot of trouble if you weren’t going to be showing up until midnight.”

“Well, I’m here now,” he said. “And I’d rather not eat cold cereal for my supper.”

“I can put yours in the microwave, if you’d prefer,” her mom snipped. Her dad scowled, but didn’t comment. Instead, he spotted Bobbi trying her best to see what he was hiding in his hand and smiled.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Bobbi?” he asked.

“Daddy, show me!” Bobbi giggled, pointing to whatever it was he was now hiding behind his back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, pretending to be confused. Bobbi giggled again. “Oh, you mean this?” he asked, pulling out a copy of A New Hope from behind his back and acting surprised, like he had forgotten it was there. “Wow, would you look at that? Somebody must have swung by Blockbuster on the way home and picked up one of our favorite movies.”

“Star Wars!” Bobbi grinned.

“Mike, no,” her mom sighed. “It’s already nine. She needs to go to bed.”

“Momma, please?” begged Bobbi.

“Lighten up, Susan, it’s just a movie,” her dad said. “So what if the kid stays up a little late tonight?”

“It’s a school night, Mike,” said her mom, exasperated look back plainly on her face. “She has to get up tomorrow, and if she stays up, she’ll be cranky, and then I’m going to have to deal with her pitching fits over the way her socks feel and whether or not I have the right kind of jelly for her toast.”

“Just get the right kind of jelly next time, then,” her dad shot back.

“Oh, like it’s so easy to remember every little inane detail about what she will or won’t eat week to week,” her mom scoffed. “I’d like to see you try and do the shopping for the picky princess every once in a while. Bet you wouldn’t be so quick to judge if you had to lift a finger every now and then.”

“Don’t do this,” he glowered. “Don’t act like I don’t work my ass off to provide for this family. I have my job, and you have yours. Although it looks like only one of us is putting in their hours if you ask me.”

“Don’t do that,” her mom snapped. “Don’t sit there and pretend like you’re some goddamn martyr for having a 9-to-5. To five, might I add, not the middle of the damn night.”

“Oh hell, Susan, it’s nine o’clock, not two in the morning, get a grip for Chrissake. You know I can’t stand the theatrics.”

“Says the king of melodrama himself.”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about right now, you’re so wasted,” her dad spat. “Come on, Bobbi, finish your sorry excuse for a supper and let’s go watch the movie, okay?”

Bobbi popped the last bite of cereal in her mouth and made to stand up from the table. A glare from her mother froze her in her tracks.

“Don’t you dare, Barbara,” her mom said coldly. “It’s time for bed. You and your dad can watch the movie another time.”

“But…”

“No ‘buts’ Bobbi. It’s bedtime. Say goodnight to your father.”

Glumly, Bobbi did as she was told. Her dad spluttered with anger as she gave him a quick hug goodnight and blinked back tears.

“She’s my kid, too, dammit. You don’t make all the rules here, Susan.”

“Someone has to,” her mom sneered.

Bobbi’s dad stiffened and his face twisted in fury. He took three quick, threatening steps, closing the space between him and Bobbi’s mom in an instant. He grabbed her shoulders roughly and gave her a little shake, the one he used to make sure she was paying attention.

Swirling fear coursed up in Bobbi’s stomach. She never liked it when her parents argued, of course, but it was always so much worse when they actually got really angry, not just grouchy at each other. When her dad flipped a switch from grumpy to dangerous, or her mom abruptly changed from unkind to downright mean. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the scene in front of her and keep herself from crying.

“Do not,” her dad said, his voice deadly low, “disrespect me like that. Do you hear me? This is my goddamn house and I make the goddamn rules. Not you. I pay the bills. I pay for your booze and your spray tans and your trashy magazines. I pay for the food and the lights and the hot water, so if I want to make a few rules, then everybody else better fucking fall in line. Got it?”

“Or what, Mike?” her mother hissed. “You and I both know you don’t have the guts to make anything but an empty threat.”

The silence lasted too long, and Bobbi opened her damp eyes. She saw her father’s livid face turn practically purple before he gave her mother a brusque shove, sending her stumbling a few steps back into the counter.

“Don’t blubber, Bobbi,” he said sharply as he stalked off and out of the room. “Nobody likes a crybaby.”

Once he was gone, Bobbi watched as her mother shook her head, staring daggers at his retreating figure while she massaged her hip where she’d hit it on the counter. “Pathetic.” She stood there for a minute in silence, like she had forgotten the rest of the world was still there and that Bobbi was waiting on her. Eventually she turned her glassy eyes on her daughter, and Bobbi could have sworn that the same look of disdain her mom cast on her dad was on her face now.

“Didn’t I tell you to go to bed?”

“Bed, bed, bed,” Bobbi echoed, nodding uncertainly. She had said to go to bed, but it was dark upstairs, and Bobbi was supposed to take a bath tonight. She needed someone to turn on the lights and run the water in the tub.

“So then why are you still standing here?” her mom asked angrily. “You should already be asleep.” Abashed, Bobbi hunched her shoulders and slunk off towards the stairs. Before she was out of sight, she heard her mother calling: “And what did I say about copying?”

Bobbi managed to tug open her dresser drawer wide enough to pull her pajamas out, and she dressed quickly in the dark, despite the fact that she was sure some of the shadows seeping onto her walls hid fearsome beasts. There was no point in turning on her light, though, because she wouldn’t be able to turn it off once she was in bed – the wall switch was too far to reach. So instead, she hurried to change as fast as she could, and she leapt into bed before any creepy creatures could slither up and grab her ankles. She wriggled under the covers and tried to trick her brain into falling asleep, murmuring some of her favorite words to herself out loud to soothe herself to sleep. Hopscotch. Soccer. Princess Leia.

She poked her tongue at her loose tooth, feeling it give a little more with each prod. Suddenly, the resistance she felt against her tongue gave way, and the taste of metal filled her mouth. She sat up in surprise and spat the very hard thing that was now in her mouth out into her hand. By the moonlight streaming in through her window, she could see that it was her tooth, and elated excitement flooded her senses. She had lost her tooth. Her very first tooth.

As much as she wanted to go running to her parents, to proudly show off the tiny little tooth she now cradled in the palm of her hand, she knew neither one was really in the mood for her tonight. She knew better than to bother them when they were angry and stewing over a fight. She would just have to tell them in the morning, when she could show them the crisp dollar bill she was sure would take the place of her tooth overnight. The other kids at school who had already lost some teeth said that was what happened when the tooth fairy came. She took your tooth and left you a dollar instead. Her dad would be excited for her, and her mom would be so happy that Bobbi had a dollar to help pay the bills with.

Smiling, Bobbi tucked her tooth under her pillow and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of how happy her parents would be at her news tomorrow. Maybe they would go out for ice cream. Maybe her mom and dad would smile at each other and hold hands like some of the other parents in the neighborhood did anytime they were proud of their kids. The tooth fairy would come and maybe, just maybe, a few little things could start to be fixed.

When Bobbi woke the next morning, however, she found nothing but her slightly blood-stained tooth still sitting under her pillow. Ashamed, she hid the tooth in her sock drawer, sure she had done something wrong. She didn’t tell her parents about the fiasco, and there were no proud smiles at the breakfast table or trips for ice cream in the afternoon. That was probably for the best, she decided, since the only thing she could taste that day was just how bitter disappointment could be.

Chapter Text

Ever since Deke had moved in with them, the house had adopted a “youngest-to-oldest” schedule in the bathroom when everyone was trying to get ready for bed. It made sense – Deke, being the youngest, had an earlier bedtime than the rest of them – but Skye had to admit she didn’t love the arrangement. It was hard to wait her turn, and being second-to-last (or sometimes truly last, if Bobbi had showered earlier, after coming home from soccer) meant that there was a serious risk of the hot water running out before she even got in there.

So when she saw an opportunity to jump the line a little bit that night, she didn’t exactly hesitate. Bobbi had gone first, since she was sweaty from soccer, but Deke was busy writing his note to the tooth fairy when it was supposed to be his turn. He had begged Jemma to sit with him and help him write it, which left Skye with a rare window of unclaimed time that she had no intention of giving up.

She had only been in the shower for a few minutes when the sound of running water caught her ears. Normally that wouldn’t have been weird at all, considering what she was doing, except that the new water sound was coming from the other side of the shower curtain.

Blinking past her dripping bangs, Skye poked her head around the shower curtain to find Deke, pajama-clad and toothpaste dribbling down his chin as he brushed his teeth.

“What are you doing? I’m in here!”

“The door was open,” Deke said matter-of-factly, his words garbled by toothpaste. “Phil said I could skip my bath tonight since it’s late, but I still have to brush my teeth. And the door was open, so I came in.”

Skye forced herself not to heave a sigh as she pulled her head back behind the shower curtain and continued washing her hair. Deke did, unfortunately, have a point. She hadn’t pulled the door all the way closed. Most people would see the mostly-closed door and hear the running shower and put two and two together, but she shouldn’t have expected that from a little kid.

“It was mostly closed, you know. And I’ll be done soon. You could have waited.”

“I didn’t want to wait,” came Deke’s voice. It was clearer now. He must have spit out his toothpaste and rinsed. “The tooth fairy won’t come until I go to bed, and I can’t go to bed until I brush my teeth.” There was a slight pause, then, “Are you mad?”

“No, it’s fine,” Skye said. “You just surprised me, I guess. Usually, people are left alone while they’re in the shower.”

“Usually, people close the door while they’re in the shower, too,” chirped Deke. Even though she couldn’t see him, Skye could picture his chipper little face, grinning his gap-toothed grin as he made his observation. “How come you don’t close the door?”

“Sometimes I do,” Skye said, a little defensively. She caught herself. This was Deke she was talking to. He didn’t mean anything by the question. He was just curious. She had been that way, too, asking too many questions because she was curious. She remembered how much she used to just wish people would answer some of her questions rather than get mad at her for asking them in the first place. She tried again.

“Sometimes I have to leave them open a little bit, though. I… I get nervous sometimes if the door is closed. And sometimes I’m fine, but sometimes I just… it’s just easier to… when I’m having a hard time with other things, the door is an easy thing to fix, I guess.”

“Okay,” Deke said, simple as that. “Did you know that the modern doorknob was invented by Osbourn Dorsey in 1848? He was only 16 years old when he submitted his patent for it. That’s like Bobbi.”

“What? How do you know that?” Incredulous, Skye stuck her head out from around the shower curtain again to stare at Deke. To her surprise, he had closed the lid to the toilet and perched himself on there, cross-legged. He smiled at her when he saw her looking.

“There’s a page on him in my Young Inventors book back at Nana’s house. Bobo used to read to me about the inventors before bedtime.”

“Oh.”

“I could tell you about other inventors, if you want.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for bed?”

“Yeah,” Deke said. “But I don’t want you to feel nervous. So I’m gonna stay here and keep you company until you’re done.”

“That’s… that’s really nice, Deke. You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Nana says that the best cure for fear is a friend. Friends stick together.”

“That’s true.”

“Are you feeling less nervous?”

“Yeah,” Skye said kindly, “I’m feeling better. Thanks.”

She finished rinsing the shampoo from her hair while Deke told her about some guy named Chester Greenwood, who had apparently invented earmuffs in 1873 when he was 15 years old. Skye couldn’t say that she’d even given a single second of thought to the inventor of earmuffs, but Deke seemed eager to share his fun facts, and Skye had to admit that it was strangely calming to listen to him ramble. He almost reminded her of Jemma, in a way, the way she could talk for miles about the things she liked best.

“Hey, Deke?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m done with my shower. You need to leave so I can get my towel.”

“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “Will you come see the note me and Jemma made before I have to go to sleep?”

“Sure. I’ll be there in a sec.”

When Skye walked into Deke’s room a few minutes later, pajamas on and damp hair twisted up in a towel, he and Jemma were in the middle of deciding where the best place for his letter was.

“Skye said the tooth fairy wasn’t so smart,” Deke reminded her. “We have to put it somewhere she’s not gonna miss it, so she knows to check under my pillow.”

“You could put it here on the dresser,” Jemma suggested. She tapped a few times on the top of Deke’s chest of drawers. “Lay it right on top where anyone can see it.”

Deke frowned, deep in thought. “What if it’s too flat?”

“What do you mean?”

“If it’s lying down flat, she might miss it.”

“Not if it’s out in the open,” Jemma countered. Deke didn’t look convinced.

“You could stand it up, sort of,” Skye said. “If you pull out the top drawer a little, you can slide the paper into the drawer and it’ll stand up. Look, like this—” She reached out to tug open Deke’s top drawer, but to her surprise, Deke zipped over next to her and flung his hand out.

“No, don’t!”

Skye stopped short. “What?”

“Don’t… don’t open that,” he said, faltering slightly. When Skye cocked her head curiously at him, he changed tact and drew himself up to his full height and scowled at her, trying, no doubt, to appear tough and intimidating. “I mean it!”

“Okay, fine, I won’t,” she assured him, withdrawing her hand.

“It’s mine. You can’t open it.”

“Deke, relax. I already said I won’t touch it,” Skye said with a frown. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a drawer.”

“I just want it closed,” he said firmly. “You want the door open, and I want the drawer closed.”

Jemma, who had been watching their exchange like a tennis match, raised her eyebrows at Deke’s mention of the door. She flicked a curious glance over to Skye, who chose to ignore the silent inquiry for the time being. She wasn’t really interested in going into a lot of details about her inability to shake her weird door thing at the moment. She didn’t want to make Jemma worry, or worse, make Jemma feel like she had to tell May and Phil.

“No one will open your drawer if you don’t want them to,” Jemma promised him.

“There’s not anything dangerous in there, is there?” Skye asked, eyeing the drawer suspiciously.

“No,” Deke insisted. “It’s not dangerous. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing alive?”

“No, not alive.”

“Good enough for me,” shrugged Skye. “If it’s not dangerous and not alive, I don’t see why you couldn’t have a private drawer full of secret stuff.”

Jemma looked like she desperately wanted to see what was in the drawer – and Skye had to admit she was insanely curious now, too, given how protective Deke was being – but she forced herself to let the matter of the drawer go and switch back to the original problem. Eventually, Deke settled for leaving the note on his bedside table, propped up against an empty water glass so no fairy, elf, or gnome could possibly miss it.

“Jemma helped with the spelling,” Deke said, as Skye bent over to read what he had written.

The large, childish print was easier for Skye to read than she was expecting, and before long she had scanned the whole page.

“Dear Tooth Fairy,” it read. Deer was crossed out and Dear written in the space above it. “How are you? I am fine but I am missing a lot of teeth now. I lost one today. It is under my pillow for you to take. I hope you can find it. What do you do with all the teeth you take? Have you ever taken a tooth that was still in someone’s mouth? I bet if you did it would have a lot of blood. Love, Deke.”

“Wow,” Skye said, her eyebrows inching up her forehead as she tried to keep a straight face. “That’s some letter. Do you think she’s going to write you back?”

“I dunno,” Deke shrugged, bouncing into bed and pulling the covers up to his chin. “I hope so. I want to know about the teeth.”

“That would sound so creepy coming from anyone but you, Deke.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” Skye told him with a shake of her head. “Goodnight, Deke.”

“Goodnight!”

Before long, it wasn’t just Deke that had bade everyone goodnight, and the familiar sounds of settling house and sleepy sighs had blanketed over everything. Bedtime had followed its usual routine, with Phil coming around to do check-ins that night, Skye pretending that everything was normal (and conveniently omitting the fact that she’d left her math homework only half-done, since they’d had to leave for the soccer game before Phil could check it), and Jemma knocking on the bedpost six times before she climbed in. It was like that thing she’d been doing with the car – deliberate, counting knocks, not just her regular tapping – although Skye had only noticed the bedpost addition recently. She hadn’t said anything, just like how Jemma hadn’t said anything about the doors. It was like they had a silent agreement, that maybe if they kept acting like everything was fine, then maybe, eventually, it really would be.

But now it was late, and the sounds of May and Phil getting ready for bed had quieted, and Skye found herself in the same position she always did these days, lying awake in bed, staring up at the pinpricks of light from Jemma’s star lamp dancing across the dark ceiling.

“What do you think Deke’s hiding in his drawer?” Jemma’s voice, soft but not quite a whisper, blurred into the room, startling Skye a little. She hadn’t realized Jemma was still awake.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I really want to peek and find out, but I also know I would have been so mad if a big kid poked around in my stuff when I was his age.”

“And we promised not to look.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“You don’t think… you don’t think we should tell someone, do you? I mean, if it’s something serious, or he’s in trouble…”

“Deke said it wasn’t dangerous.” Skye propped herself up on one elbow and turned Jemma’s direction. She couldn’t exactly make out her features in the dark room, but the shadowy shape of her was still visible. “It’s probably just something like a bunch of rocks and bottle caps and spare change he’s found, or stuff from his family he doesn’t want other people to see. That’s the kind of stuff I would have wanted to hide when I was six.”

“Or computer parts,” Jemma said, and Skye could practically hear the teasing smile in her voice.

“Even I wasn’t trying to build a computer at six,” Skye laughed. “Although Deke does know a lot about inventors. Apparently, he used to read this book about young inventors every night – he was telling me all these facts about them while I was taking my shower.”

“He was talking to you while you were in the shower?”

Skye felt her ears grow slightly warm as she tried to explain. “I didn’t close the door to the bathroom all the way, and he didn’t realize he wasn’t supposed to come in. He was brushing his teeth, and then he stayed to talk. I kept the curtain closed, obviously.”

“That’s why he said something about the door earlier,” Jemma said slowly, putting the pieces together. “Did you tell him about… about why…?”

“Not exactly,” Skye murmured. “Just that closed doors make me nervous sometimes. That’s why he stayed to talk. He was trying to help me not feel nervous.”

“That’s rather sweet.”

“Yeah.”

“Skye, is… is everything all right?” Jemma’s voice was quieter now, more tentative. Skye felt her breath hitch in her ribs somewhere. She had been afraid this was coming.

“Of course,” she said automatically. Trying to keep the silent agreement firmly in place. “Why would you even ask that?”

“It’s just… well, the doors. You’ve started leaving them open more often again. And I know you haven’t been sleeping well. You always look so tired in the morning. And… and you just seem… far away. Like you’re not really all here all the time.”

“Sounds like you’re just describing a teenager with ADHD,” Skye joked. “Forgetting things, distracted, bad sleeping habits…”

“Skye.”

“Okay, yeah, I’ve been a little… off, lately. Just… in my head a lot, I guess. Thinking about a lot of stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Skye swallowed hard and rolled back onto her back, staring hard at the starry ceiling and trying to blink the burning out of her eyes. She wasn’t sure what to say.

On the one hand, she didn’t really want to confess all the things that kept pinging around in her brain all the time, little screen saver icons dialed up to a million-times speed. She didn’t want to worry anyone, didn’t want to hear the sad little sigh in their voice or see the disappointment on their face. She didn’t want to let anyone in to see just how screwed up she still really was.

On the other hand, it was Jemma. The one person she could always talk to, had always told everything to, even the stuff that burned her throat to say. She had tried to keep Jemma out a few times before, and that had never worked out. The truth always found its way out between the two of them.

“Like, stuff about my family,” she confessed. Her voice cracked a little as she spoke, and she was grateful for the cover of darkness that masked her embarrassment. “My… dad. And stuff about school and adoption and… and stuff about the things that happened to us. Old foster families, St. Agnes… the warehouse.”

“Oh, Skye,” came Jemma’s gentle reply. Skye knew she didn’t mean anything by it, but that sad little hum lurked in her voice, the one Skye had been dreading. “That’s an awful lot to have on your mind. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I shouldn’t even be thinking about any of that stuff. I know it’s crazy,” Skye said, trying to backpedal some of her piteousness with self-aware bravado, “I know I need to not let it take over so much, but I can’t… I can’t get any of this junk out of my head. It’s like, reruns from hell or something, but you can’t ever change the channel. It just plays and plays, over and over again.”

“Skye, I thought… I thought things were getting better.”

Skye let out a bitter laugh. “Oh yeah, lots better. Just like how you and Bobbi are lots better, too, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re not better, none of us,” Skye snapped. Instantly, she dropped her voice, worried that she might have woken the rest of the house up. When there were no sounds of stirring, she continued, trying hard to stay quiet. “I can’t stay in a room with a locked door anymore and I can’t sleep at night. Bobbi barely talks to any of us anymore, have you noticed that? She’s totally clammed up. And I’ve seen that extra tapping you do now, on the car and on the bed, and I know you won’t read any new books anymore because you’re afraid to try something you don’t already know the ending of. We’re all so screwed up but none of us wants to admit it, because then we have to admit that things aren’t better, and they never will be.”

So much for pretending.

There was a horrible, long silence, and as the seconds ticked by, Skye began to regret her outburst more and more. When Jemma spoke, in a tone that failed to mask the hurt she had caused, Skye felt even worse than before.

“Some parts of me are better, you know.”

“Jemma, I… I didn’t mean…”

“I don’t feel like I have to hide so much anymore. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not, or force myself to act certain ways. I still don’t have all the answers, but I understand myself better. I know more about who I am and why I’m the way I am. I don’t have to be afraid of getting punished or made to feel badly about myself because I’m not like other people, at least not here. Not at home. And I have friends now, more friends than I’ve ever had before. And even though I’m still afraid of some things, and I’m still sensitive, and I still get upset or out of sorts sometimes, I don’t think I’m bad because of it. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” mumbled Skye, turning away in shame. “I know you’re doing good, and I’m glad about that. I said all that without really thinking, but I know it’s really just me that’s screwed up. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Jemma said quickly. Skye could hear rustling coming from Jemma’s side, like she was sitting up in bed now. “Not at all, Skye. I’m not saying I don’t still have a hard time with things. I’m not perfect. And you’re certainly not the only one who’s… I just meant… I think it’s possible for a person to be better in some ways but still need help in other ways. Maybe some things aren’t better yet, but some things are. And the things that aren’t better now might get better eventually. You can’t just give up on better.”

“I just don’t know if better seems possible,” Skye said quietly, her chin wobbling slightly at the admission. “It’s just so hard to see it when all I keep seeing is the worst things.”

“I know. I know it’s hard. But just think about all the impossible things we’ve already done. We found each other and managed to stay together, you’ve gotten better at school and built a computer from scratch, I made friends and got better at talking to people… We… we have a family. That was never something we thought would happen.”

“I know. You’re right. There are lots of good things. I just… I just wish I could feel good about them. About anything. Instead of getting so stuck on all the bad. I should be getting better, because the stuff around me is better, but I just… I think maybe I’m too broken to be better.”

Jemma was quiet for a minute, and Skye wasn’t sure what to make of it. Eventually, the sound of sheets being kicked back reached Skye’s ears, and then the weight of something sinking onto the edge of her bed jostled her. Skye rolled around and saw Jemma sitting there, felt the soft touch of Jemma’s hand tapping tenderly on her arm.

“I don’t think I believe in ‘too broken,’” Jemma said softly, after a long pause. She wasn’t looking at Skye while she spoke, her face turned instead to the window, eyes on the sky and seeing far out into the cosmos, but her taps never left Skye’s arm. “I don’t think there’s anything that can’t be fixed or healed in some way, even if it’s different from how it was before. But I also think that healing can take a long time, and is hard to do without help. It’s like Bobbi’s knee, in a way. It took a long time for her to work back to playing football like she did tonight, and she needed help from her doctor and from her teammates and even from all of us. She couldn’t have gotten better if she hadn’t had medication and surgery and physical therapy, or if she hadn’t had Elena for a rehab and training partner, or our family and her friends for support.”

“Maybe. But it’s not exactly the same.”

“Maybe not,” Jemma conceded. “But I think the same principles could apply. You have a lot to heal from, Skye. And it’s okay that it’s taking you a long time, or that things aren’t always feeling better. But I also think it might help if you let other people help you, too. You could tell May and Phil. You know they’d want to know. They’d want to help. Or you could talk to Dr. Garner. That’s his job, to help you with all the things inside your head.”

“I just really don’t want to let them down,” Skye admitted, barely above a whisper and guilt burning at the back of her throat. “I don’t want them to be disappointed that they still have a screw-up for a kid, after everything they’ve done for us.”

Jemma stopped tapping then, and suddenly her hand was tugging gently on Skye’s arm instead, pulling her up until she was sitting right next to Jemma. Jemma slipped her hand into Skye’s and squeezed, pressing into Skye’s side.

“Skye, they picked you. They chose us, all of us. Even after they learned about how different and difficult we all are. I don’t think anything we do can change that anymore.”

“I hope not. But it still scares me.”

“Me too, sometimes,” Jemma murmured. “Hope can be frightening sometimes. It’s so fragile. Like holding a tiny little baby bird in your hands and hoping that you can hold it tight enough to keep it safe and warm so it can grow strong enough to fly, but not so tight that you crush it by accident, either.”

“Jemma the poet strikes again,” smiled Skye. “How are you so good at putting stuff like that into words?”

“Well, Emily Dickinson was the one who wrote that hope is the thing with feathers, not me…”

“You know what I mean.”

Jemma shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know. Probably because my alexithymia means I struggle with identifying and describing emotion, so I’ve had to come up with other ways to articulate how things feel. That’s what Dr. Garner and I discussed once, at least.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was going on sooner,” Skye said suddenly. “I don’t know why I tell myself I can’t talk to you. Talking to you always makes things better.”

“For me, too.”

“And I’m sorry that I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head that I haven’t really been there for you, either. I know you’ve got your own stuff going on. Like, we haven’t really talked about your dad at all. Or that newspaper article. Or the extra taps.”

“We don’t have to talk about any of that…”

“Jemma.” Now it was Skye’s turn to squeeze Jemma’s hand, to lean into her and rest her forehead against Jemma’s temple. “Please talk to me. Please don’t keep everything all scrunched down in your little music box. Not from me. I want to help. And focusing on someone else’s problems for a little while might do me some good.”

“I… I don’t really know what to say,” Jemma said slowly. “I don’t really know what to think about any of it. There’s not really enough information that we’ve found yet for me to know what to think, so I’m just… I’m in a fretful muddle about everything, I suppose.”

“I get it,” Skye murmured, offering another squeeze. “Trust me, if anyone gets how confusing it feels to try to find out stuff about your parents and keep hitting dead ends and more questions than answers, it’s me. It’s easy to let it mess you up.”

“The similarities are a little uncanny, aren’t they?”

“If you want, we don’t have to talk about that stuff,” Skye said. “I was just trying to help, but we can skip that part for now. As long as you promise me you’ll keep me in the loop about your feelings once we find out more stuff.”

“I promise.”

“What about the tapping? Or, well, I guess it’s more like knocking, isn’t it? The new thing. Do you want to tell me what’s going on with that? That’s been happening since way before we started looking into your dad.”

“You’ll think it’s silly.”

Skye snorted softly. “You’re talking to someone who basically has heart attacks over closed doors. Trust me, I’m not going to think it’s silly. Is like your regular tapping? Or like the counting?”

“Sort of,” said Jemma thoughtfully. “But not exactly. It’s like… I don’t remember exactly when or why I started, but one day – last year, after all the… you know… with Cal and CPS and the trial and everything – there was just this thought in my brain. Or maybe more like a feeling. I just knew that I had to do a knock for each one of us. To keep us safe.”

“I… don’t really understand.”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Jemma said uneasily. Skye could feel her pulling away slightly, shrinking back in on herself. “But if I do a knock for each person before we get in the car, then everyone will get where they’re going safely. And then I do a knock when we get out of the car to sort of… close the loop, I suppose. And before bed, to make sure we all make it through the night safely. I don’t know why, but it just makes sense to me, and I feel like, if I don’t do it, then something bad might happen and it will be my fault. It’s how I can help keep our family safe.”

Skye had to admit that, even for Jemma, this new little quirk seemed beyond the scope of ordinary. Not that she would ever say that to Jemma. It was obvious from how Jemma was acting that she felt almost embarrassed about it, and Skye would never want to do or say something to make Jemma feel self-conscious or bad about herself. Still, she couldn’t help but worry that this newest coping skill might be less healthy than something like plain counting or tapping or flapping.

“I still don’t really get it,” Skye said again. She reached over to where Jemma had shifted away and tapped a few times on her knee, trying to coax her back from embarrassment. “But if it’s something that makes you feel better, then that’s what matters, right? And I guess it’s been working. Nothing bad has happened to us since you started doing it…”

“Exactly! So far, it’s proven itself true. All the evidence I’ve gathered supports it, so there must be something to it. It can’t be irrational if it’s working, can it?”

Privately, Skye felt like Jemma might be working a little too hard to convince the both of them. Jemma was usually such a logical and scientific person, and this sounded more like superstition than anything to Skye, but she didn’t really feel like arguing, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

“Maybe the next time we go see Dr. Garner, I can tell him about how things have been hard for me, and you can tell him about the knocking,” Skye suggested delicately. “See what he thinks. Maybe there’s some kind of science thing out there that talks about that kind of thing.”

“Maybe,” Jemma mused. “Some sort of sequential reaction mechanism, or a ripple effect, or Kessler syndrome – you know, collisional cascading…” She tried to stifle a yawn, then, which Skye noticed immediately.

“I saw that,” teased Skye, poking a finger into Jemma’s side – a spot Skye knew Jemma to be ticklish. Almost immediately, Jemma’s yawn turned into a giggle as she wriggled away from Skye’s reach.

“That’s cheating,” she accused. She wore a smile, though, so big that Skye could tell, even in the dark.

“We should go to bed,” Skye said, knowing full well that sleep was probably still miles away from her. At least one of them should get some rest, though.

Jemma agreed, and soon they were both back in their own beds, tucked under covers and staring at the starry patterns cast on the ceiling by Jemma’s star lamp.

“Skye?” came Jemma’s voice, thick with impending sleep.

“Hmm?”

“Who do you think is going to take Deke’s tooth for him tonight?”

“Dunno,” Skye mumbled. “Prob’ly Phil. See t’morrow, I guess.”

To her surprise, she found her eyes were growing heavy and her own voice slurred slightly as a drowsiness she so frequently struggled to find crept over her. It was the first time in a long time that she could remember sleep coming this quickly. Maybe talking to Jemma about everything had helped more than Skye had realized, after all.

Chapter Text

Deke had been over the moon the next morning when he’d proudly shown them all the slightly crumpled dollar bill he’d found under his pillow, but he was even more excited to show off the note that the Tooth Fairy had written in reply to him.

Skye recognized Phil’s sturdy handwriting almost immediately, but she didn’t say a word to Deke. There was no way she was going to ruin the kid’s fun, and, judging by the elated smile on Phil’s face as Deke zipped from person to person around the breakfast table, showing off the note, spoiling the secret would probably break Phil’s heart just as much as Deke’s, if not more.

“Bobbi, read this part again,” Deke begged, pointing to the middle section of the note as he drew up beside Bobbi’s chair. He was practically climbing up on top of her, he was so excited and leaning in so close to look at the paper as Bobbi took it from him to read.

“There are a surprising number of uses for teeth, especially for fairies,” Bobbi read aloud. They’d all heard the note in its entirety more than once that morning, but nobody complained. “Some are ground up to make new batches of fairy dust. Some are traded between fairies like money. Some are planted in the ground to grow toothpaste plants. But most of the teeth we collect are used for building supplies. All the castles and bridges and roads and walls in our part of the fairy world are built of teeth.”

“A whole world built out of teeth,” Deke sighed. His gaze slipped away, and Skye could tell his imagination was running wild. Personally, Skye thought a world built out of teeth sounded both super gross and super creepy, but there was no point in telling Deke that. He was lost in visions of tooth architecture by now, for sure.

“Speaking of teeth, did you brush yours?” May asked him, giving him a slight nudge and detaching him from Bobbi’s side. “It’s almost time to leave for school.”

“Oh, yeah.” Deke dashed off back upstairs, leaving the rest of them sitting around the table in a daze.

There was a beat of silence, then before anyone could really help themselves, they all started cracking up.

“Phil, I can’t believe you told him that they build stuff out of people’s old, gross teeth,” Skye snickered.

“It wasn’t me,” Phil said in mock seriousness. “It was the tooth fairy.”

“I can’t believe how excited Deke got reading about it,” Bobbi laughed with a shake of her head.

“If we don’t watch out, he’s going to knock the rest of his teeth out on purpose, just so he can write more letters to the tooth fairy,” warned May, failing to suppress her own laughter.

“I hope he doesn’t do that,” Jemma said concernedly. “He needs to keep a few teeth, at least. How else will he eat?”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” smiled Phil. “And hopefully some more of his grownup teeth will start coming in soon.”

They rose from the table, working together to clear the dishes and tuck everything into the dishwasher.

“How did you come up with all those ideas of things fairies do with teeth?” Jemma wanted to know.

Phil shook his head and chuckled. “I’m not really sure. Melinda and I were bouncing ideas off each other last night, and one thing led to another… She came up with the toothpaste plants, which I thought was a stroke of genius.”

“I liked the sound of those way better than the sound of roads and walls being built out of teeth,” Skye said with a shudder. “Seriously, Phil, that’s just creepy.”

By the time lunch rolled around that day, Skye was already desperate for the school day to be over, and she hoped that their Robotics club meeting would provide a much-needed respite from the disappointing drudgery that the morning had already sloughed onto her.

Ms. Price had spent almost the entire class period going over time-management strategies that they could use to balance out their schedules and make sure they had time to do all of their homework and studying, all of which sounded perfectly nice in theory, but also sounded wildly impractical to Skye. Each one seemed so dependent on self-discipline and a well of focus that maybe most kids could just tap into, but Skye imagined had already long run dry for her.

Things hadn’t improved in science, when Mr. Hall had passed back their most recent quizzes and Skye had spotted the small, red 68% inked on the top corner of the page. It was better than her quiz from last week, which had held a 62%, but it was still well below where Skye knew she was supposed to be. Mr. Hall had pulled her aside after class, which only made things worse.

“Skye, I know you’re getting accommodations through the guidance office, but my quiz policy still applies here,” he said, once the other kids had filtered out of the room. At least he waited until there was no one around to hear about how stupid she was.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, staring hard at the floor, the desk, the window – anything to not see the disappointment on her teacher’s face.

“That’s two quizzes below 70% in a row, now. You’ll need to get one of your parents to sign the quiz, then bring it back to me this week so I know they’ve seen it. Once you do that, we can talk about scheduling a time for you to do a re-test. I want you to be able to improve, Skye. A re-test can help you pull your grade up.”

Skye wasn’t sure that any number of attempts would make the questions about layers of the Earth, plate tectonics, and types of rocks make any more sense to her, but she kept that sentiment to herself, more interested in slinking away to her next class than getting into an argument with Mr. Hall.

There were too many jumbly and unfamiliar words and terms to learn and keep straight, too many names of things that got mixed up or were so close to each other – minus a few letters here or there – to pin down and keep from wiggling around on the page. Her reading had gotten a lot better since last year, but remembering the difference between convergent and divergent boundaries, whether granite was an example of an igneous or a metamorphic rock, or what in the world a subduction zone was – much less spelling any of those things – was a pretty steep challenge.

When Mrs. Schneider passed around the basket in Algebra to collect their homework from last night, Skye only pantomimed putting something in. Not for the first time, she hadn’t been able to finish the worksheet, and rather than turn in something only partially complete and probably riddled with errors, she just opted to avoid the embarrassment and not turn in anything.

She actually didn’t mind the work they were doing in class, which was kind of a first for math class. She liked thinking backwards through math problems, trying to undo what was there and balance things out – it kind of reminded her of some of the things she did in computer science, working around missing information and thinking creatively about solving problems – but there were so many little steps to keep track of and so many places to mess something up that it was often small, stupid errors that tripped her up, which was almost more frustrating than just not getting it at all in the first place.

Even Spanish, which was turning out not to be as bad as Skye had feared it would be, was a struggle today, as they spent their time going over irregular verbs that didn’t follow the normal rules and patterns that Skye had thought she’d managed to get a handle on.

“I don’t get why Spanish needs two different words for ‘to be,’” she grumbled to Jemma and Fitz as they packed their things up at the end of class, grouchy more from the day as a whole than the difference between ‘ser’ and ‘estar.’ “It’s all the same thing. Estoy en la escuela. Estoy enojado. Estoy estúpido. I am, I am, I am.”

“I think it would be ‘soy estúpido,’ not ‘estoy,’” Jemma corrected reflexively. She winced as the words came out of her mouth. “Sorry. And you’re not, by the way.”

“It’s fine,” Skye sighed. “But you’re kind of proving my point. Why does it have to be different?”

“English is riddled with irregularities and inconsistencies,” Fitz shrugged. “We just don’t notice because it’s our native language. I imagine the two different verbs exist because they express different states of being – one is more permanent and inherent while the other is more transient, more temporally- or situationally-based.”

“Thank you, Grammar Geek.”

“You’re in a fine mood today,” Fitz said, scrunching his nose up at her.

Skye sighed again and tried to breathe some of her frustration out of herself as she exhaled slowly. “I know, I’m sorry. Just had a lousy morning, I guess.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jemma asked.

“No.” Skye shook her head and crooked a half smile Jemma’s way. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I just hope we’re doing something fun in Robotics today. I need the brain break.”

As usual, Trip had beaten them to the lab, and was saving seats for the three of them by the time Skye, Jemma, and Fitz arrived.

“Hey,” he grinned as they took their seats next to him. “Skye, what did Mr. Hall want to talk to you about after science class this morning?”

“Nothing,” Skye said. “Just about my grade on our last quiz. I guess I didn’t do so hot, but, you know, what else is new?” She cracked a half-hearted smile, but no one else laughed at her lame attempt at humor. Before anyone could say anything about her lousy science grade, Skye quickly changed the subject. “Any idea what we’re working on today?”

“No,” Trip told her, shaking his head. “Just that I heard Ophelia say we’re starting with full-team meeting.”

Sometimes, their time in the lab was spent broken up into their work teams, each group working independently on their respective areas of the project, but every so often Ophelia would call full-team meetings first, to make sure everyone was still on the same page. They usually weren’t too bad, as far as meetings went, in Skye’s opinion, although they could get a little boring sometimes when people tried to take up team meeting time with stuff that really could have just been handled with their work group.

They had only been eating and chatting for a few minutes when Ophelia clipped into the room and pulled down the projector screen that Mr. Peterson had hanging on the wall on the far end of the lab. She produced a remote to turn on the projector and nodded for someone to get the lights, which Lincoln obliged.

“All right everyone, let’s settle in,” she called as a hush fell over the lab. The projector whirred to life and filled the screen with the now-familiar schematics of the challenge course that they were supposed to be designing their robot to operate within.

“Why do I feel like we’re about to get lectured?” Trip asked Skye in an undertone, smirking slightly.

Skye snorted. “Or like we’re about to hear about quarterly reports and synergy and shareholders.”

“We’re now officially three months away from our first competition of the season,” Ophelia began. “Which means it’s time to finish our ideation phase and commit to a design. We need to move into prototyping and development starting this week, otherwise we’ll be behind schedule.”

“Which brings us to today,” she continued. “We need full team input on the design – feedback from all work groups about what direction we need to move. Design team, show us what you’ve been working on.”

Two of the older kids, Seth and Donnie, took over the screen from Ophelia, and Fitz joined them up at the front. The three of them began explaining the two broad types of designs they’d been working on the past few weeks.

“One is more old-school,” Seth explained, clicking onto a digital diagram of something that looked a little bit like the Mars Rover crossed with a bulldozer. “It would travel along the tank floor using wheels or treads, and collect the samples using a scoop device—”

“—Or possibly a claw,” interjected Fitz, “if we found greater dexterity was needed.”

“The other,” said Donnie, as they clicked onto a new diagram of something that looked more like a submarine or a hovercraft to Skye, “is riskier, and more of a challenge, but it would essentially be some type of self-propelled submersible that would travel through the water and collect the samples from above.”

“With a claw, too?” asked Lincoln.

“Potentially, yes,” nodded Fitz. “Although there is another option that we were considering.”

“It’s still unproven, experimental,” Donnie said. “But Fitz has been working on a design for a sort of pressurized suction tube that could be extended from the base of the submersible and used to collect the samples.”

“The first design is a safer choice,” finished Seth. “It’s more in-line with what we’ve worked with before and has fewer variables. The second design—”

“—Is thrilling,” Ophelia said, almost breathlessly. She was drinking in the design on the screen with hungry eyes, enraptured as she studied the details of the diagram. “It’s innovative, cutting-edge, creative… The favor we’d curry with the judges for something this ambitious alone…”

“If it works,” called out Sequoia from the back. She had untangled herself from Trevor’s arms and was leaning forward, studying the design with far more skepticism than Ophelia. “Sorry, but speaking as the head of the engineering team, I have some concerns.”

“Of course.” Ophelia gave herself a shake. “Yes, engineering team, weigh in here. You’ll be working closely with the design team to bring anything we decide on to fruition, so now’s the time to raise your questions.”

“Well, to start with, how feasible is it to actually create something like the second option?” asked Sequoia. “It’s a really cool design, no doubt, but given the limitations of our timeframe, materials, budget, and experience level, is it even possible for us to make something like that?”

“We… don’t know,” admitted Donnie. “We think so. We hope so. But like Seth said, the stuff we’ve worked on before and are more familiar with is more in line with the first choice. The second choice… we’d be trying a lot of new ideas.”

“Innovating,” nodded Ophelia. Skye noticed that Fitz puffed up a little with pride each time Ophelia used that word.

“You said it would be self-propelled,” Trip spoke up. “I can tell in the first design that the treads are how it moves, but what kind of movement are you thinking in the second?”

“Ideally, propeller-based,” Fitz explained. “Although the idea was to orient them vertically. Think like a helicopter or an aquatic drone sort of thing.”

“And both will run on the battery the judges are providing?” asked Lincoln.

“They should.”

“Are you worried that propellers will drain the battery too quickly?” Lincoln wanted to know. “The amount of energy needed by wheels is a lot less than the amount needed to run enough propellors to make something that size stay afloat.”

“Not to mention the extra steering that would come with something in the open water,” Trip added.

“Again, we don’t really know,” Seth said. “We think it should be fine, but since we haven’t been able to test anything at this point, it’s still not clear either way.”

“Maybe we ought to take some time to mockup prototypes of both designs to see how well each one actually works before we commit either way,” Jemma said quietly.

It was hard to tell in the semi-dark room, but Skye thought she maybe saw a muscle jump in Ophelia’s jaw before a somewhat sticky smile spread across her face.

“There’s really not time for that, Jemma,” she said pointedly. “We’re cutting it close as it is. We can’t afford to waste time on building something that we’ll never end up using.”

“But it might be worth it, if it saves us from having to start over a month from now if we pick something that doesn’t end up working,” Skye pointed out, jumping quickly to Jemma’s defense.

“If everyone does their job correctly, then we’ll make any design we choose work, no matter what,” said Ophelia, a little stiffly. “I think we’re getting off-track here. Programming team, any feedback you’d like to offer before we make our decision?”

“Well, from a programming standpoint, the first design would be way easier to code for, especially during the unmanned section,” Trevor said. Skye nodded along as he spoke. He was definitely right about that. “The commands would be a lot more basic, just simple directional commands to drive across the tank floor and the controls for the grabber or the scoop or whatever. With the other one, you’d have a whole extra dimension’s worth of directions to plot – a z-axis, not just an x and a y – and things like the water pressure or any issues with current or buoyancy or movement of the water itself, all that could impact the machine.”

“I highly doubt the tank will be deep enough for water pressure to affect the movement of the submersible,” Ophelia sniffed. “It takes over ten meters of water depth to just reach 1atm.”

“10.3 meters,” Jemma murmured. “Although you’re not taking into account the combined atmospheric pressure from the air above the tank in conjunction with the pressure from the water itself. The pressure at the bottom of the tank would be basically doubled from the example you just gave, which wouldn’t matter much for a vehicle traveling across the bottom, but would have a definite effect on something trying to stay aloft within the water.”

“Yes,” said Ophelia. She drew out the word as her eyes turned in Jemma’s direction, narrowing slightly. “But, as I said, the tank we’ll be working with won’t be nearly that deep. We’ll be working at a depth of 3 meters at most, which isn’t really deep enough to have a discernible impact on the mobility of our machine.”

Her tone stayed even as she spoke, but Skye couldn’t help but feel the muscles tighten in the back of her neck as she watched Jemma shrink under Ophelia’s gaze. She was getting an old, familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach – one she hadn’t felt in a while and one she was displeased to feel returning. Even though Ophelia hadn’t done or said anything outright hostile, the feeling took Skye back to places like St. Agnes, to cruel foster parents and sharp-tongued nuns, to people – bullies – like Michaela Dodson and Grant Ward.

The group talked for a little while longer, weighing pros and cons and getting more information from the boys on the design team about how everything was supposed to work. It didn’t escape Skye’s notice that Jemma had clammed up again, no doubt chastened by her conversation with Ophelia.

“Any final thoughts or questions before we put it to a vote?” Ophelia called, once the conversation seemed to have fizzled out. No one spoke up, so slips of paper were passed around, and soon everyone was writing down their vote for which design they would move forward with.

Ophelia collected the scraps and glanced them over. Then, once she’d looked at them all, she swept the papers into the trash and stood back up at the front of the lab, a smile on her face.

“I’m pleased to announce that the spirit of innovation is alive and well amongst our ranks,” she announced. “Design 2 is the winner. I think the judges will reward our ambition, all but guaranteeing us a trip to Nationals this year. So, let’s get to work.”

They divvied out jobs for the remainder of the lunch period, with the Skye and Trevor heading immediately for the computers in the back to start investigating what kinds of programs they might use, and the design boys putting their heads together with the engineering group to start talking through the logistics of the machine.

Jemma looked like she was going to follow Fitz and Trip into the design/engineering mind meld, but Ophelia called her over to one side of the lab. Skye tipped back in her chair, leaning as far as she could without drawing attention to the fact that she was trying to eavesdrop.

“Jemma, I could really use you on inventory today,” Ophelia told her. “There’s a big container on the workbench in the back, full of hardware. It would be so helpful if you could sort everything in there – you know, nuts in one jar, washers in another, screws and bolts in their own containers…”

Jemma replied, but her voice was too quiet for Skye to hear. Judging by Jemma’s posture as she slunk over to the cluttered workbenches in the back and the way her right hand was jammed into her pocket, probably tapping, Skye could guess what Jemma’s response was.

“I’ll be right back,” Skye muttered to Trevor, pushing back from the computer. He barely noticed; he was so engrossed in his own screen.

Skye crossed quickly over to Ophelia, intercepting her before she could join the design and engineering group and melt into the work. “Hey, can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” Ophelia said, plastic smile firmly in place. “What’s on your mind, Skye?”

“What’s your problem with Jemma?” Skye demanded. She probably should have tempered her question a little better, but her emotions were starting to get the best of her, and her filter wasn’t exactly operating at full capacity.

Ophelia blinked. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have a problem with Jemma.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it. She’s probably the smartest person here, but you’re always acting like she’s dumb, or correcting her, or putting her on nuts-and-bolts duty when she could be helping the rest of the team.”

“Sorting out our supplies and inventory is helping the team.”

“You know what I mean,” Skye huffed.

“Look, Skye, I’m sure Jemma’s very intelligent in certain regards, and I’m sure back at the middle school it seemed like she knew everything, but here… well, it’s not good for people to go around thinking they’re the smartest person in the room everywhere they go, you know.”

“What are you talking about? Jemma doesn’t think that…”

“It’s not productive for her to be challenging the group all the time, trying to one-up people with fun facts or big words. I’m just trying to help her learn a little humility. It’s not personal, it’s just that she’s a freshman, and she’s got to learn to work with people who know more than she does. I’m trying to help her.”

Skye shook her head, confused. “That doesn’t make any sense. Are we even talking about the same person right now?”

Ophelia sighed. “If Jemma wants to be a part of team, or really if she wants to fit in with most people at all, she’s going to have to learn to… not stand out so much. Frankly, I’m surprised she has as many friends as she does, acting the way she does.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Skye asked, her brow furrowing with suspicion and that awful, familiar feeling creeping back into her gut.

“I think you know what I mean.”

Ophelia paused for a moment, then turned a pitying smile on Skye that felt awfully patronizing to her. “I’m not trying to upset you; I’m just being honest. People like you and Leopold are the kind of people who could really make something of yourselves on this team and at this school. But hanging around with people like Jemma is holding you back. So either you cut the dead weight and soar to the top of the food chain, you wither away in obscurity because of some kind of misplaced loyalty, or you take option three, which is what I’m trying to help you do. If you won’t cut her loose, you coach her. You train her until she’s not a social liability anymore.”

“Jemma’s not a social liability,” Skye said hotly. She wasn’t exactly sure she understood what Ophelia meant by the term, but she could figure out from the way Ophelia said it that it wasn’t something good. “She’s my best friend. She’s… she’s my sister.”

“And that’s all well and good,” Ophelia said with a shrug as she turned to head for the rest of the team. “I just think it might be worth considering if the value she brings to your relationship is worth the cost.”

Skye was left standing alone then, mouth slightly ajar as she tried to process the ridiculousness of what Ophelia had just said.

Ophelia had no idea what she was talking about – had no idea just how valuable someone like Jemma was. Jemma was precious. Jemma was irreplaceable. Jemma was the only person who Skye knew she could count on one hundred percent, no matter what. Jemma was the first person to see Skye as a human being worth knowing, not just a nuisance. Jemma was the first person who made Skye feel whole. There was no possible way that someone could ever calculate just how much Jemma meant to her, how much she had changed Skye’s life for the better.

And as for cost? Skye shook her head. It had never cost her anything to be Jemma’s friend. Sure, she maybe had to go toe-to-toe with a few more bullies on Jemma’s behalf, and maybe there were some things about Jemma that Skye didn’t really understand, but it didn’t bother Skye one bit to accommodate her. And there were certainly things that Jemma did to accommodate Skye, too. That was part of what made them such good friends – they were willing to take the time to figure out the best way to bend for each other and to give each other what they needed.

Maybe in a family like they had now, that wasn’t such an important thing, but back when it had just been the two of them trying to survive in the face of horrible foster homes and vicious kids and irascible, unrelenting nuns, that willingness to be patient, that willingness to bend for the other… that had been nothing short of life-saving, for both of them.

Clearly, Skye decided stoutly, Ophelia wasn’t nearly as smart as she thought she was. You’d have to be a real idiot to think Skye would ever turn her back on somebody as special as Jemma.

Chapter Text

7-year-old Skye had seen plenty of kids arrive at St. Agnes in pretty bad shape – kids who were achingly skinny from years of not having enough to eat, kids who bore the signs of quick-fisted parents, kids who wore their anger at the world like a badge of honor – but she had never seen someone look as pitiful as the little girl hunched in the doorway now did.

She was a white girl with straight brown hair that hung in limp curtains around her pinched face. Her shoulders were scrunched up almost to her ears, and her posture was so hunched Skye wondered for a moment if the girl had something wrong with her back. The girl’s eyes were red-rimmed, like she’d been doing a lot of crying the last few days, and she kept them glued to the floorboards. One arm was encased in a chunky white cast, which dangled at her side, and the other was twisted up towards the collar of her sweater, which her flighty fingers fidgeted with.

“Step inside please, Jemma, there’s a good girl,” said Sister Margaret crisply, steering the girl into the entrance hall. The girl, Jemma, flinched at Sister Margaret’s touch, but didn’t otherwise object to being shepherded into the room. “Home sweet home.”

A shuddery sound like a sob rattled out of the girl’s mouth, and Skye, who was spying from around the banister at the top of the stairs, felt bad for her. There was nothing sweet about calling St. Agnes home, and clearly the girl already knew that, despite having only just arrived.

Skye wondered what the girl’s story was and why she had come to live at St. Agnes. She wondered if the girl might want to be her friend. Skye had never had a friend at St. Agnes. The other girls her age liked to make fun of her because she looked different from them and because she didn’t know how to read. They made fun of her for another reason, too, but Skye didn’t want to think about that right now. The girl teetering back and forth in the hallway didn’t look like she was the type to make fun of other people. If Skye was being honest, she looked more like the type to get made fun of, not that Skye would ever do that. 

“You’ll be staying in dormitory A. That’s where the girls your age sleep. Meals are served at seven in the morning, noon, and five in the evening. Everyone has chores which he or she must complete daily. Mass is mandatory, as is confessional, but devotionals are optional. You’ll start school tomorrow morning after you and your social worker stop by your previous home to pick up your things.”

Skye rolled her eyes at the laundry list of instructions Sister Margaret was doling out. She had heard the speech a hundred times as each new child was brought into the orphanage.

“There will be absolutely no violence or theft, no swearing or cursing, no disrespecting of the adults, and no backtalk. God is always watching, and God knows when you sin. Remember that, Jemma.”

Skye winced at the familiar words. She had heard this speech a hundred times too, although this one had been directed at her personally on many an occasion. Settle down, Mary Sue, God likes for little girls to sit still. Fighting again, Mary Sue? How disappointed God must be. God knows what you did, Mary Sue, so you might as well tell us the truth. She always wondered why God would want to waste his time policing the behavior of a little kid. Surely God had better things to do than just sitting around being disappointed in her.

Skye wrinkled her nose and gave herself a shake to clear her thoughts. She had more interesting things to think about than God’s judgement of her. Things like the odd little girl still standing immobile in the hallway.

The girl hadn’t given any sign that she heard or understood Sister Margaret’s words. If it hadn’t been for her jumpy fingers or her darting eyes, Skye might have thought she was frozen solid.

“Jemma, it’s important that you look at your elders when they speak to you. That’s the polite thing to do,” Sister Margaret instructed. Jemma didn’t move, and Skye heard Sister Margaret click her tongue against her teeth in that way she did anytime she was irritated.

“Jemma, do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Jemma still did not budge, aside from her fingers, which plucked at her collar and drummed against her clavicle.

“Can you speak at all, you silly girl?” Sister Margaret hissed. She took Jemma’s chin in her bony fingers and tilted Jemma’s head upwards, forcing the girl to look up at her. Jemma made a strangled sort of sound and writhed away from Sister Margaret, recoiling at the touch, but Sister Margaret held her fast. Skye leaned forward, dangling herself around the banister to get a better look at what was transpiring below her.

Jemma’s face was blanched and full of fear – a look Skye had seen and, if she was being honest, worn before. Sister Margaret’s expression was sour, but she caught herself and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, the sharp edges had been smoothed out of her voice, but the exasperation was still lurking.

“It’s been a long day,” she said. Skye could tell she was trying to sound comforting, but Sister Margaret had never once struck Skye as a comforting woman. “I’m sure you’re tired. We’ll go over some of the other expectations for personal conduct tomorrow, how does that sound?”

Jemma didn’t say anything, nor did she make any move to indicate that she had registered Sister Margaret’s words.

“Heaven help me,” Sister Margaret muttered. “All right, let’s go upstairs, shall we?”

Skye scrambled to untangle herself from the banister and scurry down the hall before Sister Margaret could come up the stairs and see that she’d been eavesdropping, but she had stuck her arm too far between the spokes of the stair rail and now couldn’t get her elbow back out the way it had gone through. She squirmed and tugged, trying to unstick herself, and finally, after twisting her arm painfully, she was able to wrench herself free. Unfortunately, she had toppled backwards in the process, leaving her splayed out across the floor right in front of the sensible orthopedic shoes of Sister Margaret.

“Mary Sue, what on earth are you doing?”

Skye knew better than to answer that question. Sister Margaret never wanted an answer when she asked that. Usually, she knew exactly what Skye was doing when she asked that question, and she only said it to let Skye know that what she was doing was bad. Skye peered up at the stern woman and tried to look innocent.

“Nothing?”

“Nobody likes a snoop, Mary Sue. And it’s sinful to spy on others. You think about that next time we go see Father Alderson.”

“Yes, Sister,” Skye recited dutifully. She had no intention of mentioning her eavesdropping to the priest, mainly because she didn’t think there was anything wrong with wanting to hear what was going on.

“Mary Sue, why don’t you show Jemma to dormitory A?” Sister Margaret suggested as Skye clambered to her feet. “We were just on our way there, but I have several other things that need my attention this evening, so perhaps you could—”

“I’ll take her,” Skye said eagerly, forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to interrupt. That would give her the perfect opportunity to learn some more things about the new girl, including whether she was friend material, before the other girls had a chance to get in the way.

“Don’t interrupt, Mary Sue,” Sister Margaret scolded. “But thank you. Jemma, you go with Mary Sue, now. You’ll be in… well… ‘good hands’ is perhaps not the most apt phrase.” She trailed off for a moment, before remembering that there were two children standing expectantly in front of her. “Run along, girls. We don’t have all night. Evening meal is in under an hour.”

Skye reached out instinctively to take the new girl’s hand, but stopped herself short when she remembered how strongly Jemma had reacted when Sister Margaret had touched her. Maybe she didn’t like it when people put their hands on her. Skye had known a couple other kids who hadn’t liked that, either. It happened sometimes, especially after coming back from bad foster homes.

“Come on,” Skye said instead, beckoning for Jemma to follow her. “I’ll show you.”

Jemma followed stiffly behind, and Sister Margaret watched as they headed down the hallway before descending the stairs back towards her office. Skye wasn’t surprised that she didn’t want to linger – she could tell that Sister Margaret didn’t really know what to make of Jemma and that she had very little patience for the way Jemma was acting. Skye didn’t mind. Sister Margaret usually had very little patience for Skye, too, so maybe she and Jemma could have that in common. One of Skye’s old teachers – her nice kindergarten teacher, Miss Avery – had once told her that having things in common was a great place to start a friendship.

“I’m Skye,” Skye said, once they were shed of Sister Margaret’s prying eyes and keen ears. “I know Sister Margaret called me that other name, but I like to be called Skye better. What’s your name?”

Skye knew Jemma’s name, of course, but she was curious if she could coax it out of the timid girl. She also wanted to make sure there wasn’t a different name that she liked to be called instead. Jemma said nothing. Besides the shuffling of her feet down the hall and the steady drumming of her fingers, she made no sound at all. Undeterred, Skye tried a different tactic.

“I heard Sister Margaret call you Jemma. Is that your name?” Skye craned her neck to look over her shoulder at Jemma, and was thrilled to see that she nodded. It was a tiny nod, barely a twitch of the head, but Skye could tell it was a nod, nonetheless.

“It’s a good name,” Skye remarked as she pushed open the heavy door to the room where they would both now be sleeping. “Well, this is it.”

Skye held the door open for Jemma to enter behind her. The room held a row of eight beds, all lined up neatly and made up in the same scratchy beige blanket. An open wooden crate sat at the foot of each bed, holding its inhabitant’s clothes and what few personal effects they might have.

“All the beds are full except the one next to mine,” Skye said. “So I guess you’re supposed to sleep there. Do you have any stuff to put in your box?” Jemma didn’t answer, not even with a nod or a shake of the head, so Skye let the question go. “I don’t really have that much. We get clothes from the donation boxes at the church most of the time, and we wear uniforms for school. I have this cool rock I found in the garden at one of my last foster homes. It has these little spots on it that look like freckles. That’s my best thing that I have right now. I had a glow-in-the-dark sticker of a skeleton, but Sister Margaret took it away because it was a Halloween sticker, which is against the rules. I had a rainbow shoelace before, too, but I traded it with Nia J. at school for this special bubblegum she had that turns your mouth blue. She knows how to do her laces, so it made sense for her to have a shoelace instead of me.”

Skye clamped her mouth shut, realizing that she had just admitted to not knowing how to tie her shoes. When you were seven and in the second grade, you were supposed to know that kind of stuff, but Skye had never quite gotten the hang of all the loops and pulls, and she usually just stuffed the laces down into the inside of her shoe and hoped that no one would notice.

Jemma didn’t seem to mind, though, or at least, if she did, she gave no signal to Skye. She was still standing in the middle of the room like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

“I guess since you don’t have anything to put away right now, we could sit on the bed until it’s time for dinner,” Skye offered, flopping down onto her own bed. She tried hard not to wince at the sound of the plastic sheet crinkling under her weight. Nobody else in room A had to use the plastic sheet. She hoped Jemma hadn’t noticed. “Or we could go downstairs. That’s where everybody else is. Doing homework, probably. I haven’t done mine yet. I don’t like homework.”

Jemma paused for a moment, then sank slowly onto the edge of the bed next to Skye’s, perching gingerly near the foot. Her hand slipped slowly from the collar of her sweater down to the blanket she was now sitting on, and her fingers brushed against the fabric tentatively. After a minute or two, she guided her hand over to the metal bed frame and gave it a delicate touch before starting to tap rhythmically.

“Is that like a code or something?” Skye asked, curious. “I saw on TV one time where these guys were on a boat and they sent messages to each other with these little taps, like little blips and beeps.”

Jemma shook her head. She was staring hard at the floor, and Skye was a little surprised to see her eyes start to swim.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. I just thought the code was cool. I like the sound you’re making.” She smiled big then, to try and show Jemma that everything was okay. Jemma didn’t seem to relax any further, but she didn’t start crying and she didn’t stop tapping, so Skye took that as a good sign. “Can I do it too?” she asked.

After a long pause, Jemma nodded. Skye grinned. She reached over to her own bed frame and began drumming her fingers, pounding out a beat that was a little more chaotic than the one Jemma was making, but still complimentary.

“It feels nice,” Skye said, after she had tapped along for a few minutes. She wasn’t making that up, either. It was kind of fun to play around with the sounds, and she always loved having something to do with her hands. She got in trouble at school a lot (and with the nuns and at some old foster homes, too) because she was being distracting or messing with things she shouldn’t be messing with. It wasn’t her fault that sitting still was so boring it made her bones actually hurt with the effort of not moving, or that teachers didn’t have interesting things to say, or that Mass was eight zillion hours long and full of words that she didn’t understand. “I can see why you like to do it.”

Jemma looked up, surprised, and Skye could see her eyes full on for the first time. They were brown – not as dark as her own, but still a nice, trustworthy brown – and Skye could have sworn she saw some of the fear abate from them.

“What other kinds of stuff do you like to do?” Skye asked, trying to jumpstart a conversation that used more than just taps to communicate.

When Jemma didn’t say anything, Skye barreled ahead and answered the question herself. “I like to go on the swings at recess, and I like to put things together. Puzzles and Legos and stuff like that. This one foster home I stayed at; they had this huge box full of Legos. It belonged to the real kids, so I wasn’t really supposed to play with it, but sometimes I would sneak a turn. I built a whole spaceship with rocket blasters and laser cannons one time. It was really cool until my foster brother smashed it up. He was mad that I touched his stuff.”

Skye paused, remembering the way her foster brother had hurled her masterpiece at the ground, letting it shatter into a million colorful bricks. Her foster mother had gotten mad at her for the mess and had made her clean it up that night. Skye gave herself a shake and forced herself to return to the conversation at hand.

“The puzzles here are no fun, because they’re missing a bunch of pieces, but sometimes at school you can do puzzles if it’s inside recess,” she continued. “I think a bunch of kids here steal pieces and hide them because they want to be the one to put in the last piece, but then too many pieces get lost and the puzzle never gets put together.” Skye casually omitted the fact that she had herself pulled the “hide a piece so it can be last” trick, until she realized that would only mean the puzzle never got finished.

She glanced over at Jemma to see if she looked like she might start talking any time soon. Very little had changed about her demeanor, except that she was back to staring at the ground.

“Am I talking too much?” Skye asked bashfully. She could feel the tops of her ears getting hot the way they did when she was embarrassed. People told her all the time that she talked too much, that she needed to be more quiet. She didn’t mean to talk and talk and talk, but most of the time, other people weren’t saying anything interesting, so it was up to her to fill the airspace with worthwhile thoughts. “I’ll be quiet if you want me to. I’m sorry.”

Jemma peeked up through her bangs and gave a small shake of her head. Skye cocked her own head to one side, trying to figure out what Jemma meant.

“No, like I’m not talking too much? Or no like I am talking too much, and you want me to shut up?”

Jemma’s cheeks pinked slightly, and she held up a single, shy finger. Skye’s face broke into a beam.

“I’m not talking too much?”

Jemma shook her head.

“So you’re okay if I keep talking to you?”

Jemma nodded.

Skye’s heart soared. Nobody ever wanted Skye to keep talking to them, but Jemma seemed to be the first and only exception. Jemma acted different from most kids Skye had met, but it occurred to Skye that she didn’t get along all that well with most other kids, so maybe somebody who was different was exactly the kind of person Skye needed.

They fell into a rhythm between the two of them over the next several months. Jemma didn’t seem to mind Skye’s nearly incessant chatter in the slightest, and Skye loved having someone to talk to who seemed genuinely interested in listening to everything she had to say. Jemma didn’t ever say anything back – at least, not with her words. Skye still had yet to hear Jemma’s voice, but Jemma had other ways of telling Skye things. Skye was starting to understand what some of Jemma’s different taps meant, and Jemma was usually happy to nod or shake her head when Skye asked her questions. She had even started writing a few things down for Skye, although that didn’t work quite as well, since Skye still got a lot of her letters mixed up and had trouble reading the things Jemma wrote.

Sister Margaret and the other nuns didn’t really know what to do with Jemma, Skye could tell. Some of them, like Sister Beatrice, at least made an effort, and went out of their way to be gentler with Jemma than they might with some of the more rambunctious kids (like Skye herself), but others, like Sister Margaret, grew increasingly frustrated with Jemma’s silence.

Most of the other kids ignored Jemma. It was easy to overlook her; she was so quiet and unobtrusive most of the time.

The only times when she wasn’t were the times when she was upset. Those times she did things that drew attention, like tapping louder than usual, crying, or rocking back and forth in her chair. Skye wasn’t bothered when Jemma did those things – she had trouble sitting still in her chairs, too, and she understood that tapping was just the way that Jemma made herself feel better. Other kids weren’t quite so accommodating, however, and Skye had caught several of them making fun of Jemma, imitating her and laughing at the way she acted.

“Cut it out,” Skye warned when she noticed Michaela Dodson snickering behind her hand one day. Michaela was a year older and a head taller, but Skye wasn’t afraid of her. She didn’t like the way that Michaela acted like she was in charge all the time, just because she was in third grade and one of the oldest ones in their room. She especially didn’t like the hungry look Michaela got in her eyes any time Jemma was around or the way Jemma shrank whenever Michaela came into the room. Michaela was a bully, and Skye didn’t like bullies.

“Who’s going to make me?” Michaela challenged, turning her dangerous gaze on Skye. “You, runt?”

“I’m not a runt,” Skye said stubbornly. She drew herself up to her full height, which admittedly didn’t do much to lessen the size difference between them. “I’m going to start growing soon, and when I do, I’m going to be taller than you. I’m going to be the tallest one in the whole room.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Michaela laughed cruelly. “You’ll always be a shrimpy, little runt. Short and slow and stupid. It’s no wonder you were the one nobody wanted, Mary Sue.”

“That’s not my name,” Skye growled.

“Sorry, no wonder nobody wanted you, Skye,” Michaela sneered, drawing out the sounds in Skye much longer than they needed to be. “You could have picked any name in the world for yourself. I still can’t believe you picked something as stupid as Skye. That’s not even a real name.”

“It is so a real name!” Skye said hotly, her voice rising almost to a shout. “It’s real and it’s not stupid… You’re stupid.”

“Good comeback,” said Michaela, her words dripping with sarcasm. “With brains like that, I can see why the nuns want to hold you back.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is so. I heard them talking. They think you’re dumb and they know you can’t read, even though you pretend like you can. You have to read to pass kindergarten, so who knows how you even made it to the second grade.”

“I can read,” Skye said weakly. They both knew it was a lie. She couldn’t read. The letters got too mixed up and the sounds didn’t make any sense to her.

“I guess it makes sense that the two of you spend so much time together,” Michaela jeered, returning her attention back to Jemma, who was still cowering in the corner of the room. “Mary Sue can’t read, and you can’t talk. Two dumb peas in a pod. At least you don’t wet the—”

Skye lunged at Michaela and plowed the crown of her head right into the middle of Michaela’s stomach, knocking them both to the floor. She’d had enough of Michaela’s insults and teasing for one day, and that was the only thing she could think of to make her be quiet.

Michaela was much bigger, though, and it didn’t take long for Michaela to roll out from under Skye and flip her over, so that Skye was flat on her back on the floor with Michaela looming over her, ready to land a punch squarely in Skye’s face.

Skye twisted her head away at the last minute, so Michaela’s fist just grazed the side of her neck, hitting mainly on the hard wooden floor instead. Michaela howled in pain and frustration, and Skye heard a sharp intake of breath from over in the corner of the room. Jemma. At least Michaela wasn’t trying to beat up Jemma.

Taking advantage of Michaela’s momentary distraction, Skye wriggled free and scrambled backwards across the floor until her back ran into someone’s bed. Michaela was cradling her hand, but there was venom in her eyes as she bore down towards Skye. All Skye could think to do was to brace for impact and close her eyes, so she wouldn’t see the pain coming.

“What is going on here?” A stern voice rang out, echoing off of the bare walls. Skye opened her eyes in a flash and saw Sister Margaret standing in the doorway, her lips pursed and a scowl on her face.

“Mary Sue hit me,” Michaela said instantly, before Skye even had a chance to open her mouth. “She hit me, and when I tried to stop her from doing it again, I hurt my hand.” She held out her red-knuckled hand as proof of her cockamamie story, which Sister Margaret seemed to swallow hook-line-and-sinker, despite the fact that it was Skye who was cowering on the ground and Jemma who was wedged in the corner.

“The sin of wrath makes for unclean hearts, Mary Sue,” Sister Margaret said wearily, shaking her head. “You know the rules against fighting.”

“I wasn’t fighting!” Skye protested.

“Michaela’s injury suggests otherwise. You know we don’t harm other children.”

“She started it,” Skye tried to explain.

“Did Michaela strike you?”

“Well, no,” Skye said. “But she was…” Skye faltered. Saying that Michaela had been teasing them wouldn’t do any good. There was no way to prove it, and Skye already knew that Sister Margaret had far less patience for violence than she did for unkind words. Still, the indignation and injustice that Skye felt roaring up inside her chest wouldn’t let her stay silent. “She was making fun of us. She made fun of my name, and she was saying mean stuff, like about how I can’t read and how I… about the bed.” Skye’s face felt hot. She hated how easily Michaela could upset her with just a few small words.

“Well, can you read?” Sister Margaret asked pointedly. The warmth on Skye’s face spread to the back of her neck and to the tips of her ears.

“No, Sister.”

“And can you manage to keep your bedsheets dry through the night?”

“No, Sister.” Skye ducked her head as hot, sickly shame bubbled up in her throat.

“Well then, I don’t see how what Michaela might have said can be seen as ‘mean,’” Sister Margaret said waspishly. “It sounds as though she was simply stating the truth.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“You can add scrubbing the washroom floors to your chore list this week to atone for your violent outburst, Mary Sue.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Sister Margaret swept from the room then, apparently finished with the conversation. Michaela Dodson lingered only long enough to hiss a jeer of ‘baby’ Skye’s way before trailing out and down the hall. Skye knew she should stand up, but she couldn’t make her legs work. All she could do was pull her knees to her chest and tuck her quivering chin between them, trying hard not to cry.

Michaela was right. She was a baby. Kids her age were supposed to be able to read and tie their shoes and not wet the bed, and she couldn’t do any of those things. She couldn’t even stop herself from crying, which was the biggest, most babyish thing of all.

Something solid slid onto the floor next to Skye, leaning against her shoulder, and it took her a second to realize that it was Jemma. In the nearly four months that Skye had now known Jemma, this was the first time that Jemma had been the one to initiate a touch between them. She was okay with Skye touching her sometimes – Skye had figured out how to confirm that before she started taking Jemma’s hand or bumping her knee against Jemma’s under the table – but never before had Jemma made the first move.

Skye sagged a little into Jemma’s side, and she was struck by how naturally they seemed to fit together. It felt nice to have Jemma by her side. Jemma stretched out her hand – her tapping hand – and lighted it upon Skye’s knee, rapping a soft, soothing beat. Skye gave a watery smile and placed her own hand on top of Jemma’s, tapping out a reply on the back of Jemma’s hand.

“I like the name Skye,” Jemma said quietly.

Skye felt like she had just been hit over the head with a frying pan, and she had to force herself not to gape. Jemma’s voice was willowy and breathy, a little raspy from underuse. She had an accent, too, which Skye hadn’t been expecting. Jemma sounded like somebody from Harry Potter.

“The sky is a beautiful thing. There are all sorts of things up there. Planets and comets and galaxies and billions of stars. I love the stars. I know all their names.”

“I like the stars, too,” Skye heard herself saying. She turned slightly so she could see Jemma’s face better. Jemma’s eyes were full of more life than Skye had ever seen, and there was the faintest trace of a smile dancing across her lips. Skye got the funny sense that she was finally meeting the real Jemma for the first time. “I didn’t know they had names. Maybe you could teach me sometime.”

“That would be good,” Jemma murmured, leaning back against the bed and tucking her head onto Skye’s shoulder. A soft, contented sigh floated out of her and into the air around them, wrapping them up in a warm embrace of closeness, of understanding, of kinship.

Something felt funny in Skye’s chest as they sat there in the dwindling evening light – something like fullness and anchored-ness and happiness all rolled into one. She didn’t have a name for it, but whatever it was, it was because of Jemma, and Skye promised herself she would do whatever it took to never lose that feeling for as long as she lived.

Chapter Text

“Can you believe we’re actually going to use my design for competition?” Fitz asked, practically bouncing as he, Trip, Jemma, and Skye all walked out of school that afternoon. “Well, I mean, it was a group effort, of course, but a lot of the ideas were ones that I suggested.”

“Yeah, man, it’s awesome,” Trip smiled, holding up a fist for Fitz to bump. Fitz fumbled the congratulations slightly, trying first to high-five Trip’s fist, then making things worse as he seemed to panic and wrapped his hand around Trip’s fist instead of just giving up on the gesture while he still had a shred of dignity. Skye snorted.

“So close, Fitz,” she teased gently.

“Hey, you don’t know,” said Trip with a laugh. “This could just be part of me and Fitz’s secret handshake.” As if to emphasize his point, he reached out and wrapped his own hand around Fitz’s fist, then started to break into a complicated series of gestures and hand signs that looked like something a baseball player would use to signal whether or not he was stealing home plate.

“You guys are such dorks,” Skye smirked.

“Come on, girl, you’re just jealous ‘cause you and I don’t have a secret handshake made yet,” said Trip with a mischievous grin.

“Yeah, that’s definitely it,” laughed Skye.

“Seriously, though, Fitz, it really is cool that the design you worked on is the one that won the vote today,” Trip said. “It’s complicated, though. Definitely going to be a challenge to build.”

“We can do it,” Fitz said confidently. “History’s best innovations rose from challenge, and with the brainpower we have on our team, there’s no way we can’t pull it off.”

“Yeah, maybe if all the brains were actually allowed to help work on it,” grumbled Skye. She glanced over at Jemma, who looked a little embarrassed, but didn’t say anything.

“What do you mean?” Fitz asked, looking back and forth between both girls, confused.

“Ophelia stuck Jemma on inventory sorting today instead of letting her help you guys out,” Skye told him.

“Oh, is that all?” Fitz looked relieved, much to Skye’s confusion. “I thought you were trying to say that someone was trying to sabotage the team or something. Inventory’s useful, and I’m sure Ophelia had her reasons. Just come find me next time, Jemma, and we can work together. I’ve actually been meaning to ask you about the suction tube – I think some of my calculations might be off for the amount of vacuum force needed…”

“Fitz,” Skye said slowly. “Didn’t you hear me? Ophelia wouldn’t let her work on the design today. She made Jemma go sort out nuts and bolts instead.”

“Did she say Jemma wasn’t allowed to work on the design?” Fitz asked.

“Well, no… She just said it would be more helpful for Jemma to do the inventory stuff.”

“I don’t see what’s so bad about that,” Fitz shook his head. “Maybe that was the most helpful thing for today. It’s not like Jemma can’t help the design team next time.”

“You’re missing the point,” Skye said, trying to swallow back the frustration that had first unfurled at lunchtime earlier that day. She didn’t know how to make Fitz understand what Ophelia was doing, especially without divulging the conversation she and Ophelia had shared. She didn’t want to repeat the things Ophelia had said, not in front of Jemma. There was no reason why Jemma should have to hear someone else’s unkind words about her.

“Skye, it’s fine, really,” Jemma finally spoke up. She placed a placating finger on Skye’s wrist and tapped. “I… I like sorting things, and I want to be helpful, so it’s all right.”

“Nothing to get bent out of shape about,” Fitz said cheerily. Skye didn’t share his sentiment, but she let the matter go, for Jemma’s sake more than anything. Skye knew she didn’t like it when they argued.

“You just have to stand up for yourself a little bit more,” Trip encouraged her, giving Jemma a smile and a nudge with his shoulder. “We all know you’ve got lots of good ideas in your big brain, so don’t be afraid to share them. We’ll back you up.”

“Always,” agreed Fitz.

Jemma gave them both a small smile and nodded, although Skye noticed she was looking mostly at the ground as she did. She didn’t push the matter, though, and soon they were all saying goodbye, Trip heading off to football practice, Fitz going to meet Hunter in the student parking lot, and her and Jemma going back inside to find Phil and Bobbi.

Maybe Fitz was right, and she was making an issue out of something that wasn’t actually a big deal, but Skye couldn’t shake the feeling that she was right about Ophelia and it was Fitz who didn’t know what he was talking about. Still, if Jemma wanted her to drop it, then that’s what Skye would have to do. For now, at least.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. There were attempts made at homework while Phil worked on dinner, and three rounds of Candyland, all of which Deke somehow managed to win.

“I don’t get it,” Skye said with an incredulous shake of the head. “There’s, like, zero skill required in this game. How is it possible that you get to skip ahead to the Lollipop Woods or the Ice Cream Sea every time, while I always manage to get stuck on the licorice guy?”

“Lord Licorice,” Deke said solemnly. “He’s bad news.”

“Not as bad as the Molasses Swamp,” Bobbi said, shuffling the cards back into a deck. “I got stuck there twice.”

“We should play something that doesn’t depend quite so much on chance and luck next time,” suggested Jemma. “Something with more strategy.”

“So I can swap from losing to Deke to losing to you?” Skye teased. Jemma smiled, more of a real smile than Skye had seen from her all day.

“You’ve managed to outsmart me plenty of times.”

“Yeah, and the moon is made of cheese,” Skye laughed.

Jemma frowned. “The moon is made of rock, Skye. Well, the core is metallic, and the mantle is mostly mineral, but the surface is covered by a rock layer – the lunar regolith. Dairy is definitely not a factor. It’s completely impossible for any type of celestial body to be made of cheese.”

“I’m just messing with you,” Skye assured her. “You’ve never heard that old story about the moon being made of cheese?”

“No,” Jemma frowned. “Why would anyone ever think that?”

“I’m guessing it was some old folk tale that somebody made up because a full, yellow moon kind of looks like a wheel of cheese,” Bobbi mused. Her mouth curled into a playful smile, then, and she threw out another idea. “Either that, or it was a story made up by the dairy industry to get more people to buy cheese.”

“I wish the moon really was made out of cheese,” Deke sighed. “Or ice cream. Then I could go up to space and take a huge bite of it, and then every time somebody looked at the moon, they’d see where I chomped it. I’d be famous and people could call me Deke the Moon Chomper.”

“I think you’ll have to let your grown-up teeth grow in more before you can go chomping on any moons,” teased Skye.

“I showed Robin my letter from the Tooth Fairy at school today,” Deke said, the mention of his missing teeth suddenly reminding him of his excitement from that morning. “She thought it was really cool, and she drew me this awesome picture of the fairy world with all the tooth buildings and the toothpaste plants and everything. And then at Centers Time I got to use toothpicks and marshmallows to make shapes, and I built a whole bridge out of them, just like the tooth bridges from my letter, and Robin made a little person out of them and guess what?”

“What?”

“Robin’s person could actually go on my bridge!” Deke exclaimed. “My bridge didn’t fall over. It was strong enough to hold Robin’s marshmallow person. Mr. Coltrane said it was ‘most impressive.’”

“That’s really cool, Deke,” smiled Bobbi.

“Maybe you could show us what it looked like sometime,” said Jemma. “I’m sure Phil and May would let you use toothpicks and marshmallows here. We can ask after dinner, if you want.”

To no one’s surprise, May and Phil were more than happy to let Deke show off his confectionary engineering skills after the supper dishes were cleared and loaded into the dishwasher.

“Maybe you can work on the coffee table back in the den,” Phil suggested. “That way no marshmallows end up stuck in the carpet.”

“I can get you a placemat, too, if you want,” added May. “I just have to go grab the laundry out of the dryer first.”

“I’ll get the laundry,” Bobbi said as she stood up from the table.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Bobbi smiled. “I like the smell. And I want to check on my soccer socks, anyway. See if the grass stains came out of them or not.”

“Well, thank you,” May told her, sinking back into her own chair. Skye couldn’t be sure, but she thought May looked a little more tired than usual. At any rate, she seemed plenty happy that Bobbi was taking care of the laundry.

Bobbi disappeared to check the dryer, and Deke and Jemma headed out of the kitchen, too, armed with enough marshmallows and toothpicks to build about a hundred bridges. Skye was right behind them when Phil called out to her.

“Actually, Skye, could you stay for a minute? Melinda and I were hoping to talk with you about something.”

Curious, Skye circled back and retook her seat. She wondered for a minute if May had found something to share with her about her mother’s grave, but when she saw the heavy, serious looks on May and Phil’s faces – that tiredness she had thought she detected earlier now very apparent – something slimy snaked around Skye’s ribs and squeezed her tight. Obviously whatever they wanted to talk about, it wasn’t good.

“What’s going on?”

“We got a call from one of your teachers this afternoon,” Phil began carefully.

Immediately, Skye pictured her flunked science quiz, still sitting crumpled at the bottom of her backpack, along with all her other lousy quizzes and homework. She winced. She hadn’t really figured out how she was going to avoid telling May and Phil about her grade, but it seemed like now there was no way around it.

“I know, I was going to tell you guys, I just hadn’t…” She trailed off, not really wanting to lie straight to their faces. She sighed. “Mr. Hall has this thing where if you get a bad grade on your quiz, you have to get it signed by a parent—”

“Mr. Hall?” Phil blinked, confused. “Mrs. Schneider, your math teacher, was the one who called us. What’s going on with Mr. Hall?”

Skye felt like she had just swallowed a bowling ball. “What?”

“Mrs. Schneider called to let us know that you haven’t turned in your last three math assignments, and she was wondering if everything was okay with you,” May explained, her serious face unchanging as she spoke. Skye slunk down in her seat a little under May’s stern gaze. “Which is what we wanted to talk to you about. But now it sounds like we have more to talk about than just that.”

“What’s going on, Skye?” Phil asked. “Why aren’t you turning in your homework? And why is this the first time we’re hearing about any science quizzes?”

“I…” Skye stammered, casting around for some kind of satisfactory answer. “I just…”

Without really thinking about what she was doing, she began to rap her knuckles against her wrist – right on the bony part where it still twinged sometimes from her broken arm last year. Each little jolt of pain felt like an anchor as the rest of her felt like it was about to go spinning off into the stratosphere in a tornado of half-hearted excuses and emotional outbursts.

“Skye,” May said quietly. “Can you open your hand, please?” She reached out her own hand and laid it out on the tabletop, palm up, waiting to receive Skye’s bunched fist.

“Sorry.”

Sheepishly, Skye forced herself to stop. She uncurled her fingers and rested her hand in May’s. May squeezed, and Skye felt her breath hitch somewhere in her chest with sudden shame – not just about her inability to let go of the knuckle thing, but about her bad grades, her impulse to hide and lie and cover up her mistakes.

“It’s okay,” May told her, still squeezing. “We’re not mad. Not about any of it. You’re not in trouble, but we do need to talk about what’s going on.”

“Is there a reason why you stopped turning in your math homework?” Phil asked.

Skye shrugged one shoulder listlessly and stared hard at the tabletop. “I… I couldn’t do it. And I didn’t want to get a bad grade on it, so I just… didn’t turn it in.”

“Skye, you know that even something not finished or something with mistakes is better than nothing at all,” Phil said. “We’ve talked about this. Fifty percent is still better than zero. The important thing is to try, not to do something perfectly.”

“I know,” Skye said quietly. “I know. I just couldn’t… I didn’t want Mrs. Schneider to see how dumb I am—”

“You are not dumb.”

“—or for you guys to be disappointed in me,” she continued, still looking only at the scratched wood of the kitchen table. “That’s why I didn’t tell you about the science quizzes, either. I… I didn’t want to let you down.”

“You aren’t letting us down,” Phil said gently. “You’ll never let us down, so long as you try. And maybe we’re a little disappointed, but not about your grades. Mostly we’re disappointed that you didn’t tell us you needed help. That’s what we’re here for, Skye. When things are hard, you have to tell us. We can’t help make things easier if we don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry,” Skye apologized, her voice small and her shoulders practically collapsing under the weight of knowing that, despite what Phil might be saying, she really had let them down. Even if they weren’t mad about the bad grades, she still wasn’t doing what they wanted. She still wasn’t being who they wanted.

She pulled her hand away from May’s and tucked both hands under the table, out of sight. She knew she wasn’t supposed to rap on her wrist, so she settled for pressing her knuckles into her knees as hard as she could, trying to let the discomfort ground her and distract her from the overwhelming desire to bolt from the table and run as far away as she could.

“I’m sorry I’m such a screwup, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, and—”

“Hey,” May interrupted her, in a tone that was equally as firm as it was kind. “You are not a screwup. Nobody is allowed to talk about my daughter like that, understand?”

“Sorry.”

“How about we ban the word ‘sorry’ for a minute?” Phil said, and Skye could hear the smile in his voice before she looked up to see it on his face. “We know you’re sorry; you don’t need to say it anymore. And we want you to know that everything really is okay. You don’t need to apologize.”

“Sor— Okay.”

“Are there particular things that are giving you a hard time with school right now?” Phil wanted to know. “We can work together to try and figure out some ways to make things easier if we know what we need to work on.”

“I don’t know,” Skye admitted. She thought for a minute, trying to figure out how to explain. When she finally spoke, she didn’t quite manage to mask the flicker of frustration that licked up inside of her chest – frustration at herself, at her situation, at the fact that, much like her schoolwork and her general emotional implosion the past few months, putting any of it into words seemed like an exercise in futility. “Everything’s just hard. Everything takes so much work, and it never turns out as good as I want it to. I know my reading is better, but it still takes so much effort to get through things, and I’m still so much slower than everyone else. And all my classes are harder than last year, and I just can’t make myself remember all the new stuff all the time. And, I don’t know, it’s hard to explain, but it’s like… when everything is so hard all the time, I just get so tired, and it… it makes me want to give up. Like sometimes it just feels like it’s not worth fighting all the time, especially when I know I’m still going to mess up or get lousy grades anyway.”

“Tell you what,” Phil said, “tomorrow, why don’t I have a talk with Mr. Randolph and see if we can’t get auditory testing added back onto your IEP. I know that helped you a lot last year, right?”

“Yeah. But I thought Mr. Randolph said I didn’t need it anymore.”

“He said we would try it. And we have tried it, and it seems like maybe that’s still something that would be helpful for you. One less hard thing to have to fight through, right?”

“I guess so,” Skye agreed hesitantly. The idea of going back to her old accommodation felt like a massive weight crashing off her shoulders, but it seemed like there was more to what Phil had to say.

“I can’t promise that anything will change right away,” Phil cautioned. “Mr. Randolph might not agree with me, but as your parent and as a teacher, I’ll do my best to try and get that added back for you. Another thing I think we could do is for us to maybe go back to you doing your homework at the table, instead of in your room. That way it would be easier to ask for help if you got stuck on something, and then one of us could check it when you finished.”

Skye liked the sound of that less. She had appreciated the extra privacy that doing her homework alone in her room had afforded, but she had to admit that Phil’s point was well-made. Working alone in her room made it easier to give up when things got hard, easier to get distracted, easier to avoid starting assignments that she knew would be hard and easier to hide the fact that, even when she could make herself start, it was equally hard to work on them to completion.

“I know we said we’d try you doing your homework alone this year, but it seems like that hasn’t really been working,” May said, correctly interpreting Skye’s drooping expression. “Phil and I talked, and moving back to the table was something we both agreed might help for now.”

“You can still work on some things alone sometimes,” Phil added, “and you can still use your computer for your video calls with Natasha, but we think for now it’ll help for you to have a little bit more structure and supervision, and a little less distraction.”

“Fine.”

“This isn’t meant to be a punishment, Skye,” May said. “I hope you know that. We’re just trying to come up with some changes we can make that might help you.”

“You know, it might also be a good idea to bring some of this up with Dr. Garner the next time we see him,” said Phil. “Part of your therapy and medication is supposed to help with some of this stuff – making the school stuff and the focusing not feel like such a battle all the time. Maybe we can talk about changing your medication, or maybe he has some suggestions that might help, too.”

“Okay.”

“Skye,” May said slowly, after the silence at the table had drawn on just a beat too long. “Is there… Is there anything else that maybe you want to talk about? With us, or Dr. Garner?”

“No,” Skye said automatically. She cringed internally at the instinct and forced herself to course correct. “What do you mean?”

May looked a little uncomfortable, and when she spoke, it was obvious that she was choosing her words carefully.

“When you were telling us about school, you said everything feels hard all time and it makes you want to give up. I’m wondering if you were just talking about school, or if there’s something else that’s bothering you. Something that makes you feel like things are too difficult or feel like you’d rather… give up than try.”

“No, I’m…” Skye stopped herself as the autopilot words already began flying out of her mouth.

Something gave her pause. Maybe it was the serious look in May’s eyes – not pity, like Skye had feared, and not disappointment, either, just serious. Like she really wanted to know, no matter what. Maybe it was what Phil had said, about how he wanted her to ask for help, because that was what he was there for. Maybe it was all the things she and Jemma had talked about the other night, about how broken and afraid she really felt deep down, and how Jemma thought the best way to fix broken things was to repair them together.

She took a deep breath, chewed on her lip, pressed her knuckles harder into her knees. Phil and May waited, no urgency or expectation on either of their faces. Skye swallowed hard and tried again.

“Well, I guess,” she started hesitantly, “maybe there’s some things that are… that I feel like I should tell you.”

She was about to continue, clumsy as her words might be, when the sound of an alarming thud followed immediately by a strangled yelp came from upstairs. In an instant, May and Phil’s eyes whipped over the kitchen doorway, and they were both on their feet.

“What in the world—”

Thundering footsteps pounded down the stairs, and soon Bobbi was standing there, wide eyed and looking thoroughly wigged-out.

“Um, there’s a… situation… in Deke’s room.”

“Is anybody hurt?” May asked, already halfway to the stairs. Phil was right on her heels.

“No, no,” Bobbi said quickly. “Nothing like that. It’s…” She shuddered a little, piquing Skye’s curiosity even higher than before. “You’re probably going to want to bring some bug spray.”

They all followed Bobbi up to Deke’s room, and Bobbi explained a little bit as she led the way.

“I was taking some of Deke’s clothes up from the laundry, and I went to open the draw to put them away, and found…”

She pushed open the door, and Skye took stock of the scattered pile of t-shirts and socks that Bobbi must have dropped when she got startled by whatever was in Deke’s drawer. This must have been whatever it was that he was so desperate to keep hidden the other night.

“It kind of surprised me, and I tripped over the rug—”

“That explains the thud,” Phil said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, it didn’t hurt,” Bobbi assured him. She pointed to Deke’s top drawer, now pulled half-open. “Anyway, see for yourself.”

They all leaned over, but only for the briefest moment, because as soon as they each saw what was in the drawer, all three of them recoiled almost immediately.

“Oh my god…”

The entire inside of Deke’s drawer was swarming with ants. Little black ants, hundreds of them, all crawling around, marching in swirling patterns, feasting, no doubt, on the assortment of old food that was also sitting in the drawer. Half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a slightly mushy-looking orange, little packs of crackers and fruit snacks, a handful of Oreo cookies, and, worst of all in Skye’s opinion, what looked like some string cheese that was definitely not a normal string cheese color anymore. The smell was unholy.

“I’ll get the garbage can,” May said.

“I’ll get the bug spray,” agreed Phil. “And maybe you two can go grab Deke? I think we need to talk with him.”

It didn’t take too long to clean out all the nasty old food from Deke’s drawer, especially once he had joined them to help. The ants were a little more complicated.

Much to Jemma’s dismay, there were so many of them that Phil had to spray them with bug killer, rather than the catch-and-release method she suggested. He and May tried to wipe most of the now-dead ants out into the trashcan, but there were a lot of them, and it wasn’t exactly easy to clean them all out from the corners of Deke’s drawer.

“I think that’s probably as good as we can get for now,” Phil said, tossing a crumpled paper towel into the trashcan. “Hopefully without any more food to entice them, the ones we missed will just move along somewhere else.”

“There isn’t any more food, right, Deke?” May checked. “Not in any other hiding places?”

Deke shook his head, compunctious. “That’s all.”

“We should leave the drawer open for tonight, let it air out,” Phil said.

“Deke, you told us there wasn’t anything alive in your drawer,” Skye told him.

“I didn’t know the ants were in there,” he said, defending himself with something almost like a pout.

“What about the mold? You didn’t think that counted as alive?”

Deke’s eyes went wide and his jaw slacked. “Mold is alive?”

That sent Jemma into a biology spin, and as she began telling Deke probably way more than he had ever wanted to know about mold’s place in the fungus family and different types of spore dispersal methods, his eyes got wider and wider. Skye had to cough loudly to keep herself from bursting into laughter at the sight of his wonder about the miracle of mold life, and from the ridiculousness of the whole situation in front of them. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Bobbi biting down hard on her lip, also fighting laughter. Unfortunately, they made eye contact, and soon they couldn’t help themselves, both starting to crack up. It didn’t take long for Phil and May to lose it, too, and soon all of them were laughing.

“I didn’t know!” Deke protested, pouting for real now.

“We’re not laughing at you, buddy,” promised Phil. “We’re just laughing about this whole thing. We weren’t expecting to have to exterminate an ant colony tonight, that’s all.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, love, you’re not in trouble,” May assured him. “But it’s probably a good idea to not keep any more food in your room, okay? We have plenty of food in the kitchen, that you can eat whenever you’re hungry. You don’t need to save anything or hide it away.”

“Is there a reason why you kept this stuff up here?” Phil asked. “Were you going to do something with it? Were you worried about having enough to eat?”

“I don’t know,” Deke shrugged. “Sometimes food gets taken away or something, or sometimes people forget to give you any food for a little while, so it’s good to save some up for later, just in case.”

Skye more than understood where Deke was coming from, and his answer didn’t really surprise her. She had learned the same lesson when she was about his age – that if you wanted any kind of guarantee about something, even something as basic about knowing you’d have enough to eat, the only person you could count on for that guarantee was yourself. Luckily for Skye, she had been able to start unlearning that now that she was here with Phil and May, but Deke clearly hadn’t been able to fully let his guard down yet.

“Is that something that’s happened to you before? People taking away your food or forgetting to give you something to eat?” May asked. Her voice stayed relatively steady, but Skye knew May’s little mannerisms well enough now to know that there was some sadness lurking in the question.

“Yeah, at this one house I stayed at. And with my Nana sometimes,” Deke said matter-of-factly. “She just forgets stuff like that sometimes, but she doesn’t mean to. So you have to eat a lot when there is food and save some for when there isn’t any later, just in case.”

“Deke, we promise we will always have plenty of food here for you – for all of us,” Phil said. “And we’re not going to forget to give you food or take it away from you. Getting enough to eat is really important for everybody, especially for healthy, growing kids. And we want you to grow up big and strong, right?”

“Like Iron Man,” Deke agreed, flashing a toothless grin. Then, catching Phil’s eye, he made a slight amendment. “Or Captain America.”

“Attaboy,” smiled Phil.

Skye had thought, with all the commotion with the ants in Deke’s room, that her earlier conversation with May and Phil had been forgotten. She should have known better, of course, and she shouldn’t have been surprised when they both came into her bedroom before bed that night. It was a little early for the normal lights-out check-in that they did every night, especially since Jemma was still in the shower, and it was unusual for them both to come in together, but Skye suspected they had done both of those things on purpose.

“I’m sorry you got interrupted earlier tonight,” May said, sitting next to Phil on the edge of Jemma’s bed so they could both look at Skye, who was sitting cross-legged on her own. “It sounded like you had something important to tell us, and we didn’t get a chance to listen.”

“It’s fine,” Skye told them. She wished she had something to do with her hands, but she had no computer parts to tinker with anymore, and she felt bad picking at the loose thread on her quilt too much. “It wasn’t really that important.”

“Are you sure?” Phil studied her carefully. “Because whatever it was, we’d really like to hear about it.”

“I guess I just…” Skye tried to start, she really did, but the confidence that had emboldened her earlier in the evening seemed to have been scooped out of her soul the same way the ants had been scooped out of Deke’s drawer. Instead of the truth, shield words found their way out of her mouth, deflection words. Words that were easier to say than what had really been on the tip of her tongue earlier that night. “I just wanted to apologize again, I guess. I know it’s not easy having somebody like me around. Somebody who can’t do anything right most of the time. And I… I want to say thanks. For putting up with me, even when I’m flunking math or I do dumb stuff like hide my science quizzes from you.”

“It’s definitely not ‘putting up with you.’ We are so lucky to have somebody like you in our lives,” Phil said softly. “Somebody who is kind and smart and funny. Somebody who tries hard even when things are difficult – especially when things are difficult. I know it’s frustrating when things don’t come as easily to you as other people, but I hope you know that sort of thing doesn’t matter to us. We love you so much, no matter what you get on your report card.”

“There’s nothing wrong with going at your own pace, or making mistakes, or even making decisions that, in hindsight, maybe weren’t the best choices to make,” smiled May. “We’re all still learning, after all.”

“We know sometimes it can be really hard to not give up on things,” continued Phil. “We know that. And we just wanted to tell you how much we love you, and how proud we are of you. We see how hard you’re working, and we see you fighting and not giving up. That makes us more proud than anything.”

She wanted to tell them. She wanted to tell them so badly it made her chest ache and her throat narrow, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t tell them about how much everything had been crushing her, not now, not when they were sitting here telling her they were proud of her for fighting, for not giving up, even though that’s exactly what she felt like doing every time she spent the night awake, or left a trail of half-opened doors behind her, or kept on telling herself that there was no way she’d ever get unstuck from all the bad things that clogged up her brain.

“Skye? Are you okay, sweetheart?”

She realized she’d been sitting there, lost in her own thoughts and leaving the room awkwardly silent. She also realized that her eyes were burning, and she blinked hard, trying to clear the gathering tears away before they could spill.

“Skye, love, what’s wrong?”

“You shouldn’t be proud of me,” she finally said, her voice cracking as she wrestled the words out of her mouth. She swallowed hard and sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, trying to force herself back under control. She didn’t have much success. “Just… Stop saying that. I’m not…”

The lump in her throat grew too large to speak around, and she ducked her head and brought a fist to her eyes, brusquely trying to grind the tears away. There was a sudden weight on either side of her as May and Phil both came sit on the bed with her, and soon there was a hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

“It’s okay, baby, shh. It’s okay.”

For some reason, the soft words and gentle touch were more overwhelming than anything else that had happened that night, and it was like a dam had burst inside Skye’s chest. She crumpled, burying her face in her hands as a fresh wave of tears crashed over her, making her breaths jerk out of her lungs in gaspy, half sobs.

Nobody said anything while she cried, just letting her sit there while one hand – May’s, she could feel it now – kept tracing the same circles across her back and another – Phil’s, bigger and heavier – squeezed her knee. Eventually, though, once Skye had cried herself out somewhat, Phil’s voice broke the silence.

“Do you think you could talk to us, sweetheart? What’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”

Skye kept her face hidden inside her hands, unable to look at either one of them as she finally found the words to tell them the horrible truth she’d been hiding from them for months.

“I think there’s something really wrong with me. I just feel really messed up all the time, even though I’m supposed to be better. I can’t… I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep trying. I know I’m supposed to, and I know you want me to, and I’m trying and I’m trying to be better and I just can’t. It’s killing me. I don’t even feel like a person anymore, just some hollowed out corn husk that keeps getting blown around from bad thing to bad thing. And I’m just so tired, and I don’t know how to try anymore, so you can’t say you’re proud of me for not giving up, because I’m not fighting anymore, and I’m not trying anymore, and I can’t… I can’t…”

She had started crying again, new tears smothering any of the words she had left. It was odd, but finally admitting fully to that deep, gnarled knot of insidious gunk that choked up her heart had an almost split kind of effect. Half of her felt so, so ashamed for feeling that way, and for admitting it to someone out loud, but the other half felt so, so relieved that it was finally out in the open, finally cut out of her chest like the parasitic vine that it was.

“You know, Skye,” Phil began slowly, “we talk a lot about how important it is to try in this house. And it is important. But it’s not really the whole story. We say it’s important to try because we don’t want you – you or anyone in our family – to give up on themselves or convince themselves that they can’t do something before they’ve ever even given it a shot. But it’s not really fair to ask someone to keep trying something over and over again when it’s not working. That’s not the kind of trying that helps someone learn or grow, that’s the kind of trying that wears you out and makes you feel like things aren’t worth the effort.”

“It wasn’t fair of us to keep pushing you,” he continued. “Not when that wasn’t really helping you. Trying until you break doesn’t do anyone any good, and I’m so sorry that we didn’t make that clear sooner than now. Sometimes the most important thing you can do isn’t to try, but to know when it’s better to stop trying and give yourself a break.”

“We tell you kids that we don’t want you to give up, and that’s true,” May said then. “We don’t want you to give up on yourselves. But there are situations where it’s okay to walk away. It’s okay to sometimes say that something isn’t working, and it might not ever work, and that the best thing to do is to just leave it there and know that it’s okay. Failure is a part of life, and sometimes, even when we try our hardest, failure still finds us. We learn from it and we make peace with it, and we move on. We don’t have to drag every broken thing along with us just because we’re afraid to admit that trying didn’t work.”

“Skye, we are so sorry for putting this kind of pressure on you,” said Phil. “We’re so sorry we made you feel like this, and that we made you feel like you couldn’t talk to us about it.”

“I just feel so bad,” she whispered. “I feel bad about all the stuff that’s bothering me, and then I feel bad about hiding it, and I feel bad about not being able to just feel good. I don’t know why it has to be so hard.”

“I wish we had a good answer for you about that,” May said softly. She had switched from the circles on Skye’s back to wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and Skye leaned into her side, nestling into the safe, warm crook of her arm. “I wish we could tell you why feeling good is something that doesn’t just come easily to some people. And I wish we could just snap our fingers and make all the bad feelings go away. We would do in a heartbeat if we could.”

“I know.”

“I hope you know this, too,” May continued, pulling Skye in closer, hugging her tight. Like she was shielding her, protecting her from the whole, storming world around them. “You are not the only person who has ever felt like that. Not by a long shot. There are plenty of people who have struggled with feeling the way you’re feeling now. Which means that you’re not alone. Not just because you have all of us in your corner, but because there are other people out there who are going through the same thing. I also hope you know that feeling like this isn’t forever, and it isn’t your fault. There’s nothing you’ve done wrong or anything that’s wrong about you that’s making this happen.”

“And most importantly,” Phil said, as he encased Skye in his own hug from the other side, completing the circle around her, “we hope you know that we love you. So, so much. No matter how you’re feeling, no matter what things are hard for you, no matter what. We love you and we want to help you make things better.”

“I know,” Skye murmured into their shirts. “I love you guys, too.”

“And we’re so proud of you,” May said. “I know you said not to say that anymore, but it’s still true. Probably even more true now. We’re proud of you for having the courage to tell us something that was probably really scary to say out loud.”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Skye said. “And I didn’t want you to think I was… that I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. But I’m glad I told you. Jemma said I should, and she was right. It felt… good.”

“I’m so glad,” said Phil, a smile in his voice. “That’s all we ever want. If talking to us helps, we’ll always be here to listen. And I think, maybe, that talking to Dr. Garner might help you a lot, too. Maybe even more than us, since it’s part of his job to help you with all those hard feelings.

“Yeah,” agreed Skye. “Jemma and I kind of made a deal already. I was going to talk to Dr. Garner about everything that’s been going on with me, and she’s going to talk to him about the knocking thing.”

“Knocking thing?”

Skye froze, suddenly wishing she could go back about three seconds in time and slap a piece of duct tape over her past-self’s mouth. She hadn’t meant to tell Jemma’s secret like that.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered, the tips of her ears growing warm. “Jemma was going to talk to you guys about it. She’s… you know how she’s been doing that knocking thing for a while now? On the car and before bed and stuff?”

“I’d noticed it at the car, but I didn’t know she did it other times,” Phil said. “I sort of assumed that was just something normal for her, like tapping, that we just didn’t know about before. Is it… not normal for her?”

“Not really,” Skye admitted. “We talked about it a little. She only started doing it after… you know, everything from last year. I guess she feels like she has to do it or something? Like she couldn’t help it. I don’t know, it didn’t really make sense when she was trying to explain it to me. She said it kept us safe.”

“We’ll check in with her,” May promised. “We’ll make sure she knows she’s safe. And we won’t tell her you tipped us off.”

May smiled a little at that, a soft tease. Skye was surprised that she was able to smile back.

“Thanks.”

“We’ll let you finish getting ready for bed,” Phil said. He and May both gave her one final squeeze before getting off the bed and heading for the door. “Thanks for telling us, Skye. We love you, kiddo.”

“Love you, too. Sorry tonight got kind of crazy,” Skye said, laughing a little. “Deke’s ant problem, my meltdown, Jemma’s new thing.”

“Three for four, not bad,” joked Phil.

“Don’t tempt fate,” May chided. She gave Phil a loving little swat on the arm. “The night is young.”

“I doubt Bobbi will have any big revelations tonight,” Skye said, failing to mask the grumble that lurked in her voice. “She barely talks to us anymore anyway.”

“Bobbi’s got a lot going on,” May said. “She’s busy with school and soccer and friends. Plus, I think it’s normal for 16-year-olds to want a little more space and privacy. And she’s always been the type to keep to herself a little bit, anyway. I wouldn’t take it too personally, love.”

“I know,” Skye said with a sigh. “I just miss her. I wish she wasn’t so busy all the time.”

“I’m sure if you asked, she would be more than happy to make some time just for you,” smiled Phil. “Goodnight, Skye.”

“Goodnight.”

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Or the ants.”

“Too soon, Phil. Too soon.”

Chapter Text

Even though May and Phil about had both agreed that bringing the matter up with Dr. Garner was a good decision when Jemma had first told them about her need to knock on things, now that it was almost a week later and she was sitting in his office, it was somehow difficult to find the right words to say. Not an unusual feeling for Jemma, of course, not even unusual in this very setting, but she had tried so hard to plan her words ahead of time to avoid this problem, and still, her words were failing her.

She had done a little research on her own, trying to find some sort of scientific principle or theory to back up what she was sure was a natural explanation for why her actions had such a direct correlation on the outcome of things, but nothing had come to fruition. Instead, she’d been suggested articles about various disorders and diagnoses from her web search – articles that made it sound like, contrary to her earlier conviction about the natural cause-and-effect relationship between her thoughts, actions, and the status-quo, maybe what she was thinking and feeling was instead irrational and clinical. That confused her, and if she was being honest, frightened her a little. She already had several diagnoses to grapple with, and she was starting to worry that if she told Dr. Garner about what she had been thinking and feeling lately, she would have to face the prospect of him adding another one to her plate.

So here she sat, having run through the normal start-of-session checklist with him, checking in on medication side-effects, on school, on her relationships, on her progress with her emotional identification and processing. But now they were on the feelings part and the part where she was supposed to share about anything that had been hard for her lately, and she felt stuck.

She didn’t have anyone with her today – they had been switching towards one-on-one appointments for each of them incrementally over the last several months – so it was just her and Dr. Garner sitting in the room, he in his normal chair and her in her favorite spot on the couch.

She liked the right-hand side of the couch the best for several reasons. Firstly, because the armrest was a place that felt and sounded nice to tap, and Dr. Garner always encouraged her to tap when she felt like it. Secondly, because that particular spot had the best view of the window, and Jemma always liked it when she could see to the outside of things. It was daytime, of course, so stars were out of the question, but there was always so much more life happening outside of a window. Fascinating, vibrant life that Jemma liked to be able to observe.

Today, for example, she could see the wind gently nudging the leaves on the tree just outside the window. Most of them were still green, but a few had the faint blush of yellow that signaled the inevitable change of color that was bound to happen soon. The early September sunlight, clear and crisp, caught the edges of the leaves, making the tips of them almost glow. Seasons, cycles, patterns... familiar rhythms and rules of the Earth and her constant nature, each one like a beloved catechism of faith in the universe.

“We could switch to a different style of communication today if you don’t feel like talking anymore, Jemma,” Dr. Garner suggested, snapping Jemma from her reverie. “Writing, or something art-related?”

Jemma shook her head. “No, it’s all right. I don’t mind talking, I just… don’t know how to say what I want to say yet.”

“What’s making it difficult to figure out how to say it?”

“I suppose I don’t want you to misunderstand me,” Jemma told him. “And I don’t… I don’t want to say something that would make you jump to conclusions.”

“That’s understandable. I know we’ve talked before about how important it is to you to not be misunderstood.”

“I tried to explain it to Skye, and to Phil and May, but none of them seemed to quite understand, and I think I may have worried Skye, and I just… don’t want the same thing to happen here.”

“If it helps,” said Dr. Garner, “I promise to listen very patiently and not to jump to any conclusions. You have my word as a man of science that any conclusions I reach will be met methodically and after long and careful consideration.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Dr. Garner smiled. “I’m not really much for jumping, anyway. Just start saying something – anything – and let’s see if you can’t manage to work yourself around to what you really want to say naturally.”

“Well,” Jemma began slowly, “it’s about this… feeling… I’ve been having for a while.” Tricky, slippery feelings. Feelings, so divorced from logic and reason and science, no matter how desperately she wished they wouldn’t be.

“About how long, would you say?”

“Maybe… since about January or February last year, I suppose. I don’t remember exactly when they started, but it’s been a while.”

“But you’ve only told Skye and Phil and Melinda recently?” There was no judgement in the question, just a simple check for the facts. One of Jemma’s favorite things about Dr. Garner. He shared her fondness for getting the facts straight.

She nodded. “I didn’t really understand it when it first started, and I suppose I still don’t really understand it now, but… I have this feeling. It’s deep, and it’s like it fills up my whole body and pushes out other thoughts from my brain. It just sweeps in and swells up until there’s not room for anything else. I just get this feeling that something bad is going to happen sometimes. Like, when we’re getting in the car to go somewhere, I feel like, if I don’t do something to stop it, something bad will happen and we won’t make it safely to where we’re going.”

“Something bad like a car crash?”

“Maybe.” Jemma thought for a moment. “The specifics aren’t always there, or sometimes they change. Sometimes I think about a car accident, or sometimes I think about someone bad taking the car and making us go somewhere else, or sometimes it’s just the feeling. And the feelings come other times, too, like before we go to bed at night, I feel like if I don’t keep it from happening, we won’t all wake up together the next morning. Like someone might go missing or get sick or…or…”

“And when you get the feeling, you said part of it is that you feel like you have to do something?” Dr. Garner asked. “Something that makes you responsible for avoiding the bad outcome?”

Jemma nodded again.

“What kind of thing do you feel like you have to do to keep the bad thing from happening?” he asked, curious.

“I just have to knock,” Jemma said. “I have to knock one time for every person who I’m worried about. I don’t fully understand, but maybe it’s because a knock is stronger than a tap? And I do one for everyone, so I know that everyone is included and safe. One before, to keep the bad thing away, and one at the end, to… complete the circuit.”

“Have you ever felt like this before? Like when you were younger, for example, after the car accident you were in when you were six?”

“I don’t think so,” Jemma said, thinking hard. “I don’t remember exactly. I know I didn’t like to go in cars after the accident for a long time. They didn’t feel safe, and I would get very upset. I still don’t really like cars, but I can tap while I ride in them, and I don’t get upset. But I don’t think I had to knock before. Maybe because there wasn’t anybody else who I felt like I had to keep safe back then.”

“Not like you do now.”

“Yes.” Jemma looked away from the window for a moment to glance at Dr. Garner. “Like I said, the others didn’t really understand when I tried to explain. It’s a feeling, but there’s more to it than that. It’s like I have to do something. Because if I don’t, when the bad thing happens, it will all be my fault. Which I know sounds illogical,” she added, trying to head off the criticism before it came, “but it makes sense to me. And, scientifically speaking, it’s always been proven true so far. Nothing bad has happened since I’ve started doing it, so it must be working on some level.”

“Maybe. It’s possible, certainly, but you know, as any good scientist does, that something has to be proven over and over again with concrete evidence before it can be taken as a law.”

“I tried to find evidence,” Jemma said. “I thought maybe there might be something online related to chain reactions or ripple effects that would prove that I’m doing something to affect the outcome with my actions. But nothing seemed to support my theory, and I kept finding things about…”

She trailed off, having reached the part she was most reluctant to share. So far, Dr. Garner had held to his word, and he hadn’t seemed to rush to judgement as she’d described the strange new phenomenon.

“About what?”

“All I could find were things about… about this disorder… and so now I’m starting to worry if… if…”

“May I take a guess at what result you kept finding online?” Dr. Garner spoke very gently when it was clear she couldn’t finish. Not in a coddling sort of way, which Jemma appreciated, but in a way that suggested he understood how sensitive the situation had become.

“If you want to.”

“I’m wondering if your online searches kept directing you towards resources for OCD – obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

“Yes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Jemma paused long enough to do her brief emotional inventory, flowing through the mental chart she now had to classify her feelings. “Not good. Confused. And… uneasy.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Maybe because if it’s true, then this thing that I thought was normal and made sense, is actually something that’s abnormal, and then it’s just one more thing about me and my brain that deviates from the norm.”

“Did you think that the things you read about OCD sounded like what you’ve been experiencing?” he asked.

Jemma blinked. She hadn’t been expecting that question. He was the doctor, after all. Wasn’t he supposed to be telling her if her symptoms aligned with the diagnosis, not the other way around?

“I… I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe some of the things. The part about the feeling and about how it makes me feel like I have to knock to stop something bad from happening. And I’ve always liked counting and patterns and repetition and routine, but it sounded different from what the articles described. I don’t like those things because they stop bad things, I just like them because they’re interesting, or they make me feel good. And then there were other parts that didn’t sound like me at all. So, I guess the results are inconclusive.”

“Would you like to hear my thoughts, or would you prefer I didn’t share them today?” Dr. Garner wanted to know. “I promised that I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, but I do have some initial ideas, if you’d like my perspective.”

“I think I would,” Jemma said, giving him a little nod. “I… I don’t really know what to think myself anymore, and I trust you to keep your promise.”

“I appreciate that,” Dr. Garner smiled. “First, I want to offer you my assurance that anything about you or your mind that might ‘deviate from the norm’ doesn’t take away from how special and important you are as a person. If every person and every mind were all perfectly in line with the so-called norm, we wouldn’t have great thinkers or unique perspectives or creative approaches to things that help enrich our world. The world is strengthened because you’re in it, and because you’re uniquely you.”

“That’s a very nice thing to say.”

“And a very true thing to say,” he smiled again. “Second, I want to tell you this: While I haven’t experienced what you told me about myself, I can understand some of the feelings you described to me. I imagine the feeling of stress and worry is very overwhelming, and when completing the action – the knock – puts that feeling at ease, I’m sure it comes as quite a relief. It makes sense to me why you would want to complete the knock, even if it doesn’t align with your normal sense of logic, and it makes sense to me why you would want for that pattern to be something that you could make sense of.”

“The next thought I’d like to offer you is this,” he continued. “While I can certainly evaluate you officially for OCD if that’s something you and your family decides you’d like to pursue, my initial impulse is that it may not be necessary. It’s actually somewhat common for there to be overlaps between things like autism and obsessive-compulsive disorder, or between anxiety and OCD. Sometimes that means that a person might have some combination of those things, but sometimes that just means that some of the ways your autism or your anxiety presents itself might look similar to ways that OCD presents itself.”

“You mean like, they’re the same?”

“More like, they share some characteristics in a few ways, depending on an individual. It’s also worth noting that a person can have an obsessive-compulsive behavior without it being full OCD. Plenty of people have intrusive thoughts throughout their life – some more severe than others. For some people, the thought can be quickly dismissed; for others, the thought becomes very powerful and can impact your day-to-day life. That’s where we get the ‘obsessive’ part of the name.”

“Like my feeling,” Jemma suggested. “Like how when it happens, it’s the only thing I can think about.”

Dr. Garner nodded. “Sometimes people cope with the thought – the feeling – by performing a certain routine or ritual or action. That’s the compulsion piece. The obsession makes a person feel compelled to perform a certain action in order to alleviate the feeling.”

“Like knocking.”

“Like knocking, or counting, or repeating an action like hand washing or checking a locked door over and over. But just because a person counts something to calm down or feels like they need to triple-check that the stove is off, that doesn’t automatically mean they have OCD. It could be indicative of that, or it could just be a particular obsessive-compulsive behavior that’s tied to one specific situation, rather than a full disorder. It could also be a particular way that someone’s anxiety manifests, or it could be connected to a type of stim or self-regulating behavior for someone who’s autistic.”

“That sounds like a lot of maybes and ‘could-be’s,” Jemma said uncertainly.

Dr. Garner chuckled lightly. “There’s definitely a lot of grey area here. Again, if you want to look more seriously into doing a full evaluation, then we can talk with Phil and Melinda about that. But I certainly think it’s much too early to make any kind of definitive conclusion about any sort of diagnosis. In all honesty, Jemma, my initial thought is that it sounds to me like the invasive, obsessive thoughts and the compulsions to relieve the obsessive thoughts might be stemming more from your anxiety, or may have developed as a subconscious coping technique in response to everything that’s happened to you over the past year or so.”

“Because of when they started?”

“Partially, yes, and partially because you mentioned they haven’t shown up in other areas of your life. Think about the examples you gave me – the car and bedtime. Those are two things that have a lot of connection to what you went through last year.”

“Cal took us away in a car,” Jemma murmured. “We had to go somewhere we didn’t want to go, somewhere that wasn’t safe.” Without thinking, she brushed her fingers against her stomach, where two raised, white scars – one surgical, and one from the gunshot – still lingered. “And I already don’t like cars because of the accident.”

“And with going to bed, that’s when everything started, wasn’t it?” Dr. Garner questioned. “You went to bed that night, but by morning, you and Skye were gone and in a very frightening, dangerous situation.”

Jemma nodded. “And after all that we had to be split up, and we were all sleeping in different places, in different cities. And nobody could tell me what was going on or if everyone was safe.”

“Again, I don’t want to commit to a conclusion after just one conversation about this,” Dr. Garner said gently, “but those connections seem to still be very strong for you, and understandably so. What you and Skye went through isn’t something that people just get over quickly.”

“So, are you saying that it’s okay for me to keep knocking to keep everyone safe? That it’s not wrong for me to do it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s wrong for you to do it, certainly,” Dr. Garner said. “It’s not hurting anyone by any means. But I wonder if perhaps the whole thing might take a toll on you. The relief feels good, I expect, but the stress that leads up to it sounds like it could be exhausting, not to mention having to stay so vigilant and think so consistently about whether or not you’ve done what you need to do to keep the feeling at bay. I could see how it might start to really interfere with your life if it got out of hand. Would you say there’s some truth to that?”

“I don’t know,” Jemma murmured. “Maybe. It’s hard to worry all the time, I suppose. And my anxiety medication has been helping, but… it’s not gone away. Not completely.”

“I wonder if maybe we could come up with some coping strategies that are a little healthier,” Dr. Garner suggested. “Ones that don’t have the potential to disrupt your life so much.”

“But what if I stop doing the knocks and something bad really does happen?” Jemma asked, suddenly very worried about where the conversation was heading. “Then it really will be all my fault.”

“I’d like to propose a little science experiment, actually,” said Dr. Garner. “I’d like for us to test out, very slowly, and in safe ways, whether or not the feeling you get is true. It’s one thing for us to sit here and for me to tell you that your anxious feelings aren’t accurately reflecting reality, but it’s another thing for you to experience and understand that. I think if you’re able to discover it for yourself, it will matter more. You are a scientist, after all.”

“What would I have to do?”

“In very small, controlled phases, I’d like for you to start experimenting with what happens when you don’t listen to the intrusive thought. Intrusive thoughts are just that – intrusive. They don’t really reflect the truth about who we are or what we think; our choices and our actions do. We can still acknowledge that the thought is there, and that it’s a frightening thought. But we don’t have to give it power. We don’t have to listen to it. We can acknowledge its presence while also acknowledging its untruth. Think of all the times you’ve ridden in a car safely without knocking beforehand, or all the times you’ve gone to bed and woken up the next morning without anything bad happening. That’s a much more reliable pattern than the one your intrusive thought is trying to convince you of. The intrusive thought is built on outliers.”

“And outliers corrupt datasets,” Jemma said slowly.

“Exactly. So the first few times you try the experiment, I want you to see if you can just delay how long it takes for you to knock once you get the feeling like you have to. See if you can wait a few seconds or even a few minutes before you knock and relieve the feeling, and see what happens in that time while you’re delaying. You can even record your data, if you want. And if you see success with the short delays, then try and extend the delays. You can go as quickly or as slowly as you’re comfortable with, but eventually, I want you to work your way up to experimenting with what might happen if you don’t knock in those instances where you feel like you need to. If you shut down the untruth that your feeling is trying to convince you is real and confront it with more concrete data.”

“That sounds like it might be difficult,” Jemma worried. “What if I can’t keep myself from knocking? Or what if it’s my fault that we aren’t safe?”

“Here’s the other part of the exercise,” smiled Dr. Garner. “I want you to make a list of all the people who can help to keep your family safe. People you know, like Phil and Melinda, but also just people in general, like doctors or firefighters. The safety of your family is not only up to you, Jemma. There are a lot of people whose job it is to keep you all safe. And when that feeling tries to trick you and makes you feel anxious, I want you to go back to that list and remember all the people besides you who you can count on for safety. How does that sound? Do you think we could give that a try?”

“I think so,” Jemma said. “I’ll do my best, at least.”

“That’s all I can ever ask for,” said Dr. Garner. “I’ll talk with Melinda and Phil about all this when I meet with them at the end of the day today, okay? I’ll let them know about the experiment so they can help you with it when things get tough. Telling someone when you feel anxious or unsafe can also be a really great way to help work through the feeling without letting it be in control.”

“That sounds good,” Jemma nodded. She gave Dr. Garner a small smile while she tapped a quick little double-time of appreciation. “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad I could help.”

“Hi, Skye, come on in.”

Skye wasted no time in flopping onto Dr. Garner’s couch and tucking her legs up under her. She had been elated to discover several months ago that Dr. Garner didn’t mind it if she had her feet on the couch. Something about being able to sit without having to make sure her feet were staying still and on the floor just made everything about the room feel more comfortable and relaxed, in Skye’s opinion.

“Door open or closed today?” Dr. Garner asked, lingering at the door.

“Open, if that’s okay.”

“Always okay with me,” smiled Dr. Garner. He left the door half-open before taking his usual seat. “It’s good to see you, Skye. How are things?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Are you feeling more settled in at the high school now? I know last time you said you were still adjusting…”

“Yeah, I mean, it all feels pretty normal now,” Skye said with a single-shoulder shrug. “I have my schedule down, and me and Jemma are doing robotics club and Phil’s AV club, so we have some stuff to do that’s not just classes. I’ve been having a hard time with some of my classes, though. I talked to May and Phil about it, and they said I should tell you that.”

“Well, I appreciate your willingness to share,” Dr. Garner told her, still smiling. “I’m glad you’re talking with Phil and Melinda. That’s a big step we’ve been working on – being able to go to them when you need help.”

Skye shifted guiltily. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly come clean right away. I kind of got in trouble with some of my teachers because I was flunking stuff and not turning in my homework, and May and Phil found out, and we talked. But I told them the truth, and they said they’re talking to my guidance counselor about changing my IEP so hopefully that’s going to help some.”

“Even if you didn’t come to them right away, I still think it counts as some great progress that you were able to be honest with them,” Dr. Garner said kindly. “It’s like we’ve talked about before – most things don’t change overnight, especially patterns of behavior. You’re still learning how to trust them and still learning how to ask for help. You’re still practicing.”

“Yeah.”

“How did it feel for you, when you were able to tell them the truth about your difficulties in school?”

“I don’t know,” Skye said. “It was hard, because I felt bad for letting them down and failing at stuff again, especially when I’m supposed to be getting better. But I guess it felt good to finally get it out.”

“Fear of disappointing our loved ones can be a very powerful emotion,” nodded Dr. Garner. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy to be honest. How did they react? Was it like what you expected?”

“That’s kind of a complicated answer.”

“Complicated answers are kind of my jam,” teased Dr. Garner kindly. Skye cracked a smile.

“Okay, that’s fair. I guess it’s complicated because, like, the scared part of my brain expected them to be upset and disappointed and all that. Which they weren’t. They weren’t like that at all. They were really nice, and understanding, and they wanted to help. So that totally wasn’t what I expected, but…” Skye paused and took a breath, trying to figure out how to explain the next part. “There’s a part of me that wasn’t surprised, I guess. Like, my brain had convinced me that it was going to go really bad, but I think, deep down, there was this little part that knew they would be nice about it. And I think that little part really wanted to tell them, even though I was scared, because I was hoping that it would be okay and they would be able to help. The problem was that I let the scared part win for a long time, I guess.”

“But you didn’t let it win in the end,” pointed out Dr. Garner. “It took some time to battle against the fear, but ultimately you did let yourself be honest and vulnerable. And it sounds like you got the reaction you hoped for and needed.”

“Yeah,” Skye said. “I don’t know why I convince myself they’re going to hate me. They never do. Every time I screw up or do something dumb, they’re always… good. They always say they love me and all that. They’ve never done anything to make me think they wouldn’t react like that.”

“You’re building trust,” Dr. Garner said simply. “It takes time and it takes a lot of reassurance. I think we both can agree that you do trust Melinda and Phil at this point—”

“I do.”

“But it’s still a work in progress. Luckily, they keep showing you that it’s safe to trust them, and you’ve given me lots of examples of the ways that you’ve been able to trust them these last several months. But I won’t pretend like there won’t still be times when you’ll have to confront the part of you that still harbors the distrust and fear.”

“Acknowledge it and then remind myself that it’s not true,” Skye said, quoting some of the language that she and Dr. Garner often worked on. “Fear isn’t honest with me.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” chuckled Dr. Garner.

“I need to tell you…” Skye faltered, her mouth suddenly very dry. She swallowed and tried again. “I talked about some other stuff with May and Phil, too. When we were talking about school, I mean. Some… kind of serious stuff. And they thought it would help if I told you, too. They thought you might be able to help me with some of it better than they could.”

“I’d be honored to try.”

It wasn’t easy, but Skye managed to tell Dr. Garner about the stuff she’d finally confessed to May and Phil last week. Fortunately, she didn’t break down into a blubbery mess, probably because she’d already had the practice of saying it all out loud before, first with Jemma, and then with Phil and May, so it wasn’t quite so raw to say it now a third time. She told him about her trouble sleeping, about her trouble keeping thoughts about the past away from her brain, and about the heavy, suffocating feeling of failure and fear and hopelessness that she was never going to be able to be anything but broken.

Dr. Garner was quiet for a little while after she’d finished. He looked deep in thought, which wasn’t all that unusual for him. Eventually, though, he spoke.

“You know, Skye, one of the things we’ve been keeping an eye on since you started your current ADHD medication was signs of anxiety or depression, to make sure you weren’t experiencing those side effects of the medication.”

“I don’t have those,” Skye said, furrowing her brow in confusion. “I’m not scared of talking to people, and I’m not, like, curled up under the covers because I can’t make myself get out of bed and do anything.”

Dr. Garner’s mouth twitched slightly, amused at her descriptions. “Anxiety and depression can manifest in lots of different ways, Skye. Not all anxiety is related to social interactions, for example. A person can be anxious about anything. Say, for example, about letting their loved ones down, or about failure. And depression isn’t just about feeling sad or unable to get out of bed – a lot of times people will talk about experiencing this very overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Like things will never get better, no matter what anyone does.”

“Oh. Well… I mean, I guess that sounds a little like me, then…”

“That’s not to say that we should jump right to a diagnosis,” Dr. Garner said quickly. “But like I said, that’s something we were trying to be extra conscious of once you started medication. And, if I can be honest with you Skye, we were also keeping an eye out for those sorts of things even before that.”

“Because you could already tell I was so messed up?” Skye cracked, only half joking.

“Because you’ve been through a lot of hard things in your life, and because when someone goes through even a fraction of what you’ve managed to survive, that can have an impact on their mental health,” Dr. Garner corrected, not unkindly. “Are you familiar with the term PTSD?”

“Sort of,” Skye said. “That’s where people who go through horrible stuff are still having a hard time, even after it’s over. Like soldiers coming back from war and having flashbacks and stuff.”

“That’s a common example, yes,” nodded Dr. Garner. “It stands for post-traumatic stress disorder, which literally means that, after someone’s been through a traumatic event, their mind and body are still struggling with the stress that trauma put them through.”

“A traumatic event… like getting kidnapped by your crazy dad and watching him shoot your sister?” Skye suggested.

“I think most people would classify that as traumatic, yes.”

“So you’re saying I have that?”

“I think it’s very likely,” Dr. Garner said gently. “Based on what you’ve shared with me since that time, and based on the severity of that situation – not to mention going straight from that into being separated from your family, or having to reopen the matter in the trial later on – I think that may be the case. I’ve talked with Melinda and Phil about what I suspected, and some of what you’ve shared with me today has only reinforced that for me.”

“Oh.”

“I also think it’s very likely that you may also experience something called C-PTSD – that is, complex post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Because all I need is for things to be more complex,” Skye deadpanned.

“The word complex is used a little differently here,” said Dr. Garner. “In this case it’s used to differentiate between ‘regular’ PTSD and something a little different. Rather than stemming from a singular traumatic event, C-PTSD develops in response to complex traumas – ‘complex’ here meaning repeated and multiple, not just more complicated.”

“I don’t really understand what you mean,” Skye admitted.

“It’s actually something we see often in children who have been in unfit homes or unfit foster care,” Dr. Garner explained. “Basically, it describes the kind of impact that living through repeated traumatic events or conditions, like being abused or neglected for a long period of time as a child, can have on a person as they grow up. It impacts how you form relationships, how you process your emotions. A lot of times, people who are dealing with C-PTSD will struggle with how they see their self-worth. They’ll have low self-esteem or carry around a lot of guilt or shame, even when they haven’t done anything to warrant it. It makes it very hard for a person to believe that they can be worthy of things like love or acceptance, because their past experiences have taught them otherwise.”

“So, what is that supposed to mean?” Skye asked, probably more hotly than the situation warranted, but she was starting to feel defensive. “I mean, for me? Does all that alphabet soup of problems mean that I’m just, like, going to be permanently screwed up forever for the rest of my life because bad stuff happened to me? That things really are never going to get better?”

“No, not at all,” Dr. Garner said firmly. “Quite the opposite, actually. Knowing that those are real struggles you’re dealing with means that we can better address them and help you work through them. Some of the work that you and I do can be more specifically targeted to helping you manage those things, and we can look into the possibility of prescribing you medication that’s compatible with your ADHD medication that could help reduce the feelings of anxiety and depression that you’re dealing with.”

He paused, and gave her a very serious look. One that let her know he was being 100% completely honest with her. “It may take some time, but I wholeheartedly believe that we can help make things better for you.  You’ve already made a lot of progress in the right direction as is, whether it feels like it or not. Now all we have to do is keep building on that strong foundation you’ve already laid through your hard work and perseverance.”

“I mean, you’ve done some pretty hard work, too,” she joked, smiling. “Coming up with all these exercises and tools for us to use. It can’t be easy working with kids as messed-up as us all the time.”

“I consider it a great privilege,” Dr. Garner said solemnly. “You and your sisters are exceptional young people, and I feel very honored to be a part of your lives. I truly cannot wait to see the type of people you’ll become the more you learn and grow and heal. I imagine you’ll be nothing short of marvels.”

“So, Bobbi, tell me: how’s everything going?”

“Fine,” Bobbi said. She probably should have put a little more enthusiasm in her voice, but she was tired, and changing her voice to imply emotions took a certain level of mental energy that she didn’t really have right now. Dr. Garner didn’t usually mind that she didn’t always put in the extra effort to infuse inflection into her tone, thankfully.

Dr. Garner waited patiently, not speaking, so Bobbi elaborated.

“School’s good, my friends are good. I’m really busy with soccer and clubs and homework most of the time. Pretty tired, I guess. But everything’s good.”

“How’s the team looking so far?”

“We’re solid. We’ve won all three of our games so far. Still working out some kinks with our chemistry, but we’ve got a lot of talent on the team.”

“And how’s it been feeling to be back out on the field?”

“Good,” she said. She allowed herself a smile on that one. “Really good. Good. It feels like all the work I did in rehab is finally paying off.” She was saying the word ‘good’ too much, but that was the only adjective that seemed to be available to her right now.

“That’s great.” Dr. Garner was also smiling, although it didn’t quite match his normal happy face. It felt a little more reserved, like he was holding back or waiting for something. Almost like an expectant face. She wasn’t really sure what else she was supposed to say, so she didn’t know how to provide whatever it was he seemed to be expecting.

“I have my driving test next week,” she offered.

“How are you feeling about that?”

“Good.” There was stupid good again. Good, good, good. “I mean, I’ve been practicing a lot and I’ve taken the driver’s ed classes and everything, so I think I’m as ready as I can be. And the worst thing that can happen is I don’t pass, and then I’ll just practice more and try again next time.”

“That sounds like a very healthy mindset to have about it,” Dr. Garner said, smiling again. This one looked more normal.

“I’ve been working on the whole ‘do what you can do, then accept that the rest is out of your hands’ thing we talked about,” Bobbi said. “I’m trying to be good about that.” Good.

“Has that been a helpful tool for you lately?” Dr. Garner wanted to know.

“For some stuff, I guess.”

“Are there some things that are more difficult to use that thought exercise with?”

Bobbi fell silent at that. Yes. Lots of things. Too many things that were out of her control that she hadn’t been able to accept or make peace with, yet. Too many things changing, constantly changing under her feet like shifting, silty sandbanks. Too many things she still felt like she should be able to do something about. Still playing scared, still trying to figure out how to get Ruby off her case, still trying to figure out why she kept putting up walls with Hunter and her family, still trying to figure out why she couldn’t stop thinking about her stupid mother of all people.

“Maybe I should rephrase the question,” Dr. Garner suggested. “Is there anything that’s been giving you a hard time lately?”

“I don’t know.”

“It feels like maybe you don’t really want to talk much today,” said Dr. Garner after a beat.

“Sorry. Tired, I guess.”

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “This time is for you. If you don’t want to talk, that’s no problem. We can do something else, or we can just sit. Give you some time to just do nothing, if you want. It sounds like you’re very busy most days. You probably don’t have a lot of opportunities to do nothing.”

“No,” Bobbi agreed. “Not really.”

“You can pick something off the art shelf, if you want to do something to pass the time. I’ve got clay, plenty of coloring options… I think I still have some watercolors, too. You might just have to take a look and see what’s over there,” he said sheepishly. “I can’t always remember what’s tucked away on that shelf.”

After some rummaging, Bobbi settled on a box of brightly colored embroidery floss, and soon she was hard at work, braiding the strands together with quick dexterity. It was nice to have something rhythmic and repetitive to do with her fingers – soothing, almost, in its cyclicality.

“Can I ask about your interesting color combination here?” Dr. Garner was peering over at her half-finished handiwork.

“They’re the colors for this English soccer team, Liverpool. That’s my friend Hunter’s favorite team,” she explained. After a beat, she laughed to herself. “He would be offended if he heard me call them a soccer team instead of a football club, though. He’s very touchy about the British versus American terminology when it comes to soccer.” 

“He’s a big soccer – excuse me, football – fan, then?”

“Oh yeah,” Bobbi said. “He’s obsessed. I want to give this to him, I think.”

She smiled in spite of herself, thinking about how passionate Hunter got anytime they watched soccer together, or talked about it. She thought about the last time she’d seen him play, two nights ago when she and Elena had gone to watch Mack and Hunter’s home game. Thought about how intense and focused he’d been on the field, so different from his normal, laid-back demeanor.

It was one of her favorite things about Hunter, his ability to somehow contain both sides. She loved how relaxed and playful he usually was, but if Bobbi was being honest, she loved it even more when he revealed his more serious side – his fierce loyalty and unwavering passion and commitment for the people and things that mattered to him. The roguish, wise-cracking Hunter helped her to lighten up and relax, but the deeper, more serious Hunter made her feel important and safe in a way that she couldn’t quite put into words.

And since she couldn’t put it into words, and she couldn’t manage to allow herself to let him in fully, she had to try and find other avenues to let him know how much he meant to her. A simple friendship bracelet in the Liverpool colors might be a silly sort of gesture, especially because Bobbi wasn’t even sure if Hunter would want to wear it, but she was hoping that the bracelet would show him that, just like how she recognized and appreciated his commitment to his favorite team, she recognized and appreciated his commitment to her, too.

Most guys wouldn’t be so patient, if the girl they were spending so much time with… and occasionally kissing from time to time… was still incapable of admitting that they were definitely much more than friends. If she still couldn’t even say the word ‘boyfriend’ out loud. Hunter wasn’t like most guys, she well knew by now, but Bobbi was still aware of just how lucky she was that Hunter seemed willing to wait for her. She didn’t want to mess that up or take advantage of him, just because she was emotionally blocked-up and had a hard time communicating her feelings to people.

She knew she should have been talking to Dr. Garner while she worked. Maybe not about her relationship issues with Hunter, exactly, but about how difficult all of the emotional stuff had been for her lately, and about how she could feel herself slipping back into the mask, into the cold and closed off person who buried and ignored feelings because that was easier than trying to figure out what it all meant and what she was supposed to do about it.

When she had lived with her dad, it had been survival. He never liked it when she showed too much emotion, or the wrong emotion. And it was easier to hide the truth about what was going on from other people if she shielded everything behind the detached, unfeeling persona. Living with May and Phil, she had started shedding that, bit by bit, opening up more with her friends, her new family, but lately it felt like all those same old habits had reared their ugly, aloof heads again, some sickening hydra of false invulnerability. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t know how to go back, and she knew that was exactly the kind of thing Dr. Garner would want for them to talk about, but what she had told him earlier was true: She was tired. Too tired to try and work on her feelings, too tired to answer deep, probing questions that were designed to help her examine undiscovered parts of herself, too tired to talk or think about anything that wasn’t already easy.

And so she just sat quietly for the rest of their session, working away on Hunter’s bracelet, telling Dr. Garner and telling herself that things were fine. Things were good, good, good. Because even if they weren’t, it was easier to believe the lie than to unpack the truth. And that was fine with her.

Chapter Text

Melinda was frustrated. She had been working for weeks now, trying to make good on her promise to Skye about finding more information about Skye’s mother and trying to locate a grave, and this morning, she found herself facing yet another dead end in her email inbox.

She had started out with what seemed like a promising lead. Using some of the information from Skye’s birth certificate, which they had managed to recover last year after the initial investigation into Skye’s past, she had been able to pinpoint Jiaying’s maiden name and the fact that she and Cal seemed to live in Milwaukee. That lined up with what Skye had told her from Cal’s account of the past as well, and after a little digging, Melinda had succeeded in finding a copy of Jiaying and Cal’s marriage license, confirming the earlier information. Then things had started slowing down.

She hadn’t found any official notice or record of Jiaying’s death, not with her married name or her maiden one. No death record, apart from the records from the hospital where she’d died, Ames’ Memorial. And no death record also meant no obituaries, nor any entry on any sort of ‘find-a-memorial’ website or directory. So there’d been no luck on that front.

Then she’d tried to use Jiaying’s maiden name to find out more about the woman’s life before Cal and Skye had come into the picture, before her passing that no one apparently had any official record of. She had tried to find previous addresses, old credit reports, or listings on alumni records from local high schools, colleges, even medical schools, since Skye had told her that Jiaying and Cal met while they were both in training to become doctors. Nothing.

About a week ago, Izzy’s friend Idaho had given Melinda the name of a contact with broader reach than just Milwaukee county records – an FBI agent that Idaho had gone to school with back in the day. Melinda had reached out to him, hoping that maybe, if Jiaying had carved out a life anywhere else in the US at any point, someone with federal clearance might be able to find something, anything, that she could take back to Skye. Her dear, sweet, beautiful child who was so clearly hurting, and who really could have used a little bit of a win.

The email she was now reading from one Agent James Woo was decidedly not a win.

No record of the individual within our system…unable to locate…so sorry I couldn’t be of more help…

Melinda clicked away from the email in anger, hammering the button on her mouse with more force than was really necessary. None of this made any sense. How was it possible that there was basically no record of Jiaying ever even existing outside of a few documents that connected her to Cal. She was obviously a real person who had lived and walked on the Earth. She’d had dreams of becoming a doctor, she’d fallen in love, she’d carried a child. She had been real and she had mattered to someone, so why didn’t she exist?

It was almost unsettling that there wasn’t a single scrap of information to be found about her – no birth certificate, no tax returns, no medical or dental records, no Facebook page or phone number. How could a person who, from what little Melinda had been able to gather, had lived what seemed like a very normal life, simply vanish from every conceivable public record? And why?

For a moment, a cold chill ran down Melinda’s spine as she recalled Cal’s words the last time they’d spoken on the phone. Daniel Whitehall. The piece of the puzzle that had never made sense. The piece she knew the least about. Maybe the piece that could explain why even the FBI couldn’t find anything about the person Jiaying had been.

She gave herself a shake. No point in spooking herself with ghost stories spun by a madman. Cal had obviously been toying with her, playing some kind of twisted game in a pathetic attempt to see Skye again.

Almost to her relief, her telephone rang then, dragging her back to reality and providing a much-needed distraction from the swirling, unsolvable mystery that was clouding her mind. She answered instinctively, not registering until she’d already picked up the receiver that the caller ID display only flashed ‘unlisted’ instead of a regular phone number.

“Detective Melinda May speaking.”

“Hello, Detective. This is Agent Sharon Carter of the FBI. I understand you’ve enlisted the help of my partner in looking for some information recently.”

The woman on the other end, this Agent Carter, apparently, didn’t sound particularly pleased with the situation. Melinda had enough experience in law enforcement to know it was always smarter to keep your mouth shut. The less she said, the less control she gave up. She had nothing to hide, of course. She’d done everything by the book. But the starched tone in Agent Carter’s voice gave Melinda the feeling that it might not have mattered whether she’d used the book or not.

“Would that be the Agent Woo I’ve just heard back from?” Melinda asked coolly. “Yes, a mutual friend connected us when I needed some help with an investigation.”

“An investigation into Jiaying Johnson? On what grounds?”

“Nice to hear someone else acknowledge that she’s a real person and not just some figment of my imagination,” said Melinda. There was a stiff silence from the other end of the line.

“Jiaying Johnson is dead, Detective. It’s in your best interest to walk away from this. There’s nothing to find.”

“I disagree,” Melinda said, not giving an inch. “I think the fact that you’re calling me means there is something to find, and that fact is making someone in your office very uncomfortable right now.”

“Detective May, I’m asking you, as a professional courtesy, to leave the matter alone. But make no mistake: if you force my hand, I won’t be asking the next time.”

“Is that threat coming from you, Agent Carter, or from the Bureau?” asked Melinda, ice and steel hardening her words. She prided herself on being the consummate professional in most instances, but there was no world in which Melinda May tolerated someone trying to threaten her. “I like to know who I’m dealing with when I ignore petty intimidation tactics.”

“No one is trying to intimidate you, Detective May—”

“And I’m not trying to kick a hornet’s nest,” Melinda insisted. “All I wanted was some information about the woman’s life and where she might be buried, but this whole thing has started raising some serious red flags. I’m sure you can understand why I can’t just let the matter drop, Agent Carter. Not when things aren’t adding up, and not when the FBI is trying to shake me down and turn me off the trail. I don’t know if this has to do with something about Jiaying Johnson’s past, or about Calvin Johnson, or Daniel Whitehall, or something else entirely, but I promise you—”

“How do you know that name?”

If Melinda didn’t know any better, she would have sworn there was an edge of something almost like panic in the FBI agent’s voice.

“Who, Calvin Johnson? I have their marriage license. And I’ve met him, unfortunately…”

“No, the other one. Whitehall. How do you know about Daniel Whitehall?”

Melinda paused, suddenly very aware of the delicate ground upon which she was now treading. “So this is about Whitehall? He’s what has the FBI so nervous?”

“Detective, please… I need to know. How did you find out about Whitehall?” Agent Carter’s tone had changed abruptly, the pushy bravado dropped and replaced with something much more human and vulnerable. It took Melinda by surprise a bit, and she found herself answering honestly.

“I found him in the hospital records, during an earlier investigation involving the Johnson family. As far as I can tell, Dr. Whitehall was treating Jiaying Johnson and the last one to see her alive. And if Cal’s version of events is to be believed, then Daniel Whitehall is the reason why Jiaying is no longer living.”

“But you’ve… you’ve never found Whitehall in person? You’ve never met him?”

“No, never,” Melinda said slowly. “Everything I’ve uncovered so far indicates he all but disappeared some time ago. Dismissed from the hospital for ethics violations, stripped of his license, and then erased from public consciousness… He seems to be just as much of a ghost as Jiaying Johnson, these days.”

“Daniel Whitehall is an extremely dangerous man,” said Agent Carter. “A dangerous man no one has been able to track down for years. I’m not telling you this to try and intimidate you off a case, I’m telling you because it’s for your own good. If you value your safety, you’ll stop digging into anything that has even the smallest connection to him. Now.”

“I can’t do that,” Melinda said quietly. “I’m not trying to be obstinate, but I can’t just let this go. It’s… it’s personal. And if Whitehall is as dangerous as you say, then it’s even more important to me that I keep on this.”

“What do you mean?”

“My daughter,” Melinda murmured. “My daughter is Daisy Johnson, Cal and Jiaying’s child. She wants to visit her mother’s grave. That’s why I’ve been looking at all. But then Cal warned me about Whitehall, and now you’re doing the same, so all that tells me is that my daughter could be in danger. And there’s no way in hell I’m backing off if her safety is in question.”

“Their…” Agent Carter fell silent for a moment. “I thought the baby didn’t survive. There was no record… and she always told us…”

“She?” Melinda asked sharply, her ears immediately catching the odd choice of word. “She who?”

There was a long pause, then Agent Carter spoke quickly, in an undertone. “I have to go. A different phone number will call you back in exactly six minutes. Make sure you pick up.”

Before Melinda had a chance to object or ask what in the world was going on, the line clicked dead. Without much in the way of other options, she sat there, slightly dumbfounded, and waiting the six excruciating minutes until her phone rang again. True to Agent Carter’s word, the called ID flashed a different number this time.

“Hello?”

“Detective May?” There was a slight crackle, like the connection wasn’t as strong, and Melinda could hear what sounded like wind billowing in the background on Agent Carter’s end of the line.

“Yes, I’m here,” May confirmed. “Forgive my bluntness, but what the hell is happening here?”

“I’m sorry,” Agent Carter apologized. “I had to switch to a more secure line, step outside. I… I didn’t think it was safe to speak at my desk, on a work line.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Jiaying Johnson is alive,” said Agent Carter. “My partner and I, we pulled her out of… a bad situation about 12 years ago.”

“A bad situation involving Daniel Whitehall?”

Agent Carter made an affirmative noise into the phone. “We tried to set her up in witness protection, because Whitehall was still out there and we were worried for her safety, but the process fell through. The FBI couldn’t do anything else for her, so Jimmy and I… took things into our own hands. We erased her. Got her into hiding, got her a new name. No one else at the FBI knows what we did. And we’ve never even come close to finding Whitehall since then, so Jimmy and I have made it something of a personal mission to keep that woman safe.”

“Hence the attempted stonewalling from the both of you today,” Melinda said.

“Hopefully you can see why.”

“I can,” Melinda said quietly. “Can I ask, though…? What changed? Why tell me all this now, if the two of you have worked so hard to keep her hidden?”

“The daughter,” said Agent Carter. “I didn’t know she was alive. Jiaying told us her baby had died when Whitehall… when he got his hands on the both of them. But if what you’re telling me is true, that Jiaying’s daughter is alive and living with you…”

“She is. She spent a long time in foster care, and she goes by a different name – Skye – because she only learned about her birth family last year, but she’s been with me and my husband for about a year now. And she’s amazing.” Melinda felt her throat tightening with emotion as she spoke about Skye. “She’s been asking me for help in finding Jiaying’s grave, trying to get closure. I’m just trying to do what’s best for her.”

“We’d need to take a lot of precautions,” Agent Carter said slowly, “and it might not be possible, but maybe Jimmy and I… maybe we can get in contact with Jiaying. Let her know that her daughter… I’m sure she’d want to meet Dais—Skye. I’m sure she’d want to meet Skye. If you give me some time, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll… I’ll be in touch, Detective May. Thank you.”

Melinda had just started to thank Agent Carter in return when the line clicked dead for a second time that morning. Numbly, she returned the phone to its cradle and leaned back in her chair, mind reeling from the amount of game-changing information that had just been dumped on her.

Part of her felt shocked to learn that Skye’s mother was alive, but another part of her, she realized, wasn’t surprised at all. There had been so many holes, so many inconsistencies and pieces of missing information, that a massive cover up like the one Agent Carter was claiming to have pulled off was honestly a more logical explanation than most of the other theories that Melinda had thrown against the wall.

She wasn’t really sure what she was supposed to do now – an unfamiliar feeling for Melinda. She was a woman of action, of plans… not knowing what her next move should be had her feeling almost more off-kilter than the revelation that Skye’s dead mother was actually Skye’s alive-but-in-secret-FBI-hiding mother.

As if on autopilot, Melinda reached for her phone and began dialing Phil’s number, but she stopped herself halfway through and put the phone back down. No. Phil was still at school, and while she had every intention of filling him in on everything as soon as possible – for his perspective and wisdom, but also just to relieve the burden of keeping all this volatile information to herself – calling Phil wasn’t the most pragmatic or pressing first step. Telling Phil was important, but it couldn’t be priority one right now.

No, priority one had to be doing what was best for Skye, and at the moment, the only thing rising to the top of Melinda’s mind was keeping Skye safe. Agent Carter hadn’t given much of any detail about what Daniel Whitehall had done to Jiaying or what he was capable of, but he was clearly a threat. A threat so dangerous that Agent Carter and her partner had gone off-book to get Jiaying into hiding under the FBI’s nose. A threat so dangerous that Agent Carter herself seemed afraid of him, all these years later. A threat that was still at-large. A threat that was now directly putting her daughter at risk.

Instinct took over, clearing the initial fog of surprise from Melinda’s thoughts and sharpening her senses. She had clarity now, conviction of purpose and an actionable decision. Whitehall had to be found, and he had to be stopped.

Of course, that might prove difficult, considering he had evaded capture by the FBI for over a decade. Then again, Melinda thought with a slight smirk, the FBI wasn’t exactly a sure bet. They hadn’t even known Skye existed. Not only had Melinda known that before they did, she and Skye had connected the dots from Skye’s fragmented history and found their way to her birth family when the FBI couldn’t. Not bad for a small-town detective and a teenager with a homemade computer. So who was to say that she couldn’t do it again? If anyone was going to find Daniel Whitehall and put him away for good, it seemed to her that she stood as good a chance as anyone else at this point. Maybe better. After all, she had more at stake than they did, and Melinda always worked well when the stakes were high.

Feverishly, she pulled an unlabeled folder out from her bottom drawer – the file where she had been compiling everything she had found on Whitehall so far across her various investigations. It was dishearteningly thin, with little more than the half-assed police report from the night Skye was born, Melinda’s own notes from conversations with the Ames’ Memorial records department, and one notice of confirmation that Daniel Whitehall had, at one point, graduated from medical school. If Jiaying had been difficult to find information on, Whitehall was next to impossible. There was no record of his employment, no record of his dismissal, no news articles about the scandal of a disgraced doctor, no known family members or legal documents. There was no trace of anyone who’d known him or met him or—

With a sickening wave of recollection dripping over her in almost slow motion, Melinda stopped herself and remembered. There was somebody who had experience with Whitehall. Somebody who she had hoped to never have to think about or speak to again. But, if it got her closer to finding Whitehall and keeping Skye safe, she would do it. She would have to talk to Cal.

Cal had told her he knew something about Whitehall, had dangled it out in front like a sour carrot on a stick. Maybe he had been bluffing, like she originally thought, just saying whatever he thought might work in his favor and convince her to let Skye see him. But maybe he wasn’t.

At this point, Melinda didn’t think she could afford to take that chance.

If Whitehall was truly still out there and still posing a threat to Jiaying and Skye like Cal and Agent Carter seemed to believe, then Cal might be her only hope towards finally tracking down Whitehall and locking him up for good. And while she had no intention of offering up Skye as a bargaining chip, Melinda did have something now that she was sure she could leverage into getting Cal to give up whatever information he had.

It was over an hour drive from Manitowoc to the Milwaukee Secure Detention Center, but that gave Melinda plenty of time to call Phil and let him know that she would be coming home late that evening. She should have told him more, but she wasn’t sure how to explain even half of it over the phone, so she left things vague, and Phil, being the good man that he was, accepted it without question.

There were only about fifteen minutes left in visiting hours by the time she finally arrived, but luckily a flash of her badge helped to speed up the process of getting her a visitor’s pass and an escort into the closed visitation room.

“Johnson’s only got non-contact visitation,” explained the guard as he led her to a booth in front of a plexiglass window. “Someone will send him out soon.”

Melinda thanked the guard and eased herself into the hard metal chair in front of the window. After a minute or two, there was movement on the other side of the glass and Calvin Johnson shuffled into view.

He looked mostly like how Melinda remembered him from the trial, just a little thinner, a little greyer. His already shaggy hair had grown out somewhat, and he had the thick stubble of someone with very limited access to a razor dappled across his face. When he saw her, though, he broke into the eerily familiar, lopsided grin that he so often wore, and it was like nothing about him had changed at all.

Grimly, Melinda picked up the phone on her side of the glass as Cal sat down and waited for him to do the same.

“Detective May, this is such a lovely surprise,” he said, that smile still on his face. “What brings you to my neck of the woods? Is Daisy with you?” He perked up, craning to try and see behind Melinda.

“No, she’s not here.”

Cal deflated somewhat, and the smile flickered.

“I’m here to talk to you,” Melinda said. “We don’t have long, and I don’t have time for any of your little games—”

“Oh, but the games are the best part,” puttered Cal, tsking her slightly.

“I’m here about Daniel Whitehall,” May cut him off. “You need to tell me what you know about him.”

“I told you last time, Detective May, I’m not saying anything until I see Daisy—”

“And I told you there’s no way in hell that’s ever going to happen.”

“Well, then, it seems we’re at an impasse,” Cal said flippantly. He began to hang up his phone, but Melinda stopped him.

“I have something else to offer you,” she told him.

Cal cocked his head to one side, studying her with a new fascination. “Now who’s playing games, Detective?”

“I learned something today,” she continued. “Something that I think you’ll find interesting. It’s about your wife.”

“My…” Cal’s expression flickered again, and for a split second, Melinda didn’t see the chilling eyes of the man who had kidnapped, shot, and traumatized her children – she saw the hollow pain and grief of a long-broken man. “What is it?”

“I need your word,” Melinda insisted firmly. “Swear to me that once I tell you, you’ll give me what you have on Whitehall. Swear on Daisy.”

A muscle jumped in Cal’s cheek, expression hardening again, and for a moment, Melinda wondered if he would refuse.

“I swear.”

“Your wife is alive.” There was no sense in beating around the bush or sugar-coating anything.

“Is that really the best thing you could come up with?” Cal scoffed. “I expected a little more of an effort if you were going to bait me with bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Melinda said. “Jiaying is alive. I spoke with an FBI agent today who confirmed it. She was rescued from Whitehall 12 years ago by a team of agents and put into hiding for her safety.”

Slowly, Cal’s face slackened as he began to realize that Melinda was being genuine. He looked like he had seen a ghost, which, Melinda realized, he probably felt like he had.

“My beautiful… she’s… my god…” Cal looked up at her, tears in his eyes. Melinda was a little taken aback by the sudden display of emotion. “Where is she? Is she safe?”

“I don’t know where she is, the agent wouldn’t tell me,” Melinda explained. “I know her identity’s been changed, and I know she’s under their protection, but I also know that Whitehall is still out there, and as long as he is, your wife and Daisy are both at risk. Which is why I need you to tell me what you know about him.”

“Does Daisy know?” Cal asked suddenly. “About her mother?”

“No,” said Melinda. “I just found out today, and then I came straight here.”

“She has to know,” Cal said, almost pleading. “She has to meet her. I spent 14 years trying to put my family back together, but I never once imagined… Daisy needs her mother. She needs to be with her family, and if it can’t be with me…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Melinda saw the guard coming back towards them. She needed to hurry up.

“Tell me about Whitehall. Now. We’re running out of time.”

In an instant, Cal’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Melinda could see the shades of the unhinged man who had committed so many atrocities over the years in the name of rebuilding his family. “He can’t get his filthy hands on them. You can’t let him lay a single finger on them, or I promise you I will personally—”

“Don’t say anything stupid,” Melinda said sharply. “Not in here. I’m trying to keep them safe, but I need your help to do that and you’re wasting time.”

“It’s time to go,” the guard said, tapping his watch.

“Mr. Johnson—”

“Werner Reinhardt,” Cal said in a rush as another guard on his side of the glass began to try and pull him away. “Daniel Whitehall doesn’t exist anymore, because his name is Werner Reinhardt. I almost got him once before, back when he was still Whitehall. Practically gift-wrapped him for those incompetent government buffoons, but they let him get away and he disappeared. I only tracked him down again last year, and I would have killed him myself, but I got a little… tied up.” He gestured lamely to the restraints that shackled his wrists and ankles.

“Thank you.” Melinda was surprised by how much she meant it as she thanked him.

“You have to find him,” Cal called over his shoulder as the guard led him away. “Find him, and keep them safe. Whatever it takes.”

Melinda hung up the phone and watched Cal disappear from view, grim resolve settling deep in her bones. She didn’t love the idea that she and Cal were on the same side about anything, but she was going to do exactly as he said: She was going to find Whitehall and she was going to protect Skye, and Jiaying, too, for that matter. She was going to do it, whatever it took.

Chapter Text

It was late by the time she got home. Phil and Deke were nowhere to be found, but Bobbi, Skye and Jemma were all still sitting together at the kitchen table with homework in front of them when Melinda came into the room, kissed them each on the tops of their heads, and sank, exhausted, into a chair beside them.

“You’re back,” Skye observed, breaking into a small smile. It didn’t escape Melinda’s notice that the smile was tinged with what looked like relief. “Phil said you had to work late, but it was getting really late…”

“I know, love, I’m sorry it took me so long to get home. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Skye said quickly. “Phil said you were fine.”

“I was,” Melinda assured them all. “I was very safe. Just driving, mostly. Speaking of, where is Phil?”

“Putting Deke to bed,” Bobbi informed her. “He said he’d be down soon, but I think Deke talked him into reading two chapters of Charlotte’s Web instead of one, so we’ll see how long that takes.”

“You look tired,” Jemma said. She reached over and tapped gently on the back of Melinda’s hand, drawing a smile from her. “Was today a hard day?”

“I suppose it was,” Melinda nodded. “A long day. Lots of things on my mind. Which is why I’m so glad to be home and to see all your lovely faces.”

“Don’t be mushy, May,” Skye laughed.

“We saved you a plate,” said Bobbi, getting up from the table and rummaging around in the fridge for a minute. “We figured you hadn’t eaten supper yet.”

Melinda thanked her and set to work reheating her dinner. She chatted with the girls as she ate, hearing about their days at school, listening in as they finished their homework. Luckily no one asked her any more questions about her day – it saved her from having to dance around the truth about what she’d been up to. She didn’t want to lie to them, but she also didn’t want to have to try and explain any of the insane pieces of information she now had to work with. Not now, at least. And certainly not before she’d had a chance to figure it all out herself and talk through everything with Phil.

Phil appeared not too long after, looking a little rumpled from sitting and reading on Deke’s bed, no doubt. He smiled as he came into the kitchen and the sight of his warm face and sparkling eyes was enough to make Melinda feel calmer than she had all day.

“Glad you made it back in one piece,” he said, leaning over to give her a kiss. She reached up and squeezed him on the arm in return. “Long day.”

“Very,” she agreed with a nod.

“I’d love to hear all about it.”

“Later.” She said it very casually, so casually that it didn’t catch the attention of any of the girls, but she saw the lines around Phil’s mouth deepen ever so slightly. He could read her like no one else could.

“Sounds good.” Phil matched her tone, but his eyes lingered on hers for a beat too long. “Hey, you three, wrap that homework up, all right? Bed soon.”

“I need about twelve more hours if I’m going to remember all this stuff for our history test tomorrow,” Bobbi groaned, jamming the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbing hard. “‘Bed soon’ doesn’t really feel like a realistic goal tonight.”

“What’s giving you trouble?” Phil asked. He pulled out a chair and joined them at the table.

“Just information overload,” Bobbi said with a shake of her head. “Mr. Blake tries to cram way too much into our tests, and he asks all these questions about all these little details, so you have to just memorize everything. He literally gave us almost 200 people and terms and dates on our study guide and we’ve barely been in school a month.”

“Remind me never to take his history class when we’re juniors,” Skye muttered to Jemma. May bit back a smile.

“You spoiled us in history last year, Phil,” Bobbi told him. “Your tests were way easier.”

“We just have different styles,” Phil said charitably. “Plus, my class wasn’t AP. I can quiz you, if that would help.”

“No, that’s okay.” Bobbi shook her head. “Thanks. I think I’ll keep trying with my flashcards. Is it okay if I stay up to keep studying, though?”

“Sure, sweetheart. Just don’t stay up too late, okay? Studying is important, but getting good rest is just as important before a big test. You know, studies show—”

“—that a good night’s sleep is one of the biggest factors in school success,” Bobbi and Skye recited dutifully.

Skye cracked a grin. “We know, Phil.”

“Just because I say it all the time doesn’t make it not true,” chuckled Phil. “I have science on my side, right, Jemma?”

“Proper sleep strengthens cognitive function and can help in memory formation and preservation,” Jemma nodded. “You’re more likely to remember what you study the night before if you sleep well.”

“At least someone reads the articles I print out and put on the fridge,” teased Phil. “Two more hours, tops. Okay, Bobbi?”

“Okay, okay, okay.”

“And bed for you two,” May said, nodding at Skye and Jemma. “Skye, do you want us to check your homework?”

“Jemma looked it over,” Skye told her. Jemma nodded, confirming Skye’s words. “Thanks.”

“We’ll be up to say goodnight in a little bit.”

Eventually, she and Phil had gotten Skye and Jemma to bed and had managed to retreat to their own bedroom.

“So,” Phil began carefully, shutting their door with a gentle click. “I’m dying to hear about your mysterious long day. You didn’t say much over the phone, and you haven’t been that late coming home in years. Must be something big.”

“You have no idea,” Melinda said. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about the beginning?”

“Ha ha,” she said sarcastically. Still, she failed to keep herself from smiling at his bad joke.

“I’ve heard it’s a very good place to start…”

“If you start singing The Sound of Music, we’ll never get to bed,” she laughed.

“I’ll try to contain myself,” Phil smiled. “Although I am now very seriously considering making that my pick the next time we do family movie night.”

He came over and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. His strong hands found their way to her shoulders, and he began working the muscles in her neck and shoulders slowly, massaging the day’s stress out of them. “Why don’t you start at the point where the day turned into what you weren’t expecting?”

She couldn’t help it – she melted a little under his touch. Even after all these years, he still had that effect on her. She thought for a moment, savoring the stillness of the room and the feeling of Phil’s hands as she tried to decide how to begin.

“All right. Well, you know how Skye had asked me for help in finding her mother’s grave?”

Slowly, she began unfolding the pieces of the day’s story – a complicated paper pinwheel of a story, where each new fold pulled another one along with it the second you started tugging at it. She told Phil about her attempts to locate any kind of information about Jiaying, and about all the dead ends she kept meeting. She told him about trying to contact the FBI, and the vague email she’d received that morning.

“It’s just so weird that there’s nothing out there about her,” Phil murmured.

“Trust me, it gets weirder.”

She told him about the phone call next.

“It felt like an intimidation tactic,” she explained. “The agent who called me, this Agent Carter, kept insisting that Jiaying was dead and I needed to stop trying to look into her.”

“Which of course set off your Spidey-sense,” guessed Phil.

“How could it not? The only reason people start pressuring you to back off a lead is when it’s actually taking you somewhere – somewhere other people don’t want you to go. So, I pressed her, and I didn’t back down—”

“Have I mentioned how much I love that my wife is the kind of person who doesn’t back down when an FBI agent is trying to intimidate her?”

“You know, this might be the first time it’s come up,” she smiled. “I pushed back, and then the strangest thing happened. I mentioned Skye, that I was trying to find Jiaying for her, and I mentioned Daniel Whitehall – you know, the doctor who delivered Skye?”

“The one who Skye’s father blames for her mother’s death?” Phil checked.

Melinda nodded. “And when I dropped those two names, the agent completely changed tone. She hung up and called me back on a different number, which was already odd, and then…”

“Then?”

“She told me that Skye’s mother is alive.”

There was dead silence for what felt like over a minute. Phil’s face slacked into an almost cartoonish look of disbelief.

“What?”

“Jiaying is alive. Apparently the FBI rescued her from Whitehall a long time ago and put her into hiding, changed her name, all that. Which is why she’s been impossible to find, and why they were getting so antsy about me looking into all this.”

“She’s… I…” Phil shook his head like he was trying to clear water from his ears. “I don’t know what to think. Rescued her from… Who is this guy? I thought he was a doctor?”

“He was,” Melinda said darkly. “When I first started looking into Skye’s past last year, I started finding some dirt on Whitehall. It seems Cal’s opinion of him might not have been too far off the mark. Whitehall got in trouble for ethics violations a while back and had his license stripped, but after that he basically disappeared. I couldn’t get much out of the FBI agent about him, but she honestly sounded terrified of him. I don’t know what he did to Jiaying, but whatever it was, it was horrible enough that they feel like they still have to protect her. They’ve never caught him, so he’s still considered a threat—”

“He’s still out there?” Phil asked, ashen faced. “What about Skye? She doesn’t have FBI protection. Is she in danger?”

“I don’t know,” Melinda admitted. “On the one hand, the FBI agent didn’t know she existed. She thought Skye had died as an infant. Apparently, that’s what Jiaying believes, too. So it’s possible that’s all Whitehall knows. But Cal thinks—"

“Wait, Cal? How do you know what Cal thinks about all this?”

“I… I’ve been talking with him,” Melinda said quietly.

“What? When?”

“Well, today, for one. That’s why I was so late. I drove out to see him in person.”

“You drove to Milwaukee and back today?”

“Yes. And I’ve spoken with him before today. On the phone.”

“Why?” Phil looked upset, hurt almost. Melinda swallowed hard to keep the overwhelming feeling of guilt at bay. She had meant to tell Phil about that first phone call ages ago, but things had gotten so busy that she’d all but forgotten back then, and then enough time had passed that it had felt silly to backtrack and tell him. Now she felt worse than silly for springing it all on him like this.

“He had been trying to call me for ages. He wants to see Skye. I finally talked to him about a month ago, to tell him to leave us alone. Obviously, there’s no way in hell I’d let Skye anywhere near him. But Cal’s been worried that Skye’s in danger. He knows about Whitehall, and he’s convinced that Skye needs protection.”

“So…” Phil’s brow was furrowed, and Melinda could see the wheels turning in his brain as he tried to piece everything together. “So, you went to go see him today to talk about Skye? Or Whitehall?”

“About Whitehall,” Melinda said firmly. “Once I heard everything I did from the FBI, I knew I needed more information about Whitehall, and Cal was the only person I could think of who might know something.”

“And did he?”

“Maybe. He gave me another name that Whitehall’s been using, apparently. I’m going to look into it.”

“You don’t think it might be a better idea to pass that along to the FBI?” Phil suggested delicately. “Mel, you know I think you’re the most capable person on the planet, but isn’t this getting a little bigger than something a single Manitowoc detective should be handling? If this Whitehall guy is as dangerous as everyone says…”

“I can’t just quit,” she said. “I can’t, Phil, not when I’m already in this deep. And not when it involves our family. If Skye’s actually in danger, then I’m never going to stop. Not until this whole awful thing is put to bed for good.”

“I just don’t want to see you get pulled into something that’s too big for one person to handle,” Phil said softly. “I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way—”

“I would put myself in front of a bullet or a moving train to keep our family safe.”

“I know,” Phil said. “I know you would. But I’m asking you not to. I’m asking you to find another way. A way to keep them safe that doesn’t put you at risk. We need you to stay safe, honey, just as much as we need the kids to stay safe.”

Melinda didn’t say anything, just leaned back, twisting around so she could rest her head in the crook of Phil’s shoulder. She scooped up his hand in hers and squeezed, a silent, halfway kind of promise. She knew he was right, and while she couldn’t promise to walk away entirely, she could at least promise him that she was listening, promise him that she would do her best to be careful.

“So, what are we going to tell Skye?” Phil asked after a while.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what are we going to tell her? Or, more like, how are we going to tell her all this?” Phil clarified.

“I don’t know that we should,” Melinda said. “Not now, at least.”

“What? Mel, we have to tell her. She’s already been asking, and you know how Skye is. She’s not going to let any of this go.” Phil pulled away and turned to look at her incredulously.

“No, I know,” she said quickly. “I’m not saying we never tell her. But… Phil, she’s already having such a hard time. And there’s still so much that doesn’t have a clear answer yet. Don’t you think we should wait until we have something more concrete to offer her?”

“Her mother is alive, Melinda. I’d say that’s pretty concrete.”

“Her mother is alive, in FBI protective custody,” Melinda corrected. “She doesn’t have the same name, I have no idea where she lives… And who knows what kind of mental state she’s in, after all the trauma she’s apparently been through.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she’s alive. Skye needs to know that.”

“And how do you see that conversation going, Phil?” asked Melinda, frustration and fatigue getting the better of her and hardening her words. “If Skye knows she’s alive, she’ll want to see her, and then we’ll have to explain about the FBI and about Whitehall and about Cal—”

“So then we’ll explain!” Phil said. He flung his arms wide like what he was suggesting was the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll explain it all to her, in a way that helps her understand. Frankly, I think we should have told her about Cal the first time you talked to him.”

“You think I should have told her that her madman of a father wants to see her? You want Skye going to visit him in prison?”

“No, I don’t want Skye seeing him.” Phil was trying to explain, but clearly the frustration that was flaring up inside Melinda was contagious. “I don’t want her anywhere near him, but that’s not up to me. He’s her father; it should be her choice if she goes to see him or not. She can’t make that decision for herself if she doesn’t even know it’s on the table.”

“She was a wreck during the trial, Phil. Having to relive all that, having to face Cal again, it wasn’t good for her, and she’s barely started to heal from it all. She’s still a child, and we’re her parents. We have to make hard choices for her own sake, to protect her. That means keeping her away from Cal, and right now, maybe that means keeping other things from her, too.” Melinda raked her eyes across Phil’s face, desperate for him to understand.

“Other things, like her mother.”

“She’s barely hanging on right now as it is,” Melinda said softly. “She’s still hurting herself when she gets upset, for god’s sake. I just don’t want to add things to her plate that she’s not ready to deal with yet. Especially when we hardly know anything about it ourselves. And what if the FBI won’t let Skye see her? What if Jiaying doesn’t want to see her? Or what if they meet and it goes horribly? I don’t want to see her get hurt again.”

“She’s going to find out,” Phil said, shaking his head. “You know Skye. She’ll look on her own, and she’ll find out, and she’ll never trust us again if she figures out we knew and we kept things from her.”

“It’s for her own good—”

“She won’t see it like that!” Phil stood up then and began pacing a little back and forth across the room. “Damnit, Melinda, I’m not losing her again! We kept things about Cal from her before, last year, and look how that turned out! She ran off to meet Cal and got kidnapped and Jemma ended up with a bullet in her stomach. We nearly lost all three of them after all that.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Melinda shot back, standing too. “You think I don’t think about how all that was my fault every single day? About how I screwed up, how I couldn’t protect my family?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“That’s why we can’t tell her, not yet. Not while I’m still missing so many pieces of the puzzle. Because if we tell her now, it’ll just raise more questions. Questions that I can’t answer yet, and questions that she’ll want to explore on her own. And if Whitehall is as dangerous as Cal and the FBI seem to think, then we can’t have Skye chasing down information trails by herself.”

“She deserves to know,” Phil said, painfully quiet. “And, I’m sorry, but keeping her in the dark is more dangerous than any hard truth.”

Chapter Text

“So, I’m sorry, walk me through this one more time.”

Skye leaned against the window in the backseat, only half-listening to May and Phil’s conversation as the three of them drove through the grey, misshapen mounds of mid-March slush that were still piled up along the side of the road. The whole world looked like it had been dredged in the dirty, sloshy leftover ice that still lingered along the landscape, making everything seem grim and grimy. It was somewhat fitting, she supposed.

“Apparently there’s been a change in the trial strategy. Something unexpected, and Karla said we needed to change course quickly. She needed to see us today,” May said. Her voice sounded tense to Skye, but Skye didn’t bother looking over at her to check. Slush sprayed out from under their tires as they rounded a curve in the road, spewing the nasty gunk in their wake.

“Can they do that? Just change the whole strategy like that a few days before the trial?” Phil asked.

“I guess so. They are, either way.”

“And you trust this lawyer, this Karla?”

“I’ve never worked with her directly before, but I’ve never heard anything bad. Izzy’s worked with her. Said she’s good at her job, got a good track record. She also said she’s a little on the prickly side, so I wouldn’t expect a lot of handholding from her.”

“Why can’t Mr. Murdock be our lawyer?” Skye asked suddenly. She turned her head slightly, still resting it on the glass, but now in position to catch May’s eye in the rearview mirror. “He’s a good lawyer. You and Miss Hand said so.”

“A few reasons,” May explained. She took a turn into downtown proper and began navigating the car through the salt-stained streets. “The first one being that Mr. Murdock is an adoption lawyer, not a criminal prosecutor. This kind of trial isn’t really in his area of expertise. The other reason is that this isn’t really our case, and Ms. Gideon isn’t technically our lawyer. She’s the state’s lawyer – she’s been assigned to prosecute the case by the District Attorney. The DA, you might hear someone call him. Since we’re not the ones pressing charges against Cal, we don’t need our own lawyer. The state is charging him, because he broke the law – several of them, actually. So the state is the one who needs a lawyer to prove that Cal is guilty of all the things he’s being accused of.”

“So then why do they need us?” Skye grumbled. “Can’t they just use the police reports and those statements we had to give last month and stuff? I thought that was what you said they were going to do.”

“I don’t know, love,” sighed May. “That’s what we’re hoping to find out today.”

Eventually they reached the Manitowoc County Courthouse and headed up the steps into the grandiose and somewhat intimidating building. The whole thing was made of some kind of stone – light-colored, but probably not something as fancy as marble, Skye thought. She made a mental note to ask Jemma about it when she got home.

May, having spent a fair amount of time here for work, led them through the winding hallways and up to the third floor, where they stopped outside a small office. Skye squinted at the sign and picked through the letters to read the name, “ADA Karla Faye Gideon,” before May stuck out a hand and gave a quick, sharp knock.

“Come in,” came a women’s voice from inside the office. She had an eastern accent that sounded like she had maybe grown up somewhere like New York.

Skye took stock of the room as they entered. It was just as small on the inside as it had looked from the outside, although part of that may have had to do with the number of books, file folders, and boxes of paperwork that lined each of the walls. There were two empty chairs in front of the desk, which Phil offered up to Skye and May, and behind the desk sat a woman around May and Phil’s age wearing a sharp business suit. She had tanned skin and blonde highlights in her wavy brown hair, wore red lipstick, and had, most interestingly in Skye’s opinion, long, pointy fingernails painted with sparkly silver nail polish.

“Sorry about the seating,” she said, standing up to shake both May and Phil’s hands. “I’ll see if I can have someone bring in another chair.”

“No need,” Phil assured her. “I’m mainly just here for moral support anyway. I don’t mind standing.”

“Suit yourself,” she nodded, returning to her own seat. “I’m ADA Karla Faye Gideon. I believe we’ve spoken on the phone—” She directed that towards May, who nodded.

“Detective Melinda May. This is my husband Phil Coulson, and Skye.”

Ms. Gideon nodded again and gave Skye what felt like an appraising look. “Well, I won’t waste anyone’s time. Things have changed somewhat significantly in the upcoming trial against Skye’s birthfather.”

“Meaning what, exactly? Plea deal?” May asked. Ms. Gideon let out a short bark of a laugh.

“I wish. No, that would be too easy. It’s something of the opposite, actually. Our office has been in frequent communication with Mr. Johnson’s attorney, David Angar, throughout the pretrial process, as you might imagine. We’ve been urging him to accept a plea deal, which he declined, so after that we’ve been trying to encourage him to waive his right to a trial by jury and opt instead for a bench trial.”

Skye felt like her head was swimming, and she shot May a confused look. Ms. Gideon, sharp as her fingernails, it seemed, caught it.

“Everyone accused of a crime has a right to a trial by a jury of their peers,” she explained. “But a person can choose to waive that right in favor of something called a bench trial. That’s where, instead of a jury of 12 people deciding the verdict of the case, the only one deciding is the judge. We try to get things moved to bench trials sometimes when a case is particularly… sensitive. Cases with kids can be tough with a full jury. We’ve been prepping with the assumption that Mr. Johnson would agree to a bench trial.”

“Surely Cal wouldn’t want to drag all of this out in front of a jury…” Phil said.

“I can’t say if it’s Mr. Johnson or Mr. Angar who’s pushing for it, but either way, they just sent word yesterday that he’s chosen not to waive his right—”

“This just became a jury trial?” May asked sharply. “A jury trial that you’re not fully prepared for?”

“We’re prepared,” said Ms. Gideon, steel in her voice. “But we are having to pivot. With the bench trial strategy, it seemed like the written and dictated statements from your daughters would be sufficient. With a jury… everything gets more unpredictable. And it requires more of a performance, for lack of a better word.”

“So what does that mean for us?”

“Well, for one, we think it would be best if Skye testifies.”

“No,” May said immediately. Her hand shot out and grabbed up Skye’s off the armrest of the chair, squeezing tight. It took Skye off-guard, a little, how fierce and fearsome May had just become. She didn’t even really understand what Ms. Gideon was saying, but obviously May didn’t like it. “No, I won’t allow—”

“David Angar is a showman, and a slippery one at that. If he’s putting this trial in front of a jury, he’s doing it because he thinks he can charm them into agreeing with him. The best way to counteract that is to play an ace, and I’m sorry if this sounds crude, but a little girl testifying about what she endured at the hands of a monster is an ace if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I’m thirteen,” Skye mumbled, bristling slightly at the ‘little girl’ remark.

“You can’t put her on the stand,” May said hotly. “Do you have any idea how traumatizing that can be for a child? Not only having to relive and recount what they’ve been through, but to do it in front of an audience? In front of him?”

Skye could tell by the derision in May’s voice on the last word who she meant by ‘him.’

“Cal would be there? I’d… I’d have to see him?”

“Yes, he would be present. But he wouldn’t be allowed near you. He can’t speak to you or touch you—”

“This is insane,” May shook her head. “You honestly think this is the best way to win your case?”

“I do.” Ms. Gideon looked deadly serious. “Apart from the medical records, there’s not much in the way of physical evidence, and the police arrived late in the process. Cal’s account doesn’t line up with the ones from the girls, so there’s a lot of conflicting testimony to navigate. Having Skye deliver that testimony in person will give it weight that a written statement can’t provide.”

“And what about the other two?” Phil asked nervously. “Jemma and Bobbi? Will they need to testify, too?”

“We considered it,” Ms. Gideon told him. “But the youngest one’s memory issues surrounding the event don’t help us much, and the oldest one doesn’t have much to add that we couldn’t already get from the police reports, so we thought the best course of action would be to stick with Skye.”

“What about me?” May wanted to know. “I was one of the officers on the scene. Couldn’t I do it instead of her?”

“We already have Detective Hartley and Officer Maguire testifying,” said Ms. Gideon. “And frankly, your testimony poses a rather substantial conflict of interest, Detective May. I’m sure you can understand.”

“I just… I mean, isn’t there something… some other way…”

“With all the charges Johnson is facing, we stand a very good chance of locking him up for the rest of his life. He’s looking at up to twenty for the aggravated assault alone, then you add on the kidnapping, child endangerment, and reckless endangerment… Couple that with his record and this could be the thing that keeps him off the streets for good. But in order to make that happen, we need Skye.”

“She’s a minor,” Phil said. “We’re her legal guardians. You’d need our permission, wouldn’t you?”

“Not if she’s subpoenaed,” Ms. Gideon said. “You’d be held in contempt of court if you refused to let her testify. But it doesn’t have to be like that. There are steps we can take to protect Skye, resources to help children prepare for the experience—”

“I’ll do it,” Skye said flatly, cutting May off before she could interject with another objection to Ms. Gideon’s words. May’s grip on Skye’s hand tightened. “You said if you win the case, then Cal will be locked up for good? He won’t be able to hurt anyone else?”

“That’s our goal, yes.”

“And you think that I can help you win?”

“I do.”

“Okay.” Skye set her jaw, looked over to May, then back over her shoulder to Phil, still standing behind them both. May looked like she wanted to flip over Ms. Gideon’s whole desk and Phil’s face was ashen, but they both held her gaze. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll help.”

A soft hand rested on her shoulder – Phil’s, she could tell – and gave her a small squeeze. Skye swallowed hard. “What exactly do I have to say?”

They met with Ms. Gideon a few times leading up to the trial, where she prepped Skye on what the whole thing was going to be like. Ms. Gideon coached Skye on how to answer her questions simply, always honest but never saying more than was absolutely necessary. Ms. Gideon taught her where to look while she was in the courtroom, how to address the judge, and what she should wear. She did her best to prepare Skye for what Mr. Angar’s cross-examination questions would be like and gave her tips on how to stay calm on the stand. Still, with all the training that Skye had undergone, she still couldn’t help but feel only a few shades shy of total panic the morning of the trial.

Jemma and Bobbi had both offered quiet words of good luck at breakfast, which Skye avoided eating. She could already tell her stomach was in no position to tolerate any food, not even the granola bar that Phil had tried to tempt her with in the car. She just clenched her jaw and shook her head. She already felt like throwing up, and she didn’t think eating would help matters.

The towering walls and steps felt even more imposing than they had the other times Skye had visited, and even the knowledge that they were made of limestone, not marble (thanks to some research from Jemma) didn’t ease the intimidation that Skye felt as she walked in between May and Phil.

They met Ms. Gideon outside of a room marked ‘Courtroom 1,’ and she showed them to a row of seats behind a table where she and another lawyer from upstairs sat. Across the aisle was another table, this one occupied by a tall, somewhat gangly white man with long, dark hair that was slicked back off his forehead so it draped back onto the shoulders and collar of his very fancy-looking suit. The chair next to him was empty, and Skye realized, with a flip of her stomach, that was likely where Cal would be sitting soon.

Eventually a few other people filtered in – a bailiff, a court reporter, a few other people in business clothes who sat in the rows like Skye, May, and Phil. To Skye’s delight, albeit short-lived, Izzy slipped in behind them and gave Skye a light chuck on the shoulder.

“Not many people have your guts, kid,” she said with a sad smile. “I’m here to testify today, too, but mostly I’m just here to be your backup if you need me.”

The members of the jury were led in next – a bunch of grownups in rumpled clothes who looked a little nervous themselves – and then a side door opened, and a guard emerged.

Skye heard the sound of metal dragging on stone floor and realized, a split second before he came into view, that Cal was coming in next, handcuffed and led by the guard.

Skye felt her throat close up, and a rushing sound filled her ears.

Cal looked pretty much like how she remembered him – shaggy brown hair, a little bit of stubble, unnerving lopsided smile, which widened when he saw her. She felt sick.

“Skye, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Phil murmured, holding her hand tight. “He can’t come over here. Just… just look at me, okay? Keep your eyes over this way.”

“It’s fine,” she said with a shuddery breath that probably gave away how big of a liar she was right then. Heat was creeping up her neck and ears, making her feel like she was about to burst into flames if she didn’t take off the stupid sweater of Jemma’s that Ms. Gideon had told her to wear, and her chest felt tight, like Cal was gripping her heart in his big, scary hand and squeezing as hard as he could, trying to crush it into plaster dust.

When she spoke again, only half joking, her voice came out sounding thin and strangled, instead of light and confident like she’d hoped. “Would I get in trouble if I threw up in here?”

All three adults around her answered at the same time, May assuring her that she wouldn’t be in trouble, Phil asking if they needed to step outside for a minute, and Izzy informing her that people throw up in courtrooms a lot more often than one might think.

“They’re prepared for all kinds of stuff in these places,” she said with a faint smile. “I’ve seen a few different guys pass out before, including a lawyer one time. And once I saw a lady fake cry so hard that she spit out her dentures.”

“Really?”

“Swear to god.”

The last to enter was the judge, an old white guy with a big moustache in sweeping robes. Everyone stood up when he entered, announced by the bailiff as “the Honorable Thaddeus E. Ross, presiding,” and waited until he indicated that they could all sit. It gave Skye the feeling of being back at Mass at St. Agnes, all the special sitting and standing. The thought didn’t do much to help her nerves.

“Let’s see, the State of Wisconsin vs. Calvin Johnson, yes? Ms. Gideon, Mr. Angar, are you ready to proceed with opening statements?”

Ms. Gideon went first, telling the jury about Cal’s history and his previous arrests, and about how he had been trying to track Skye down for years. She talked about the threats that Cal had sent through Raina, about how he had used the gun to make Skye and Jemma go with him to the warehouse, and all about all the terrible things that had happened there. It was strange to listen to someone else tell the story. Skye had been forced to recount it herself more times than she could count now, and she relived so many moments of it in her mind’s eye in the depth of night, but to hear it laid out so plainly by someone, so matter-of-factly, it was almost surreal. Like it was something that she’d just heard on the news and not gone through first-hand.

Then it was Mr. Angar’s turn, and right away, Skye could see what Ms. Gideon had meant when she’d warned them that he had a way of charming people with his words. The way he spoke, it was almost like he was luring everyone in, pulling them closer and closer into his version of events with each word. It was almost hypnotizing, despite the soporific drone of his voice.

In Mr. Angar’s version of events, Cal was a loving father with a broken heart, and Skye was a willing participant in the events of that night. To hear Mr. Angar tell it, everything had just been a big misunderstanding, and it was just an unfortunate accident that so many people got hurt by the end. And how could anyone really blame Cal for wanting to put his family back together again?

Beside her, Skye could feel May’s muscles tensing up the longer Mr. Angar spoke, clearly agitated by the sympathetic yarn he was spinning. If Skye hadn’t been so nervous and distracted by her aching stomach, sweaty palms, and racing heart, she might have felt indignant about his version, too, but as it was, she was pouring most of her energy into not becoming another person Izzy had seen pass out in a courtroom.

She was so distracted that she barely registered the sight of Ms. Gideon rising from her seat at the table, and it wasn’t until Phil pushed on her elbow to force her to stand up herself that she realized someone had called her name.

“I said, the prosecution calls Mary Sue Poots to the stand. Skye, up here, please.”

Numbly, Skye floated down the aisle and into the special seat Ms. Gideon had told her she would occupy while she testified. She promised the court to tell the truth and promised herself she wouldn’t faint in front of all these people.

“Hi Skye,” Ms. Gideon said, smiling at her. In slow motion, Skye turned her focus onto the lawyer and forced herself to take a deep breath and try to focus on getting through the next half hour. “Can you state your full, legal name for the record?”

“Mary Sue Poots,” she said. Her voice wobbled a little, higher pitched than normal. It made her sound like she was much younger than she really was.

“But that’s not the name you prefer to use, is it?”

“No, I go by Skye,” Skye said. This was part of what she and Ms. Gideon had practiced. Ms. Gideon wanted Skye to tell her name story on her own. ‘To help the jury get to know you,’ she had explained. “I was left at an orphanage as a baby, so I never knew my real name. The nuns gave me the name Mary Sue Poots, but when I was five I chose my own name for myself. Skye.”

“And your ‘real name,’ to use your words… what would that be?”

“My birth parents named me Daisy Johnson,” answered Skye, using every ounce of willpower to keep her eyes trained on Ms. Gideon and not on Cal, who was leaning forward to listen intently over at the defense table. “But I didn’t know that until a few months ago.”

“So, Skye, tell us a little bit about what happened a few months ago,” prompted Ms. Gideon. “Who approached you at school with information about your father?”

Skye began to tell them about Raina, about how she had hinted about knowing Cal and having information to share with Skye about him. Then Ms. Gideon asked about what Raina had said the afternoon before Skye had met with Cal.

“She told me that Cal wanted to meet me, and that he would hurt the people in my foster family if I didn’t meet him at the park that night.”

“So, is it fair to say that you felt as though you had no choice but to go and meet Mr. Johnson that night?”

“Yeah,” Skye said. “I mean, yes. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

“I knew that Cal had gotten in trouble for hurting other people before, so I knew he could do it again. And I… I didn’t want anything bad to happen to them. My foster family.”

“Would you say you’re close with your foster family?”

“Yes,” nodded Skye. “I’ve stayed in a lot of foster homes before, but this one is the best. They’re… we’re trying to get adopted. My sister… foster sister… Jemma. I’ve known her since we were kids at St. Agnes together. She’s… the most important person in the world to me. And May and Phil look after us better than anyone ever has, and our other foster sister, Bobbi, she’s the best big sister a person could ask for. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if something happened to them because of me.”

“So you went to meet Cal, then?”

Skye began to detail the night then: sneaking out, Jemma’s insistence on coming with her, and their meeting with Cal in the park.

“When you tried to leave, what happened?”

“Cal said we couldn’t. He… he had a gun and made us get in his car.” Skye’s chest tightened painfully, causing her breath to snag.

“Where did he take you once you’d gotten in the car?”

It was getting harder to talk, even though these were all questions Skye had practiced with Ms. Gideon, and this was a story she’d told to a myriad of police officers, doctors, family members, and lawyers. She described the warehouse, how she and Jemma had been locked inside but had still tried to escape. How Cal had caught them and forced them to come back inside. How he’d gotten angry while they’d talked. How the gun had gone off.

“He was shouting and he had the gun…” Skye faltered as her voice cracked. “It was so loud. I didn’t realize at first… that Jemma… Jemma was…” Hers eyes burned with hot, stinging tears and she blinked hard, screwing up her face against the fear that gurgled up in the back of her throat. She had managed to get through this part in practice, but now, here, with all these people watching, with the small noises of consternation sneaking their way over from the jury box…

“Can we get some water for her?” came Ms. Gideon’s voice, drifting through Skye’s consciousness. “Here, Skye, take a drink. It’s okay, you can take your time. I know this is hard to talk about.”

Skye took a trembling sip from the paper cup the bailiff offered her, but the water tasted like acid in her mouth. The magnetism of Cal’s presence pulled on her eyes, making her head ache with the effort of ignoring him. She tried to look back over to the side where May, Phil, and Izzy were sitting, but her vision was so blurred she couldn’t make them out.

“Skye, what happened with the gun?” Ms. Gideon asked gently, but in a way that told Skye she was trying to force things back on track.

“The gun went off,” Skye said softly. “Jemma was hurt. She was bleeding a lot and Cal told me to put pressure on the wound. There was so much blood, and I didn’t know what else to do…” Skye looked down at her hands, and for a moment, she could almost see the streaks of dark, red blood marring her skin again. Without thinking, she began rubbing them together, dragging her nails across to try and scrub the memory of blood away from them.

“How did you get away, in the end?” Ms. Gideon asked.

“Bobbi came in first, she had been looking for us. Cal said he would shoot her, too, if we didn’t listen to him. But then the police came. May and Iz—Detective Hartley. They made Cal drop the gun. Arrested him. We went to the hospital after that.”

“And your sister, Jemma; is she okay?”

“She had to have surgery, but she didn’t die,” Skye said numbly. “I got a cast and we both got stitches. Then the doctors called CPS and we had to get split up for a while, but eventually we all got to go home.”

“And how have things been at home since the incident with Mr. Johnson?”

Skye paused before she answered this time. She knew what she was supposed to say. She was supposed to talk about how they all were still going to therapy with Dr. Garner to help process the trauma and about how she had to use a safety plan at school, so that the jury could hear about how she was still affected by what Cal had done. She hadn’t told Ms. Gideon all the details of just how screwed up she felt ever since that night, so that wasn’t part of the answer she was supposed to give, but in that moment, all she could think about was the sleepless nights, the all-consuming fear she felt at the sight of a closed door, how she freaked out over stupid, pointless things like a spilled carton of juice or a night when May didn’t come home right on time.

“Skye?”

“It’s been hard,” she said, snapping out of her reverie and reciting the answer she was supposed to give. “We’ve had to go to a lot of therapy, and I have a safety plan with the guidance counselor at school to help me not feel so scared when I’m away from home.”

“Thank you, Skye. I think that’s all from me.”

“Mr. Angar, I believe that makes this your witness,” the judge gruffed, nodding towards the defense table. Mr. Angar stood, buttoning his jacket and smoothing out the pleats of his pants before sending a smarmy smile up toward where Skye and the judge were sitting.

“Thank you, your honor. So, Skye, is it?”

Skye nodded.

“Yes or no, for the record,” Mr. Angar said. “We can’t record a nod or a shake.”

“Is that really necessary?” Ms. Gideon called from her seat. “It barely constituted a question to begin with.”

“The court asks the witness to remember to give verbal answers,” the judge said, looking down at Skye. “But Mr. Angar, perhaps we can skip the empty pleasantries?”

“Apologies, your honor,” smiled Mr. Angar. “So, Skye, I’m curious. A smart kid like you, who’s never known anything about her parents. Did you ever go looking, trying to find out any information yourself?”

Skye blinked. She hadn’t expected him to start with a question like that. Ms. Gideon hadn’t prepped her for this. “I… what?”

“I mean, I find it hard to believe that you never tried to learn anything about your parents before that other student – Raina, you said her name was? – started talking to you.”

“I mean, I…” Skye trailed off, risking a glance over to Ms. Gideon in the hopes of some sort of guidance. The woman’s expression was tight but otherwise unreadable, which didn’t help much.

“Skye?” Mr. Angar pressed.

“Sorry, I… what was the question?”

“Did you ever try to find information about your parents before you met Mr. Johnson or the other student, Raina?”

“Yes,” Skye said slowly. She knew she had to answer, but she couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that Mr. Angar was spinning a spider web that she was about to fly straight into. “I tried looking them up a few times before, I guess. I wanted to know about them. Where I came from.”

“In fact, you did more than just a little research, did you not?” Mr. Angar continued. “You managed to access private information, police and hospital records. You spoke several times with Raina trying to get information about your father, his whereabouts.”

“A couple times, I guess.”

“And you expressed to Raina that you were interested in meeting your father, correct? You approached her about potentially getting in contact with him?”

“She said she knew him,” Skye said. “I… I asked her about him after that. That was before I knew how dangerous he was.”

“And in fact, you ran away from your foster home once before, to try and find your father, didn’t you?”

“No,” Skye said with a frown. “I didn’t run away.”

“No?” asked Mr. Angar with an oily smile. “Because your foster care file has a record that would indicate otherwise. You went missing from your foster home and were found outside a hospital in Sheboygan—”

“Objection!” Ms. Gideon called, standing. “Relevance? Skye’s foster care file has no bearing on the case at hand.”

“I’m trying to establish a pattern of behavior here, your honor,” retorted Mr. Angar. “Miss Johnson has a long history of trying to make contact with her father and of breaking rules and engaging in risky behavior to achieve those ends. Their encounter in November was clearly something that Miss Johnson wanted and had tried to initiate on her own several times in the past.”

Burning shame flared up like a wildfire across Skye’s face, and she became very aware of the tight collar of the sweater rubbing against her neck. How many times had she berated herself with the same accusations – that everything that happened with Cal was her fault, because she couldn’t leave well enough alone, because she had been relentless and reckless in her pursuit of something she had no business wanting or searching for.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge grunted. “But tread carefully, Mr. Angar. Miss Johnson is not the one on trial, here.”

“Of course,” oozed Mr. Angar. “So Skye, let’s return to the matter of your visit to the hospital, shall we? Why did you run away from your foster home back in October of last year?”

“I didn’t run away,” Skye insisted again. “I skipped school to go to Sheboygan, but it was just for the day. I was going to come back.”

“But why go in the first place?”

Skye squirmed a little in her seat. “I was trying to find my birth records at the hospital. To try and find out who my birth parents were.”

“So that you could eventually find them in person, yes? To meet them?”

“I guess so.”

“And as a matter of fact, you found a little more than you were expecting to at the hospital that day, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Skye asked.

Ms. Gideon objected again, before Mr. Angar could clarify. “Once again, your honor, relevance. What does this have to do with Mr. Johnson’s reckless and criminal actions in November?”

“If Ms. Gideon would display a modicum of patience,” Mr. Angar said snidely. “I think the relevance will become quite clear.”

“Make your point quickly, Mr. Angar, or you’ll be asked to drop this line of questioning,” instructed the judge.

“To the point, then,” Mr. Angar nodded, turning back to Skye and directing a new question her way. “Who did you meet outside of the hospital that day?”

Skye’s heart leapt up into her throat and her breath lodged like a jagged piece of metal in her ribs. How did he know about that? With a slow, sickening realization, Skye felt her eyes drag their way over to the table, drawn like an irresistible magnet to the lopsided grin that still haunted her, to the face of the man who had given Mr. Angar the information he was currently trying to fish out of her. The face of the man who had taken her once driving dream and twisted it into the world’s most horrifying nightmare.

“Cal. I met Cal outside the hospital. I didn’t know who he was then, but I think he knew who I was. We talked for a little.”

“Did Mr. Johnson try to tell you about his relationship to you?”

“No.”

“Did he try to persuade you to leave with him? Force you to go with him? Threaten you or your foster family?”

“No,” Skye shook her head. “We just talked about his friend and the weather, mostly, I think. I don’t really remember.”

“So clearly he wasn’t a threat to you then. He wasn’t some sort of dangerous madman intent on kidnapping you if he let you walk away after a few minutes that day, when he would have had ample and easy opportunity to take you unnoticed.”

“Objection!” Ms. Gideon called again. “Calls for speculation.”

“Yes, Mr. Angar, sustained. Let’s not force Miss Johnson into drawing conclusions about Mr. Johnson’s internal motivations.”

“Withdrawn,” Mr. Angar said easily with a quick cut of his eyes over to the jury. “Let me ask you this, then, Skye. When it comes to your father’s motivations, what did he say explicitly to you, during that night you and your foster sister went to meet him of your own free will? What did he tell you about his intentions with you?”

“He… he said he wanted to put our family back together,” Skye murmured, trying and failing to keep her eyes off Cal. He leaned forward slightly in his seat and smiled hopefully as she spoke, sending a clammy chill down her spine into the pit of her stomach. “He said he wanted to fix things.”

“And you told him that you wanted the same thing, too, did you not? That you had been looking for him? Wanted to learn about your family?”

It was chilling to hear her own words echoed back at her in that way, from her mouth, transposed through Cal’s memory and put into Mr. Angar’s smug tone.

“I did tell him that, but—"

“Did he ever say he wanted to hurt you? Or your foster sister?”

“No,” Skye admitted. “He said he would never hurt me. But—"

“And he didn’t mean for your foster sister to be injured either, did he?”

“He said it was an accident,” Skye managed to say. The back of her throat burned as acid climbed up into her mouth, fear that she was messing everything up knotting up her stomach and anger that Mr. Angar wasn’t letting her explain herself making her vision blur.

“In fact, Mr. Johnson tried to help you offer medical aid to your foster sister, didn’t he? Tried to save her life?”

“I saved her life!” Skye erupted, tears burning at the corners of her eyes and her voice breaking slightly on the words. “I held onto her as hard as I could, I got her blood all over me while I tried to keep her from dying because he got mad and shot her. He said he didn’t want to hurt us, but he’s the one who had a gun the whole time and kept threatening to use it if we didn’t do whatever he said. Maybe he didn’t mean to shoot Jemma, but he did, because he was using a gun to hold us hostage, and when she was dying on the floor, all he could think about was how he could get away and take me with him. So don’t try and make it sound like he was trying to do something good. Because he didn’t do anything good that night. He scared us. He hurt us. And he didn’t fix my family, he almost ruined it forever.”

“I understand that this is a difficult situation,” Mr. Angar tried to say, backpedaling slightly, “and I know remembering that night can be emotional—”

“You don’t know anything,” Skye spat. She was crying for real now, but she was angry enough now that she couldn’t stop herself from speaking. She ripped her gaze away from Cal and aimed her full attention back at Mr. Angar, letting her indignation pump her full of the false courage she hadn’t been able to conjure all day. “You weren’t there. You don’t know how terrifying it feels to have a gun pointed at you, or how awful it is to know that you might get taken away from the only people that ever felt like family, or that you might be the reason that the person you love the most in the world dies. You don’t know how it feels to relive all the worst moments of your life over and over again, or to be afraid of everything, all the time now. And you definitely don’t know how it feels to see your sister’s blood on your hands every time you close your eyes or how it feels to stay awake all night long so you can listen and make sure she’s still breathing because you couldn’t live with yourself if you lost her again. So maybe you should just shut up.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and once Skye had managed to take a deep breath, it sunk in that she had probably messed up, big time. None of that was remotely close to the answers Ms. Gideon had coached her to give, and she was sure neither her lawyer nor the imperious judge would appreciate her impertinent outburst.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry for saying ‘shut up,’ your honor.”

“I’ll allow it,” he told her, and to Skye’s surprise, she saw a faint smile twitch at the corners of his moustache. “Mr. Angar, do you have any further questions for this witness?”

Mr. Angar, now wearing a sour expression, hesitated, but eventually relented and shook his head. “No further questions, your honor.”

She stepped down from her seat in an almost fugue state and floated back to her seat next to May and Phil. The nerves and nausea that she’d been battling all day returned in full force and her muscles felt limp as the adrenaline flooded out of her body. Her stomach twisted once more, and she was seized with the overwhelming feeling that she couldn’t stay in the courtroom for one more second.

Even more quickly than she had taken her seat, she stood abruptly, knocking into May’s knees as she bolted for the back of the courtroom and out the door. She was only vaguely aware of the adults calling after her as she fled, but she didn’t care.

Luckily, she made it to the bathroom in time before her stomach betrayed her. Not much came up, since she hadn’t eaten all day, but that wasn’t much of a comfort as her sides heaved in frantic, panicked contractions. It was only a few seconds after she’d finished when May came in and found her huddled on the tile floor, the taste of bile still in her mouth.

“Oh, Skye. Baby…”

The sight of May’s concerned face and her gentle voice was apparently the final straw, and Skye felt herself dissolve into the puddle of emotions she had been resisting for days.

“I’m sorry,” Skye blubbered. “I wasn’t supposed to leave…”

“It’s okay, love.”

May eased herself onto the floor beside Skye and said nothing as Skye practically collapsed in her lap, still crying those painful, jerky sobs. Instead, she just held on tight, rubbing soft patterns into Skye’s back as she cried.

“I felt sick… I didn’t… I didn’t want to get sick in front of everybody…”

“I know, love, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

“You don’t have to go back. We don’t have to ever go back in there if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back. I can’t…”

“It’s over,” May soothed. “It’s over, love. You did such a good job, Skye, and I am so proud of you, but it’s over. We’re not going back.”

“It was horrible.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed May softly. “It was horrible just to watch, and I’m sure it was even more horrible for you to do. But you did it, and now it’s done.”

“I messed it up. I didn’t say the right… they’re going to think it’s all my fault and not Cal’s…”

“No.” Now May’s voice was firm. “No, you didn’t mess up anything. You told the truth, and that’s all you had to do. What happened was not your fault, and everyone who was listening will understand that. You did an amazing thing today.”

Skye, still sniffling but not quite so verklempt, sat up a little bit and turned her face so she could look at May as she asked the fear-riddled question that had been eating away at her for months now. “Do you think Cal’s going to go to jail?”

May was quiet for a moment, a pensive look on her face as she continued rubbing Skye’s back. “I don’t know how the trial will end. I don’t know what the jury will decide, so I can’t give you a sure answer. If I had to guess, I would say that Ms. Gideon has a very strong case against Cal, and after what you shared today, I think most people could understand how dangerous Cal is and how much he’s impacted your life. But we’ll just have to wait and see what the decision is.”

Skye frowned slightly. While not unexpected, it wasn’t really the answer she had wanted to hear.

“I’ll say this, though,” May continued, deadly serious. “No matter what happens with this trial, whether Cal goes to jail or not, I will never let him come anywhere near you ever again. Do you hear me? I will not let him hurt you ever again. He can’t hurt you anymore. I won’t let him. You’re my kid now, not his, and I won’t let him mess with my kid. Not him, and not anyone else, either. No matter what.”

“You promise?” Skye whispered as she nestled deeper into the safety of May’s strong arms.

“With my every breath.”