Monday — "The List" (≈2,100)
I count the stairs to the third floor even though I know there are fourteen. One, two, three—my foot hits the fourth and the rubber tread squeaks the way it always does when it's humid. Four, five, six, and I'm passing the dent in the railing where Jared rammed his backpack freshman year trying to make Maya laugh. Seven, eight, nine, and the light from the stairwell window catches the dust in a way that makes it look like snow. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. The last step lands me on the third-floor landing exactly as the first bell shudders through the speakers.
It doesn't sound right. It crackles at the edges, three long buzzes that seem to run out of breath halfway through, and for a half-second the hallway freezes—lockers half-open, a sneaker squeak, a laugh cut off mid-syllable. Then everyone moves again, faster than usual, like we're trying to outrun the echo.
"Ella!" Maya's voice finds me before I see her. She's on the landing with two paper coffee cups balanced on a stack of flyers for the senior sunset thing on Friday. Her hair is pulled up in the same messy knot she's worn since sophomore year, and there's Sharpie on her forearm already: Jared's signature, lopsided and huge, a tiny basketball next to it, and a phone number that's missing a digit.
"You're late," she says.
"I'm early," I say, which is true. She knows it's true. We have this argument every morning because it's easier than saying anything real.
She hands me the cup with the chipped lid. It's lukewarm and too sweet, the way the cafeteria makes it when they're running low on the good syrup. "For luck," she whispers, and taps the side of her cup against mine. The flyers in her other hand flutter. SENIOR SUNSET — FIELD — 7PM — BRING BLANKETS. Someone has drawn a terrible sun with sunglasses in the corner.
We walk. The hallway on the third floor smells like floor wax and dry-erase markers and something faintly metallic, like the radiators are thinking about turning on even though it's May. The lion statue at the top of the main staircase is already surrounded. It's a dumb tradition—tap the chipped ear twice on your way in during finals week—but by Wednesday of last week everyone started doing it every day, just in case. The stone is warm from the sun coming through the front doors. I tap it twice. Maya taps it twice. Jared, coming up behind us with his backpack half-zipped and a granola bar hanging out of the side pocket, taps it three times for luck and then pretends he didn't.
"Three's cheating," Maya says.
"Three's insurance," Jared says. He's got ink on his thumb. He shows us: someone wrote J + M 4ever in a heart on the back of his hand. The M could be Maya, could be Mia from chem, could be his mom. He doesn't say.
Room 12B is open and Mr. Alvarez is inside taping up a banner that reads CONGRATS GRADS in letters cut from last year's prom programs. You can still see the glitter on the back of the G. He's given up on attendance. On the whiteboard he's written the date—May 27—in his careful block letters and then, underneath, Be good humans. The chalk dust hangs in the air.
I spend the first ten minutes of class watching the clock. It ticks louder than it should. Freshman year I was convinced the clocks in this building were set to different times on purpose, like a test. Now I know they're just old. I think about how many minutes I've spent in this room—Algebra I with Mr. Alvarez when I didn't know how to solve for x without panicking, then again senior year when I finally got it. The room smells the same, chalk and dry-erase markers and the faint metallic tang of the heaters. I write that down because I'm scared I'll forget.
Third period is English. Ms. Patel isn't teaching. She's sitting at her desk with a stack of our final essays and a pad of yellow Post-its. When she calls your name you go up and she hands you the essay with a note stuck to the front. Keep writing. —P is what most of them say. Mine says Keep writing, even when you think no one's reading. It's in her quick, slanted hand, the P underlined twice. I fold the Post-it and slide it into the front pocket of my notebook, next to the bus ticket stub from the field trip to the art museum sophomore year and the photo-booth strip where Maya and I are both blinking.
"Ella?" Ms. Patel says as I turn to go. "You're going to be fine, you know."
I nod because I don't trust my voice. I don't know if she means college or life or just getting through Friday without crying in the bathroom. It doesn't matter. I fold the essay into my bag and sit down at my desk, which has my initials carved into the corner from the first week of freshman year when I thought that kind of thing was permanent.
In the margin of my essay she's written a tiny note in pencil: This part—about the hallway? That's the good stuff. Stay there longer. It's next to a paragraph where I described the third-floor hallway in winter, how the radiators clanged and how you could tell who was coming by the sound of their shoes.
At lunch we sit at our table by the windows—the one with the wobbly leg and the view of the parking lot and the far edge of the track. The sun is high and the glass is warm against my shoulder. Jared spreads out his lunch—an apple, a bag of pretzels, and the granola bar from his backpack, which is now in three pieces—and announces his plan.
"We steal the lion," he says.
Maya snorts into her water. "Absolutely not."
"I'm serious," Jared says, which is how you know he isn't. "One night. We borrow it. We take a photo. We put it back before anyone notices. It's symbolic."
"Stealing the lion is not symbolic," I say. "It's heavy."
"It's a metaphor," Jared says. "We're leaving, the lion stays. Or the lion leaves, and we stay. Either way it's art."
Maya is already drawing on a napkin. It's a terrible map: a rectangle labeled SCHOOL, a blob labeled LION, an arrow that goes around the side and then stops at a question mark. She writes rope? and underlines it three times.
I should tell them I don't want to steal the lion. I should tell them I'm scared that if we do something big and stupid, it will be the only thing I remember, and I want to remember other things—like the way the third-floor hallway sounds when it's empty, or the specific shade of yellow Ms. Patel uses for her Post-its, or the fact that Maya always taps her cup twice against mine before she drinks. Instead I say, "If we get caught, I'm blaming both of you."
"Noted," Jared says. He leans back in his chair, which creaks. The wobbly leg of the table shifts. Outside, a junior is trying to parallel park in the student lot and failing spectacularly. A group of sophomores walks past the window and one of them waves at us like we're already ghosts.
The bell rings. Three buzzes, tired and loud. There's that pause again—the breath everyone takes before they move. I count it in my head: one, two, three. Then the hallway fills.
In my notebook, under today's date, I start a list. I don't label it. I just write:
Thank Mr. Alvarez for the banner.Sit on the roof at least once.Find the photo-booth strip from freshman year and give Maya her half.Tell Maya the thing I've been holding.Learn the trumpet kid's name.
I close the notebook before anyone can see. The list feels like a promise and also like a threat. I don't know which yet.
After school I walk home the long way, past the field where they're setting up the risers for graduation. The metal frames are stacked like a skeleton. The grass smells like it's been cut too short. Someone has left a single blue graduation gown on a bench; it flutters when the wind picks up. I think about how this week is going to be made of last times and first times, and how I'm not going to be very good at telling them apart.
The elementary school lets out earlier than we do. The little kids spill onto the sidewalk in a wave of neon backpacks and untied shoes. A girl with a missing front tooth is dragging a jacket that's three sizes too big. She looks up at me like she recognizes me from somewhere—maybe because I used to be her, same jacket, same walk, same feeling that the day was too long and too short at the same time.
My house is the third on the left, with the mailbox that sticks. Mom's car is already in the driveway, which means she got off early or she's working from the kitchen table again. The screen door squeaks. Inside, the house smells like garlic and toast. Mom is at the table with her laptop open and a stack of mail she's been using as a coaster.
"You're home early," she says without looking up.
"School's half fake this week," I say. I drop my bag by the door. It slumps against the wall like it's tired too.
She finally looks. "How was the last first day?"
"It was fine. Ms. Patel gave me a Post-it." I don't show it to her. I'm not ready for it to become a thing she puts on the fridge.
"Famous last words?" she asks.
"Something like that."
Dinner is spaghetti because it's Monday and we always have spaghetti on Monday, even when there's nothing else that feels normal. Mom talks about her boss, about the neighbor's dog, about the fact that the grocery store moved the cereal again. I push noodles around my plate and think about my list. Thank Mr. Alvarez for the banner. That one will be easy. Sit on the roof at least once. That one might get me in trouble. Tell Maya the thing I've been holding. That one is stuck somewhere between my throat and my stomach.
After dinner I go up to my room and dump my bag onto the bed. The essay slides out, the Post-it still stuck to the front. Keep writing, even when you think no one's reading. I open my notebook to the list. The lines I wrote at lunch look too neat, like they belong to someone who has a plan. I add another one, smaller, in the corner: Figure out what I'm actually scared of. I stare at it until the letters stop looking like words.
My phone buzzes. It's the group chat.
Jared: research update: lion is bolted down lol
Maya: we need a wrench
Jared: or a forklift
Maya: or we just take a photo WITH it like normal people
Jared: where's the fun in that
I type we are not stealing the lion and delete it. I type maybe we just tap it twice and call it a day and delete that too. Finally I send: bring snacks tomorrow. Maya sends a thumbs-up. Jared sends a photo of the lion from a weird angle that makes it look like it's judging him. I laugh, and it surprises me.
Later, when the house is quiet, I sit on the floor by my window and look out at the street. The streetlight buzzes. A car passes and throws light across my ceiling. I think about how tomorrow is Tuesday and how that used to mean nothing, and now it means one day closer to the end. I think about the trumpet kid in the band room—I still don't know his name—and the way he misses the same note every time, like he's leaving a space for something.
I write in my notebook until my hand cramps, not the list, just the day, exactly as it happened, because Ms. Patel said stay there longer. I write about the squeak on the fourth stair and the way the dust looked like snow and the exact shade of yellow on the Post-it. I write until I'm not scared that I'll forget, and then I keep writing anyway.
The fan Mom brought in rattles against the dresser. The curtains move. I fall asleep with the notebook open on my chest and the streetlight making stripes on the wall.
Tuesday — "Rehearsal" (≈2,100)
The stairwell is already warm by 7:50. I skip counting today—one, two, three, and then I lose track because Maya is talking fast about the senior sunset thing on Friday and whether we're supposed to bring blankets or chairs or both.
"You're supposed to bring yourself," I say.
"Yeah, but also snacks," Maya says. She has a tote bag with two granola bars, a bag of pretzel sticks, and a single orange she stole from the cafeteria. There's Sharpie on her other forearm now: a tiny sun with sunglasses that matches the flyer from yesterday.
We tap the lion twice. The stone is cool; it rained last night for twenty minutes, just enough to make the steps dark. Jared is already at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing like he's been waiting for hours. He's got a smudge of blue paint on his elbow.
"Art project?" I ask.
"Blocked the hallway for the mural," he says. "Ms. Chen says it has to be done by Thursday or we paint over it."
"Are you going to finish?" Maya asks.
"Probably not," Jared says, cheerful. "But I'll make it look intentional."
First period is a blur. Mr. Alvarez has added another line under the date on the board: May 28. Be good humans. Leave it better than you found it. Someone has drawn a tiny lion next to it with chalk. He doesn't erase it.
I spend most of the period watching the clock and the dust in the air. The clock ticks louder than it should. When I was a freshman I was convinced the clocks in this building were set to different times on purpose, like a test. Now I know they're just old. I think about how many minutes I've spent in this room—Algebra I with Mr. Alvarez when I didn't know how to solve for x without panicking, then again senior year when I finally got it. The room smells the same, chalk and dry-erase markers and the faint metallic tang of the heaters. I write that down in my notebook because I'm scared I'll forget.
Graduation rehearsal is second period in the auditorium. We file in by homeroom, which is pointless because nobody sits where they're supposed to. The stage smells like dust and old varnish. The risers from the field are half-assembled here too, like the school can't decide where the ending should happen. Ms. Delaney, the choir teacher, claps her hands and says, "Walking is not a performance art, people. Left foot, right foot, that's it."
We practice walking. It's stupid and also strangely serious. Maya keeps stepping on the back of my shoe. Jared keeps pretending to trip. When we get to the part where we're supposed to turn and face the audience, the jazz band starts the graduation march from the pit. The trumpet kid—still don't know his name—misses the same note he missed yesterday, and then again on the repeat. It's a small, flat miss, like a breath that doesn't land. He winces every time.
After, in the hallway, I finally ask the girl next to me, "What's his name?"
"Who, Marcus?" she says. "He's a sophomore. He's terrified."
Marcus. Okay. I write it in my notebook under yesterday's list, not as a task, just so I have it.
The hallway after rehearsal is a mess of people trying to get to class and people trying not to get to class. Someone has spilled a coffee and it's spreading across the linoleum in a dark river. Mr. Ortiz shows up with a mop and a sign that says WET FLOOR in two languages. He nods at me as he works. I wonder how many spills he's cleaned up in fifteen years and whether he remembers any of them.
I duck into the library for five minutes because it's quiet. The librarian, Ms. Simmons, is reshelving books with a cart that squeaks. She doesn't look up. I run my finger along the spines in the fiction section—A, B, C—until I find the copy of the book I checked out in ninth grade for a project and never returned. It's still here. I pull it out, flip to the back, and see my name in pencil on the card: E. Rivera, 9/14/22. The date looks impossibly young. I put it back.
Yearbook signing is supposed to be during lunch, but the books got delayed and only half the class has theirs. The rest of us pass around a stack of printer paper that someone cut into rectangles and stapled. It feels more real than the actual yearbooks anyway. Maya writes in mine in all caps: ELLA DON'T FORGET US WHEN YOU'RE FAMOUS. I write in hers: You're the reason I know where the third floor is.
Jared finds me by the vending machine after lunch. He's holding a wrench. "For research," he says. I stare at it. "Put that back," I say. He grins and slips it into his backpack, where it clanks against a water bottle.
"Seriously," I say. "That's not funny if someone sees."
"It's a metaphorical wrench," Jared says, which is not a thing.
Maya shows up with a napkin that has a new version of the map. The arrow goes around the side of the building now and there's a stick figure labeled M holding a rope. "We're not using a rope," I say.
"We're not stealing the lion," Maya says at the same time, and we both look at Jared.
"Noted," Jared says again, which means he's going to keep talking about it.
Fourth period is history. Mr. Lee is showing a documentary about the 1960s and the projector keeps overheating. Every few minutes the image flickers and he smacks the side of the machine like that's a solution. The room is dark and someone is snoring quietly in the back. I think about time capsules—how people in the documentary buried things they thought were important and then dug them up later and laughed. I wonder what we'd put in ours if we had one. Probably a Sharpie. Probably a granola bar.
After school the back staircase is empty. I take it because the main one is clogged with sophomores trying to get yearbook signatures from seniors like we're celebrities. The back stairs smell like cleaning fluid and the handrail is loose on the third turn. I like it because no one talks here; you can hear your own footsteps.
The mural hallway is blocked off with a strip of blue tape that says CAUTION in faded letters. Behind it, Jared is on a stepladder, a streak of blue paint in his hair. The mural is supposed to be a timeline of the school—lion, books, a bridge, whatever—but right now it's mostly blue sky and one very determined-looking bird.
"Is the bird symbolic?" I ask.
"It's a pigeon," Jared says. "Symbol of survival."
Ms. Chen walks by with a stack of art portfolios. "Thursday, Jared. Or we paint over it."
"Art is pain," Jared says solemnly. Ms. Chen rolls her eyes but she's smiling.
Maya finds me outside the art room. She's got a paper rectangle from the makeshift yearbooks and she's chewing on the end of her pen. "What do you want me to write?" she asks.
"Something true," I say.
She writes: You're the only person I know who counts stairs. I laugh and write in hers: You're the only person I know who taps a stone lion for luck and means it.
We sit on the floor for a while, backs against the lockers, watching people pass. A freshman drops a stack of papers and they flutter everywhere. A senior I don't know very well stops to help, and the freshman looks at him like he's a hero. I think about how we were them and how we'll be someone else soon and how weird it is that both things can be true at the same time.
I remember freshman orientation, how Maya and I got lost trying to find the gym and ended up in the boiler room. We sat on a concrete ledge and ate the granola bars from our welcome packets and decided we'd be friends because we were both bad at directions. That feels like a different life and also like yesterday.
On the bus ride home I end up next to Marcus. He has his trumpet case on his lap and he's reading something on his phone with the screen brightness turned all the way down. I don't say anything at first because I'm not sure how to start. Then the bus hits a pothole and his case slides and I catch it before it falls.
"Thanks," he says. He looks tired.
"You're Marcus," I say.
He blinks. "Yeah. You're Ella."
"How do you know?"
"You read that essay in English last month. About the hallway."
"Oh." I didn't think anyone was listening.
"You missed a note today," I say, because I'm bad at small talk.
He laughs, a little embarrassed. "I miss it every time. My band teacher says I'm anticipating the landing."
"Maybe you just like the space it leaves," I say.
He looks at me like that's a strange thing to say, but not bad. "Maybe."
We don't talk for the rest of the ride. It's comfortable. The bus rattles. The windows are scratched with years of initials and bad drawings. I watch the streets go by—houses I've passed a thousand times, the grocery store with the flickering sign, the park where Maya broke her arm on the swings in seventh grade. It's the same route it's always been, but today I notice the way the light comes through the trees and makes patterns on the seats.
Mom is making soup when I get home. The kitchen smells like onions and broth. She's got her laptop open again and a stack of college emails printed out, which means she opened them even if I didn't.
"Did you practice walking today?" she asks.
"We're getting better at it," I say. "Left foot, right foot."
She smiles into her soup. "You're going to be okay, you know."
Everyone keeps saying that. I want to believe them.
After dinner I sit at my desk and open my notebook. I add to the list:
Don't let Jared actually bring the wrench to school.Ask Marcus if he practices at 7 a.m.Tell Maya I'm scared I'll forget the sound of the third-floor hallway.
The group chat lights up.
Jared: update: wrench is in my locker for safekeeping
Maya: that is not safekeeping
Ella: that is a bad idea
Jared: noted
I put my phone on my dresser and turn off the overhead light. The streetlight comes through the blinds in stripes. I write about the pigeon on the mural and the way Ms. Chen's eyes crinkled when she smiled and the sound of Marcus's trumpet case clicking shut. I write until the day feels like something I can hold onto.
Tomorrow is Wednesday. Roof day, if we're brave enough. Or if Maya finishes the map on her napkin.
Wednesday — "The Roof" (≈2,100)
I don't count the stairs. I just take them. The rain from Monday is gone and the concrete is dry and pale again. The lion is warm when I tap it—two times, quick, like I'm in a hurry even though I'm not. Maya is already at the top with a tote bag that's too full; a blanket is sticking out the top and there's a bruise on her knee from yesterday when she tripped over the risers in the auditorium.
"You're limping," I say.
"I'm striding with character," she says. She taps the lion twice and whispers, "For luck," and it feels less like a joke today.
Jared is waiting by the art hallway with paint on his knuckles. The mural has a new section—a swirl of green that might be a tree or might be a mistake. The blue tape is still up. Ms. Chen walks by with coffee and says, "Thursday, Jared," without breaking stride.
"Art is pain," Jared calls after her.
"Art is a deadline," she calls back.
First period is a quiz in calculus that I forgot was happening. I stare at the first problem until the numbers stop swimming and then I do the thing Mr. Alvarez taught us: write down what you know, even if it's not the answer. I write y = mx + b in the margin like a talisman. By the time the bell rings I've filled the page with work that might be right. It doesn't matter. The point was that I stayed.
Between classes the hallway is loud in that specific end-of-year way—people shouting things they don't mean, lockers slamming, someone playing music from a phone. A sophomore stops me and asks if I'll sign her yearbook even though she doesn't have one. I sign the back of her math worksheet. She says thanks like I gave her something valuable.
Second period is study hall in the library. Ms. Simmons has put out a cart of "beach reads" for the summer. I pick up a paperback with a cracked spine and flip through it. Someone has underlined a sentence on page 47: You can't go home again, but you can carry it with you. I write that in my notebook and then feel embarrassed, like I stole it. I put the book back.
At lunch we sit at our table with the wobbly leg. Maya spreads out her napkin map. It's more detailed now: a rectangle for the school, a blob for the lion, an arrow that goes around the side to the maintenance door, a stick figure labeled M with a rope, and a stick figure labeled J with a wrench. There's a new note in the corner: ROOF ACCESS?
"We're not stealing the lion," I say.
"We're not stealing it," Maya says. "We're borrowing it for a photo. Then we put it back."
"That's still stealing," I say.
"It's a temporary relocation," Jared says.
Maya looks at me. "You don't have to do it."
"I know," I say, which is true and also not.
After lunch we don't go to class right away. We go up the back staircase to the third floor and then up the narrower stairs to the maintenance level where the door to the roof is. The door is locked, but the window next to it isn't. Maya pushes it open and climbs out onto the flat tar roof like she's done it before. Jared follows. I hesitate with my hands on the sill. The tar is hot. The sky is huge.
"Come on," Maya says. "It's not illegal if the window was open."
"That's not how laws work," I say, and climb out anyway.
The roof is bigger than I expected. There's a low wall around the edge and a view of the field, the parking lot, the neighborhood beyond. The risers for graduation are set up and from up here they look like a skeleton. The track is empty. The sun is high and makes everything look washed out and honest.
We sit with our backs against the HVAC unit, which hums. Maya pulls out the blanket and spreads it over the tar. Jared has a bag of pretzels and an apple. I have nothing because I didn't know we were doing this. Maya tears the apple into three pieces with her hands and gives me the biggest one.
"Okay," she says. "List your lasts."
"Last quiz," Jared says.
"Last time getting lost in the boiler room," Maya says, looking at me.
"Last time tapping the lion," I say.
We're quiet for a while. The wind picks up and lifts the edge of the blanket. From up here you can see the elementary school and the park and the grocery store with the flickering sign. It looks like a map of my life. I think about freshman year when Maya and I got lost and ended up in the boiler room, how we sat on the concrete and ate granola bars and promised we'd learn the building. We never really did. We just learned the parts that mattered.
"Are you scared?" Maya asks, not looking at me.
"Yes," I say. "Are you?"
"Yeah."
Jared doesn't answer. He's looking out at the field. After a minute he says, "My dad keeps asking if I'm ready. I don't know what that means."
"Ready for what?" Maya asks.
"Anything," Jared says.
The HVAC clicks off and the sudden quiet is loud. I hear a bus on the street below, a dog barking, the distant thwack of a tennis ball from the courts by the park. I write in my notebook because I can't help it: roof tar hot, wind, apple pieces, Maya's bruise, Jared's paint, the way the risers look like bones.
We stay up there until the bell for fifth period rings, muffled. Maya climbs back through the window first, then me, then Jared. The hallway is empty and we're late and no one cares. I have tar on the back of my jeans.
English is quiet. Ms. Patel has put a stack of books on the front table with a sign: Take one for the summer. Bring it back when you're ready. I take a thin paperback with a blue cover. She sees me and slides a Post-it across her desk without saying anything. It says: The roof is a good place to think. Don't fall off. —P I fold it into my notebook.
After school I walk the long way home again, past the field. The risers are empty. The white chair from yesterday is gone. Mr. Ortiz is coiling an extension cord. He waves. I wave back. The blue gown is still gone.
Mom is home early and the house smells like laundry. She's folding towels on the couch and watching the news with the sound off. The captions say something about a heat wave coming.
"How was the last third day?" she asks.
"I went on the roof," I say.
She raises her eyebrows. "Was that allowed?"
"Probably not."
She nods like she's deciding whether to be a mom or a person. "Did you think?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
Dinner is tacos. Mom asks about college emails again and I say I opened two. She asks which ones and I say the local state school and the one with the good writing program. She doesn't push. We eat and talk about the neighbor's dog and the heat wave and whether we should get a fan for my room.
After dinner I sit at my desk and add to the list:
Don't fall off the roof.Ask Marcus if he really practices at 7 a.m.Tell Maya I'm scared I'll forget the way the HVAC hums.
The group chat buzzes.
Maya: roof was good
Jared: roof was very good
Ella: we're going to get in trouble
Maya: worth it
Jared: also the wrench is still in my locker
Ella: Jared
Jared: for safekeeping!
I put my phone face down and open the paperback from Ms. Patel. The first page is about a girl who leaves her town and comes back and finds that everything is smaller. I read three pages and then I get distracted by the streetlight coming through the blinds. It makes stripes on my wall. I used to count them when I was little.
There's a knock on my door and Mom comes in with a fan. "For the heat wave," she says. She sets it on my dresser and plugs it in. It rattles.
"Thanks," I say.
She sits on the edge of my bed. "You know you can be scared and ready at the same time, right?"
"I don't feel ready."
"That's okay."
She leaves the door open a crack when she goes. The fan makes the curtains move.
I write in my notebook about the roof—the way the tar stuck to my shoes, the way the blanket fluttered, the way the field looked from above, like a diagram. I write about Maya's bruise and Jared's paint and the apple torn into three pieces. I write about the fact that I didn't tell Maya the thing I've been holding, and that I don't even know what the thing is exactly, only that it's shaped like a goodbye.
I text Marcus before I can talk myself out of it: do you practice at 7? He replies a minute later: yeah. band room. why? I stare at the screen. I type no reason and delete it. I type want to hear the note when it lands and delete it. I type see you there maybe and send it before I can change my mind.
The fan rattles. The curtains move. I write until my hand cramps and then I keep writing because Ms. Patel said stay there longer and because I'm scared that if I stop I'll forget the way the roof felt under my hands.
Tomorrow is Thursday. The mural is due. The wrench is still in Jared's locker. The lion is still bolted down.
Thursday — "Capsule" (≈2,100)
I wake up before my alarm. The fan Mom put in my room rattles against the dresser and the curtains move in the same rhythm. The streetlight is off. The sky is that blue that isn't really a color yet. I lie there and listen to the house—Mom's coffee machine, the click of the thermostat, a car going by. My phone says 6:12. I get up because I said I would.
The school is quiet at 7 a.m. in a way it never is during the day. The front doors are unlocked but the hallways are empty and the lights are half on, like the building is still stretching. The lion is cold when I tap it. My hand comes away with a little dust.
The band room door is propped open with a music stand. Marcus is inside with his trumpet, sitting on the edge of a chair, not playing. He's got sheet music on a stand and a pencil behind his ear. He looks up when I come in and almost drops the pencil.
"You came," he says.
"You said seven," I say.
He laughs, nervous. "I'm warming up. Or trying to." He lifts the trumpet and plays a scale. It's slow and careful. When he gets to the note—the one he misses during rehearsal—he stops, breathes, and tries again. The third time it lands, clean and whole. He looks surprised and then pleased in a private way.
"You did it," I say.
"Don't tell anyone," he says. "I have a reputation to maintain."
"I won't." I sit on the chair next to him. The band room smells like brass and old carpet. There's a poster on the wall that says PRACTICE MAKES PERMANENT. Someone has added or at least less embarrassing in Sharpie.
We don't talk much. He plays the phrase again, and again. The note lands twice, misses once, lands again. I write in my notebook because I can't help it: 7:13 a.m., trumpet, clean note, pencil behind ear, poster.
"Why did you come?" he asks without looking at me.
"I don't know," I say, which is true. "Maybe because Ms. Patel told me you practice at seven."
He smiles. "She tells everyone everything."
The bell rings at 7:40, thin and far away. The building wakes up around us. I leave before the hallway fills because I don't want to explain why I was in the band room.
Maya is waiting by the lion with two coffees and a tote bag that has a blanket sticking out again. She's got Sharpie on both forearms now—Jared's signature, the sun with sunglasses, and a tiny pigeon that must be for the mural.
"You're early," she says.
"I'm consistent," I say. We tap the lion—two taps, quick. It's warm already.
Jared is in the mural hallway with blue paint on his cheek and a look on his face like he hasn't slept. The bird is finished and the green swirl is a tree now and there's a bridge that wasn't there yesterday. The blue tape is still up. Ms. Chen is standing with her arms crossed, holding a coffee.
"Thursday," she says.
"I know," Jared says.
"It's good," she says, which surprises him. "Finish the corner by the door and you're done."
Jared blinks. "Really?"
"Really. And clean your face."
He grins, sudden and bright. He turns to us and whispers, "Did you hear that? She said it's good."
"We heard," Maya says. She looks as relieved as he does.
First period is a review that no one pays attention to. Mr. Alvarez has added another line under the date: May 29. Be good humans. Leave it better than you found it. Take what you need, leave what you can. Someone has drawn a tiny pigeon next to the lion. He doesn't erase it.
Between classes the hallway is a traffic jam of people carrying boxes to their cars, posters, plants from the science wing. A freshman asks me if I'll sign her yearbook. I sign the back of a quiz she's holding. She says thanks like I gave her something valuable.
Lunch is at our table with the wobbly leg. Maya spreads out the napkin map. The arrow around the side of the building is darker now, gone over with pen. There's a new note: CAPSULE? with a question mark and an exclamation point.
"Mr. Lee was talking about time capsules in history," she says. "What if we make one?"
"Like for the school?" Jared asks.
"Like for us," Maya says. "We bury it behind the science wing where the old greenhouse used to be. We dig it up in ten years."
"That's a long time," I say.
"That's the point," Maya says.
Jared pulls the wrench out of his backpack and sets it on the table. It clanks against the leg and the table wobbles.
"Put that back," I say.
"It's for the capsule," Jared says. "Symbolic."
"It's a wrench," Maya says.
"It can be both," Jared says.
Ms. Delaney walks by with a stack of sheet music and stops. "Is that a wrench?"
"It's a metaphor," Jared says.
"It's a wrench," Ms. Delaney says. "Put it away before someone gets an idea."
Jared puts it away, but he's grinning.
After lunch we go to the science wing. The old greenhouse is just a concrete pad now with weeds growing through the cracks. Mr. Lee is outside with a box of beakers he's getting rid of. He sees us looking at the pad and says, "You're not burying anything weird, are you?"
"Define weird," Jared says.
"Do it somewhere I don't have to explain to the principal," Mr. Lee says, and goes back inside.
We decide on a spot behind the pad where the dirt is soft. Maya has a tin box from her kitchen—cookies, now empty. We sit on the ground and figure out what to put in. Maya puts in the napkin map, folded small. Jared puts in a paintbrush with blue on the bristles. I put in the Post-it from Ms. Patel that says Keep writing, even when you think no one's reading. I hesitate and then add the photo-booth strip from sophomore year, the one where Maya and I are both blinking.
"We should write letters," Maya says.
"To who?" Jared asks.
"To ourselves," Maya says. "In ten years."
We use the backs of worksheets because that's what we have. Jared writes fast and folds his paper into a tiny square. Maya writes slow and keeps crossing things out. I write Dear Ella at the top and then stare at it until the words come.
I write about the lion and the stairs and the way the third-floor hallway sounds when it's empty. I write about the roof and the apple torn into three pieces. I write about Marcus landing the note at 7:13 a.m. I write about being scared and about Mom's fan and about the fact that I still haven't told Maya the thing I've been holding. I write: If you forget, come back and stand on the roof. You'll remember.
We put the letters in the tin. Jared adds the wrench at the last second, even though Maya says it's a bad idea. "It's symbolic," he says. "Tools build things."
"Tools also take things apart," Maya says.
"Exactly," Jared says.
We dig with our hands because we don't have a shovel. The dirt gets under my nails. When the hole is deep enough we put the tin in and cover it. Maya pats the dirt flat with her palm. Jared puts a rock on top, like a marker.
"There," Maya says. "Ten years."
We're quiet. A bell rings somewhere far away. The sun is hot on our necks. I think about the fact that in ten years we'll be different people and maybe we won't come back and maybe the school will have painted over the mural and taken down the lion. I think about how burying something is also a kind of promise.
On the way back inside, Jared stops at his locker and opens it. The wrench is gone because it's in the ground. He stares at the empty space like he lost something.
"Are you okay?" Maya asks.
"Yeah," he says. "Just weird."
Ms. Chen finds us in the hallway and says, "Come see." The mural is done. The corner by the door is filled in with a tiny signature: J. M. + friends. The pigeon is flying over the bridge. The lion is at the beginning, like a starting point. It's good. It's really good.
Jared cries, once, quickly, and wipes his face with his sleeve. Maya hugs him sideways. I take a picture with my phone even though I know I'm not supposed to.
After school the field is busy. They're testing the sound system for graduation and the speakers crackle. Mr. Ortiz is uncoiling cables. He sees me and says, "You gonna cry tomorrow?"
"Probably," I say.
"Good," he says. "Means you paid attention."
Mom is home when I get there. She's in the kitchen with her laptop and a list of things she needs to pack for the weekend. She looks up and says, "How was the last fourth day?"
"We buried a time capsule," I say.
"Of course you did," she says.
Dinner is leftovers again. We talk about the heat wave and the fan and the fact that the neighbor's dog got out again. After, I sit at my desk and add to my list without thinking:
Remember the sound of the HVAC on the roof.Remember Marcus at 7:13.Remember Jared's face when Ms. Chen said it's good.Tell Maya I'm scared I'll forget her laugh.
The group chat is quiet for a while. Then Maya sends a picture of the mural. Jared sends a picture of the rock on top of the capsule. I send the picture of the mural too, even though it's the same.
Maya: ten years
Jared: bring a shovel next time
Ella: bring snacks
I turn off the overhead light. The fan rattles. The curtains move. I open my notebook and write about the dirt under my nails and the weight of the tin and the way Maya patted the ground flat like she was tucking it in. I write about Marcus's note landing and the look on his face, private and pleased. I write about the pigeon flying over the bridge.
Tomorrow is Friday. Sunset on the field. Last bell. The lion will still be there, bolted down. We won't steal it. We'll just tap it twice and keep going.
Friday — "Sunset / Last Bell" (≈2,100)
I don't set an alarm. The light comes in early and the fan makes the curtains move. Mom is already up, coffee going, her keys on the counter like she's waiting for me to be ready. I'm not ready. I get up anyway.
The school feels different at 7:30 on a Friday that's also an ending. The parking lot is full of cars with balloons tied to the antennas. Someone has written Class of '26 on the back window of a truck in shoe polish. The lion is surrounded by the time we get there. People are taking photos with it, tapping the ear, leaving sticky notes on the base. Maya taps it twice. I tap it twice. Jared taps it three times and says, "For insurance," and none of us correct him.
The hallway is loud in a happy way. Seniors are wearing the T-shirts we got last fall for the fundraiser, faded and soft now. The shirts say ONE MORE YEAR and it feels like a joke and also not. Mr. Alvarez has written on the board: May 30. Be good humans. Leave it better than you found it. Come back and visit. Someone has added a tiny sun with sunglasses next to the lion and the pigeon.
First period is a slideshow of photos from the year. The lights are off and the projector hums. There's a picture of the lion with snow on its head from January. There's a picture of the risers being built. There's a picture of Jared with blue paint on his face from yesterday. He ducks his head and Maya pokes him in the ribs. There's a picture of me and Maya in the photo booth sophomore year, both blinking. I forgot it existed until now. I look at it and feel a weird rush of love for the two kids we were.
Second period we're supposed to clean out our lockers. Mine is mostly empty already. I find a granola bar wrapper from September, a pencil with teeth marks, the corner of a worksheet with a doodle of the lion. I find the Post-it Ms. Patel gave me on Monday, the one that said Keep writing, even when you think no one's reading. It's folded small and soft at the edges. I put it in my notebook with the others.
Maya's locker is a museum. She has every note anyone ever passed her, a broken keychain, a single glove. She finds the other half of the photo-booth strip from sophomore year and hands it to me without saying anything. I put it next to mine in my notebook. They match perfectly. We both blink.
Jared's locker is empty except for a paintbrush and a sticker that says ART IS PAIN. He peels the sticker off and sticks it to the inside of his backpack.
At lunch we don't sit at our table. We sit on the floor in the hallway because the cafeteria is too loud and because the floor is where we've had all the important conversations anyway. Maya has a bag of pretzels and an orange. Jared has a bag of chips and an apple he tears into three pieces with his hands, giving me the biggest one like always. I have nothing because I forgot, and Maya gives me half her orange.
"We're not stealing the lion," I say, because it needs to be said one last time.
"We're not stealing the lion," Maya agrees.
"We're leaving it better than we found it," Jared says.
We sit there until the bell rings. We don't get up right away. We listen to the hallway fill and then empty and then fill again.
Fourth period is the last class we'll have together—English. Ms. Patel doesn't teach. She just talks. She says, "You don't have to know what you're doing next. You just have to keep paying attention." She hands out the books from her summer stack. I get the blue paperback I started on Wednesday. Inside the front cover she's written Stay longer. —P. I fold it into my notebook with the Post-its.
When the bell rings, she stands at the door and hugs everyone who wants one. I hug her and she whispers, "Keep writing, Ella." I nod because I can't speak.
The last bell rings at 2:45. Three long buzzes that crackle at the edges. The hallway freezes for a second—lockers half-open, a sneaker squeak, a laugh cut off mid-syllable—and then everyone moves, faster than usual, like we're trying to outrun the echo. Maya grabs my hand. Jared grabs Maya's other hand. We walk out together into the sun.
The field is full. There are blankets everywhere and coolers and parents with cameras. The risers are set up and the speakers crackle. The jazz band is warming up. Marcus is there with his trumpet, standing off to the side. He sees me and lifts his hand, just a little. I lift mine back.
We spread our blanket—Maya's blanket, the one from the roof—on the grass near the fifty-yard line. The sun is already low and everything is gold. Jared lies back and puts his arm over his eyes. Maya takes off her shoes and digs her toes into the grass. I sit between them and write in my notebook because I can't help it: last bell, gold light, Marcus's hand, the way the field smells like cut grass.
The principal talks. Someone reads a poem. The choir sings. The jazz band plays the graduation march. When they get to the part where Marcus usually misses the note, he lands it clean. He looks surprised for half a second and then pleased in a private way. I clap louder than I mean to.
After, the sky turns pink and then orange. Maya takes out her phone and plays music, low. Jared finds a frisbee and throws it with some freshmen. People start to leave in waves. The sun gets lower.
"Okay," Maya says. "List your lasts."
"Last locker," Jared says.
"Last bell," Maya says.
"Last sunset here," I say.
We watch it go down. The field turns blue. The lights come on. The risers look like bones in the dark. Maya leans her head on my shoulder. Jared comes back with the frisbee and sits down hard, out of breath.
"I'm scared," I say, because I promised myself I would.
"Me too," Maya says.
"Me three," Jared says.
We sit there until the field is almost empty and the janitors start picking up trash. Mr. Ortiz waves at us from the track. We wave back.
We walk back to the school because we're not ready to go home. The lion is there, bolted down, with sticky notes all over the base. We tap it twice, all three of us, at the same time. The stone is warm from the day.
Maya pulls out a Sharpie and writes on the base, small, where no one will see unless they look: E + M + J. Jared adds a tiny pigeon next to it.
"Ten years," Maya says, and I know she's thinking about the capsule.
"Ten years," I say.
We stand there until the lights in the hallway go off one by one. The building looks asleep. I think about Monday, the fourth stair squeaking, the Post-it, the list. I think about Tuesday, the rehearsal, Marcus's missed note. I think about Wednesday, the roof, the apple torn into three pieces. I think about Thursday, the dirt under my nails, the tin in the ground. I think about now.
Mom is waiting in the car when we finally come out. She rolls down the window and says, "How was the last last day?"
"It was good," I say. My voice cracks.
She nods. "You're going to be okay, you know."
I get in. Maya and Jared wave from the steps. I wave back.
At home I sit at my desk and open my notebook to the list. I cross out Thank Mr. Alvarez for the banner because I did, at lunch, and he said "You're welcome, kid," and it felt like enough. I cross out Sit on the roof at least once. I cross out Learn the trumpet kid's name. I add a new one at the bottom: Come back and visit.
The fan rattles. The curtains move. I write about the sunset and the way the field smelled and the way Marcus landed the note and the way Maya leaned her head on my shoulder. I write about the lion, warm under my hand, and the tiny letters we left on the base where no one will see unless they look.
The group chat buzzes.
Maya: ten years is a long time
Jared: ten years is nothing
Ella: see you tomorrow
Maya: see you tomorrow
Jared: bring snacks
I put my phone face down and keep writing because Ms. Patel said stay longer. I write until the day feels like something I can hold onto, and then I keep writing anyway.
Chapter Six — Saturday, "The After"
I wake up late. The fan is still going, rattling against the dresser. The curtains are open and the light is bright and ordinary, which feels wrong. There's no bell. No locker. No lion to tap. Mom is in the kitchen with coffee and the paper. She looks up when I come in and says, "You slept."
"Yeah," I say. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.
She slides the paper across the table. There's a photo from the sunset on the field—tiny, below the fold. You can see the risers and the lights and the back of someone's head that might be mine.
"You want pancakes?" she asks.
"Yeah."
We eat at the table and talk about nothing—about the heat wave, about the neighbor's dog, about the fact that the grocery store finally put the cereal back where it belongs. It's normal and it isn't. When I put my plate in the sink, she says, "You have that thing tonight, right?"
"The party," I say. "At Maya's."
"You'll be okay," she says, like she's trying it out.
"I know."
Maya's house is the one with the porch swing and the mailbox shaped like a fish. When I get there, the driveway is full and the yard is full and music is spilling out the front door. Someone has strung lights between the trees. The grass is trampled in the good way, like people have been standing around talking for a while.
Maya meets me at the door with a cup in her hand and Sharpie on both forearms—new ones now: a tiny sun, a pigeon, E + M + J in her handwriting, and a phone number with all the digits. She hugs me hard and says, "You're here."
"I'm here," I say.
Jared is in the kitchen with a bag of chips and a paintbrush in his back pocket. He's got blue paint on his elbow again, which doesn't make sense. "Leftovers," he says when he sees me looking. "Symbolic."
The house is full of people I've known forever and people I've only seen in the hallway. Someone has made a playlist that's all the songs from the last four years—the ones from dances, the ones from pep rallies, the ones we played too loud in cars. The kitchen smells like pizza and sunscreen. The back door is open and people keep drifting in and out to the yard.
Marcus is on the porch with his trumpet case at his feet. He's not playing. He's just there, leaning against the railing, watching the yard. He sees me and lifts his hand, just a little. I lift mine back.
"You came," he says when I step outside.
"You said you might," I say.
He smiles. "I'm bad at parties."
"Me too."
We stand there for a minute, not talking. The lights in the trees make his face look gold. Someone inside turns the music up and a cheer goes through the house.
"You landed the note," I say.
He laughs. "You noticed."
"I notice things."
He looks at me like that's not a strange thing to say. "I'm going to miss that," he says. "The marching part. Not the marching. The—" He waves his hand.
"The practicing at seven," I say.
"Yeah."
Maya appears with a plate of pizza and hands it to me without asking. "Eat," she says. "You're being serious."
"I'm always serious," I say, but I take the pizza.
Jared comes out with three cups and sets them on the railing. "For luck," he says. He taps his cup against mine and Maya's. We drink. It's soda. It's too sweet.
The sun goes down slow. The lights in the trees get brighter. Someone starts a game of frisbee in the yard and Jared goes to join, because of course he does. Maya and I sit on the porch steps and watch.
"Are you okay?" she asks, not looking at me.
"I don't know," I say. "Are you?"
"Yeah. No. Both."
We sit there until the frisbee game dissolves into people lying in the grass. The music shifts to slower songs. Maya leans her head on my shoulder like she did on the field. I put my arm around her.
"I'm going to miss this," she says.
"Me too."
"Do you remember the boiler room?" she asks.
"Every time we get lost," I say.
She laughs. "We're going to get lost a lot."
"Probably."
Jared flops down on the step below us, out of breath and grass-stained. "They're doing photos inside," he says. "Like a booth. With props."
"Props?" Maya says.
"Fake mustaches. Graduation caps. The works."
We go inside because it's something to do. The living room has been cleared and there's a backdrop made of a sheet and a string of lights. Someone has a camera on a tripod. There's a box of props on the floor. Maya puts on a graduation cap and a fake mustache. Jared puts on two mustaches. I put on a cap and hold a sign that says WE DID IT.
The camera clicks. We look at the screen. Maya's mustache is crooked. Jared's two mustaches make him look ridiculous. I'm blinking. It's perfect.
We take another one, and another. Someone else crowds in. Marcus comes inside and stands at the edge. Maya grabs his arm and pulls him into the frame. He holds a sign that says BAND GEEK and looks embarrassed and pleased.
We take one with just the three of us—me, Maya, Jared. We don't use props. We just stand there. Maya puts her arm around my shoulders. Jared puts his arm around both of us. The camera clicks.
After, we sit on the floor in the hallway because the living room is too loud and because the floor is where we've had all the important conversations anyway. Maya has the photo strip from the booth. She tears it into three pieces and gives us each one. Mine has me blinking and Maya laughing and Jared with two mustaches. I put it in my notebook with the other photo strips, with the Post-its, with the piece of the napkin map Maya saved from the trash.
"I'm going to keep writing," I say, because I promised Ms. Patel.
"Good," Maya says. "You should."
"I'm going to paint something that isn't a school," Jared says.
"Good," I say. "You should."
"I'm going to keep practicing," Marcus says from the doorway. He's leaning against the frame with his trumpet case.
"Good," Maya says. "You should."
We sit there until someone calls us back outside for cake. The cake is store-bought and has CONGRATS GRADUATES written in blue frosting. We sing even though there are no candles. Jared gets frosting on his nose. Maya gets it on her chin. I get it on my shirt.
The yard is full again. The lights are bright. The music is loud. Someone starts dancing and then everyone is dancing. Maya pulls me up and spins me and I'm laughing before I know it. Jared is dancing badly on purpose. Marcus is at the edge, tapping his foot.
The song changes to a slow one. Maya leans her head on my shoulder again. Jared puts his arm around both of us and sways. Marcus comes over and stands next to us, not dancing, just there.
"I'm going to miss you guys," Jared says.
"We're not gone yet," Maya says.
"Feels like it," he says.
We stand there, the four of us, in the middle of the yard, while people dance around us. The lights make everything gold. The music is loud and the night is warm. I think about Monday, the fourth stair squeaking. Tuesday, the rehearsal. Wednesday, the roof. Thursday, the dirt under my nails. Friday, the sunset. Now.
I'm going to remember this, I think. The lights. The music. The way Maya's head feels on my shoulder. The way Jared's arm is heavy and safe. The way Marcus stands just at the edge, like he belongs.
The song ends. Someone cheers. Maya squeezes my hand. Jared lets go and goes to get more cake. Marcus says he should head home. I walk him to the porch.
"See you around," he says.
"Yeah," I say. "Seven a.m.?"
He smiles. "Maybe."
He leaves. I watch him go down the driveway, trumpet case swinging. The lights in the trees make his shadow long.
Maya finds me on the porch. "You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say. "Are you?"
"Yeah."
We go back inside. The party is winding down. People are leaving in waves. The lights in the trees get turned off one by one. The house gets quiet.
Maya's mom comes out with a trash bag and says, "You kids did good." She hugs Maya, and then me, and then Jared, who has frosting on his nose again.
We help clean up because it's the right thing to do. We pick up cups and plates and stack them. We fold the blanket from the roof, which Maya brought for some reason, and put it in her tote bag. We take down the backdrop and the lights.
When it's done, we sit on the porch steps. The yard is dark. The streetlight buzzes. A car passes and throws light across the grass.
"Ten years," Maya says.
"Ten years," Jared says.
"Ten years," I say.
We're quiet. The night is warm. The fan in my room is still going, probably. Mom is probably still up. The lion is probably still there, bolted down, with our tiny letters on the base.
"I'm glad we didn't steal the lion," I say.
Maya laughs. "Me too."
"Me three," Jared says.
We sit there until Maya's mom comes out and says, "You kids should go home." We get up. We hug. We say see you tomorrow, even though tomorrow is just Sunday, and Sunday is just Sunday.
I walk home the long way, past the school. The building is dark. The field is empty. The risers are gone. The lion is there. I tap it twice, quick, like I'm in a hurry even though I'm not.
At home Mom is on the couch with the TV on low. She looks up when I come in and says, "How was the party?"
"It was good," I say. My voice cracks.
She pats the couch. I sit next to her. We don't talk. We just sit.
Later, in my room, I open my notebook to the list. I cross out Tell Maya the thing I've been holding because I did, in a way—not with words, but with being there, with the photo strip, with the way I leaned my head on her shoulder and she leaned hers on mine.
I add a new line at the bottom: Remember the lights in the trees.
I put the photo strip from tonight in with the others. I put the piece of napkin map in too. I close the notebook and put it on my dresser.
The fan rattles. The curtains move. The streetlight makes stripes on the wall.
I'm going to be okay. I don't know how I know, but I do. I'm scared and I'm ready at the same time, like Mom said. I'm going to keep writing, even when I think no one's reading. I'm going to stay longer.
I fall asleep with the notebook on my chest and the sound of the fan and the memory of the lights in the trees, gold and warm, like something I can hold onto.
The End...…