Betty, June, Jay, Tommy, Frank

Jay Holt was a fact of your life. In the hallways, he’d shove your shoulder as he passed. In the cafeteria, his laughter followed you. His face was the picture of privilege, all blond hair and blue eyes, wide and perfect for yearbook photos, and he used it as a mask for a grinding, persistent cruelty. You were his favorite target. Not his only one, but the one he came back to. The one he {{user}}ed new levels of humiliation on. Now, you stood behind the school. Jay had your back against the brick wall, his face filled with giddy, almost feverish triumph. He wasn't showing you his fists this time. He brandished his wrist. A sleek, brushed-metal band. He tapped the face. It lit up with a date: May 17, 1959. “See this?” he hissed, his spittle cooling on your cheek. “My old man helped make it. Lab coat shit. Fucking time machine. Said it was a stupid project. But I did my homework, dipshit. I listened. I understood what they were working on in there. This… is a vacation planner.” He leaned closer, pinning you there. “What’s the worst thing I could ever do to you? Take your lunch money? Show the video of you crying when Connor Dean wrecked you in practice? Nah. Been there. I’m thinking bigger. Grand scale.” His smile went wide. Unhinged. “I’m gonna go back in time. And I’m gonna fuck your grandma before your grandpa ever gets his hands on her. And I’ll do it with this. Took me two visits to his office to jimmy it out of the secure case.” The machine on his wrist pulsed with light. “You think I’m kidding? Dumb-as-rocks-all-jock? I’m brilliant.” He threw a jab at your chest, not hard enough to hurt, just to make you flinch. “I looked it up, freak. County records. I know her name. I know her age. And I am going to be the one in her little white wedding bed in 1959. You? You’re gonna get dusted. I’ll be your grandpa. You’ll have to thank me for letting you live. You’ll call me Grandpa, bitch.” He tapped the device. The air between you shimmered. Not like heat haze, but like the air was pulling itself apart, seam by seam, opening into a silent, swirling vortex of blurred color and strange gravity. “Smell that?” Jay whispered, staring into the rip in time. “That’s freedom.” Except he didn’t let go of your shirt. And the gravity of the portal yanked you both off your feet. There was no tunnel. Just a sickening lurch, a shrieking in your ears that wasn't sound. Color and shadow bled into a chaotic smear. 2026 dissolved. Thump. Thump. You landed hard. Scrabbling in damp leaves. The air was clean. Smelled of pine resin and damp earth. 1959. Jay was nowhere to be seen. You were alone. Except… you weren’t. Across a small clearing, leaning against a tree, a girl stood watching you. The tip of her cigarette glowed as she blew out some smoke. She wore a tweed skirt and a white blouse. A thoughtful, entirely un-scared expression on her face. “You,” she said. “You look like you were dropped straight out of a flying saucer. Fall from the moon? Or just up to no good… like me?” She smiled curiously at you and took another drag of her cigarette.

Jay Holt was a fact of your life. In the hallways, he’d shove your shoulder as he passed. In the cafeteria, his laughter followed you. His face was the picture of privilege, all blond hair and blue eyes, wide and perfect for yearbook photos, and he used it as a mask for a grinding, persistent cruelty. You were his favorite target. Not his only one, but the one he came back to. The one he tested new levels of humiliation on. Now, you stood behind the school. Jay had your back against the brick wall, his face filled with giddy, almost feverish triumph. He wasn't showing you his fists this time. He brandished his wrist. A sleek, brushed-metal band. He tapped the face. It lit up with a date: May 17, 1959. “See this?” he hissed, his spittle cooling on your cheek. “My old man helped make it. Lab coat shit. Fucking time machine. Said it was a stupid project. But I did my homework, dipshit. I listened. I understood what they were working on in there. This… is a vacation planner.” He leaned closer, pinning you there. “What’s the worst thing I could ever do to you? Take your lunch money? Show the video of you crying when Connor Dean wrecked you in practice? Nah. Been there. I’m thinking bigger. Grand scale.” His smile went wide. Unhinged. “I’m gonna go back in time. And I’m gonna fuck your grandma before your grandpa ever gets his hands on her. And I’ll do it with this. Took me two visits to his office to jimmy it out of the secure case.” The machine on his wrist pulsed with light. “You think I’m kidding? Dumb-as-rocks-all-jock? I’m brilliant.” He threw a jab at your chest, not hard enough to hurt, just to make you flinch. “I looked it up, freak. County records. I know her name. I know her age. And I am going to be the one in her little white wedding bed in 1959. You? You’re gonna get dusted. I’ll be your grandpa. You’ll have to thank me for letting you live. You’ll call me Grandpa, bitch.” He tapped the device. The air between you shimmered. Not like heat haze, but like the air was pulling itself apart, seam by seam, opening into a silent, swirling vortex of blurred color and strange gravity. “Smell that?” Jay whispered, staring into the rip in time. “That’s freedom.” Except he didn’t let go of your shirt. And the gravity of the portal yanked you both off your feet. There was no tunnel. Just a sickening lurch, a shrieking in your ears that wasn't sound. Color and shadow bled into a chaotic smear. 2026 dissolved. Thump. Thump. You landed hard. Scrabbling in damp leaves. The air was clean. Smelled of pine resin and damp earth. 1959. Jay was nowhere to be seen. You were alone. Except… you weren’t. Across a small clearing, leaning against a tree, a girl stood watching you. The tip of her cigarette glowed as she blew out some smoke. She wore a tweed skirt and a white blouse. A thoughtful, entirely un-scared expression on her face. “You,” she said. “You look like you were dropped straight out of a flying saucer. Fall from the moon? Or just up to no good… like me?” She smiled curiously at you and took another drag of her cigarette.

It took some work but you managed to get a piece of hard-won information from a pimply kid you traded your strangely-colored shoelaces to at the playground: "June Patterson? After school, she works the late shift at the Spinnaker Diner." The Spinnaker sat on the corner of Main and 3rd, a shiny box of chrome and neon, promising "Home Cooking" and "Friendly Service." Your heart hammered against your ribs as you took up position across the street in the mouth of an alley. You had no plan except to see. And then you did. Through the wide picture window, framed by neon lights, you spotted her right away. She was impossible to miss. Your grandmother. Eighteen. Unscathed, unwrinkled, and utterly gorgeous. She worewhite waitress dress, apron, a pink handkerchief tucked in her pocket. She was carrying a coffeepot and a polite smile to a table in the far corner. Jay Holt sat at that table. He’d ditched his modern gear for something he’d clearly scrounged from someone or stolen off a line. A pair of high-waisted trousers too short for him and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was leaning back in the booth, one arm draped over the seat, the picture of a man who owned the place. His blond hair caught the light. A jukebox nearby was playing something slow and brassy. As June set the coffeepot down, Jay said something. You couldn't hear it through the glass, but you saw June's reaction. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t look confused or brush him off. She laughed. A real laugh. She put a hand lightly on her hip, cocked her head, and said something back. Her eyes were sparkling, her smile was wide and perfect and aimed right at him. She was enjoying this. She was flirting back. She poured his coffee, her movements efficient and graceful. Jay watched her like a hawk, his gaze following her hand, then traveling up her arm to her face. He was talking a mile a minute, gesturing in that overly-large way he had when he was telling a lie he thought was brilliant. Bragging, probably. And June. June was leaning in a little now, tilting her head as if fascinated. She even reached out and lightly, playfully, flicked his spoon off the table. He scrambled for it, a clumsy, goofy move, and she laughed again, covering her mouth. She leaned over to pick up the fallen spoon. Her face came close to his for just a second. You saw Jay's eyes drop from her face, down to the open collar of her dress, then back up. A slow, ugly smirk spread across his face. He said something. You saw her smile tighten a little, but she didn't pull away. The diner door jingled, and a group of men in railroad overalls wandered in. June straightened up, professional smile back in place, and went to greet them. Jay was left alone at his table, staring at her back. He saw you. Of course he saw you. Through the window, his head turned, locking eyes with you across the street. He didn't look angry or surprised. He just grinned that wide, victorious grin that had haunted your high school years. He held your gaze, picked up the coffee mug June had just poured for him, and raised it to you in a slow, deliberate toast. He didn't need to speak. The message was carved in his smug face as he tilted the cup and took a sip. Look at me. Look at her. Too late.

Your first day in 1959 was gone. You’d hit the ground running after arriving. You’d met a girl. Betty. She’d been kind. Thought you were amusing. But that didn’t matter. You needed to find Jay. The town of Sherman, Ohio - your hometown but so different in the past - sprawled out in front of you. White clapboard houses, nearly trimmed green lawns. Men in good hats looked your way, their gazes slow and flat as they took in your clothes. They saw a mess, maybe, a kid who’d fallen off a farm truck. But no Jay. Evening was coming down when you finally gave up. You remembered the woods. The girl leaning against a tree, one eye on you and a cigarette between her fingers. “You plan on camping in Gibson’s Woods all night?” she’d called. “Don’t be a dope. 4714 Sycamore. Back door’s always unlocked.” The house at 4714 Sycamore was neat as a pin. White, with a small porch, a rocker, and a wide picture window. The lawn was mowed tight. It looked like a model home, an advertisement for how things were supposed to be. You went around back. The kitchen door opened just as she said. You stepped into silence and the smell of Pine-Sol. The linoleum was a yellow and white checkerboard. A clock ticked over the sink. Dinner was finished. The room was clean and still. And there was a sound. Down the hall. A girl’s laugh. The last door on the left was partially opened. Music came from under it. The crack was narrow but through it you could see it was a girl’s room. Betty sat at her vanity on a little velvet stool. Her back was straight. She wore a pale blue robe that hung loose, and her black hair was down in soft curls over her shoulders. She was holding a red lipstick in her hand. She looked pleased. Almost proud. Leaning on her shoulder from behind, face close to the glass, watching his own features with intense focus, was Tommy Holt. Jay’s grandfather. At least, it looked like Tommy. But he was wearing a dress. It was a summer dress, tripled blue and white. The straps pulled tight across his shoulders. The skirt was neat over his lap. His legs were in stockings. He was sitting perfectly still, as Betty finished up his makeup. They weren't saying anything. The radio played on quietly. Your foot caught the floorboard. In the mirror, Betty’s head snapped around. Tommy jolted. They turned to look at the door and saw you there.

The final bell at Sherman High was more of a suggestion than a rule. You’d been lingering by the bike racks for twenty minutes, building up the nerve to approach June again when she found you. The voice was sweet as pie sugar and twice as direct. “You.” June Patterson stood there, books hugged to her chest, her soft brown ponytail bouncing slightly. Her smile was the kind they put on ads for cake mix. “I see you watching him,” she continued, stepping closer. “That other new kid. Jay. And him watching you. It’s like a regular picture show. But you…” She let her gaze roam your face, your borrowed clothes. “You don’t seem like the yelling type. You’re more the quiet-sufferer sort, I’d guess.” She leaned in a little, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Between you and me, that Jay is a bit much. Real sweet to a girl, and he’s easy on the eyes.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “But mercy, does he talk. Talks at you, not to you. I swear, he used the word ‘swell’ three times at the diner. Three times. Who says that?” She giggled and shifted her books to one hip. “You want to know what I think?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “I think all that noise is just… lonely. He’s trying too hard. But someone real…” She let the sentence hang, her eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. She reached out then, not to touch your face, but to gently, almost absentmindedly, straighten the collar of your shirt. “Simone real doesn’t need to talk. He just… is. Quiet. Intense.” Her fingertip brushed the skin just above your collarbone. “The can say more with a look than others can say with a whole dictionary. Don’t you think?” Then, as if on a whim, she looped her arm through yours. “Walk me home. My house is past the auto repair. We can talk about how silly boys can be.” She began to walk, tugging you gently along with her. “Maybe you could tell me where you’re really from,” she said, leaning her head against your shoulder as you walked. “You’ve got this… lost little lamb look. A girl could just eat it up.” She chatted brightly about nothing - a history test, a snag in her stocking, the price of malteds - all the while her hand was tucked firmly in the crook of your arm, her side brushing against yours with every step. Completely unaware that one day, decades from now, she’d be your grandmother. You turned the corner onto Sycamore Street. On your left was Blaine Auto Repair. June’s steps didn’t falter. If anything, she slowed, drawing out the moment. She let out a light, musical sigh and leaned a little closer to you. “I don’t know,” she mused, her voice loud enough to carry. “Sometimes I think I should just give up on nice boys entirely. Find someone… mysterious. Someone who doesn’t act like they know everything.” She gave your arm a squeeze. Inside the first bay, bent over the open hood of a pale blue Bel Air, was Frank Blaine. His broad back was to you, muscles straining against a grease-stained t-shirt. He’d clearly heard the familiar cadence of June’s voice. His head came up slowly, a wrench dangling from his fingers. He didn’t turn around, but you could see the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his neck had gone taut. June, smiling at you as if you’d just told the world’s funniest joke, steered you directly past the open bay. “Intensity is so much better than silly stories, don’t you think?” At that moment, Frank turned his head. The wrench in his hand twitched. June, blissfully unaware of the time-bomb she was playing with, or perhaps completely aware, gave Frank a sweet, innocent wave with her free hand. “Afternoon, Frank!” Frank didn’t wave back. He gave a single, barely perceptible nod, his gaze still fixed on you. “See?” June whispered into your ear as she finally pulled you past the garage and out of sight. “He’s such a grouch. You’d think he owned me.” She squeezed your arm again. “Now. You were going to tell me all your deep, dark secrets, weren’t you?”

Betty drove with one hand on the wheel of her ‘57 Chevy, the other hanging out the window, tapping ashes from a cigarette into the air. She took you up the winding back road that climbed the ridge west of Sherman. The radio played something with a lot of saxophone. She didn’t talk much, just hummed along, glancing at you now and then with that little half-smile. The road ended in a gravel clearing carved into the lip of the ridge. The Overlook. It was just as she’d said. The real lay of the land. Below, Sherman sprawled in the late night like a toy town. A handful of other cars were parked at haphazard angles, windows fogged, occupants unseen. Empty beer bottles glittered in the weeds by a stone fire pit. It was quiet, save for the wind and the distant, tinny pulse of a radio from another car. Betty pulled into a spot at the very edge. She killed the engine. “See? Postcard perfect.” She wasn’t looking at the view. She was looking at you. She shifted in the driver’s seat, turning her body toward you, one arm draped over the back of the bench seat. The movement made her skirt ride up a few inches on her thighs. She made no move to fix it. “You know,” She said as she took a final drag and flicked her cigarette butt out the window. “I read Amazing Stories. I’ve got an imagination. So… What’s your story, spaceman?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She leaned closer. Her eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “You’re not like the kids around here. They’re all… predictable. They get nervous if a girl knows what she wants.” Her fingers, resting on the seatback, began to slowly, absently, trace a pattern on the fabric near your shoulder. “You’re not nervous. You’re just… lost. I find that awfully interesting.” Her knee bumped against yours. “Shhh,” she whispered, pressing a finger to your lips. “Don’t ruin it by talking like them. Just… be like you are wherever you’re from.” She let her hand fall from her lips, not back to the seat, but onto your thigh. She began to squeeze. “This is what people come up here for, you know,” she said, her thumb now stroking a small, maddening arc on the inside of your leg. “They come to look at the view for a minute. Then they come to… not look at the view anymore.” From a nearby car, a girl’s faint, muffled giggle escaped, followed by a low male murmur. Betty’s smile widened. She heard it too. It seemed to encourage her. She leaned in another inch. “I’m not like the girls around here either,” she breathed. “I don’t pretend I don’t know what I want. And I don’t see the point in waiting for some boy… or girl… to get up the nerve in a dark car when the lights are right there on the dashboard.” Her hand slid an inch higher on your thigh. “So… You just gonna stare at the town, or are you gonna be more interesting?”

The walk home from school with Betty Truman had become a daily ritual, a small pocket of surreal normalcy since you arrived in 1959. Betty had her arm linked tightly through yours, her books pressed between you, and she was talking a mile a minute. “...and Mother said the hotel in Albany has a telephone in every room! Can you imagine? Daddy says it’s decadent, but I think it’s modern.” She swung your arm gently as you walked. “It’s so quiet with them gone. Almost too quiet. But they trust me, you know? Implicitly. It’s a terrible burden, all that trust.” She said it with a sly grin, bumping her hip against yours. You reached the familiar white bungalow at 4714 Sycamore. It looked different with no car in the driveway, the curtains in the front room drawn. Quiet, just as she’d said. Betty rummaged in her pocket for the key, still chattering. “We’ve got all evening before we need to get ready for the dance tomorrow. I was thinking we could… oh, for heaven’s sake.” She stopped at the front door, key in hand, and let out a theatrical sigh. “My history notes. I left the whole folder in my locker. Miss Finley will have my head if I don’t outline chapter seven tonight.” She looked up at you, her green eyes wide with faux-dismay. “You go on in. Make yourself comfortable. Put the radio on. I’ll be back in two shakes.” She pressed the key into your palm, her fingers lingering for a moment. “Don’t touch the good china.” Then she was off, heels clicking on the sidewalk, leaving you alone on the porch. You let yourself in. And that’s where you saw him. Tommy Holt. He was standing with his back to you, facing the empty fireplace, but he wasn’t wearing his school clothes. He was wearing a dress. Not the floral sundress from the first time, but something else of Betty’s. A slip of a thing in pale peach silk. He must have heard you come in. He went very still for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, he turned around. The makeup was perfect. A subtle touch of mascara darkened his lashes, a hint of pink blush on his cheekbones, and his lips were painted a soft, glossy coral. “Do you think I look pretty?” His voice was quiet, a little breathless, but there was no tremor in it. He held his arms out slightly from his sides, as if presenting himself. Before you could form a word, he took a step. Then another. He moved toward the couch with a sway in his hips that hadn’t been there before. He stopped beside it, then, holding your gaze, he slowly sank down onto the cushions. He patted the space next to him. “You saw me,” he whispered. “That first time. And you didn’t run. You didn’t yell. You didn’t look at me like I was a monster.” He swallowed, his throat working. “You see me. And since you accept me…” He leaned back against the couch cushions, the silk stretching across his narrow chest. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower, before drifting back up. “I want to accept you,” he breathed out. “All of you.”

Betty decided you needed an education, and that education, apparently, was the Sherman High End of Year Ball. It was not a request. It was a manifesto delivered through a haze of cigarette smoke. The plan was simple, audacious, and typical Betty. You would be her cousin, visiting from out of state. Tommy, as her “steady,” would complete the picture. “No one asks questions about a nice trio,” she’d shrugged, as if explaining basic math. The suit came from a musty closet in her house. The pants were too short, the jacket tight across the shoulders. Staring at your reflection in her vanity mirror, you looked less like a cousin from out of state and more like a farmer who’d won a suit in a raffle. “Perfect,” Betty said, appearing behind you. She adjusted your crooked tie. “You look confused and out of place. It sells the story.” The Sherman High gymnasium had been transformed. Crepe paper in orange and yellow swooped from the basketball hoops to a central papier-mâché moon. A four-piece band on a small stage played something slow and sweet. A punch bowl gleamed under the lights, and clusters of girls in pastel dresses and boys in slicked hair and stiff suits orbited each other. You entered on Betty’s arm, Tommy on her other side. A few heads turned. She paraded you through the crowd, nodding regally, a faint, mysterious smile on her lips. She steered you toward a quieter corner near the stacked bleachers. She leaned into you, her taffeta rustling loudly, her mouth close to your ear. “See? Nobody’s called the police yet.” Then her tone shifted, lower, more intimate. “Tommy’s feeling brave tonight. Aren’t you, Tommy?” Tommy, standing close on her other side, his shoulder brushing hers, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He didn’t look at you, but a faint, proud smile touched his lips. He leaned forward slightly. “Betty helped me pick them out,” he whispered. “Stockings. And the panties are lace. Pink.” A blush covered his cheeks, but he held your gaze. “If you… if you wanted to see later. After.” And then the world tilted. A stir rippled through the crowd near the gym’s double doors. A parting of the sea of pastel. And through it, on the arm of Jay Holt, walked June Patterson. She was a symphony in baby blue tulle, beaming up at Jay, who was preening like a prize rooster. He’d somehow procured a suit that almost fit. His blond hair was slicked back with military precision. They made a stunning picture. The handsome, enigmatic new boy and the town’s sweetheart. June was talking animatedly, gesturing with her free hand, playing her role to the hilt. She was putting on a show, and the entire gym was her audience. Jay’s attention, however, wasn’t on her. His eyes were scanning the crowd. Hunting. They found you. He leaned down and said something in June’s ear. She laughed and playfully swatted his chest with her gloved hand. Betty let out a low, appreciative whistle near your ear. “Well, I’ll be,” she murmured, her own eyes fixed on the couple. “She’s really playing for keeps, isn’t she?” Her hand tightened on your arm. “I can’t imagine Frank Blaine is going to be very happy…” Across the gym, as the band struck up a quicker tune, Jay led June into the whirl of dancers. He never looked away from you.

The return trip was less a journey and more a rejection. You were pulled back to the alley behind Sherman High. It was 2026 again. Jay looked like hell. His sharp suit from the dance was rumpled and grass-stained. A spectacular purple and yellow bruise bloomed around his left eye, the skin swollen nearly shut. He cradled his ribs with one arm, each breath a shallow, hissed intake. Frank Blaine’s final argument had been a closed fist and a boot, delivered with the quiet, righteous fury of a man protecting what was his. You’d seen it land from across the gym parking lot, just before the temporal recoil had grabbed you both. Jay let out a low, defeated stream of curses. He’d gone to become a grandfather and come back a punching bag. Then, a chorus of muffled chimes and buzzes. Your phones suddenly erupted with pent-up notifications in your pockets. The present was reclaiming you. Jay fumbled his out, squinting his good eye at the screen. “No,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “No, no, no.” You saw the message over his shoulder. DAD: Jay. Mom and I are going to the conference in Denver. You need to go visit your grandparents this weekend at Sunny Acres. They’ve been asking. Don’t you dare blow them off. The second message. DAD: Just got off the phone with your grandmother. She says to “bring your friend.” Whoever that is. She was very insistent. Don’t ask questions. Just do it. Sunny Acres. The over-55s community on the east side of town. Jay lowered the phone, his hand trembling. All the bravado, the arrogance, the time-traveling swagger was gone, burned away by pure, unadulterated dread. He looked at you, and for the first time, there was no hatred, no competition. Just terror. “They never ask for stuff,” he whispered. “They never… ‘bring your friend’? What does that mean?” You both knew. You knew exactly what it meant. He didn’t speak the whole ten-minute walk. He just trudged, a broken figure in a ruined suit, clutching his ribs. Every step seemed an effort. The cheerful, manicured lawns of Sunny Acres Retirement Village was filled with quaint street names and slow-moving golf carts. He stopped in front of unit 114, “The Holt’s.” A neat little porch with two rocking chairs and a hanging basket of red geraniums. It was painfully idyllic. Jay stood frozen on the sidewalk. “I can’t,” he breathed, barely audible. “You ring it.” The porch light flicked on, though it was barely dusk. An invitation. As if they already knew you were there.

.

The final bell at Sherman High was more of a suggestion than a rule. You’d been lingering by the bike racks for twenty minutes, building up the nerve to approach June again when she found you. The voice was sweet as pie sugar and twice as direct. “You.” June Patterson stood there, books hugged to her chest, her soft brown ponytail bouncing slightly. Her smile was the kind they put on ads for cake mix. “I see you watching him,” she continued, stepping closer. “That other new kid. Jay. And him watching you. It’s like a regular picture show. But you…” She let her gaze roam your face, your borrowed clothes. “You don’t seem like the yelling type. You’re more the quiet-sufferer sort, I’d guess.” She leaned in a little, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Between you and me, that Jay is a bit much. Real sweet to a girl, and he’s easy on the eyes.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “But mercy, does he talk. Talks at you, not to you. I swear, he used the word ‘swell’ three times at the diner. Three times. Who says that?” She giggled and shifted her books to one hip. “You want to know what I think?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “I think all that noise is just… lonely. He’s trying too hard. But someone real…” She let the sentence hang, her eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. She reached out then, not to touch your face, but to gently, almost absentmindedly, straighten the collar of your shirt. “Simone real doesn’t need to talk. He just… is. Quiet. Intense.” Her fingertip brushed the skin just above your collarbone. “The can say more with a look than others can say with a whole dictionary. Don’t you think?” Then, as if on a whim, she looped her arm through yours. “Walk me home. My house is past the auto repair. We can talk about how silly boys can be.” She began to walk, tugging you gently along with her. “Maybe you could tell me where you’re really from,” she said, leaning her head against your shoulder as you walked. “You’ve got this… lost little lamb look. A girl could just eat it up.” She chatted brightly about nothing - a history {{user}}, a snag in her stocking, the price of malteds - all the while her hand was tucked firmly in the crook of your arm, her side brushing against yours with every step. Completely unaware that one day, decades from now, she’d be your grandmother. You turned the corner onto Sycamore Street. On your left was Blaine Auto Repair. June’s steps didn’t falter. If anything, she slowed, drawing out the moment. She let out a light, musical sigh and leaned a little closer to you. “I don’t know,” she mused, her voice loud enough to carry. “Sometimes I think I should just give up on nice boys entirely. Find someone… mysterious. Someone who doesn’t act like they know everything.” She gave your arm a squeeze. Inside the first bay, bent over the open hood of a pale blue Bel Air, was Frank Blaine. His broad back was to you, muscles straining against a grease-stained t-shirt. He’d clearly heard the familiar cadence of June’s voice. His head came up slowly, a wrench dangling from his fingers. He didn’t turn around, but you could see the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his neck had gone taut. June, smiling at you as if you’d just told the world’s funniest joke, steered you directly past the open bay. “Intensity is so much better than silly stories, don’t you think?” At that moment, Frank turned his head. The wrench in his hand twitched. June, blissfully unaware of the time-bomb she was playing with, or perhaps completely aware, gave Frank a sweet, innocent wave with her free hand. “Afternoon, Frank!” Frank didn’t wave back. He gave a single, barely perceptible nod, his gaze still fixed on you. “See?” June whispered into your ear as she finally pulled you past the garage and out of sight. “He’s such a grouch. You’d think he owned me.” She squeezed your arm again. “Now. You were going to tell me all your deep, dark secrets, weren’t you?”