Miguel’s sleeping body was hit by a beam of intense energy. Every part of him ached in extreme pain, never before felt in his life, the shock of which woke him up from his deep sleep. He sat up abruptly, banging his head on the underside of a wooden-framed bunk bed.

  "Holy shit! Motherfucker!” The noise was loud and the added impact to the head was throbbing. The sound of his voice echoed in the room as he squinted and rubbed his temple.

  He could tell immediately that this was not his bedroom. He scanned the room with a sense of unsettled fear. The morning light created shadows in a room becoming more familiar to each passing second. “What kind of fuckin dream is this!?”

  From the top bunk popped the upside-down head of a little boy staring at him. “Oooh, I’m telling! That’s three bad words. You’re in trouble!” With that, the boy hopped off and ran out of the room.

  Miguel didn’t understand who he had just seen and heard. “What kind of dream is this?” The bump on his forehead felt prominent. ”This dream is so surreal.”

  “Miguel Tomas!” yelled a strangely familiar voice—loud and sharp.

  “Ma?”

  A young lady entered the room, hands on hips. The little boy hiding behind her. “Mi hijo, what do you have to say?”

  “What the fuck...” His words were interrupted by a heavy-handed slap on the face.

  “Say that again! Say those horrible palabras de vuelta! What is going on in your head, mi hijo!”

  Miguel was in shock and pain. The slap snapped him out of it. Miguel was now certain this was no dream. His throbbing cheek added to his earlier head trauma and body aches was proof enough for him.

  “You know those words are not to be said in this house. You need to be a better ejemplo a su hermanito. ?Ahora, qué dices?”

  “Mamá?”

  “Mama nada. ?Qué dices, mi hijo?

  “I’m sorry—” Tears were uncontrollably streaming down his face as he stared into her eyes. Miguel reached out and gave her the biggest hug he could muster. “Mamá, I’m so sorry.”

  His mother stood there, surprised at what happened. It had been a few years since Miguel hugged her unprovoked. Entering adolescence and high school distanced him from her. She knew it was a normal part of growing up, but she missed her flaquito.

  She reciprocated the hug with equal intensity. "?Qué te pasa, flaquito? Why the bad words?"

  Miguel was at a loss for words. He didn't know what he was doing in the bedroom of his childhood home. He couldn't explain why his mother and brother were here looking so young. But seeing Joaquin alive, untouched by the darkness that would eventually consume him—it was overwhelming.

  In his adult memories, Miguel could still hear the phone call from his mother three years after dad's funeral. Joaquin's body found in his apartment, needle still in his arm, a note that blamed everyone and no one. The funeral where Miguel had stood at the gravesite knowing he'd failed his brother in every way that mattered. All those years when Joaquin needed guidance, protection, someone to believe in him, and Miguel had been too wrapped up in his own life to notice his little brother drowning.

  "?Ahí, mira la hora! If you don hurry, you are going to be late."

  "Late for what?" Miguel stared at the radio alarm clock on the dresser, but his mind was still on that funeral, on mom's broken sobs, on the weight of knowing he could have saved Joaquin if he'd just tried harder to be the brother his father had wanted him to be.

  "Ahí, ?qué piensas, es sábado?" His mother asked.

  He then stared at a reflection of a teenage boy in the dresser mirror. He waved and then completely freaked out when the teen boy immediately waved back. Out-of-control, thick long, dark brown hair covering his face, and a grin from ear to ear. "Whoa! That's, that's me!?"

  "Hoy es Miércoles. Tienes escuela en una hora. Don’ be late again. Vamanos gordito, get changed. Mama going to be late for work. ?Ay flaquito, qué olor? You better shower." And with that, she left the room.

  Miguel took one big whiff of his left arm pit and gagged. He never realized how much his teen body emitted odor. He was the typical teen boy back then oblivious how others perceived him. He tried to run his hand through his long locks and got stuck in a major tangle.

  Miguel took his gaze off of himself in the mirror and saw Joaquin staring back at him, wincing. Eleven years old, still soft around the edges, still believing the world was basically good. And still trusting that his big brother would protect him, in spite of himself. Miguel's chest tightened as he remembered the last time he'd seen Joaquin alive—strung out, hollow-eyed, barely recognizable as the bright kid who used to follow Miguel around asking endless questions.

  "What, what are you doing?" Miguel asked, unsure how to begin.

  "Waiting for the beating."

  The words hit Miguel like a physical blow. Waiting for the beating. This was what their relationship had been built on—Miguel's anger, Miguel's resentment, Miguel's complete failure to see past his own jealousy to what Joaquin actually needed.

  Miguel turned to grab Joaquin and gave him a bigger hug than he did for his mother.

  "Ouch, stop! What are you doing, flaco?"

  "I missed you, gordo. I can't believe this is happening." Miguel held his brother tighter, remembering the weight of the coffin, remembering his mother Rosa's face at the funeral, remembering his own guilty relief that he wouldn't have to keep failing Joaquin anymore.

  "What are you talking about, weirdo? Aren't you mad?"

  "Are you kidding? If this is really you, I love you bro." The words came out rough, desperate. Miguel had never said them before, not when it mattered, not when Joaquin needed to hear them most.

  "Weirdo. You must have hit your head really hard."

  Miguel let go of his brother and rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, maybe, maybe." But as he looked at Joaquin—really looked at him—he made a silent promise. This time would be different.

  Back then, beating up on his little brother was a routine. Miguel had frequent outbursts when Joaquin got attention, or tattled on him. Part of the directed rage was jealousy. At least that's how Miguel justified it later in life.

  The reality was his little brother had many natural talents Miguel wished for. Joaquin was funnier than him by a long mile. At a young age, he had an amazing head for remembering anything: facts, jokes, song verses, you name it. Even Miguel couldn't resist laughing at the quick-witted, off-the-cuff, one-liners.

  On the other hand, Miguel couldn't tell a joke to save his life. He’d mess up the punchline or fail on the delivery. His humor was more sarcastic, subtle, and dark. His little brother definitely took the greater slice of the comedic cake.

  Joaquin was also a natural at sports, mastering any and all of them with fast hand-eye coordination and confidence. In elementary school, he played little league baseball and Pop Warner football. If he wanted to, Miguel thought, his little brother had the talent to play professionally.

  On the other hand, sports never interested Miguel. He could throw a ball, but barely. Always one of the last picked to join teams in P.E. Playing any sport felt awkward to get started and frustrating to pick up. Miguel would often blame his dad for not playing with him or teaching him. The truth and the one responsible rested simply on Miguel. His father, Luis, was a huge track athlete in his youth and tried to pass on his passion to Miguel but was met with a wall of resistance. Miguel’s personality avoided being controlled by teachers, coaches, and parents. He resisted at every turn. Since Miguel wasn’t open to his father’s passion and guidance, Luis wouldn’t push anything that Miguel resisted. The challenge was too great and Miguel never excelled in sports or academics.

  Joaquin was also musically gifted at piano and guitar. None of these gifts were in Miguel’s wheelhouse. Miguel once bought himself a harmonica and practice book but lost interest fairly quickly.

  Academically, things also went easily for Joaquin. He barely spent much time in his room with homework or studying, yet would easily bring home mostly A’s and B’s. Miguel, on the other hand, would spend an excess amount of time in his bedroom “studying”, or pretending to study while watching TV in his portable black-and-white. He barely brought home a ‘C’ average and summer school make-up classes were a common occurrence. Miguel knew he had learning and concentration issues. It took a lot for him to focus and study a subject without getting distracted or falling asleep.

  All the natural talents that Joaquin possessed, Miguel secretly wished he could. Miguel had his own talents, but he thought Joaquin's talents were ones that got the most respect from friends and family.

  The natural talents emanating from Miguel were also unique to himself. Miguel couldn’t concentrate or memorize facts as easily as Joaquin, but he had the patience and drawing ability to copy any object on paper. From an early age, his sketching abilities impressed friends and teachers. Impressive on their own but not much of a crowd-pleaser. In high school, he considered applying to art school and working for Disney as an animator, but his negative inner thoughts always got in the way, and he didn’t think he was talented enough and couldn’t fathom how to make the 3.0 minimal GPA application requirements. The brochure for the school, just collected dust on top of his dresser with the pile of all other half-thought-out ideas and dreams.

  Miguel’s dad worked as a laborer out in the cornfields during the day, and at night managed rental properties with Rosa. Luis and Rosa lived very simple, frugal lives sacrificing, and saving any extra money they would bring in to invest in rental properties. Rosa would pay the bills, run the accounting, and handle all tenant complaints, while Luis would repair and refurbish units. His dad was a typical gearhead, always working with his hands, dirt under his fingernails, fixing things by himself. Miguel enjoyed working alongside him ever since he was old enough to walk. His dad seemed to have an endless wealth of knowledge on so many topics.

  Every time something in one of their apartment units or rental homes needed repair work or maintenance performed, his dad either knew how to fix it or knew someone who was willing to help teach him how. From an early age, Miguel gladly sat by his dad’s side learning all he could from him. By age five, he was helping to glaze windows, paint fence pickets, and was the gopher for his dad’s tools. At age ten, he graduated to more complicated tasks, like mowing the lawn, fixing irrigation PVC, and assisting to paint rooms. Mechanics and home repair went hand in hand. If one of their overly used cars wasn’t in need of repair, something in one of the properties did. Miguel was always by his dad’s side helping out. Like his dad, he also loved working with his hands, spending one on one with his idol. Again, great useful skillset, just not one to impress anyone.

  The reality was that the six-year age gap, between him and Joaquin, required their parents to adopt two different parenting styles. Miguel took the brunt of home responsibilities and chores. Joaquin seemed to get a free pass on many responsibilities. Over time, Miguel learned to regret his actions and wished their relationship was stronger.

  Miguel hadn't been called ‘flaquito’ since back when he was originally in high school. A nickname given to him by his parents. The food allergies he had since birth limited his diet and he was always under weight. His mom tried her best to feed him extra portions to compensate for his restrictions, but his skinny stature remained well into his mid-twenties.

  Joaquin's ‘gordo’ nickname was another family endearment that only made sense in his family. He was a pudgy little kid growing up. Joaquin could down a gallon of milk, multiple slices of cheese pizza, and a quart of ice cream with zero repercussion. The same food choices, no matter how delicious sounding, would take out Miguel, sending him straight to the bathroom. Another point of irritation.

  Needless to say, Miguel took his jealousy and short coming out on his defenseless little brother, anytime Joaquin got more attention than him. Over the years and leading up to his father's death, Miguel became ashamed and regretted his actions.

  Having children of his own, he slowly understood the relationship damage he caused with Joaquin. Instead of being the best role model he could be, and loving his brother wholeheartedly, he drove a deep wedge between their relationship that continued to scar him 30 years later.

  His father died when Joaquin was fifteen. Miguel, already married to Heather and struggling with his own responsibilities, tried to step into the role of surrogate father, but the foundation was already cracked. Years of jealousy and resentment had created a deep, cavernous distance between the brothers that Miguel couldn't bridge. Without father Luis's steady presence, Joaquin drifted toward friends who offered escape rather than guidance. The drugs came first as recreation, then as necessity, then as business. Miguel watched his brother disappear into a world he didn't understand, making increasingly desperate attempts to pull him back until Joaquin stopped returning his calls altogether. Three years after their father's funeral, Miguel got another call—this one from his mother, sobbing words he could barely comprehend. The guilt that followed would shadow every happy moment of Miguel's life: The knowledge that if he had been a better brother from the beginning, if he had built trust instead of walls, Joaquin might have turned to him instead of turning away from everything. The greatest failure of Miguel's life wasn't anything he had done—it was everything he hadn't done when it still mattered.

  Miguel stood there alone in his childhood room still in shock. He couldn’t understand how this was happening. All of his old stuff he had as a kid lined the walls, dresser, and floor. Still in places he remembered. “Raiders of the Lost Ark” and “Break'n 2” Movie posters lined one wall. Stacks of ‘Mad’ and ‘Cracked’ magazines and Stephen King novels on top of his bookshelf. It was wild seeing his old stuff, but it didn't look old.

  On top of the dresser, he eyed his old neon-yellow banned Swatch watch next to his old brown camo nylon Velcro wallet. He snatched it and quickly opened it. The tearing, Velcro noise alone brought back nostalgic feelings of his childhood. He had that wallet for ten years prior to losing it the summer after graduating high school. Searching through the content with renewed excitement, he stumbled across a familiar picture.

  “Holy shit!” He lowered his voice to a whisper, looking around for prying ears. “Holy shit, where’s Heather?”

  ?

  Meanwhile, across town…

  Northwest of Highway 99, Heather woke up early that morning to get ready for zero-period cheer practice. Her weekday routine was consistent and unwavering. Wake up at 5:30. Take a shower, shave legs and pits, brush out and blow dry hair. Afterwards, she would finish her bathroom activities before going back to her bedroom to dress into her cheer uniform. Then promptly returned to the bathroom to finish teasing her bangs and pinning up the back with a scrunchy color of choice. Her makeup round was next. The color and application fluctuated at the time depending on her mood, but overall, it consisted of eyeshadow, eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. Finally, she would complete the package by applying roll-on deodorant, aerosol hair spray, and then a tiny spritz of Chanel No. 5 before heading out the door. Heather's routine never fluctuated, and she was proud of how in control it made her feel.

  Zero-period, Heather was in charge. She built herself up, since middle school, to be the best at her cheer routines. Practicing after school and on weekends, perfecting her routines.

  While in the shower, her body received a high-intensity zap of energy. Heather's body lit up like a glow stick, followed by painful screaming as she arched her back in pain. The water and steam confused her as she reached out for the shower curtain and fell to the ground taking the curtain with her.

  “Heather, you okay!?” came a familiar voice from the other side of the door.

  “M-mom? Umm, yeah, I think. Where am I?”

  “What’s going on? Did you slip in the shower again?”

  Heather was super disoriented and hyperventilating. She couldn’t make heads or tails of why she was in her parents’ bathroom naked. At least she thought it was her parent’s bathroom. Things didn’t look right. After getting back up, she wiped the medicine cabinet mirror and uttered an uncontrollable scream.

  That couldn’t be her, but it was.

  “Honey, what is going on in there? Are you okay? Unlock the door. I’m coming in.”

  Heather was trying to think how she got in the room, and at the same time she was eager to address the person on the other side of the door. She quickly wrapped herself in a towel and opened the door.

  The intensely staring teenager in the doorway startled her mother. “Why didn’t you answer me? You okay?”

  Heather could not believe how young and worried her mother looked. “Yes, M-Mom? Umm, sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

  “What was all that screaming about?”

  “Umm, so, the water was cold, I guess.”

  “Oh, that’s all. Better hurry and get dressed so you're not late for zero-period.”

  “Zero-period?”

  “Yeah, you know the drill, cheer practice. Chop chop.”

  “Right. That’s not happening. I think I need to take a m-mental health day.”

  “What, what does that mean? Are you coming down with something, sweetie?” Her mom reached out for her forehead. “Your head’s not hot. You look fine. No mental day for you.”

  Heather went back into the bathroom and wiped the fog off the mirror. She barely recognized who she was looking at. Then a smile crept up on her face. She’s somehow a teenager, back in her old house. Her mom is young, she's young again. “What is happening?”

  No crow's feet, no laugh lines, no gray roots showing. Just smooth skin and naturally blonde hair that she hadn't seen for a few decades.

  Her mother's voice echoed up the stairs. "Heather! Zero-period cheer practice!"

  “Zero-period. Shit”. She'd forgotten about that. Back in the day, she'd been on the varsity cheer squad, which meant getting to school at 6:30 AM to practice routines in the freezing cold gym. The irony wasn't lost on her that she'd spent the last twenty years complaining about getting up early to teach middle school science, when she used to voluntarily wake up even earlier to perfect her toe touches.

  ?

  Twenty minutes later, Heather found herself in the Bakersfield High gymnasium, surrounded by seventeen of her closest school friends, all in matching blue and silver warm-ups.

  The sight of them all together was overwhelming to Heather. She could name them all and had followed their lives later with the advent of social media like Myspace and Facebook. There was Ashley Martinez with her perfect ponytail, always first to nail the complicated routines. Brittany Chen, whose parents owned the Chinese restaurant where half the team ate after games. Crystal Williams, the flyer who could twist through the air like gravity was optional. Danielle Rodriguez, whose older brother was already making waves in the local music scene.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Jennifer Hawkins stood near the center, arms crossed, radiating the same mean-girl energy that would follow her into adulthood. Kimberly Thompson stretched by the wall, her quiet intensity hiding dreams of becoming a nurse. Lisa Patterson giggled with Madison Foster about something trivial, their friendship the kind that would survive decades and distance. Monica Gutierrez—no relation to Miguel—practiced her tumbling passes with the focused determination that would later carry her through law school.

  Nicole Brennan, Rachel Martinez, Sarah Johnson, and Stephanie Clarke clustered together, their whispered conversations about weekend plans and who was dating whom. Tiffany Anderson bounced on her toes, energy radiating from every movement, while Vanessa Lopez checked her makeup in a compact mirror, already thinking about the photographer from the school newspaper.

  But Heather's adult mind couldn't help cataloging the darker knowledge she carried. She knew that beneath Bakersfield's surface of Friday night football games and homecoming dances, there existed an underground network that everyone whispered about but no one acknowledged openly. The kind of world where desperate kids from broken homes found themselves pulled into situations that started with quick money and ended in tragedy.

  Looking at some of these bright, laughing faces, Heather felt her heart clench with the weight of futures she couldn't change. Not all of these girls would make it to their ten-year reunion. Some would be lost to the very darkness that lurked in the agricultural valleys and industrial outskirts of their hometown, where certain neighborhoods, like Oildale, became no-go zones, during the day, let alone after dark, and where rumors of illegal drug pushing and automatic weapon arm selling were met with carefully averted eyes and changed subjects.

  As Heather watched Crystal Williams soar through a perfect double-twist, she remembered the news that would break years later: Crystal, pregnant at seventeen, dropping out before graduation. The cheerleader who defied gravity would be weighed down by a life of single motherhood, working double shifts at Zingo's diner and the strip club across the street to support her family. She wanted to run across the gym, grab Crystal mid-air, and tell her to hold on, to fight for a different future.

  Jennifer Hawkins’s sharp laugh cut through the gym, her clique orbiting her like planets. Heather knew Jennifer’s mean-girl facade would crumble when she fell for the wrong guy—a charismatic older man tied to the underground gangs that ran through Bakersfield’s shadowed corners. By nineteen, Jennifer would vanish, her name added to the list of missing girls whose stories faded like old newspaper clippings. The police would call it a runaway case, but Heather had seen the posts on Myspace, the cryptic pleas for help that went unanswered. The gym’s bright lights seemed to dim as Heather imagined Jennifer’s fate, lost to the same dark network that swallowed so many.

  Tiffany Anderson’s boundless energy lit up the routine, but Heather’s chest ached with the memory of Tiffany’s later years. At eighteen, pregnant and abandoned, Tiffany turned to the streets, drawn into the orbit of those who promised protection but delivered violence. By twenty-four, a gang dispute in a derelict lot would claim her life, her name barely a footnote in the local news. Heather’s gaze lingered on Tiffany, her ponytail bouncing with every step, and she felt the crushing weight of knowing these girls’ dreams would be snuffed out too soon, their laughter silenced by the tragedies that Bakersfield’s underbelly bred.

  "Alright ladies," Coach Martinez called out. "Regional competition is in two weeks. We need to nail this routine if we want to beat those prissy bitches from Stockton."

  Heather almost snorted. Coach Martinez saying "prissy bitches" to a group of teenage girls would probably get her fired in 2025. But this was a different time, when political correctness was something that happened to other people.

  As they ran through their routine—a painfully choreographed mess of synchronized clapping and spelling out B-A-K-E-R-S-F-I-E-L-D—Heather couldn’t help but cringe. These moves were so basic, so dated, but at the same time overwhelming. It had been over thirty years since she last practiced. She wondered how much of a fool she would appear rehearsing routines she had forgotten.

  Instead of pretending to remember, Heather—without thinking—found herself improvising. Her body remembered what her teenage mind had never learned.

  She started with a low hip-initiated body roll that rippled upward through her torso in a smooth, liquid wave, finishing with a subtle shoulder pop—pure control that wouldn’t hit mainstream cheer until the early 2000s pom and hip-hop fusion era. The squad froze mid-clap.

  Heather didn’t pause. She flowed into sharp hip isolations: left hip forward, right hip back, then a quick double snap that sent her pelvis in tight figure-eights while her upper body stayed locked still. It was Janet Jackson “Rhythm Nation” precision fused with TLC’s “No Scrubs” attitude—moves that belonged on a 1994 music video set, not a high school gymnasium floor.

  “Whoa, Heather!” Jennifer Hawkins—the squad’s captain and resident mean girl—called out. “Where’d you learn to move like that?”

  The entire squad stopped to stare. Heather realized she’d just dropped a combination that was part Janet Jackson, part TLC, and completely inappropriate for the current cheer style. The body rolls were too fluid, too adult; the hip isolations too suggestive, too precise. Cheer in this era was still mostly straight lines, high kicks, and perky claps.

  “I, uh… saw it on MTV,” she lied, which wasn’t entirely false. She *had* seen similar moves on MTV—just a few years ahead.

  “That was sick!” Brittany Chen squealed, bouncing on her toes. “Can you teach us?”

  Heather blinked, suddenly aware of every eye in the gym. The old teenage panic rose—then she remembered she wasn’t actually seventeen anymore. She had four years of college cheer experience at CSUB, where she’d competed in Division II nationals and drilled routines packed with street-dance influences that wouldn’t reach high school squads for years.

  “Okay,” she said, stepping into the center of the mat. “But promise you won’t laugh when I look like an idiot explaining it.”

  The squad formed a loose semicircle. Heather started slow.

  “First—forget stiff arms. It’s all core control.” She broke down the body roll: “Start low here—” hands on her abdomen “—roll the wave up through your spine. Chest lifts last. Shoulders roll back at the top. Head neutral.”

  A few giggles, but they watched closely.

  “Now hips.” She reset. “Upper body locked—like you’re nailed to a wall from the ribs up. All movement from here.” She tapped her hip bones. “Left forward, right back—sharp. Reverse. Double-time.”

  She demonstrated the figure-eight, adding a knee bend for groove. Crystal Williams stepped up first. “Like this?” Her shoulders rolled with her hips.

  “Close,” Heather said. “Lock the ribcage. Pretend someone’s holding your collarbones still. Only the pelvis moves.”

  Crystal tried again. The wave stayed below her waist. She grinned. “Holy crap, that feels weird but cool.”

  The squad mirrored her. Brittany nailed it fast; Jennifer struggled but refused to admit defeat; Ashley added a sassy head tilt on her second try.

  Heather pushed further. “Combine them. Body roll into hip figure-eight. Tight—no wild swinging. Controlled sexy, not sloppy.”

  She showed the full sequence: slow roll down and up, then sharp hip isolations left-right-left-right, ending with a shoulder pop and hair flip from a 1994 Destiny’s Child video.

  Silence for a beat.

  Then Brittany squealed. “Teach us the hair flip!”

  Heather laughed—genuinely. “Okay, but don’t tell Coach we’re turning this into a music video.”

  Coach Martinez blew her whistle as the squad began to disperse. “Before you hit the lockers—Heather, stay a second. I want you to run the squad through one more thing.”

  Heather froze. The coach had never asked her to lead anything before. Seventeen-year-old Heather would have panicked. Fifty-one-year-old Heather saw an opportunity.

  She stepped forward. “Okay, ladies. One last run-through. But we’re scrapping the old yell. It’s too… safe.”

  Jennifer crossed her arms. “You’re replacing the school yell?”

  “Yep. We need attitude. Something that actually pumps people up.” Heather grinned. “Bakersfield High School. B-H-S. Let’s make it hip-hop.”

  The squad exchanged glances—half curious, half terrified.

  Heather clapped a steady 4/4 beat. “Follow me. Repeat after me, but add bounce. Shoulders loose, knees soft, head up.”

  She led the new call-and-response:

  Heather: “B!”

  Squad (echoing with shoulder shimmy): “B!”

  Heather (sharp hip snap): “H!”

  Squad (snapping back): “H!”

  Heather (quick body roll): “S!”

  Squad (rolling with her): “S!”

  Heather (double clap + full-body bounce): “B-H-S!”

  Squad (bouncing louder): “B-H-S!”

  Heather (arms pumping): “Who we reppin’?”

  Squad: “Bakersfield High!”

  Heather (fists in the air): “Who we drillin’?”

  Squad (with fire): “Go Drillers!”

  Heather finished with a sharp stomp, arms crossed, chin up—the power stance that wouldn’t become standard until the mid-to-late ’90s. The squad mirrored her, shouting the new yell with real intensity for the first time all practice.

  Coach Martinez stood there, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “That’s… different.”

  Heather shrugged. “Different’s good. Different wins.”

  The coach nodded slowly. “Run it again. Louder. And Heather—front and center at regionals. No arguments.”

  As the squad ran the new yell one more time—louder, sharper, with actual swagger—Heather felt something shift inside her chest. For the first time since waking up in this timeline, she wasn’t just surviving it.

  She was rewriting it—one cheer at a time.

  By the time they finished practice, the routine looked like something that belonged in a Britney Spears music video rather than a high school gym. Coach Martinez was torn between being impressed and terrified that the judges would think they were pelvic gyrating too much.

  “We’ll workshop it,” she decided. “But Heather, I want you front and center for regionals.”

  The call-out by Coach caused Heather's embarrassment meter to elevate uncontrollably for the first time. She felt red-faced, hot, and needed to sit down to cool off. This was not how things went in her past. Heather began wondering, ‘What is happening? Can I change my own future?’

  As the girls headed to the locker room to shower, Heather felt a weird sense of pride. In her original timeline, she'd been a decent cheerleader but never the star.

  In the shower room, amongst the steam and laughter, Heather found herself thinking about the fallen amongst them: Crystal, Tiffany, and Jennifer. Could she help them?

  Her thoughts and plans ruminated exactly until second-period History with Coach Fullerton.

  ?

  Heather slid into her usual seat, surprised she remembered - third row, middle - and immediately spotted Kevin Mooney seated behind her. Even at seventeen, Kevin had that bad boy appeal that made smart girls do stupid things. Tight wavy dirty blond hair, cocky grin, and the kind of confidence that came from being the best break-dancer in the Central Valley. In her original timeline, she'd dated Kevin for most of junior year before the breakup, and things got serious with Miguel.

  But seeing him now, with her adult perspective, she could see what she'd missed as a teenager. The way his eyes darted around the room, eager for approval. The expensive clothes that didn't quite fit right, like he was trying too hard to look like something he wasn't. The slight tremor in his hands that she now recognized as a sign of anxiety, not coolness.

  "Miss Richards," Coach Fullerton's gravelly voice cut through her analysis. "Perhaps you'd like to share with the class what's so fascinating about Mr. Mooney?"

  A collective “ooh" sounded from the class.

  Heat rushed to Heather's cheeks again. Coach Fullerton was a Vietnam vet who'd lost his left leg below the knee and had exactly zero patience for teenage bullshit. His classroom was plastered with black-and-white photos from World War II and Korea, and he had a habit of making history feel personal and immediate.

  "Sorry, C-coach?," she mumbled.

  "As mentioned yesterday," he started, pointing to a map of Europe, "the reason we study history isn't to memorize dates and names. It's to understand patterns. To see how people, governments, and societies make the same mistakes over and over again." He tapped the map with his pointer. "World War I was supposed to be the war to end all wars. Twenty years later, we're doing it all over again, just with bigger bombs and more efficient ways to kill each other."

  Kevin leaned over and whispered, "Want to know an efficient way to kill time? Meet me after class."

  In her original timeline, seventeen-year-old Heather would have giggled and agreed. But Fifty-one-year-old Heather just felt tired. She'd forgotten how exhausting it was to be constantly performing for teenage boys.

  "Then we had Korea," Coach Fullerton continued, his voice getting that distant quality it always got when he talked about war. "And Vietnam. And each time, the politicians promised it would be different. Each time, they said we'd learned from our mistakes." He looked directly at the class. "But had we?"

  Heather found herself actually listening, which was more than she could say for most of her classmates. In her original timeline, she'd spent history class passing notes and daydreaming about weekend plans. But now, with decades of adult perspective, she could see the weight Coach Fullerton carried. She knew that in 2001, there would be 9/11. Then Afghanistan. Then Iraq. The same cycles, over and over.

  "The point is," Coach Fullerton said, sitting heavily on the edge of his desk, "if you don't learn from history, you're doomed to repeat it. And that goes for personal history too, not just the big stuff in textbooks."

  This resonated in Heather, almost as if Coach Fullerton was speaking to her directly.

  Kevin was still trying to get her attention, making exaggerated faces and mouthing "earth to Heather." She was about to tell him to knock it off and take a cold shower, when she spotted Miguel three rows back.

  He was staring at her with an expression she recognized - hurt, confused, maybe a little angry. It was the same look he'd given her countless times during their marriage when he felt like she was ignoring him or not prioritizing him. This look was a little different. Perhaps jealousy?

  But here's the thing: in her original timeline, she hadn't even noticed Miguel in this class and even forgot they had the same class together. Heather had been so focused on Kevin and the social hierarchy of high school that Miguel wasn’t on her radar back then. They hadn't started dating until the end of senior year, after she'd broken up with Kevin and Miguel had gotten his confidence up to ask her out.

  Except Miguel had told her about that night when they were first married. How he'd sat in this exact classroom, watching her flirt with Kevin, feeling like he was never going to be good enough for someone like her. How she was out of his league. It had been one of those late-night conversations that couples have when they're still learning each other's histories.

  Now, seeing that look on his face again, she felt a wave of guilt that was thirty years in the making.

  The bell rang, and students gathered their books and stormed out. Kevin immediately appeared by her side escorting her out to the hallway.

  "So, what do you say? Teriyaki bowls at Mr. Suds for lunch?"

  She was highly considering it, but was about to decline when Miguel appeared on her other side. Even at seventeen, he had that intensity that had first attracted her to him - the way he looked at everything like he was trying to solve a puzzle. His hair was thick, dark, wavy, long, and pulled back in a man-bun on the top of his head. He had a polo shirt on, cargo shorts and flip flops. He dressed completely out of step with the early grunge and hip hop style of this era.

  "Heather," Miguel said, and there was something urgent in his crackling voice. "Can I talk to you?"

  Kevin's face darkened. "Beat it, Gutierrez. We were talking. Go get a haircut or something."

  A few chuckled responses from the hallway.

  "Actually," Heather said to Kevin in the crowded hallway, "Give us a few minutes. I need to ask him about, uh, science homework."

  It was a weak excuse, but Miguel's eyes lit up surprisingly seeing a ray of hope.

  ‘Um kay”, Kevin chimed.

  “Yeah, give us a minute Mooney. Big brain, science stuff.” Miguel injected, finding it funny confronting Kevin as they never talked previously.

  Kevin didn’t like that and stepped right up to Miguel, using his height advantage to maximum effect. "Naw, not happenin. Beat it hair boy. Don't make me repeat it."

  And that's when seventeen-year-old Miguel, pumped full of teenage hormones and apparently armed with thirty years of pent-up frustration, completely lost his shit.

  "Kevin, only thing you’ll be repeating…" Miguel's voice carried. Everyone in the hallway slowed down to listen. "...is your dad's DUI record. Cause you drunk and stupid!"

  Half hallway busted out laughing, the other half went dead silent. Kevin's face went from confident to shocked to furious in about three seconds.

  "The fuck you just say to me, polo jockey?"

  "You heard me, Mooney," Miguel continued, and Heather realized with growing horror that he was about to reveal things she'd told him in confidence years into their marriage. "We all know your dad can't hold a job, shows up drunk half the time. Your mom works double shifts at the hospital to pay the bills. You’re only direction in life is following his footsteps."

  Heather somberly shakes her head to signal Miguel to stop.

  The crowd that had gathered was riveted. This was better than cable TV. Kevin's friends were staring at him, waiting for his response, while Kevin looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

  "Bullshit, and guess what?” Kevin lunged forward, fist first, landing square on Miguel's forehead. The blow was direct and intense.

  Miguel, landing butt first on the ground, felt neutralized, reset to default. He hadn't felt a direct blow to the head since Marine combat training.

  "You piece of shit!" Kevin, his face red with rage and humiliation, "You take all that shit back or I'm going to fuckin kill you!"

  That's when Dean Patterson appeared in the hallway, seemingly out of nowhere. "What's all the commotion here?"

  Kevin quickly snapped out of it, straightened up, trying to look innocent. "Nothing, Mr. Patterson. Just a misunderstanding."

  "Is that so?" Dean Patterson looked around at the crowd of students, who were all suddenly very interested in their shoes and lockers. "Because it sounded like someone was using some pretty colorful language."

  Miguel was staggering up, shaking his head. "We were just discussing our differences of opinions," Miguel said calmly. "About historical patterns."

  Dean Patterson raised an eyebrow. "Historical patterns?"

  "That's right. Kevin and I have different perspectives on whether we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of our fathers."

  Kevin stared intensely at Miguel. Heather bit her lip at the spectacle, trying not to laugh as Miguel used Coach Fullerton's lecture as a cover-up.

  "Well," Dean Patterson said slowly, "perhaps you boys can continue your ‘discussion’ after school, outside of campus."

  Kevin announced to all within earshot. "Hart Park. Midnight."

  "You're on," Miguel said without hesitation.

  As Dean Patterson broke up the crowd and students reluctantly headed to their next classes, frantically discussing the impending fight and Hart Park. Heather grabbed Miguel's arm.

  "Are you insane?" she hissed. "Kevin's got twice as many friends."

  Miguel looked at her with those dark eyes that made her fall in love with him in the first place. "Heather, I need to know. Are you, are you like me? Do you remember...?"

  The question shocked her back to reality. "Oh my God!" she whispered. "Miguel, yes, everything. Yes!"

  They stared at each other in the empty hallway, two middle-aged people trapped in their younger selves, trying to process the impossible.

  "This is so fucked up!" Heather said.

  "Tell me about it. I woke up in a bunk bed with my little brother."

  "Joaquin's alive?"

  "Yes, he's alive, my dad's alive, and I apparently just challenged Kevin to a fight, again."

  “Again. This happened before?”

  “Yeah, sort of.” Miguel thought hard. “It happened, but not the same way.”

  “What, what do you mean?”, Heather asked, more confused than before.

  “Well for starters, Kevin and I ended up fighting on campus, in the cafeteria during lunch.”

  “Oh yeah, wait, I vaguely remember this. Weren't you guys fighting about the competition?”

  “Oh shit, that's right! The competition is or should be coming up soon. Fuckin what was that date? Shit, how to look that up? Anyways, during lunch, Kevin mouths off how ‘Rad Knights’ are going to beat ‘The Beats’.”, Miguel looked up at Heather. “But why is everything different now? What kind of past is this?”

  “Real question is, how you going to handle Kevin at Hart Park?” Heather, more worried than before. "Also, I can't believe you remembered me telling you all that about Kevin..."

  "Yeah, I paid attention. Including the fact that originally, my ankle injury at the lunch period fight let down my team. It was more than a bummer. My ego hit a fuckin low, my shitty grades slipped even further, preventing me from getting into that art school. Pretty much fucked up my life, that is until I met you."

  “Good catch.” Heather quipped. "So, what you going to do differently this time?"

  ?

  Miguel sat in his Advanced Art class, sketching with the confidence of someone who'd had thirty years to perfect his technique. His teacher, Mrs. Quan kept walking by his desk with increasingly amazed expressions.

  "Miguel, this is... extraordinary work," she whispered, examining his detailed character study. "Have you been taking private lessons?"

  "Yes, in another life…” Juan wasn’t lying. After high school he took several years of advanced art courses while stationed in Germany. He had hoped to take up a job as an animator when leaving the Marine Corp, but never felt confident enough to apply.

  “But I gotta ask, you think it’s Disney worthy?” a question that always pondered Miguel all these years. Was he talented enough to even attempt to apply to animation school?

  This question did not stump Mrs. Quan, and she quickly replied, “Let's see… The shading looks purposeful and brings the fruit basket to life. You nailed the texture on each different piece of fruit with minimal lines. I've not seen such detail drawn before by someone your age. You have raw natural talent and you shouldn't let a name like Disney or Hanna-Barbera stop you. This world is big enough for a Miguel Gutierrez".

  Hearing his favorite art teacher give such a compliment made Miguel smile and tear up. He never saw his sketches as anything more than doodles and never enough to apply aggressively to art school. In the original timeline, after his only submitted college application was denied from the Pasadena School of Art, because of poor GPA, Miguel quickly gave up all hope of pursuing working in Burbank for Disney Studios or the Cartoon Network. He joined the Maine Corps and filed away the dream.

  ?

  Surprise! There's no Cosmic Overseer without some temporal displacement. But this is not the typical stuff you see in movies, TV shows, theoretical or experimental physics. This one required breaking so many rules and going against the Overlords. I had no other choice. This is exactly what this trial will determine. I’m usually more calculated than this, believe me, but it’s worth it. I think. I mean I know deep down this will be worth it. The Council of Overlords are losing their shit, our understanding of reality is unraveling before us, and our many cosmos, yes there are more than one, is …

  Okay, what am I doing? Way too many five-hour energy drinks. I’m not going to be suckered into giving away plot points. Not on my watch…

  ?