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Author's Note:Taylor's first day of school continues. She meets a new friend. She conquers PE class. Also it turns out our plumbing issue was actually a AC condensation pipe leak, fun times. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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3.

Taylor made it to her first period English class with about ten minutes left in class.

When she opened the door, all eyes---including the teacher, Mr. Anderson---were on her. She felt so embarrassed.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of judgmental wasps as Taylor hovered in the doorway. Thirty pairs of eyes snapped toward her—some curious, some hostile, most just hungry for drama. Mr. Anderson's chalk froze mid-sentence on the blackboard, his eyebrows arching toward his receding hairline. A stifled giggle came from the back row where Sierra's friends sat like a tribunal in matching plaid pleated skirts.

"Ah," Mr. Anderson said, dusting chalk from his fingers with exaggerated slowness. "Miss... Carver, is it now?" The pause before her new name made Taylor's stomach twist. She clutched her schedule tighter, the paper crinkling like dry leaves underfoot.

"Sorry, sir" she said softly before scooting into the room and taking her seat.

Those students who hadn't seen her in the hall or seen her photo from earlier, gasped at the realization that she was in fact once Tyler. No one said anything but she could feel their stares on her back. She wanted to slouch under the desk.

The desk creaked under Taylor’s white-knuckled grip as Mr. Anderson resumed his lecture—something about *Romeo and Juliet* that suddenly felt too on-the-nose. Being alone in this class, without Kayla or anyone else she was "friends" with made it all the more harder.

"Hey" said a voice from the chair next to her.

She turned and saw a red haired girl sitting there. Tyler had sat next to her all year but this was the first time she' ever spoken to Taylor. Taylor thought her name was Liz but she wasn't quite sure. She'd seen the girl around, outside of class. She thought she was on the volleyball team. The girl had the build for it---lean, a bit of muscle like Taylor's own physique.

Taylor blinked at the redhead, caught off-guard by the sudden acknowledgment. Liz—if that was her name—twirled a pen between freckled fingers, her gaze darting between Taylor’s face and the empty notebook in front of her. "You missed the pop quiz," she whispered, sliding a photocopied worksheet toward Taylor. 

"Thanks" she mumbled, taking the paper.

When class finally ended, Taylor gathered her papers with deliberate slowness, half-hoping to keep her head down and disappear into the crowd—until a freckled elbow nudged hers. "So," Liz said, falling into step beside her as if they'd shared every passing period for years, "you're officially my new favorite conspiracy theory." Her grin showed a chipped canine tooth. "Tyler Carver turning into his twin sister overnight? That's some *X-Files* shit."

Taylor's throat tightened around a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. Liz's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she matched Taylor's hesitant pace, her chin length hair bouncing with each step. 

Liz hip-checked a freshman who gawked at Taylor a second too long. "Eyes front, dweeb." Her tone was light, but Taylor noticed how Liz subtly positioned herself between Taylor and the worst of the hallway's staring. 

“It's some serious alien shit though” Liz continued as they walked. “This virus. Turning boys into girls and girls into boys. You’re all hot too. Like seriously hot. I think I'm in love” She batted her eyes like a cartoon character.

“Thanks, I think” Taylor wasn’t sure how to handle Liz. 

"You realize you're now legally required to tell me everything," Liz said, steering Taylor around a cluster of girls whispering behind their textbooks. One girl's manicured finger twitched toward Taylor like she was pointing at a zoo exhibit. Liz flipped her off without breaking stride. "Starting with—does The Bug give you, like, secret girl superpowers? Can you smell emotions now? Do you cry glitter?"

Taylor laughed. She liked her instantly but was a bit confused. "Sorry, umm..."

Liz smirked. "Why is this weird girl suddenly talking to you?" Liz was direct. "Simple. You looked like a deer in headlights. I thought, hey this chick needs a hand. You know?"

Taylor smiled softly. "Thanks."

Why did she keep thanking this girl?

Liz nodded, leading her down the hallway. "Don't thank me yet. I'm gonna ask you shitloads of invasive questions."

Taylor laughed. "Fair."

They turned the corner and Taylor saw Sierra's group clustered around her locker. Taylor tensed.

Liz immediately grabbed her wrist, pulling her left down a side hallway instead. "Shortcut," she lied smoothly.

"How do you know where I'm going?" Taylor asked as she dragged along.

Liz raised an eyebrow. "We have like three classes together".

Shit.

"Sorry," Taylor said, embarrassed. "I'm not...I mean, I wasn't very aware of my surroundings back then."

"Men" Liz scoffed, shaking her head. "You got the better tradeoff"

Taylor didn't know what to say to that. She wasn't sure she disagreed. But it was still a weird thing to hear.

They reached their second period class---Biology---right before the bell rang. There were no assigned seats, so Liz dropped into the one next to her.

"After class, you're telling me all about the weird girly shit" she said.

The forty minutes of Biology class was awkward with more stares and whispers. Taylor could feel them like physical touches—the quick glances from the back row, the stifled giggles whenever the teacher mentioned reproductive systems. She couldn't wait for the class to end. The constant drone of Mr. White's voice and every looking at her whenever she moved her head, it was infuriating.

When the class finally ended, she was happy to get out of there.

The hallway between Biology and Math felt narrower than usual, the overhead lights flickering like a bad omen. Liz kept pace beside Taylor, her shoulder bumping Taylor's whenever someone stared too long—a silent *I got you* without the awkwardness of saying it out loud.

"So the girly shit?" asked her new "friend".

Taylor exhaled through her nose, adjusting the strap of her backpack as they rounded the corner toward the math wing. "What exactly qualifies as 'girly shit' to you?"

Liz grinned, tapping her chin with a pen. "Oh, you know—suddenly caring about skincare routines, crying at dog commercials, feeling the urge to organize your closet by color gradient." She wiggled her fingers dramatically. "You know Bug magic."

Taylor snorted, almost tripping over her own feet as Liz mimed casting a spell. "I haven’t cried at a dog commercial yet," she admitted, "but I went shopping with my sister yesterday and absolutely fell in love with this dress. When I realized what was happening, it scared the hell out of me".

Liz’s grin widened as she hip-checked a water fountain to avoid a group of whispering sophomores. "Dress shopping? Oh, we’re definitely circling back to that." She tugged Taylor into an alcove near the math wing, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But first—truth bomb. Did Gamma give you, like... phantom boob pain? Because Jasmine told Mary Wilson who told a shit ton of other she woke up screaming when hers came in."

Taylor rolled her eyes. "Jasmine is full of shit. At least I'm pretty sure she is. I was actually asleep when these" She pointed at her boobs. "Showed up."

Liz looked at Taylor's larger chest. "Yeah, anyone would notice those growing in".

The third-period math bell screeched overhead like a fire alarm, making Taylor flinch. Liz didn't seem to notice, too busy examining Taylor's chest with the clinical detachment of a biologist cataloging a new species. "They're, like, perfectly symmetrical," she mused, tilting her head. "The Bug's got better quality control than Victoria's Secret."

Taylor snorted again as they made their way into third period Math class. Mrs. Schultz up front gave them the side eye but said nothing.

Math class was boring and Taylor was itching to continue the weird conversation with Liz.

It was weird. Taylor had known Benny since middle school, but their friendship had always been built on shared gaming marathons and occasional lunch table banter—never the kind of easy, unfiltered back-and-forth she was suddenly having with Liz, a girl she'd officially met 80 some odd minutes ago. Liz jabbed her pen against Taylor's forearm, pulling her attention back to the half-solved equation on her worksheet. "Earth to Bug Girl," she whispered, "you're staring at the quadratic formula like it insulted your mega rack."

The bell's shriek snapped Taylor out of her daze—she'd been counting ceiling tiles for fifteen minutes straight while Liz doodled cartoon viruses in her notebook margins. Mrs. Schultz collected their worksheets with the enthusiasm of a tax auditor, her gaze lingering on Taylor with an unsatisfactory shake of her head before wandering back to the front of the class.

"Alright, execution's over," Liz muttered, slamming her textbook shut with finality. She hip-checked Taylor's chair as she stood, sending it skidding sideways with a screech of metal legs on linoleum. "Meet you at lunch?"

Taylor blinked up at her. "You—wait, really?"

Liz rolled her eyes so hard her entire skull tilted backward. "Yes, really. Unless you'd rather sit with..." She jerked her chin toward the window where Sierra's clique clustered like vultures, their manicured fingers flickering against phone screens in perfect sync.

Taylor followed her gaze and felt her throat tighten. One girl was openly filming her from three tables away, the phone angled to capture Taylor's bewildered expression in high definition.

"Lunch it is," Taylor muttered.

Liz flashed a victorious grin and tossed her a crumpled napkin—presumably meant to be a makeshift map—before vanishing into the hallway's tide of bodies. Taylor unfolded it to find a hastily drawn floor plan with "FOOD HERE" scrawled over the cafeteria and a stick-figure Liz waving from a corner table.

Taylor made her lonely trek to fourth period World History. She was pretty down in the dumps when something new and different dawned on her.

She had History with Callie.

The fluorescent buzz of the history classroom’s lights suddenly felt like a spotlight as Taylor hesitated in the doorway. Callie’s dark ponytail was already visible three rows back—the same seat she’d occupied all semester when this was still Tyler’s life. Taylor’s fingers tightened around her notebook. Girlfriend. The word ricocheted in her skull like a pinball.

Callie’s head snapped up the moment Taylor crossed the threshold, her espresso-brown eyes widening. A heartbeat of silence stretched between them before Callie scooted her bag off the adjacent chair with a sharp jerk of her wrist—an unspoken invitation. Taylor’s pulse hammered as she slid into the seat, their knees brushing beneath the desk. Callie smelled like jasmine shampoo and the spearmint gum she always chewed when stressed.

"Hey" Callie said, blushing slightly.

"Hey back" Taylor blushed just as red.

Taylor's pencil slipped from her fingers as Callie leaned in closer, the scent of spearmint sharpening between them. "You okay?" Callie whispered, her breath warm against Taylor's ear. The question sent a shiver down Taylor's spine—half-pleasure, half-panic. Mr. Greeley droned on about the Treaty of Versailles, completely oblivious to the tectonic shift happening in the third row.

"I'm good now," she admitted, knowing Callie was referring to all that crap from the morning, including the asshole on Confessions.

Callie's fingers brushed Taylor's wrist under the desk—brief, electric. "That dude pissed me off. I wanted to bust his face".

"Just some rando hiding behind a keyboard," Taylor sadly admitted. "I told the principal, so hopefully it's handled".

History used to be pretty boring. Technically it still was but it was a lot better with Callie there. Well to be fair, she was always there but usually she sat with...

Taylor remembered and turned around.

There she was in all her "streamer" girl glory, Jasmine.

Jasmine lounged three rows back like she owned the classroom, one leg crossed over the other with the deliberate casualness of someone who knew every angle of her body was camera-ready. Her outfit was a meticulously curated blend of soft pinks and creams—a cropped cashmere sweater hugging her torso just tight enough to highlight the swell of her breasts, paired with a pleated skirt that flirted with the boundary between school-appropriate and scandalous. The diamond-studded choker around her throat caught the fluorescent lights with every slight turn of her head, scattering tiny prisms across her collarbones.

Taylor’s gaze snagged on Jasmine’s knee-high socks—designer, with tiny embroidered hearts climbing toward her thighs—before darting away when Jasmine caught her staring. A smirk curled Jasmine’s glossy lips as she uncrossed and recrossed her legs with exaggerated slowness, the movement drawing Taylor’s attention back like a magnet. Even her damn socks were weaponized femininity.

It was hard to believe that she used to be Jason. That dude had been the poster boy for Toxic Masculinity. Now here she was, the most feminine girl in the room. It made Taylor shudder to think of what might have happened if she had gotten the same variant of The Bug that Jason had got.

She turned to Callie, whispering. "So that's Jasmine these days?"

Callie rolled her eyes, whispering back. "She's been back in school for a week. She sits there like a queen. She lets other people take her notes, makes others do her homework. It's like the lacrosse player I fake dated for a year has been swallowed by the Bermuda Triangle".

Right. Taylor had completely forgotten they were essentially each other's Beard.  She was still processing the whole "Jason was actually gay" thing.

When the bell rang, the two of them headed out together. One thing led to another and somehow they were holding hands. She didn't mind though. She thought it was pretty out there for Callie. She was certain she was trying to keep the whole being gay thing on the down low but apparently not.

Someone scoffed from behind them.

The scoff turned into a sharp, familiar laugh—one that made Taylor’s stomach twist before she even turned around. Jasmine stood with one hip cocked, her manicured fingers tapping against the strap of her designer backpack. "Well, isn’t this adorable," she drawled, her voice dripping with saccharine venom. "Trading down, I see?"

Callie’s grip tightened around Taylor’s hand, but she didn’t let go. "If I remember correctly, you're the one who dumped me?" she shot back, chin lifting.

Jasmine’s smirk widened, her glossy lips parting to reveal unnaturally white teeth. "Oh, honey, that was business." She flicked her gaze to Taylor, raking it up and down her body with deliberate slowness. "But this? This is just sad."

Taylor realized it right there. She was taller than Jasmine. That surprised her. When she transformed, she remained her usual five ten. Jason had actually been a few inches taller then him back when they were both guys. It was actually kind of funny and ironic. Taylor stepped up to her, Jasmine's head an eyeline with her new bust.

The moment was not lost on Jasmine, who took a cautionary step back.

The role reversal in this scenario was amazing.

Taylor smirked, looking down at Jasmine. "What's wrong? You used to be a master class at this manipulation."

The realization suddenly dawned on Jasmine. She squinted, finally noticing. "Carver?" she whispered, apparently not recognizing Taylor.

Callie was quick to jump in. "You're serious, Jas? She looks just like her sister? How did you not know who she was?"

Jasmine looked confused for a moment. Almost as if she couldn't process before she responded.

Taylor smirked, enjoying Jasmine's discomfort. "Guess I'm not important enough to recognize."

Jasmine recovered quickly, flipping her hair over one shoulder with practiced ease. "Oh, please. I just didn't expect *you* to be the one holding hands with my leftovers." Her gaze flicked between them, lingering on their intertwined fingers. "Although, I guess beggars can't be choosers."

"And trash is just trash" said a new voice.

Kayla’s heeled sandals hit the linoleum with a sound like a gunshot, her sudden appearance at Taylor’s shoulder so abrupt Jasmine actually flinched. Jess materialized beside her, arms crossed.

The backup caused Jasmine to scoff before she turned with a hair flip and sauntered off.

Jasmine's retreating back was a study in forced nonchalance—her hips swaying just a fraction too wide to be natural, the glint of her choker catching the light like a distress signal. Taylor exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her fingers still tangled with Callie's in a damp knot of adrenaline and confusion.

Jasmine’s exit left a vacuum of silence in the hallway, punctuated only by the distant chatter of students and the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Kayla didn’t bother watching her go—her focus was laser-locked on Taylor and Callie’s intertwined hands. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "Well, well," she drawled, nudging Jess with her elbow. "Looks like someone finally figured out how to use their hands for something other than button-mashing."

Both Taylor and Callie blushed.

Jess gasped, grabbing her phone, ready fire off a text. Kayla snatched it out of her hands.

"Let them have this one, Jess?"

Jess nodded and Kayla gave her back the phone.

"For the hundredth time, I didn't know Sierra was going to spread that photo everywhere!" She sounded sincere but she was the biggest gossip around.

The four of them walked to lunch together.

The cafeteria noise hit Taylor like a wall of static as they pushed through the double doors—a swirling chaos of lunch trays and shouted conversations. Kayla marched ahead like a battleship clearing a path, her sandals slapping against the linoleum with military precision. Jess trailed behind, already tapping furiously on her phone despite Kayla's earlier confiscation threat. Callie's fingers stayed intertwined with Taylor's, their palms sticking together in the late September heat.

"So where's your VolleyBro?" Kayla asked, scanning the tables.

VolleyBro is what everyone called the girls volleyball team members. It was an inside joke because of how they partied after every match, win or lose. Like a bunch of frat boys.

Taylor spotted Liz immediately—not because she was waving (she wasn't), but because her neon-green high-tops were propped up on the cafeteria table like territorial flags. Liz sat slouched in her usual posture of aggressive relaxation, demolishing a chicken patty with the focus of a surgeon performing an amputation. When their eyes met, Liz didn't smile so much as twitch her eyebrows upward before jerking her chin toward the empty benches beside her.

"This should be entertaining" mumbled Kayla, knowing how balls to wall that Liz could be.

Kayla hip-checked Taylor out of the way to claim the seat directly across from Liz, her tray hitting the table with a clatter that made three freshmen at the next table flinch. Jess slid in beside her, already hunched over her phone like it contained the secrets of the universe. Callie hesitated—just long enough for Taylor to notice—before tugging her toward the remaining spot beside Liz's sprawled limbs.

Liz's gaze flicked between them all like she was tallying points. "So," she said around a mouthful of fries, "we doing introductions or just pretending this isn't the weirdest lunch table in Ridgewood history?"

Taylor opened her mouth, but Kayla got there first. "Jess. Me. You've met my suddenly hotter twin." She jabbed a plastic fork toward Callie. "And that's Taylor's upgrade from gamer chair makeouts."

Callie's grip tightened around Taylor's fingers under the table. Liz barked a laugh so loud the lunch monitor glared from across the room. "Jesus, you're all terrible at this," Liz said, wiping grease from her chin with the back of her hand. She pointed at Jess with a half-eaten fry. "Texting your entire contacts list about this, obviously." The fry moved to Kayla. "Queen Bitch energy, classic." Then to Callie. "Panicking internally." Finally to Taylor: "And you're just along for whatever fresh hell this is."

Taylor blinked. "How are you this accurate after knowing us for five seconds?"

"Genius-level social perception," Liz deadpanned, stealing a carton of chocolate milk from Kayla's tray without asking. "Also your sister's Instagram is public".

Kayla lunged halfway across the table. "Give that back before I—"

"—before you what?" Liz arched an eyebrow, deliberately taking a slow sip. "Drag me to the mall and brow beat me with a halter top?"

Jess snorted milk through her nose while Taylor marveled at Liz's uncanny ability to weaponize Kayla's own tactics against her. The standoff lasted exactly three seconds before Kayla collapsed back onto the bench with grudging respect—the first time Taylor had ever seen someone outmaneuver her sister in verbal combat.

The conversation spiraled into a whirlwind of hair products and dating disasters—exactly the kind of discourse Tyler would've tuned out or escaped months ago. But now, with Liz stabbing a fry toward Taylor's face to punctuate a point about keratin treatments, and Callie's knee brushing hers under the table as she debated lip gloss longevity, Taylor found herself leaning in instead of checking out.

It was like this all throughout lunch and she paid rapt attention.

It was the weirdest thing.

The lunch bell shattered their fragile bubble of camaraderie. Taylor watched as Liz vaulted over the bench with a mock salute, Jess melted into the hallway crowds texting furiously, and Kayla vanished toward the science wing with a backwards wink that promised future interrogation. Only Callie lingered—just long enough to squeeze Taylor’s hand once before murmuring, "You’ll survive PE. Probably." Her smirk did nothing to ease the knot in Taylor’s stomach.

Taylor's fingers hovered half an inch from the locker room door, her reflection warped in the brushed metal surface. The laminated "Girls Only" sign above the handle might as well have been neon. She could hear the muffled chaos inside—lockers slamming, flip-flops slapping against tile, the occasional shriek of laughter that made her shoulders tense.

"New rule," came Liz's voice suddenly beside her ear, making Taylor jump. "You stand there any longer, people will think you're casing the place for pervy reasons." Liz hip-checked the door open with zero hesitation, dragging Taylor inside by the strap of her backpack. The sudden assault of floral body sprays and coconut shampoo hit Taylor like a physical force—along with thirty pairs of eyes that flicked toward the doorway.

"Wait, where the hell did you come from?" Taylor was surprised because she was sure she was the only one who had PE this period out of their new group.

Liz shrugged, walking backwards into the locker room like she owned it. "Free period. Figured you'd need a tour guide through Girl Hell." She snapped her fingers in front of Taylor's frozen expression. "Breathe, Carver. Nobody cares as much as you think they do."

Free Periods at their school could be spent doing anything. Most people just used them as a free study hall. Taylor's was actually next period. She just never thought that anyone would want to spend it taking an extra class of PE.

Taylor stepped across the threshold like she was entering a crime scene—shoulders hunched, gaze darting between clusters of girls in various states of undress. A sophomore she recognized from math class paused mid-bra-clasp to stare. Someone's deodorant can clattered to the tile floor near her feet.

Liz stepped up. "What, never seen a girl with tatas this big?" She stepped behind Taylor, grabbed her boobs from behind and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I assure you they're very real!"

Taylor went 100 shades of red.

The locker room erupted into scattered laughter—some nervous, some genuine—but the tension shattered like dropped glass. Taylor stood frozen, Liz's hands still cupping her breasts with theatrical emphasis.

"Jesus Christ, Liz!" Taylor hissed, twisting away as Liz finally released her with a shit-eating grin. The laughter around them faded into scattered whispers, but the stares lingered—curious now, rather than hostile.

"And that is how you do it?" Liz said with a smug look, pointing at a locker. "I'm over there"

Taylor followed, still mortified.

The locker room was a warzone of femininity—a humid, perfumed jungle where every surface seemed slick with hair product and stolen glances. Taylor caught the sharp tang of aerosol deodorant underneath the cloying sweetness of vanilla body spray, the scents mingling with the damp musk of sweat-dampened sports bras hung haphazardly on locker doors. Girls moved in fluid packs, their laughter ricocheting off the tiled walls like bullets, their conversations layering over each other in a dizzying cacophony of inside jokes and half-finished gossip.

Liz navigated the chaos with the ease of a battlefield medic, shoving aside backpacks and stepping over discarded knee socks like they were landmines. She jerked her chin toward a row of lockers near the showers—far enough from the main thoroughfare to offer some privacy, but close enough to the exits for a quick escape. "Home sweet hell," she announced, kicking open a locker door with her neon-green high-top. The metal clang echoed ominously.

Taylor hesitated, her fingers tightening around the strap of her backpack. Everywhere she looked, girls were in various states of undress—peeling off shirts, wiggling out of leggings, adjusting bra straps with the casual intimacy of lifelong familiarity. A senior near the mirrors arched her back to French-braid her hair, her sports bra riding up to reveal a strip of tanned stomach. Someone's phone blared a TikTok trend from a bench littered with hair ties and bobby pins.

So this was the girls' locker room.

So many boys would be so disappointed.

She sat down a bench, taking her gym clothes from her bag.

The gym shorts were shorter than Taylor had expected—not indecent, but definitely riding higher on her thighs than anything Tyler would’ve ever owned. Navy blue with white piping, they had an elastic waistband that dug slightly into her hips when she moved. Kayla had insisted they were "standard issue," but the way the fabric clung to her new curves felt anything but standard. The matching sports bra was worse—a racerback monstrosity with enough compression to make breathing feel optional. Taylor tugged at the straps, suddenly hyperaware of how much skin it exposed across her shoulders and back.

There was a shirt at least, it was a pretty standard issue work out one. At least Kayla didn't muck that up.

Taylor started doing some stretches, limbering herself up.

Taylor’s hamstring stretch turned heads—not because she was particularly flexible (she wasn’t), but because the lean muscles in her legs caught the fluorescent light in ways that made several girls pause mid-conversation. She pretended not to notice the stares tracing the defined curve of her quadriceps as she bent forward, palms flat on the tile. Someone’s water bottle hit the floor with a plastic clatter.

"Jesus, Carver," Liz muttered beside her, loud enough to carry. "Save some tendons for the rest of us." She punctuated it with an exaggerated groan as she attempted the same stretch, her own legs wobbling like a newborn deer’s. The tension shattered into scattered giggles—some nervous, some genuinely amused—but Taylor caught the lingering glances at her biceps as she reached overhead.

She had seen Liz a moment ago. Both of them had Instagram fitness bods. She wasn't sure what Liz was complaining about.

Taylor rolled her shoulders, trying to ignore the way her sports bra straps dug into her skin. Liz caught her adjusting them for the third time and smirked, tossing a hair tie at her head. "Stop fussing. You look like a baby giraffe trying to walk in heels for the first time."

The locker room door swung open into the gymnasium’s cavernous space like the gates of some fluorescent-lit underworld. Ms. Poole stood at center court, her whistle glinting under the industrial lights as she scrutinized her clipboard with the intensity of a general surveying battlefield plans. Taylor lingered near the back of the pack, acutely aware of how her gym shorts rode up with every step.

"Carver." Poole’s voice cracked like a whip before Taylor’s sneakers had fully crossed the threshold. "Front and center."

A ripple of whispers spread through the class as Taylor shuffled forward, her pulse hammering in her throat. Poole’s gaze raked over her with clinical detachment—not the predatory leer Taylor had braced for, but the same dispassionate assessment she’d give any piece of gym equipment. "Modified routine for you today. Doctor’s orders." She thrust a sheet of paper at Taylor without breaking eye contact. "No contact drills. No heavy weights. Monitor your heart rate."

Liz sidled up beside Taylor, peering at the restrictions with exaggerated dismay. "Damn. She’s treating you like you’re made of glass."

No, Taylor thought, someone talked to her. Probably Dr. Morris. Ms. Poole exactly what Taylor was capable of. She saw it in the way the woman looked at her.

It was a shame too because Taylor had missed her run this morning. She'd been antsy all day and thought maybe she'd get a free workout in PE.

Taylor crumpled the doctor's note in her palm, the paper crackling like a threat. Across the gym, Sierra's cheer squad stretched in synchronized perfection—their leggings riding high enough to make the basketball team trip over their own feet. One girl arched into a backbend that defied physics, flashing Taylor a smirk over her upside-down shoulder.

She'd seen these girls all day with no sign of their ringleader Sierra.

The gymnasium smelled of sweat and rubber mats, the kind of scent that clung to Tyler's memories—except now Taylor's lungs filtered it differently, sharper somehow. Poole blew her whistle, scattering the class into warm-up laps. Taylor fell into step beside Liz, their sneakers squeaking in unison against the polished hardwood.

The first lap was easy—too easy. Taylor's legs burned with unused energy, her muscles twitching against the constraints of Poole's restrictions. Liz kept pace beside her, breathing steady, but Taylor could see the question in her sideways glance. "Quit holding back," Liz muttered as they rounded the corner near the bleachers. "Your doctor didn't say crawl."

Taylor grinned—a sharp, feral thing that made Liz stumble mid-stride. "You asked for it."

She exploded forward like a snapped rubber band, legs pumping in perfect, terrifying sync. The gym blurred around her—muted gasps, Poole's aborted shout, Liz's choked laugh—as she hit the second lap at a dead sprint. Her ponytail whipped behind her like a banner, sneakers slapping the hardwood with rhythmic precision. Taylor didn't just outpace the class; she lapped them halfway through the third circuit, blowing past Sierra's cheer squad with enough force to ripple their hair.

Liz was wheezing by the bleachers when Taylor skidded to a stop beside her, barely winded. "Jesus," Liz gasped, clutching her side. "What the fuck are you?"

Taylor grinned, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand—a gesture that still felt foreign without the rough scrape of stubble. "Same as you," she lied smoothly. "Just better." The words tasted like stolen confidence, but she rolled her shoulders back anyway, watching Poole's narrowed gaze track her every movement from across the gym.

Poole's whistle cut through the gym like a knife. "Carver!" The coach's glare could've melted steel. "I said *modified* routine, not Olympic trials."

Poole marched toward them, clipboard clutched like a weapon. Liz stiffened beside Taylor, but the coach stopped just short of toe-to-toe contact, her nostrils flaring. "You think this is funny?"

Taylor met Poole's glare without blinking, adrenaline still singing in her veins. "Wasn't trying to be funny." She wiped her forehead again, hyperaware of every bead of sweat trickling down her temple. "Just testing limits."

Poole's grip tightened on the clipboard until the plastic creaked. "Limits," she repeated, voice low and dangerous. "You wanna test limits?" She jerked her chin toward the climbing ropes dangling from the gym's ceiling—thick, knotted things that even the football team struggled with. "Show me your *limits*, Carver."

The climbing ropes swayed slightly under the gym's fluorescent lights, their frayed ends brushing the hardwood like accusing fingers. Taylor's palms itched with phantom memories of rope burns—Tyler had never made it halfway up in middle school. But the ache in her fingers felt distant now, drowned out by the drumming of her pulse.

The rope hung there like a dare, its rough fibers catching the fluorescent light in a way that made Taylor’s palms tingle. Poole’s smirk was textbook intimidation—the kind that used to make Tyler shrink. But Taylor just cracked her knuckles and rolled her neck, feeling the stretch of unfamiliar muscles down her spine.

The rope fibers bit into Taylor's palms as she leapt upward, her body coiling with an unfamiliar kinetic precision. The first pull came effortlessly—her shoulders flexing in ways that would've shattered Tyler's collarbones. She ascended in smooth, rapid jerks, the rope barely swaying beneath her momentum. Below, the scattered gasps of her classmates blurred into white noise as her focus narrowed to the rhythmic burn in her forearms.

The gymnasium’s air thickened as Taylor hit the fifteen-foot mark—higher than any girl had climbed all semester.

The rope fibers groaned under Taylor’s grip as she passed the twenty-foot mark—higher than even the football team's best climber had managed last semester. Her muscles burned, but it was a clean burn, the kind that sang instead of screamed. Below, Poole's clipboard hit the floor with a clatter as the coach's jaw went slack.

Then the whistle blew. Taylor sighed, knowing she could go higher.

The whistle's shrill echo still hung in the air when Taylor loosened her grip—just enough to slide down the rope in controlled bursts, her sneakers skidding slightly against the hardwood as she landed. The gym had gone unnaturally quiet, save for the faint squeak of rubber soles shifting nervously on polished floors.

Poole's whistle clattered to the floor as Taylor landed with catlike precision, her ponytail whipping forward over one shoulder. The silence was thick enough to choke on—until Liz's slow clap shattered it like a brick through glass. "Well, that settles it," she announced to the stunned crowd. "We're officially replacing the school mascot with Taylor."

The laughter that followed Liz's comment was strained—half admiration, half unease. Taylor wiped her palms on her shorts, the rough fibers of the rope still imprinted on her skin. Poole hadn't moved, her whistle dangling uselessly from its lanyard.

"Is that your limit?" asked the teacher.

Taylor smiled. "Not even close, ma'am".

******

The bell's shrill ring cut through the gymnasium's lingering tension like a dull knife. Taylor grabbed her backpack with hands still throbbing from rope burns, fingers flexing instinctively around the straps. Liz fell into step beside her, tossing an arm over Taylor's shoulders with the ease of someone who'd known her for years instead of weeks. "So. That happened."

The fluorescent lights in the computer lab hummed like drowsy insects, their glow reflecting off the rows of glossy monitors. Taylor slumped into her usual seat near the back, her muscles still thrumming with leftover adrenaline from PE. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard—Tyler’s old login credentials staring back at her from the screen like a ghost. She hesitated, then deleted the username and typed “taycarver” instead. The system accepted it without protest. Small victories.

This was a forced elective. Most kids her age took it for an easy A. It was a relic from an era when computers were still something new and foreign. Somehow the school failed to remove it from their curriculum year after year. Most kinds used it as a free time to check their socials or do some normal web browsing.

Taylor spent the 40 minutes reading some sci-fi web novel that she started months ago. She had thought it was pretty damn interesting as Tyler but now she couldn't really understand what drew her interest to it. That made her kind of sad. She used to love reading these kind of things. She made a mental note to add it to the growing list of things that she as Taylor didn't like now as opposed to what she as Tyler did.

She was very sad to say that crunchy peanut butter was on that list as well.

The virus was cruel.

Thankfully the ringing of the final bell of the day brought her solace from her boredom.

Taylor's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she shouldered her backpack, the scent of disinfectant and old textbooks thick in the hallway air. The classroom door swung shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss—just in time to reveal Sierra Dawson leaning against the lockers opposite, flanked by her Pastel Mafia in coordinated perfection. Sierra's bubblegum-pink nails tapped against her phone case in a slow, deliberate rhythm that set Taylor's teeth on edge.

How had she known where to find her?

The realization quickly dawned on her. It was Sierra's minions. She hadn't been fully paying attention but now that she thought about it, there was at least one in every one of her classes today.

Taylor sighed and walked over to Sierra, annoyed. "Are you stalking me?"

Sierra's lips curled into a practiced smirk as Taylor approached, her bubblegum-pink nails still drumming against her phone. The Pastel Mafia—a synchronized trio in mint, lavender, and baby blue athleisure—flanked her like pastel-hued bodyguards. "Stalking implies effort," Sierra drawled, pushing off the lockers with a hip roll that made her pleated skirt sway. "Tracking your schedule took, like, two taps." She held up her phone, the screen displaying Taylor's class timetable in meticulous detail.

"What about them?" Taylor asked, pointing to the other girls.

Sierra shrugged. "I'm not their keeper. They go where they please."

Taylor's fingers twitched at her sides, acutely aware of how Sierra's gaze flickered to the movement. The hallway noise faded into a dull roar—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking—as Sierra took a deliberate step forward, close enough for Taylor to smell her vanilla gloss. "Relax," Sierra murmured, tilting her head. "We just want to talk."

Taylor's spine straightened instinctively as Sierra invaded her personal space, the vanilla gloss smell triggering a strange mix of irritation and reluctant attraction. "Talk," Taylor repeated flatly, crossing her arms in a way that made her biceps flex. The Pastel Mafia exchanged glances—Taylor caught Mint Girl's eyes flickering to her arms before she looked away.

Taylor watched Sierra’s smirk deepen, the practiced tilt of her head making the overhead lights catch the shimmer in her highlighter. “You looked good in PE today,” Sierra said, voice dripping with something between admiration and calculation. “Like, *really* good. Better than half the guys on the basketball team.” Her gaze trailed deliberately down Taylor’s frame, lingering on her legs. “Bet you could do some damage on the cheer squad.”

Of course it was about the squad.

"I told you before I'm not interested," she said flatly.

Sierra's grin didn't waver—if anything, it sharpened. She twirled a strand of hair around one finger, the motion practiced and precise. "See, that's what you *said*," she conceded, leaning back against the lockers with exaggerated ease. "But then you went and climbed that rope like Spider-Girl on Adderall." Her gaze flicked to Taylor's hands, still faintly red from the friction. "People are gonna notice that. They already are."

Sierra held up her phone. There was a video on it of Taylor running around the gym. It cut to her climbing the rope.

Shit.

"Its already viral," Sierra smiled.

Taylor's stomach dropped as she stared at Sierra's phone screen—her own face, flushed and determined, staring back at her from the viral video. The comments scrolled by in a blur: *"Who IS she??" "Girl can CLIMB" "Bet she could wrap those legs around—"* She jerked her gaze away before she could read the rest.

"You're the golden goose" Sierra was gushing with excitement. "We're down a girl. You'd look real good replacing her."

Well Tori was a fucking idiot, she thought but didn’t say it.

"I'm not interested," Taylor said flatly again.

She didn't give Sierra a chance to respond before she turned and headed down the hall.

A text from Kayla binged a second later:

*Where r U?*

Taylor replied quickly, *OMW*

She sighed heavily.

Her first day back was officially over.

Author’s note: As I’m sure all of you know, comments are life blood to an author. I’m not begging or demanding, but I certainly would appreciate anything you have to say (or ask). It doesn’t have to be long and involved, just give me your reaction to the story. Thanks in advance...EOF