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People don’t sneak up on Marie. Ever. The combination of her blood powers and her upbringing ensured that she was always dialed in on her surroundings. So when the door to the music room slammed open, her head snapped up immediately. She still had a whole seven minutes - who did this idiot think they were?

“I have seven more minutes.” She said simply, dismissing them with a gesture before turning her attention back to her music. The intruder sighed but made no move to leave, flicking dark hair out of their eyes.

“And?” They said coolly, lounging in a chair and unpacking their bass. Why did they sound pissed off when she had the room booked? It took everything in her - and the voice of her mother from beyond the grave - not to roll her eyes. She’s a performer. If they were going to come in early, they can deal with her rehearsing this stupid fucking aria. Now that she saw them, of course she recognized them. She’s not in Brink’s materials class yet, but he is the supervisor of basically all mechanical engineering research projects, and Jordan Li is one of the only undergrads Brink has ever hired. What they did to earn that, besides being a kiss ass and the child of donors to the school, is a mystery to her. She tried to keep from wondering if they recognized her from around campus, and she tried to keep from noticing how irritatingly attractive they looked. They leaned back, thumbing the strings on their bass absently. Probably expecting her to run away after a single glare like some frightened mouse. But she’s rehearsed weirder pieces in front of scarier people than Jordan Li.

So she rewinds her music and begins again, working through Voi, Che Sapete - an aria that is the kind of earnest that makes her want to hurl. Come on - This torment is tinged with delight? It was passionate first, now I felt pain? End her now. But her voice coach insists upon learning the classics and technical precision. When she was a kid, her mom taught her and Annabeth how to sing. They had formal lessons, of course - sitting at the rickety piano in the living room and singing scales. But it was also just what happens when you live with a singer. Mom would harmonize with whatever was playing on the radio, and she had this look on her face when they were singing off-key. Nothing mean or condescending, just a soft smile as she guided their voices back to the right note. 

Marie closed her eyes, trying to tune out the thrum of Jordan tuning their bass. “Could you at least attempt some kind of regular rhythm?” She muttered, not really expecting them to respond.

“Have you ever tuned an instrument? There’s actual brain power required.” They retorted, clearly irritated. 

“You are intruding on my rehearsal time -” Marie began, but they just scoffed, going back to fiddling with their bass without even hearing the rest of her retort. Typical. One professor gave them the time of day, and now they walk around this entire school like it’s their personal playground. They probably had a point - though she’s loath to admit it. There’s a reason all the loaner instruments at her group home were woefully out of tune. Even Petrov’s piano often had a few off keys. But that doesn’t change the fact that she booked this room to 12:10 - and she intends to utilize it. After this, she has to head to the library for work, and then meet Emma and some of her dance friends. And she doesn’t need Petrov to tell her that she still sounded forced and overworked.

“Five fucking minutes. In our room.” She thought she heard them mutter, but she decided that she didn’t. Fuming over some entitled upperclassman is not a good way to end her rehearsal. She just tried to get through the piece at least one more time - if she can’t get that bar near the end right, Petrov would make her work this piece for another week, and she’d have even less time to prepare for her audition. As she did so, she saw Jordan’s body grow and shift out of the corner of her eye. She’d seen them in both bodies around the engineering building, but she hadn’t ever actually seen them change. It was seamless - she’d kind of expected something more? But to be fair, the other person she knows who changes shape has ... a specific process to do so. 

“Donna vedete, s'io i'or nel cor.” She ran the line a few times, trying to strengthen her vibrato and emphasize the emotions of the song. She could feel Jordan’s eyes on her, and she found herself standing up straighter in spite of herself. Why was she trying to impress this entitled rich kid anyways? Yeah, they’re incredibly attractive and intelligent, and yeah, they’re an important part of the department she’s in, but still. She doesn’t need their permission, and she certainly doesn’t need their approval. What is this yearning in her heart, indeed. The clock rolls over to 12:10 and she gets ready to head out. 

“Finally.” She heard Jordan mutter as she packed her things, sliding her music neatly into her backpack. She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back before smiling sweetly at them. Or, as close as sweet as she could get, with frustration still boiling under her skin.

“You know, you could check the schedule before you show up early. It’d be easier to fix your D string literally anywhere else.” They simply raised an eyebrow, looking at her appraisingly. She suppressed a scoff. “See you around.” She said dismissively, rolling her eyes once she was out of view. 

Thankfully, the library wasn’t too far of a walk from the music building, giving her time to grab a coffee before she clocked in. She snagged the black coffee from the countertop, leaving a dollar in the hand-decorated mason jar on her way out. Barista solidarity. 

She punched her code in, laid her bag on the ground underneath the help desk, and she situated herself at her station. She’d barely been sitting for five minutes when Emma came bounding over, looking even more excited than normal. This could mean anything - she could’ve nailed a new dance or she could’ve seen a cute dog. Marie had learned early on never to guess when it came to Emma.

“I think I just met the reincarnation of Robert Pattinson - if he had curly hair.” She breathed dreamily.

“Isn’t he still alive?” Marie remarked nonchalantly, checking books in mechanically. Open. Slide. Stamp. Close. Stack. Repeat. 

“Who cares, that’s not the point.The point is, this guy is hot, he’s nice, and he invited me to a casual-hangout-that-isn’t-a-party - his words not mine - and said I could bring a friend.” Emma waggled her eyebrows at Marie, trying to entice her.

“Emma, you know how I feel about last minute plans.” She admonished. Slide. Stamp. Stack. Close. And about setting her up on dates just because she has a date and they have a single friend.

“But it’s not last minute! It’s tomorrow night.” And as much as she’d like to snap back that tomorrow is still last minute - for Emma, it wasn’t, and she honestly had nothing better to do. She couldn’t keep from shaking her head, smiling fondly.

“Alright. But if they’re not good people, I’ll leave.” Emma nodded seriously before grinning widely, pushing herself up onto the counter, her legs dangling off the edge of the desk. She was about to launch into a play-by-play of the conversation she had with this mystery pretty boy, when something caught her eye and her cheeks flushed a little pink. Before Marie understood why, a relaxed black man in a gray hoodie sidled up to her desk with a nervous curly haired white guy trailing hesitantly behind him. 

“Are you Emma and friend?” The relaxed guy asked, clearly putting on a suave performance that was nearly sickening. She found herself thinking of Jordan - she’d take bitter entitlement over cloying niceties. Then she had to push that thought far from her mind - they’re probably just as fake in the right circumstances.

“Sam, you said we’d be meeting at Gideon Hall tomorrow?” Emma asked the taller man, leaning towards him almost subconsciously and looking up at him. Marie had seen the blonde flirt countless times, but there was something about this that felt... different. But she’s probably reading too much into things. He nodded, almost too quickly.

“We’ll be heading to my townhouse - piling into a few cars.” The guy who wasn’t Sam said casually. He looked Marie up and down appraisingly before giving her his number. “In case you have any questions.” She just raised an eyebrow, taking the paper. 

“You came prepared.” She said dryly, eyeing him skeptically. She pocketed the paper nonetheless, mainly because Emma would ream her if she didn’t entertain him. Despite what her roommate says, she doesn’t need to go on a date with an idiot to know they’re an idiot. But making new friends is probably a good idea, all things considered. That’s the point of college, right? So she tucked the paper into her pocket, and smiled her way through the stilted small talk, and once the two men left, she let Emma regale her with the details of her first interaction with Sam.

That’s also how Marie ends up sitting cross-legged on the floor in the small dance studio, watching Emma and her friends work their way through their tap routine. It honestly wasn’t bad background noise as she worked through her physics homework. And despite the disdain Marie felt for Emma’s mother and her attitude towards dance, she did enjoy seeing the way the blonde’s giggles would turn to full belly laughs as she and her dance partners would work their way through complex choreography. And sometimes, after a really good rehearsal, it almost looked like Emma stood an inch or two taller as she slung her arm around Marie’s shoulders and led the older girl to their next adventure. Which, to be fair, was usually their next meal, but when you’re at the top technical university for superheroes, you tend to find adventures everywhere you turn.

Not every student at Goldolkin Institute of Technology was a supe - it was probably closer to 20 or 30 percent, but supes tended to group together. Part of it was the fact that most freshman supes ended up in one of two dorms due to accessibility concerns, and the rest of it was the gawking that tended to come from the non-supe students. Marie felt lucky most days that she couldn’t be picked out of a crowd as a supe - people have certain expectations that she doesn’t particularly like dealing with. 

Everyone has opinions on who she should be, what she should want, and how she should get it. No one says what those opinions are, but she can feel it - in the way her academic advisors talk to her, in the way the directors at the music hall look at her when she walks in for her audition. You should be grateful for what you have. You don’t truly belong here. Our approval is the only thing that will take you to the next level. 

But it was actually Annabeth that taught her the true golden rule: there’s always another way. She’d remind Marie of this fact of the world before wiggling her way through the mostly closed window of their family home to unlock the front door, or using a bobby pin as a screwdriver to fix the cabinet door before their dad got home. Whenever people tell her she has an engineer’s mind - like the interviewer for G.I.T., or her high school math teacher - it’s because of her. It isn’t lost on Marie that her two passions came directly from the two most important women in her life. 

There’s always another way. That’s how she got into Godolkin, how she convinced her advisor that double majoring across disciplines could only enhance her collegiate experience, and even how she found herself as an understudy in the fall musical last semester. With every step forward, she feels herself pulling closer to her goals: getting her degree and getting back in contact with her sister. And nothing and no one will get in her way.

-----------------

No one else uses this practice room, especially not on Thursdays. Replaced at 9 wasn’t that popular on campus (college radio isn’t really as cool as it was in the 80’s, let’s be real), but they were well known within the music department. It had gotten to the point where they almost started keeping their instruments there. It was Luke who suggested it - Andre kept leaving his drum kit at home. But thank fuck they didn’t, because some random fucking freshman was in there, singing fucking opera. She looked vaguely familiar - maybe she’d seen her around campus somewhere. Not one of her one night stands, thankfully. That would’ve been painfully awkward, and besides, she’d remember a girl like that. Soft and muscular at the same time, big brown eyes sent directly from hell to drive them insane, and the kind of willpower that made their knees go weak. And royally pissed them off. 

“I have seven more minutes.” The freshman started, not even bothering to look at her. Rude. This is why she was a T.A. in engineering, instead of doing more work in the music school. People come in to a music program entitled as fuck - she’s met a thousand and one freshmen like this girl. She was probably the daughter of a voice coach, told she was God’s gift to music her entire life, and came here expecting to crush it in a day. Probably expected to be discovered before her first year was completed. She was well overdue for a reality check - pretty eyes or no.

“And?” They weren’t about to give up their prep time because some freshman was being cocky. This bass required... an expert’s touch, and more importantly, time.

The girl looks almost as pissed off as they feel, but she doesn’t pack up her things. Instead, she just goes back to singing some Italian number set to a Mozart piece. They tried to focus on the task at hand, but it’s not like he could quite hear the note, what with the pretentious racket.

“Could you at least attempt some kind of regular rhythm?” She said, closing her eyes in irritation. Why won’t she just leave? It’s seven minutes, they’ll probably spend twice as long waiting for their bandmates to arrive.

“Have you ever tuned an instrument? There’s actual brain power required.” they snapped back, uninterested in talking in circles. If they’re naturally intimidating enough to scare the freshman engineers, they should be able to get this opera bitch to scurry back home... right?

“You are intruding on my rehearsal time -” She began, barely hiding her irritation. Jesus, this girl doesn’t fucking give up!

“Five fucking minutes. In our room.” They muttered under their breath, half-expecting the freshman to snap back at them, or maybe even finally leave. But no such luck. Whoever this (admittedly very pretty) girl was, she was committed to riding out the full extent of her time block, and doing it in Italian. Someone gag her. She shifted to her male form, needing the larger hands to properly wrap around the neck of his bass. Even that didn’t seem to faze her - at least, she didn’t look up or stop singing. The D string on this bass had a loose knob and was often out of tune, so they focused on retuning it, thumbing the string and listening intently. 

“Finally.” They grumbled, adjusting his position in their seat. He watched as the freshman carefully slid her sheet music into a plain folder and slid that into her bag. 

“You know, you could check the schedule before you show up early. It’d be easier to fix your D string literally anywhere else.” She smiled thinly at him, and he raised an eyebrow, hiding his surprise that she even knew which string was giving them trouble. And as she went to leave, they couldn’t stop themselves from letting their eyes travel down her form. Subtly, of course - they’re not Andre. Of course, she had to be hot, too. At least she was finally gone, and they shouldn’t have to see her again. It’s not like she’s an engineer or anything.

This was one time they were pleased his bandmates were chronically late. That girl - still no name - had gotten under their skin. Luke and Cate can always tell when he’s pissy about something, and he does not need dating advice from the golden duo. Cate’s convinced that anyone who gets under their skin is their soulmate. Or whatever. Hate and love are much closer than people like to think, she tells them. Not true, in their experience. Most people who hate them are not ever going to like him, much less love them.

Whatever. This entitled freshman is not going to mess with their rehearsal. He needs to focus - Andre might be content to half-ass his way through the battle of the bands in a couple months, but they would actually like to be proud of the songs they showcase. There’s a few stanzas that they’d like to work though again and the bass line for the bridge needs some work.

None of his bandmates were surprised to see them hunched over their bass guitar, pen tapping incessantly against their spiral notebook. And if they noticed his irritability, they didn’t mention it. 

“We’re only five minutes late, Luke, this is almost a new record.” Andre called out, grinning easily as he held the door open for the other two band members.

“C’mon, dude, any amount of late isn’t a good look.” The blond admonished his friend, bumping his shoulder affectionately.

“I’m sure Jordan is just happy you remembered to grab your charger before we started rehearsing - even if we did have to walk back to get it.” Cate’s smooth voice slid into the room last, as she trailed behind her boyfriend. “You know they hate being interrupted.” 

Which was true, and why they didn’t lift their head when their friends entered. He’d been hoping to sort out the second verse at least, but the only lyrics they’d scrawled on the page were the lines that freshman was singing. They sighed in frustration, shoving the pen behind their ear and leaning back in the cheap plastic chair. 

“Please don’t expect applause for the bare minimum. That’s how we’ll lose in April.”

“Why do you insist on being a buzzkill, man?” Jordan caught the protein bar Luke threw at them moments before it collided with his head, and they nodded their thanks wordlessly. “April is after midterms. And midterms are forever away. Ergo, we don’t have to worry yet.”

They opted to rip open the protein bar and shove the gifted sickly sweet snack into their mouth instead of starting another fight with Andre. With their current mood in mind, they’d probably end up saying something mean and need to bake some apology cookies. Again. Despite the near constant bickering between them and their friends, he wouldn’t trade them for anything. Without Luke, they probably wouldn’t have ended up being friends with any of them - and their college experience would’ve been much more bland. 

When they started at Godolkin, they were just barely out of the closet and terrified to step out of line. Just walking around in their female form felt dangerous. But they went to some club meeting (none of them actually could recall which club it was), sitting nervously in the back of the room, unsure of everything. And Luke, the first freshman to perform at the music school’s symposium (and some ex-child star from a show they would never admit to having watched), sat right next to them and started making conversation. Told an embarrassing story about accidentally melting a plastic bowl to his hands, and invited them to come meet his other friends. He and Andre had met at orientation, Andre met Cate in class, and the rest was history. They performed together for the first time in the spring of freshman year, and now they were all juniors, competing in the battle of the bands for the fourth time. The second time with their own music. 

They watched as Andre set his drum kit up in the back alongside Cate’s keyboard, and he took his place beside Luke. It used to feel weird, standing together like this. Like they were playing at being rock stars the way he used to do with his sisters in their basement. And they aren’t sure when it started feeling real. It sort of snuck up on him, but one day, he was standing in this very spot, holding this guitar, and they realized that they were actually doing what they always wanted to do. He was actually fucking making music.

And as the four of them settled into their rehearsal, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly lucky. He’d somehow managed to make something close to a happy life out of what could have been a caffeine fueled slog through four years of hell. It wasn’t always easy - most rehearsals ended with them needing to rush off to manage something for Professor Brink or meet some random collection of students for a group project or a study session. Cate and Andre were both business majors, so they did most of their studying together. He used to find it suspicious - and wondered more than once how Luke put up with it. But he never seemed bothered by it - and he was often busy with private voice lessons and a slew of other rehearsals anyways. Besides, they didn’t like speculating like that about any of their friends. 

They did end up dashing out of rehearsal precisely when it ended, meeting with Brink to discuss lesson plans and then holing up in his office to study in peace. They technically had a study session tonight at the townhouse, but it was almost impossible for them to get any solid work done when all their friends were around, doing precisely zero work. Luke didn’t really study, Andre insisted he studied better when he was high or drunk (he doesn’t) and So he finished his homework and a first draft of a paper in the privacy of Brink’s cluttered office before heading to the townhouse to “study”.

She shifts on her way out, and is once again amazed by how easy it can be. People rarely ever asked why they shifted, and she and Cate had come up with a list of canned responses for the kinds of rude or insensitive things people would say. There were some that never failed to make her laugh - I heard your mom wanted to try pussy tonight and I thought it’d be funny if you got beat up by a girl - but she tended to default to Cause I fucking felt like it. Because that was the most honest - and it gave people nothing to work with.

She knew the townhouse would be unlocked so they didn’t even bother knocking, just walked right in. Sam, Luke’s younger brother, was lounging on the black IKEA futon, all up in arms about some girl he met. They basically tuned it out, heading straight for the fridge and grabbing a beer. She was honestly stoked - if Sam had met a girl, no one would be interrogating Jordan about what pissed them off. Or who.

They settled into their usual spot in the large and eclectically furnished living room of the townhouse - an emerald green corduroy recliner that is clearly a relic of the 80s, complete with a cupholder. It was the least offensive of the three ‘couches’ (if you could call them that). It wouldn’t take long for Sam to be relegated to the worst of the three - a worn down pleather loveseat that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, by Andre and Luke. The two settled in with their own beers as they kept discussing whatever harebrained idea Andre had cooked up this week.

Jordan found herself drifting in and out of focus during the chatter of their friends, not particularly interested in Andre’s newest business scheme or Sam’s continued anxious babbling about this blonde girl. She still couldn’t get Opera out of her mind - or that song out of their head. Rather, the one line of that song. It didn’t help that the two were inextricably tied - so even as she kept telling herself that it was the song that was stuck in their head, not the girl, it rang a bit hollow.

“Are you learning Italian?” Cate’s cool voice cut through her reverie. She peered over their shoulder at her phone. “What is this yearning inside my heart? Classy.” She said lightly, smirking as they cringed away from her inquisitive glare. 

“Got a song stuck in my head is all.” She grumbled, closing their phone before she could get even more nosy. If she even imagined there was a girl involved, she’d never let it up. Even so, they could see her filing that information away for future use.

“One of those opera girls in the music hall?” Andre asked, leaning even further back so his head was nearly in Cate’s lap, his legs already sprawled over Luke’s thighs. “Hanging around on the second floor might actually teach me more than my French class ever did. If they don’t give me a migraine first.” Cate was the most perceptive of the three, but Andre had a knack for guessing correctly about things like this.

“Half those songs are the same three lines repeated over and over again.” Cate said dismissively. “I could teach you more French than that in an afternoon.” She threaded her gloved fingers through Luke’s, settling into the couch. She had this knack of appearing both at home and out of place in most places on campus. Even here, she still had this air about her that both enticed and frightened most who met her. She was intimidating - in a very different way than Jordan was. She wasn’t stone faced and solid, she was elusive, and hard to understand. Almost like a changeling, she had this way about her that made it hard to pin down her true feelings. But she was also the first girl who she felt like really saw her as another girl. Cate painted her nails, helped her with her makeup, and none of it ever felt forced or inauthentic.

It kind of amazed them after years of being told that no one would ever accept her as bigender or her powers, that they had found Professor Brink and Luke and all these people who saw her as who she was, in their entirety. It gave them the strength and the motivation to continue to actually reach for their goals, which were inching closer every day: get their degree and make good music. And nothing and no one will get in her way.

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Marie Moreau did not have time for deviations from her schedule. What with balancing a double major in Musical Theater and Mechanical Engineering, plus two jobs - every minute counted. Which meant it felt like she spent half her time bemoaning other people’s inefficiencies -- like the bus to the grocery store that was routinely behind schedule anywhere from two to twenty minutes. She hoisted the large paper bag back onto her hip before making her way into her small but cheery dorm room, five minutes later than she would have liked.

“Are you a bunny?” Emma, her roommate and closest friend, questioned in lieu of a greeting. “Or are you trying to fend off the inevitable deterioration of your eyeballs?” Despite knowing Marie’s proclivity for food that didn’t taste like it came out of a toaster oven, she never failed to tease her about her ‘rabbit food’.

“Excuse you, my grandmother didn’t need glasses until she was seventy.” she retorted, snatching the two bags of baby carrots from the smaller blonde girl and put one into the mini fridge. “They’re good! And they keep me from becoming a zombie after 3pm.” She ripped open the other bag, popping one into her mouth. Unlike the jokes most students make, sleeping well and eating at least some fruits and vegetables is part of how she doesn’t entirely fall apart. It’s just unfortunate that their school mandated meal plan had woefully limited selections in the nutritional department.

“You know what keeps me from being a zombie?” Emma laughed, holding up the six pack of Monster energy drinks she’d requested. “Sugar and caffeine.” 

“Touche. Those things taste awful and yet are the only thing to get me through finals week.” Not everything they say about college is an exaggeration - finals week at G.I.T. is a special kind of hell, especially for the engineers. Last semester, she’d canceled her voice lessons and her shifts at Jitter Bean to focus on studying. Camping out in one of the private study rooms, she worked her way through an entire notebook just for practice problems, and she and Emma would trade off quizzing each other. And her hard work paid off - she still had a screenshot of her straight A’s that she kept on her phone as motivation.

“Some of the new flavors are tolerable.” Emma remarked, perching on the edge of Marie’s desk. She sighed, having long since stopped trying to get the blonde to sit in the chairs. But ignoring Marie’s glares had become something of a specialty of Emma’s, managing to be just adorable enough to earn forgiveness from the older girl.

“I don’t have new flavor kind of money. That’s a whole extra dollar.” She said playfully, putting away the rest of their groceries. And while Emma looked mildly admonished, it was a massive improvement from a few months ago. When Marie first let slip about her history, Emma had overcompensated for a while. She would flush red whenever she caught herself complaining about her parents or invited Marie to something she couldn’t afford. But by the third or fourth time of Marie insisting she wasn’t offended (and a few awkward moments of her own which she’d rather not recount), Emma stopped apologizing.

“Sometimes, joy is worth an extra dollar.” The blonde pointed out, gesturing with the black and neon green can.

“And that’s why I buy carrots.” Marie said matter-of-factly, folding the paper bags up for future use. You never know when you’ll need it. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, unbidden. She smiled to herself as she tucked the bags in their place under her dresser.

“See, you are a rabbit!” Emma announced jovially, only to get one of their many colorful throw pillows thrown at her head. Adorableness doesn’t save her from everything. Marie began gathering her things, stuffing her work shirt into her bag and situating her headphones over her locs. She turned to the blonde as she pulled on her jacket, the slippery lining of the trench coat sliding over her toned arms.

“I gotta go. I’ve got -”

“The room booked for your rehearsal. Like always. See you after work!” Emma said cheerfully, popping a carrot into her mouth in spite of her complaints.

“You know I’d never miss Golden Girls night.” Marie said, smiling and snagging a few more carrots to go and ruffling Emma’s hair on her way out.

“Thank you for being a friend!” The blonde sang out as the door closed behind Marie. She squared her shoulders and zipped up her jacket before heading on her way to the music building.

Despite the differences between the two of them, Marie wouldn’t trade their friendship for anything. They were thrown together by luck last semester - courtesy of the university’s automatic roommate selection. She’d been skeptical when she saw dance major and night owl on the compatibility form, but Emma drew Marie out of her shell in a way that never felt forced or overbearing. They even have a secret signal for when they need to leave a party or event as fast as possible. She’s also taken it upon herself to ‘educate’ Marie on the various movies and television shows she loves. Mondays were Golden Girls, Thursdays were movie nights. Emma did have to quickly get used to Marie’s need for routine and desire to plan ahead - Emma is the kind of person to announce that the most important event is happening about five minutes before they would have to go. 

The ten minute walk from her dormitory to the arts building was another part of her routine she’d learned to cherish. It’s one of the few times where she can be alone without feeling lonely. She kept up a brusque pace nonetheless, her combat boots crunching shallow sheets of ice on the pavement. The brick buildings of the other dormitories and gray expanses of parking lots blurred together as she made her way through the familiar campus sidewalks. She began running over the different pieces she’s currently working on with her voice coach. Marie’s been working with the same coach since her mom died. She’s an older Russian woman with a traditional attitude, she loved Marie’s mom, and in turn, Marie herself. Taking voice lessons online felt a little impersonal, but it’s not like she could afford any of the coaches around here. And all things considered, Mrs.Petrov was kind enough, and she knew Marie’s voice inside and out.

She sighed in exasperation when she walked up to the practice room and found the door still shut tight. It seemed like every single week, this girl with a too-tight ponytail and a voice that leans a bit too nasally pushes her voice lessons five minutes over at least. Marie’s standing by the door, tapping her fingers impatiently against her arm. Finally, the girl (Christine? Justine? Who cares) left with her private tutor and Marie was able to get started. She walked brusquely into the room, the accompanying track already prepared on her phone. She let out a long breath, taking in the unassuming white room, featuring only a piano, a speaker, and a music stand.

She forced the irritation down, rolling her shoulders back a few times to focus her mind. She has 25 minutes to herself, to just be. Well, 22 now. Warming up is almost meditative for her, as she puts all other feelings aside to focus on her technique and pitch. Hums and tongue twisters roll off her tongue like second nature, and she lets her eyes flutter closed. It feels like a way to honor her mother, in her own small way - as a child, she hated warming up or practicing on anything she didn’t like singing. All she wanted to do was sing pop and R&B - some of the girls at school had fawned over how she sang just like Beyonce and she had never felt cooler. Time and time again her mother would patiently explain to her the importance of protecting her voice and the benefits of working her vocal chords, while she forced herself not to roll her eyes. Her mother was kind, but not a pushover - there was no amount of whining or pleading that could get her or Annabeth out of the bevy of drills their mother knew.

Marie shook the memories away - it gets even harder to keep her parents off her mind as she inches closer to another anniversary. Her counselor would remind her she can’t schedule her feelings, and she should allow herself to feel and grieve when it comes up. But sometimes, you have 22 minutes to yourself before you have to stand for hours making coffee for college students, and you’d like to actually get some real practice in. Her barista job was the worse of the two, which is why she casually suggested to Emma they do their girls nights after her shifts there. Nothing gets you through making the most obnoxious coffee monstrosities like the promise of comfy pants, shitty booze, and fun television. Adjusting her long locs into a loose ponytail, she begins working on her current recital piece, some irritating opera piece that (if she remembers the translated lyrics correctly) is about your lover dying of the plague. Or something. What it actually means is that she’s going to have the German lyrics running through her head through her entire shift at Jitter Bean. 

Most people would never understand the way it felt for her to finally get to let loose and sing. Even Emma didn’t quite get it - she might be a dancer, but she was driven by familial duty, not passion. And those who didn’t know her would say it was only for her mother, that she made music out of some misguided obligation to her late parents. Her mother may have introduced her to music, but it was more a part of her than anything or anyone else. It ran deeper than DNA, deeper than duty, it was like the need to breathe. More often than not, she was stopping herself from singing or humming along to the music playing or the song stuck in her head. 

She left the music room exactly as the clock turned over (because she’s courteous - unlike Ponytail), pulling her work shirt over her top. Somehow, the fabric of this shirt is both slippery and scratchy, the microfibers catching on her nails. Whatever I’ve got to do to get to Annabeth. She reminded herself. And besides, being a barista wasn’t the worst job in the world. She punched in her employee ID, starting her shift.

Into the fray. She braced herself, pulling the cap down over her hair and readjusting her name tag. And despite her coworker spilling an entire pitcher of iced coffee down her front, and the three professors that came in and backed up the line making small talk, it wasn’t a terrible shift. One of the interim professors brought in her baby, a chubby-cheeked infant with a babbling giggle that filled the cafe with joy, which improved her day immeasurably. Still, a wave of relief washed over her when she was finally able to clock out, the sunset giving the campus a pinky-orange glow. 

She opened the door to her dorm, only to be greeted by the smell of weed, nail polish, and popcorn. “Welcome home!” Emma called out, cotton balls wedged between her toes as she attempted to finish painting them a neon shade of pink.

“Sorry, Ems, I gotta shower before we can start. I changed shirts but I still smell like stale coffee.” She said, still slightly irritated, taking her coat off and hanging it up in the closet as she spoke.

“Butterfingers at it again?” Emma asked, her eyes trained on the job at hand. With surgeon-like precision, she brought the brush to her nail, only to drip a glob of the polish onto her leg. “Fuck!” She cursed under her breath, wiping the pink goop with her sock.

Marie suppressed a grimace - there are cotton balls right there! “Uh, yeah, Mike lost an entire pitcher down my shirt.” She said distractedly, still mildly concerned by her roommate’s choice of rag. She just shook her head in bemusement, snagging her shower caddy on her way to the communal bathroom. She stood in the hot water, letting it run off her shoulders as she let her mind wander. Auditions for the spring musical are arriving fast, and while she’s not deluded enough to think that she’d be the first freshman to get a lead, she does know that auditioning every year improves her chances drastically. She’ll have to pick her audition song carefully - the theater program has a reputation of being particularly judgmental about what number you choose to audition with.

But that was a problem for later. Once dry, she grabbed her dad’s old tee shirt and her sweats, shaking the water from her shower cap before putting it back in the caddy with her shoes.  And snuggled into Emma’s bed, the familiar theme song began to play, and Marie let herself relax. Life was good.

----

Jordan Li preferred to arrive early, no matter where they were going. She thinks it has something to do with her father’s inability to ever arrive on time. There’s always an excuse - each one slightly less believable than the one before. Besides, since she started working at the mechanics down the road, they realized how much smoother an introduction can go when she doesn’t have to apologize right away. There’s a few older folks who seemed to have taken a liking to them, and they’re always pleased to make small talk about their grandkids or dogs before she has to get started underneath their car. One of her favorites was an older gentleman named John, who had interesting taste in cars and a sweet disposition. He walked into the shop as the clock ticked over to 1 p.m.

“Ah, if it isn’t Miss Jordan today! I was telling your counterpart about the neighbor’s dog who destroyed the missus’ garden. I’ve never seen a cuter ball of chaos.” He chuckled to himself, already fumbling with his phone to pull out the picture he’d shown them the other day. He was enough of a regular to notice that there are “two” Jordans who work there but didn’t realize they were the same person. She never had the heart to tell him the truth. Besides, she likes hearing his stories twice over. 

“Hello, Mr.Henderson! I hope she’s able to salvage them - I know she loves her flowers. How have you been?” Brushing imaginary dirt from her hands, she reaches out to shake his hand firmly. Like a grandfather she never had, he barely treats the two sides of them any differently.

“Doin well, ma’am. And you?” He slowly makes his way to the small waiting area, his cane making a satisfying sound against the concrete floor. And she can’t deny the comforting sense of validation when he calls her ma’am - as antiquated as it is.

“Can’t complain. What am I looking at for you today?” She turned to him, despite knowing exactly what he needed. 

“I think the brake pads on my old Datsun are wearing a little thin. Mr.Jordan said he put in an order?” She chuckled, smiling as she pretended to check the computer. It was already pulled up - another benefit of being early.

“Oh, I see that here. It looks like Mark left the package out for me - he knew you’d be here.” They began unpacking the pads before looking back up to see John settling into the chair he always sat in - a maroon cushioned armchair that looked almost out of place in the shop. “You make yourself at home, and I’ll get right to it, sir.” She smiled again before getting to work. 

And god, does she love working there. Their father is actually almost proud that his “son” works as a mechanic (See, now that is a respectable job for a young man. Did you hear your cousin is a barista now?), but that doesn’t matter as much as they thought it would. It just feels good to work with their hands, to fix something for someone else. That was the idea of going into engineering anyways. At sixteen, it felt like the answer to all her problems. Prestige for her parents, money for their hobbies, and good work for their conscience. Now, it feels like another cage. Half her peers are remarkably chill about the concept of working for defense contractors - which is a fancy way of saying building weapons. But the worst part was how... clinically it was discussed. He’d get halfway through a conversation with a recruiter at the career fair before realizing she’d just given her resume to a subsidiary of Lockheed Martin. 

She finished up with John, and tidied up before making the short drive back to campus. She should be able to get to the engineering building five minutes before her office hours are supposed to start. She doesn’t miss much about Rochester, but they do miss the country roads. They’d just drive, as long as she could, blasting MF DOOM or the shitty fucking American Idiot CD that their cousin “forgot” at her house when Jordan’s parents tried to ban scary music. (This music is corrupting my son, Kayla! This .... just isn’t good for a young man’s mind!). She’d whined and complained to Ruby for days until she came over to visit for dinner one night. She remembers waiting eagerly until her parents went to bed, snatching the CD from where she’d stashed it, and popping it into his disc player - also courtesy of Ruby. They listened to it so many times he memorized where all the skips were. 

She might be an engineer by trade (or will be - once she’s finally out of this hellhole) but music is what makes life worth living. And not just listening to music, but making it. She used to say they loved math because it felt like solving a puzzle. But that was before she started making music. Something just clicks when they get the bridge right or work out a kink in the melody. It was a stroke of luck that their friends also wanted to make music - Luke was the first one to bring up the idea of a band, because of course he was. And Cate came up with the name - Replaced at 9. Her, Jordan, and Luke had all discovered their abilities around that age - with varying degrees of success and heartache. But it’s Jordan who basically writes all the songs - staying up late pouring over Garage Band, or taking electives on music production. There’s this feeling she gets when they finally get the sound they’re going for. It’s like all these pieces finally come together and create the story she was aiming for. They tried explaining this once but Andre just laughed at her and called her a sap. But they can’t help it - she’s been listening to this kind of music for so long, she wants to finally put their ideas to record.

When she was fifteen, a friend from summer camp burned a Paramore album and a My Chemical Romance album onto a series of blank CDs. The two teenagers gleefully took the camp’s collection of sharpies and labeled them Mozart and Jazz Classics, complete with flowers and hearts. That alone would have been enough to write this memory into her soul forever. But later that night, they were staring off at the girls cabin, leaning against each other in the kind of way that made their heart race.

“I wish I was a girl sometimes.” They whispered, twisting their hands together while staring off into the distance. Jordan froze.

“I turn into a girl sometimes.” She whispered back. And before she could convince herself it was a bad idea, she shifted, her body shrinking against her friend. Their eyes went wide, looking Jordan up and down. Her heart was in her throat, and she looked down at her lap.  “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to brag or anything, it’s kind of a curse. My parents hate it.” She said awkwardly, fiddling with her fingers. She didn’t want to switch back - she didn’t know why yet, but sometimes, being in this body just felt like home. After another moment or so, their friend relaxed again, leaning back against Jordan as if nothing had changed.

“I mean, my parents hate it too. That I want to, I mean. When I was a kid... I told them once, and my dad got real mad. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about....” She gestured at Jordan’s new body. Then she paused. “Do you... like it? Like, if their opinion didn’t matter, what would you...” She trailed off. Jordan considered lying. 

“If I could do what I wanted? I don’t know, I like.... I like being both, I think. That probably sounds insane.”

“Nah, I think that makes sense, kinda. I mean, as much as me wanting to be a girl forever.”

“If you could be, what would your name be?” Jordan asked. She had never heard of someone else wanting something like she did. Boys weren’t supposed to like or want anything feminine. Her parents had convinced her that this form was something to be ashamed of. That they had to over-perform masculinity to compensate for this secret shame. But maybe... maybe there was another way.

“Iris.” She said quietly but immediately - This was something she had thought about.

“Well, Iris, I hope one day we can live lives we can be proud of.” They said, staring off into the stars. 

They found her on instagram last year - celebrating her first day on estrogen, no less. He wished he knew what to say to her - how to explain what that moment meant. But he’d just kept scrolling, trying not to dwell on the way Iris seemed to glow with happiness. Happiness they weren’t sure they could ever find. He slid his car easily into his favorite spot outside the engineering building, shifted, and made her way inside. Ten minutes early - perfect.

And yes, her friends found it mildly irritating that he beat them everywhere, but it’s not her fault that Andre has an inability to go anywhere without forgetting something at home. And if she’s honest, she likes to take the extra few minutes to herself. They’ll arrive to band practice early, taking the time to practice a bassline or complex guitar riff. Or, in the case of her T.A. work, she can make a dent in the slog of emails before the underclassmen begin to pile in. Although it usually takes another 15 minutes or so before the bravest of the students will actually approach them to ask questions.

She never really understood why people were so intimidated by them, but Andre says they give off an intense vibe or whatever. There’s a few students who have gotten somewhat comfortable just... asking for help. Which is what she’s paid to do. But each of the four semesters that Jordan’s been working as Brink’s T.A, the professor has had to give various announcements to his students, reminding them to actually talk to Jordan first instead of emailing Brink every time they’re confused. But the worst are the freshmen who will email her during office hours from two tables over. She watched as this one awkward kid with a buzzcut and glasses pretended to be working vigorously while continuously refreshing his email on his phone. Taking a look at her email, she saw the telltale ‘Office Hours Homework Help’ subject line at the top of her inbox. She forced herself not to roll her eyes. They weren’t about to email someone who was sitting less than 30 feet away. They made direct eye contact with him and quirked their eyebrow, uninterested in dancing around the issue. 

“Yo, you still reading the intro to that textbook or do you wanna come over here and I can take a look?” They said, not unkindly. It took him a second to register that Jordan was speaking to him, but he nodded quickly, awkwardly wrangling his books and papers into his bag before shuffling over to Jordan’s table.

It’s not like they are entirely anti-social or mean - they just cut to the chase in a way that makes timid people uncomfortable. At least, that’s what she tells herself. But a well-placed compliment on the student’s band shirt and an easy-going smile was enough to put this kid at ease. Thank God, because he seemed to have slept through half of Calc I and all of Calc II. Jordan mustered up every ounce of their patience, slowly walking him through the partial derivatives he was stuck on.

“Ok, so here,” They said, pointing to a line in his work. “This derivative is actually x2, so you’ve got an extra 4 here.” The kid’s glasses made his eyes look even more owlish as he blinked up at them. 

“But I thought the derivative of y is 1?” He said, his browline furrowed, and they had to hide their irritation. Everyone learns at a different pace. Brink’s voice echoed in their mind, reminding them to keep calm and stay kind.

“It is, but this is a partial derivative in terms of x, so the y is treated as a constant instead of a variable.” He nodded, scribbling something down in the margins of his paper, but it was clear he didn’t quite understand what Jordan meant. Whatever - they aren’t here to teach this kid calc, they’re here to help him with his physics. To be fair, physics is like 85% calculus, but still. They have to stay on task. The rest of office hours pass without interruption, just a few more students with straightforward questions. It wasn’t long before they were pulling her silken turquoise jacket on, slinging their bag over her shoulder, and making their way home in the orange light of the sunset. Life was good.

Marie Moreau did not have time for deviations from her schedule. What with balancing a double major in Musical Theater and Mechanical Engineering, plus two jobs - every minute counted. Which meant it felt like she spent half her time bemoaning other people’s inefficiencies -- like the bus to the grocery store that was routinely behind schedule anywhere from two to twenty minutes. She hoisted the large paper bag back onto her hip before making her way into her small but cheery dorm room, five minutes later than she would have liked.

“Are you a bunny?” Emma, her roommate and closest friend, questioned in lieu of a greeting. “Or are you trying to fend off the inevitable deterioration of your eyeballs?” Despite knowing Marie’s proclivity for food that didn’t taste like it came out of a toaster oven, she never failed to tease her about her ‘rabbit food’.

“Excuse you, my grandmother didn’t need glasses until she was seventy.” she retorted, snatching the two bags of baby carrots from the smaller blonde girl and put one into the mini fridge. “They’re good! And they keep me from becoming a zombie after 3pm.” She ripped open the other bag, popping one into her mouth. Unlike the jokes most students make, sleeping well and eating at least some fruits and vegetables is part of how she doesn’t entirely fall apart. It’s just unfortunate that their school mandated meal plan had woefully limited selections in the nutritional department.

“You know what keeps me from being a zombie?” Emma laughed, holding up the six pack of Monster energy drinks she’d requested. “Sugar and caffeine.” 

“Touche. Those things taste awful and yet are the only thing to get me through finals week.” Not everything they say about college is an exaggeration - finals week at G.I.T. is a special kind of hell, especially for the engineers. Last semester, she’d canceled her voice lessons and her shifts at Jitter Bean to focus on studying. Camping out in one of the private study rooms, she worked her way through an entire notebook just for practice problems, and she and Emma would trade off quizzing each other. And her hard work paid off - she still had a screenshot of her straight A’s that she kept on her phone as motivation.

“Some of the new flavors are tolerable.” Emma remarked, perching on the edge of Marie’s desk. She sighed, having long since stopped trying to get the blonde to sit in the chairs. But ignoring Marie’s glares had become something of a specialty of Emma’s, managing to be just adorable enough to earn forgiveness from the older girl.

“I don’t have new flavor kind of money. That’s a whole extra dollar.” She said playfully, putting away the rest of their groceries. And while Emma looked mildly admonished, it was a massive improvement from a few months ago. When Marie first let slip about her history, Emma had overcompensated for a while. She would flush red whenever she caught herself complaining about her parents or invited Marie to something she couldn’t afford. But by the third or fourth time of Marie insisting she wasn’t offended (and a few awkward moments of her own which she’d rather not recount), Emma stopped apologizing.

“Sometimes, joy is worth an extra dollar.” The blonde pointed out, gesturing with the black and neon green can.

“And that’s why I buy carrots.” Marie said matter-of-factly, folding the paper bags up for future use. You never know when you’ll need it. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, unbidden. She smiled to herself as she tucked the bags in their place under her dresser.

“See, you are a rabbit!” Emma announced jovially, only to get one of their many colorful throw pillows thrown at her head. Adorableness doesn’t save her from everything. Marie began gathering her things, stuffing her work shirt into her bag and situating her headphones over her locs. She turned to the blonde as she pulled on her jacket, the slippery lining of the trench coat sliding over her toned arms.

“I gotta go. I’ve got -”

“The room booked for your rehearsal. Like always. See you after work!” Emma said cheerfully, popping a carrot into her mouth in spite of her complaints.

“You know I’d never miss Golden Girls night.” Marie said, smiling and snagging a few more carrots to go and ruffling Emma’s hair on her way out.

“Thank you for being a friend!” The blonde sang out as the door closed behind Marie. She squared her shoulders and zipped up her jacket before heading on her way to the music building.

Despite the differences between the two of them, Marie wouldn’t trade their friendship for anything. They were thrown together by luck last semester - courtesy of the university’s automatic roommate selection. She’d been skeptical when she saw dance major and night owl on the compatibility form, but Emma drew Marie out of her shell in a way that never felt forced or overbearing. They even have a secret signal for when they need to leave a party or event as fast as possible. She’s also taken it upon herself to ‘educate’ Marie on the various movies and television shows she loves. Mondays were Golden Girls, Thursdays were movie nights. Emma did have to quickly get used to Marie’s need for routine and desire to plan ahead - Emma is the kind of person to announce that the most important event is happening about five minutes before they would have to go. 

The ten minute walk from her dormitory to the arts building was another part of her routine she’d learned to cherish. It’s one of the few times where she can be alone without feeling lonely. She kept up a brusque pace nonetheless, her combat boots crunching shallow sheets of ice on the pavement. The brick buildings of the other dormitories and gray expanses of parking lots blurred together as she made her way through the familiar campus sidewalks. She began running over the different pieces she’s currently working on with her voice coach. Marie’s been working with the same coach since her mom died. She’s an older Russian woman with a traditional attitude, she loved Marie’s mom, and in turn, Marie herself. Taking voice lessons online felt a little impersonal, but it’s not like she could afford any of the coaches around here. And all things considered, Mrs.Petrov was kind enough, and she knew Marie’s voice inside and out.

She sighed in exasperation when she walked up to the practice room and found the door still shut tight. It seemed like every single week, this girl with a too-tight ponytail and a voice that leans a bit too nasally pushes her voice lessons five minutes over at least. Marie’s standing by the door, tapping her fingers impatiently against her arm. Finally, the girl (Christine? Justine? Who cares) left with her private tutor and Marie was able to get started. She walked brusquely into the room, the accompanying track already prepared on her phone. She let out a long breath, taking in the unassuming white room, featuring only a piano, a speaker, and a music stand.

She forced the irritation down, rolling her shoulders back a few times to focus her mind. She has 25 minutes to herself, to just be. Well, 22 now. Warming up is almost meditative for her, as she puts all other feelings aside to focus on her technique and pitch. Hums and tongue twisters roll off her tongue like second nature, and she lets her eyes flutter closed. It feels like a way to honor her mother, in her own small way - as a child, she hated warming up or practicing on anything she didn’t like singing. All she wanted to do was sing pop and R&B - some of the girls at school had fawned over how she sang just like Beyonce and she had never felt cooler. Time and time again her mother would patiently explain to her the importance of protecting her voice and the benefits of working her vocal chords, while she forced herself not to roll her eyes. Her mother was kind, but not a pushover - there was no amount of whining or pleading that could get her or Annabeth out of the bevy of drills their mother knew.

Marie shook the memories away - it gets even harder to keep her parents off her mind as she inches closer to another anniversary. Her counselor would remind her she can’t schedule her feelings, and she should allow herself to feel and grieve when it comes up. But sometimes, you have 22 minutes to yourself before you have to stand for hours making coffee for college students, and you’d like to actually get some real practice in. Her barista job was the worse of the two, which is why she casually suggested to Emma they do their girls nights after her shifts there. Nothing gets you through making the most obnoxious coffee monstrosities like the promise of comfy pants, shitty booze, and fun television. Adjusting her long locs into a loose ponytail, she begins working on her current recital piece, some irritating opera piece that (if she remembers the translated lyrics correctly) is about your lover dying of the plague. Or something. What it actually means is that she’s going to have the German lyrics running through her head through her entire shift at Jitter Bean. 

Most people would never understand the way it felt for her to finally get to let loose and sing. Even Emma didn’t quite get it - she might be a dancer, but she was driven by familial duty, not passion. And those who didn’t know her would say it was only for her mother, that she made music out of some misguided obligation to her late parents. Her mother may have introduced her to music, but it was more a part of her than anything or anyone else. It ran deeper than DNA, deeper than duty, it was like the need to breathe. More often than not, she was stopping herself from singing or humming along to the music playing or the song stuck in her head. 

She left the music room exactly as the clock turned over (because she’s courteous - unlike Ponytail), pulling her work shirt over her top. Somehow, the fabric of this shirt is both slippery and scratchy, the microfibers catching on her nails. Whatever I’ve got to do to get to Annabeth. She reminded herself. And besides, being a barista wasn’t the worst job in the world. She punched in her employee ID, starting her shift.

Into the fray. She braced herself, pulling the cap down over her hair and readjusting her name tag. And despite her coworker spilling an entire pitcher of iced coffee down her front, and the three professors that came in and backed up the line making small talk, it wasn’t a terrible shift. One of the interim professors brought in her baby, a chubby-cheeked infant with a babbling giggle that filled the cafe with joy, which improved her day immeasurably. Still, a wave of relief washed over her when she was finally able to clock out, the sunset giving the campus a pinky-orange glow. 

She opened the door to her dorm, only to be greeted by the smell of weed, nail polish, and popcorn. “Welcome home!” Emma called out, cotton balls wedged between her toes as she attempted to finish painting them a neon shade of pink.

“Sorry, Ems, I gotta shower before we can start. I changed shirts but I still smell like stale coffee.” She said, still slightly irritated, taking her coat off and hanging it up in the closet as she spoke.

“Butterfingers at it again?” Emma asked, her eyes trained on the job at hand. With surgeon-like precision, she brought the brush to her nail, only to drip a glob of the polish onto her leg. “Fuck!” She cursed under her breath, wiping the pink goop with her sock.

Marie suppressed a grimace - there are cotton balls right there! “Uh, yeah, Mike lost an entire pitcher down my shirt.” She said distractedly, still mildly concerned by her roommate’s choice of rag. She just shook her head in bemusement, snagging her shower caddy on her way to the communal bathroom. She stood in the hot water, letting it run off her shoulders as she let her mind wander. Auditions for the spring musical are arriving fast, and while she’s not deluded enough to think that she’d be the first freshman to get a lead, she does know that auditioning every year improves her chances drastically. She’ll have to pick her audition song carefully - the theater program has a reputation of being particularly judgmental about what number you choose to audition with.

But that was a problem for later. Once dry, she grabbed her dad’s old tee shirt and her sweats, shaking the water from her shower cap before putting it back in the caddy with her shoes.  And snuggled into Emma’s bed, the familiar theme song began to play, and Marie let herself relax. Life was good.

----

Jordan Li preferred to arrive early, no matter where they were going. She thinks it has something to do with her father’s inability to ever arrive on time. There’s always an excuse - each one slightly less believable than the one before. Besides, since she started working at the mechanics down the road, they realized how much smoother an introduction can go when she doesn’t have to apologize right away. There’s a few older folks who seemed to have taken a liking to them, and they’re always pleased to make small talk about their grandkids or dogs before she has to get started underneath their car. One of her favorites was an older gentleman named John, who had interesting taste in cars and a sweet disposition. He walked into the shop as the clock ticked over to 1 p.m.

“Ah, if it isn’t Miss Jordan today! I was telling your counterpart about the neighbor’s dog who destroyed the missus’ garden. I’ve never seen a cuter ball of chaos.” He chuckled to himself, already fumbling with his phone to pull out the picture he’d shown them the other day. He was enough of a regular to notice that there are “two” Jordans who work there but didn’t realize they were the same person. She never had the heart to tell him the truth. Besides, she likes hearing his stories twice over. 

“Hello, Mr.Henderson! I hope she’s able to salvage them - I know she loves her flowers. How have you been?” Brushing imaginary dirt from her hands, she reaches out to shake his hand firmly. Like a grandfather she never had, he barely treats the two sides of them any differently.

“Doin well, ma’am. And you?” He slowly makes his way to the small waiting area, his cane making a satisfying sound against the concrete floor. And she can’t deny the comforting sense of validation when he calls her ma’am - as antiquated as it is.

“Can’t complain. What am I looking at for you today?” She turned to him, despite knowing exactly what he needed. 

“I think the brake pads on my old Datsun are wearing a little thin. Mr.Jordan said he put in an order?” She chuckled, smiling as she pretended to check the computer. It was already pulled up - another benefit of being early.

“Oh, I see that here. It looks like Mark left the package out for me - he knew you’d be here.” They began unpacking the pads before looking back up to see John settling into the chair he always sat in - a maroon cushioned armchair that looked almost out of place in the shop. “You make yourself at home, and I’ll get right to it, sir.” She smiled again before getting to work. 

And god, does she love working there. Their father is actually almost proud that his “son” works as a mechanic (See, now that is a respectable job for a young man. Did you hear your cousin is a barista now?), but that doesn’t matter as much as they thought it would. It just feels good to work with their hands, to fix something for someone else. That was the idea of going into engineering anyways. At sixteen, it felt like the answer to all her problems. Prestige for her parents, money for their hobbies, and good work for their conscience. Now, it feels like another cage. Half her peers are remarkably chill about the concept of working for defense contractors - which is a fancy way of saying building weapons. But the worst part was how... clinically it was discussed. He’d get halfway through a conversation with a recruiter at the career fair before realizing she’d just given her resume to a subsidiary of Lockheed Martin. 

She finished up with John, and tidied up before making the short drive back to campus. She should be able to get to the engineering building five minutes before her office hours are supposed to start. She doesn’t miss much about Rochester, but they do miss the country roads. They’d just drive, as long as she could, blasting MF DOOM or the shitty fucking American Idiot CD that their cousin “forgot” at her house when Jordan’s parents tried to ban scary music. (This music is corrupting my son, Kayla! This .... just isn’t good for a young man’s mind!). She’d whined and complained to Ruby for days until she came over to visit for dinner one night. She remembers waiting eagerly until her parents went to bed, snatching the CD from where she’d stashed it, and popping it into his disc player - also courtesy of Ruby. They listened to it so many times he memorized where all the skips were. 

She might be an engineer by trade (or will be - once she’s finally out of this hellhole) but music is what makes life worth living. And not just listening to music, but making it. She used to say they loved math because it felt like solving a puzzle. But that was before she started making music. Something just clicks when they get the bridge right or work out a kink in the melody. It was a stroke of luck that their friends also wanted to make music - Luke was the first one to bring up the idea of a band, because of course he was. And Cate came up with the name - Replaced at 9. Her, Jordan, and Luke had all discovered their abilities around that age - with varying degrees of success and heartache. But it’s Jordan who basically writes all the songs - staying up late pouring over Garage Band, or taking electives on music production. There’s this feeling she gets when they finally get the sound they’re going for. It’s like all these pieces finally come together and create the story she was aiming for. They tried explaining this once but Andre just laughed at her and called her a sap. But they can’t help it - she’s been listening to this kind of music for so long, she wants to finally put their ideas to record.

When she was fifteen, a friend from summer camp burned a Paramore album and a My Chemical Romance album onto a series of blank CDs. The two teenagers gleefully took the camp’s collection of sharpies and labeled them Mozart and Jazz Classics, complete with flowers and hearts. That alone would have been enough to write this memory into her soul forever. But later that night, they were staring off at the girls cabin, leaning against each other in the kind of way that made their heart race.

“I wish I was a girl sometimes.” They whispered, twisting their hands together while staring off into the distance. Jordan froze.

“I turn into a girl sometimes.” She whispered back. And before she could convince herself it was a bad idea, she shifted, her body shrinking against her friend. Their eyes went wide, looking Jordan up and down. Her heart was in her throat, and she looked down at her lap.  “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to brag or anything, it’s kind of a curse. My parents hate it.” She said awkwardly, fiddling with her fingers. She didn’t want to switch back - she didn’t know why yet, but sometimes, being in this body just felt like home. After another moment or so, their friend relaxed again, leaning back against Jordan as if nothing had changed.

“I mean, my parents hate it too. That I want to, I mean. When I was a kid... I told them once, and my dad got real mad. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about....” She gestured at Jordan’s new body. Then she paused. “Do you... like it? Like, if their opinion didn’t matter, what would you...” She trailed off. Jordan considered lying. 

“If I could do what I wanted? I don’t know, I like.... I like being both, I think. That probably sounds insane.”

“Nah, I think that makes sense, kinda. I mean, as much as me wanting to be a girl forever.”

“If you could be, what would your name be?” Jordan asked. She had never heard of someone else wanting something like she did. Boys weren’t supposed to like or want anything feminine. Her parents had convinced her that this form was something to be ashamed of. That they had to over-perform masculinity to compensate for this secret shame. But maybe... maybe there was another way.

“Iris.” She said quietly but immediately - This was something she had thought about.

“Well, Iris, I hope one day we can live lives we can be proud of.” They said, staring off into the stars. 

They found her on instagram last year - celebrating her first day on estrogen, no less. He wished he knew what to say to her - how to explain what that moment meant. But he’d just kept scrolling, trying not to dwell on the way Iris seemed to glow with happiness. Happiness they weren’t sure they could ever find. He slid his car easily into his favorite spot outside the engineering building, shifted, and made her way inside. Ten minutes early - perfect.

And yes, her friends found it mildly irritating that he beat them everywhere, but it’s not her fault that Andre has an inability to go anywhere without forgetting something at home. And if she’s honest, she likes to take the extra few minutes to herself. They’ll arrive to band practice early, taking the time to practice a bassline or complex guitar riff. Or, in the case of her T.A. work, she can make a dent in the slog of emails before the underclassmen begin to pile in. Although it usually takes another 15 minutes or so before the bravest of the students will actually approach them to ask questions.

She never really understood why people were so intimidated by them, but Andre says they give off an intense vibe or whatever. There’s a few students who have gotten somewhat comfortable just... asking for help. Which is what she’s paid to do. But each of the four semesters that Jordan’s been working as Brink’s T.A, the professor has had to give various announcements to his students, reminding them to actually talk to Jordan first instead of emailing Brink every time they’re confused. But the worst are the freshmen who will email her during office hours from two tables over. She watched as this one awkward kid with a buzzcut and glasses pretended to be working vigorously while continuously refreshing his email on his phone. Taking a look at her email, she saw the telltale ‘Office Hours Homework Help’ subject line at the top of her inbox. She forced herself not to roll her eyes. They weren’t about to email someone who was sitting less than 30 feet away. They made direct eye contact with him and quirked their eyebrow, uninterested in dancing around the issue. 

“Yo, you still reading the intro to that textbook or do you wanna come over here and I can take a look?” They said, not unkindly. It took him a second to register that Jordan was speaking to him, but he nodded quickly, awkwardly wrangling his books and papers into his bag before shuffling over to Jordan’s table.

It’s not like they are entirely anti-social or mean - they just cut to the chase in a way that makes timid people uncomfortable. At least, that’s what she tells herself. But a well-placed compliment on the student’s band shirt and an easy-going smile was enough to put this kid at ease. Thank God, because he seemed to have slept through half of Calc I and all of Calc II. Jordan mustered up every ounce of their patience, slowly walking him through the partial derivatives he was stuck on.

“Ok, so here,” They said, pointing to a line in his work. “This derivative is actually x2, so you’ve got an extra 4 here.” The kid’s glasses made his eyes look even more owlish as he blinked up at them. 

“But I thought the derivative of y is 1?” He said, his browline furrowed, and they had to hide their irritation. Everyone learns at a different pace. Brink’s voice echoed in their mind, reminding them to keep calm and stay kind.

“It is, but this is a partial derivative in terms of x, so the y is treated as a constant instead of a variable.” He nodded, scribbling something down in the margins of his paper, but it was clear he didn’t quite understand what Jordan meant. Whatever - they aren’t here to teach this kid calc, they’re here to help him with his physics. To be fair, physics is like 85% calculus, but still. They have to stay on task. The rest of office hours pass without interruption, just a few more students with straightforward questions. It wasn’t long before they were pulling her silken turquoise jacket on, slinging their bag over her shoulder, and making their way home in the orange light of the sunset. Life was good.