Dad and I will pick you up at 8. Be ready by then. Don't sleep too late. Love you, Max. 😘❤️

    Max slid his phone into his jacket pocket, looking back up at the foliage of green and orange across the road, the way the sun bathed the forest in its golden light, a rare sight these days. He received the message last night from his mom, and agreed to meet his parents for breakfast that Saturday morning. Well, he had to agree—what choice did he have? He was fifteen. He couldn't say no to his parents.

    So he stood on the porch of the boys' dormitory building, waiting for a pale gold Toyota Land Cruiser to appear somewhere down the road.

    In the meantime, Max kept his earbuds on, listening to a Hands Like Houses album Lyn had introduced him to. A little wake-me-up-because-I-might-have-slept-a-little-too-late-last-night-playing-video-games-with-my-friends on a sunny Saturday morning.

    He let out a sigh. Lyn had told them about it, how his dad might want him to leave their friend group.

    "I have a feeling he's going to talk to you about it," Lyn had said, as they made their way to the dorms last Monday afternoon.

    It made sense, though. He and his family usually met up on Saturdays and Sundays for lunch. Why the sudden change of schedule? And why was it only going to be the three of them meeting—he and his mom and his dad—while his parents hired a babysitter for half the day to watch over his little six-year-old sister Brienne?

    Max glanced over to his left. Just then, a pale gold shape came to view, driving down the narrow road. Max pulled his earbuds out, yanked the end of the wire out of the jack. He rolled the wire into a near-tangled mess, and quickly stuffed it into his jeans pocket.

    The SUV came to a halt at the curb, and Max took this as his cue to move. With his hands in his pockets, he walked down the steps, down the concrete path, over to the Land Cruiser.

    And he realized, as he placed a hand on the door handle, that for the first time since they came to Oregon, he wasn't as excited to meet his parents as he usually was. More like anxious, to be precise.

    With a quiet sigh, Max opened the door, slipped in, and, faking a smile that would hopefully pass off as genuine, said, " 'Morning, Mom. 'Morning, Dad."

Sander drummed his fingers on the wooden table, eyes glancing over to the front door of The Raven's Nest every now and then. He looked at his watch—8:19.

Sander shut his eyes for a moment, one elbow on the table, a hand holding his head up. He could have slept a few minutes in, he knew that. But he didn't regret it—he wanted to be on time for his breakfast with Talya. What he regretted, though, was not saying no to Damien's weekly invitation to Friday Paranoid Android Night. He, Damien, Jack, and Max spent last night playing the game all the way to 1:00 A.M. Not as horribly late as the other nights they'd had, but still, too late, another bad decision. Jack, having not felt the time slipping past his fingers, even freaked out a bit, knowing he had to get up early for practice the next day (or, at 1:00 A.M., it was no longer the next day but a few hours later).

    Sander nodded his head, once, inadvertently. And then everything turned dark and dreamless.

Max stared down at his mug of hot chocolate, the ideal drink to counter the chill of late September.

    Realizing how stupid he must look, seemingly pondering on the deep brownness of his beverage or the steam that rose from the liquid, he took a sip, then glanced at the window right next to him.

His eyes caught sight of the picturesque scene playing out beyond the thin glass wall: the foliage caught in a time between summer and autumn, of orange and green, of warm and cool tones; of neighborhood children playing on a nearby lawn, running and jumping and laughing, screens untethered to their hands and eyes and minds, a rarity in this digital age. Like honey swirling in a little pool of tea, the birds' morning song blended in with the indie folk tune playing in the background, permeating the air with sweet music.

    "Pretty, isn't it?" said a woman's voice.

    Max turned his glance away from the window to his mother seated across from him, pulling his consciousness back to the little café they chose to dine in for breakfast.

    The place reminded him a lot of The Raven's Nest—wooden furniture, pine-paneled walls, the scent of coffee and baked goods ever-present in the air. Sunlight streamed in through the many windows of the café, illuminating the space in a golden glow. An upright piano stood in a corner, a colorful array of statuettes, each one no larger than a hand, sitting atop the lid. There was a fireplace not far from where they sat, its mantelpiece decorated with flowers in vases and statuettes of varying sizes. A group of middle-aged strangers sat on the couches before the furnace, their drinks and plates of pastries laid out on a low wooden coffee table, fragments of their conversation drifting over to their ears.

    Max's mother gave him a small smile, and said, "You looked like you were caught in some sort of trance."

    Without a thought, Max's hand rubbed the traces of sleep from his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "With a view like this, who wouldn't be?"

"You can't find something like this in Florida," said his mother, with a pensive sigh.

Max chuckled. "No spring, no autumn, no winter. Just summer all year round—hot, and hotter, and hurricanes."

    His mother studied his face a moment. "Max," she said, "are you okay?"

    "Y-Yeah, I'm fine, Mom."

    "Really?" she said, leaning back in her seat, arms crossing over her chest. "You look a bit out of it."

"Just a little tired, maybe," said Max. It wasn't a complete lie, but it wasn't the entire truth, either. "School, missing home, getting used to this new life . . . "

"I understand," said his mother. She sipped from her own mug of hot chocolate. "I felt the same way when we moved to America."

"Must have been harder for you, Mom," said Max. "France seems like a million miles away compared to Orlando. Besides that, you had to learn a new language, a new culture."

    "It was, and I did." His mom took another sip. "Many of my classmates even made fun of me for trying to learn English. Sure, I had times when I would walk home from school crying. But that didn't stop me. And I don't regret any of it. I wouldn't have met your dad if I didn't move here. I wouldn't have had you and Brienne," she added, giving her son a reassuring smile. "All these things you're feeling right now are normal. And just because my family and I moved all the way to another continent doesn't make your feelings any less valid than mine were. But I believe you're so much stronger than seven-year-old me, Max. And trust me when I say you'll get through this well."

    Max nodded, not quite knowing how to respond to that. If you only knew.

    His mother studied his features again. And with a raised eyebrow, she said, "I'm starting to think there's more to this than just us moving here."

    Max's eyes widened, then. "No," he said. "No, no. Mom, it's just this, um, new environment and trying to fit in and, uh, school and—and a bunch of other things that comes with that. Mom, it's nothing, really."

    His mother took another sip, her pale blue eyes fixed on her son. Then she said, "Is it Jazz?"

    Max sighed. It's been months now, and time, as they say, has its ways of healing a heartbroken, lovesick boy, of making him realize that he didn't need another soul to make him whole. And with everything that had happened since, their break-up now seemed insignificant in comparison to life and death, and the world of Crystalline and the inherent warfare between the Realms Beyond, and two bad guys who-knows-where out to get him and his friends.

    "I tried," Max said. An honest answer, but not honest enough. "I mean, I might've tried to get back with her a couple weeks ago"—his mom raised a perfect eyebrow, evident disappointment in her expression—"just to see if we can work this out. Even Jack, my roommate, helped me with it. I sang a song to her—I mean, I tried until she cut me off and said she didn't want to be in a relationship with me anymore."

    "How do you feel about it?"

    "A little bummed out, but I'm all right," said Max, his eyes trained on the contents of his mug. "I've got way more on my plate at the moment than to sit and mope about the finality of the break-up." And that was the truth, the first real one he'd told her that morning.

    "So you're just going to let her go?"

    "Yes."

    His mom chuckled. "Your dad and I didn't agree with you being in a relationship," she said, glancing at one of the windows, Mr. Gascarth visibly pacing back and forth, still on the phone. "You were too young. And to think how much we even argued about it."

    "Mom, don't remind me," said Max, shutting his eyes closed, his cheeks turning a shade of pink.

    His mom laughed. "All right, I'll drop the subject."

    A moment's silence.

    "But is there a girl here you like?"

    "Mom!"

"Sander." A hand on his shoulder was shaking him awake. "Sander."

Sander blinked his eyes open, seeing only darkness for a moment. His neck ached; his forehead felt strange, as if it had been pressed onto something solid. He stirred, pulling himself up to a proper sitting position.

He found himself seated at a wooden table, in a place enclosed by pine-paneled walls. Sunlight spilt in through the windows. The rich scent of coffee and pastries and breakfast filled the air, making Sander's mouth water, making him more aware of his empty stomach and how it grumbled, pleaded to be fed. He could hear the buzz of conversations about him, a little noisier than how he remembered it last.

"Sander."

He looked over to his right. A hand still rested on his shoulder.

Kind sapphire eyes, shoulder-length blonde hair that glowed in the sunlight, small pink lips pulled up into a soft smile.

Sander's green eyes widened. "Talya!" he said, and it was only then he realized his glasses had shifted askew in his sleep. His hands flew up to the temples of his glasses, holding the long ends between his thumbs and index fingers, hastily repositioning them right atop his ears. He pushed the bridge up his nose for good measure.

Talya took her seat across from him, and she was smiling a close-mouthed smile—more like holding in laughter, Sander noticed. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment, and knew without looking that his cheeks were probably flushed red. He ignored it, tried to act as normal as he could.

Then, unable to hold it in any longer, Talya laughed, a nightingale's song to Sander's ears.

Sander liked seeing her like this. He liked watching this bright light pour out of her when she smiled or laughed or talked to him about something that excited her. And it made his heart pound in his chest seeing her so happy—so beautiful.

Yet, at that moment, he felt nothing but shame, and ran a hand down his face.

"Oh, man. I'm so sorry," he said, averting her eyes. "I just—Last night, the guys and I, we—Gosh, I'm really sorry, Talya."

"Sander, chill. It's okay," said Talya, albeit soft chuckles spilt past her lips. "You just looked really cu—I mean, comical. Like, in a cute way. I mean, you looked like one of those cartoons . . ."

Sander looked up from staring down at the table. Talya was no longer laughing. And she was no longer smiling, either. There was a glow to her cheeks, a blossoming vibrant pink in place of her peach complexion. And she was quiet, a little too quiet and her silence a bit too sudden than what either of them would find comfortable. And she was—

Is she seriously blushing?

    Sander looked away, glanced at the counter, at the tall, green-haired boy manning it. Then he looked back at Talya, and, with his index finger pointing over to the left, said, "I'll get our orders?"

    "Yeah, sure," said Talya, her eyes trained down at nothing in particular.

    "Talya?"

    "Hmm?" She looked up this time, yet her hands kept fumbling with the hem of her sleeve, a pastel blue oversized sweater Sander had seen her wear so often.

    "Your order?"

    "Ohh." Her blue eyes grew wide. "Um, Eggs Benedict. And hot chocolate. With marshmallows, please."

    "Got it." With a nod, Sander stepped back, and turned on his heel, and walked over to the counter. And, after a quick backward glance to see if Talya was looking (she was checking her phone now), he released a breath he had been holding, and allowed his mouth to curve into a wide, toothy grin, a smile he had been holding back for minutes since he caught her blush.

With a spring in his step and a smile on his face, Sander sauntered his way over to the counter, past tables and fellow students and conversations, to the green-haired boy and the large display case with its varied array of pastries. And just as he crossed halfway through the cafe, there was the beat of a drum, the sweet concoction of guitars and keys and synths, and a voice, a rich velvety baritone, that went, "Hey, hey, hey," and crooned, "Ooooh". "Don't You (Forget About Me)" was playing through the speakers, filling the quaint place with its sonic energy.

It seemed that things couldn't get any better. A sign from the universe that, for once, luck was on his side and life wasn't out to get him—or rather not as intent as it was on most days as it seemed to him, that is.

Not today, not today.

Now, Sander thought, if only he could pump his fist into the air, in the same epic way Bender did at the end of the movie.

He had to make sure no one noticed, of course. Especially Talya.

A little mess of scrambled eggs lay helplessly on Max's plate, and he poked at it with his fork, again and again and again. He probably looked like an idiot as he did so, an act unfit for a boy his age, and he knew that perfectly well. But he needed a distraction, and this was the distraction he had made for himself. Problem was, this wasn't doing the trick: he still felt his parents' eyes staring straight at him, expectant for a reply.

    "So," Max said, after a long moment of silence, still averting his parents' gaze. "You don't want me to be friends with them anymore."

    "Not all of them," said Mr. Gascarth. "I'm fine with you being friends with Sander and Lyn. As much as I've heard from the other teachers, they're good kids. They do well in school, they don't get in trouble. I've made my own observations, too, and my colleagues are right about them. But—"

    "But you don't want me to be friends with Damien and Jack." Max gave off a humorless chuckle. "That's where this conversation is headed to, huh?"

    "Max," said his mother, giving him a stern look.

    Max let out a quiet sigh. He knew what she was trying to do. She knew her son too well, knew where this would go if she didn't intervene in the slightest.

    "Listen to your dad first," his mother said, "please."

    Without waiting for a response, Mr. Gascarth went on, "Both those boys are known to have a reputation for trouble. Damien, more so. And I think you already know that, Max. And I don't want you—or Sander or Lyn—to be involved in whatever mess they're in. So I think it's best that—"

    "—that I stop being friends with them? Dad, what happened last Monday wasn't their fault."

    "Then why did it happen to you?" said Mr. Gascarth, the tone in his voice austere. "Why were you the target of a prank like that? Is it even a prank, Max? Tell me, is it? Because something's telling me there's more to it than just fun and games."

    This wasn't working. Max stopped poking at the eggs, dropped the fork onto the plate with a slight clang. Then he ran a hand down his face, and said—nothing.

    He couldn't seem to come up with a decent explanation for what happened. He could tell his parents Ronny and his posses did it. Problem was, they'd just ask more questions: Do you have any proof? Why are they so against you and your friends to do something like that? Did you do something against them?

    And if he brought up anything about the party in the graveyard, there was a definite chance that he would get himself in trouble, probably resulting in his parents grounding him in some way—he couldn't think how with the boarding school situation, and he didn't want to know how—and the blame would still fall on his friends just the same. Maybe his parents would even hate them more for it. Give his parents more reasons why their son shouldn't be hanging out with Damien and Jack.

    Max had already thought long and hard about it for the past days, made a mental list of what not to tell his parents. But this was proving to be harder than he thought, and he felt trapped, and scared, and tired.

    He just wanted out of this conversation.

    "Dad," Max managed to say after another long moment of silence. He looked up at him, pleading. Took a breath in to calm his nerves, to keep his voice from shaking. "Dad, they didn't do anything wrong."

"So are you telling me you did something wrong?" said Mr. Gascarth.

"No!" exclaimed Max, quite taken aback. "Dad, it's not like that!"

Mr. Gascarth heaved out a breath in frustration. He ran a hand down his face. "Max," he said, "you've got to be honest with me, please. We can't keep going in circles. Stop trying to defend them. Stop trying to cover up whatever they've been doing. Stop pretending everything's okay. And be honest with me—"

"I am being honest with you, Dad! If you would only just listen—"

"And if you would only tell me the truth—"

"Don," said Max's mom, grasping on to her husband's arm. Mr. Gascarth turned to her. Her hand then found her husband's, enveloped it in her tender touch, and with her blue eyes intent upon his brown ones, she said, "We're not going anywhere with this if you aren't going to listen to what Max has to say."

"Amélie . . ."

"Let him say what he has to say," Amélie Gascarth said, the tone in her voice gentle yet firm with conviction. "And please listen to your son."

Mr. Gascarth sat back in his seat, tried to relax his shoulders which had tensed up during the conversation, to an almost negligible effect.

"So," said Mr. Gascarth, turning back to his son. The tone in his voice was now even, or as even as he could get it to be. "Go ahead, Max," he said. "Tell me, I'm listening . . ."

Max sighed, and knowing there was no other way to go about this, he told them the truth.

Good news: Sander managed to pump his fist into the air just in time for the second chorus, the part in the song that goes, "Don't, don't, don't". It was one of those strange, rare occasions when Sander didn't think and just did, a spontaneous act borne out of a concoction of emotion and impulse. It was perfect. And it felt epic.

    Bad news: The second he looked around, he noticed people were staring at him, around ten people specifically—the only people who had the willpower to wake up early on a Saturday, who had refused to sleep in for one reason or another, who had decided to go out for breakfast or meet up with friends in The Raven's Nest a little before nine o'clock that morning.

    Worse news (or, in Sander's opinion, the worst thing that could have possibly happened that day): Talya saw it, watched as his fist rose into the air in a strange, baseless moment of euphoria.

    And there went his moment of bliss. One picked up from his barely existent mental file of Sander's Awesome Spontaneous Moments, and dumped into the great, vast library of The Many Instances Sander Had Embarrassed Himself in Public. Another one for the books, kids. The universe was out to get him, after all.

    Sander's fist remained stuck in the air, even as the song transitioned to the bridge. Then he lifted his hand a little higher, pretended that he had been stretching his left arm the entire time, then slowly reached down to scratch the back of his neck. Yet, for some strange reason, he remained fixed on the spot, unable to take a single step away from the unwanted spotlight.

    There was a loud smack behind him, like someone had struck a palm to a face. A smack that yelled, "You idiot!"

    And that did just the trick.

    Sander snapped out of his shame-induced catatonia, dropped his arm to his side—so quick it felt as if his arm would snap out of its socket—hastened his steps to the table he and Talya shared, walked past people and the bewildered eyes that followed him. He kept his head bowed low, his eyes fixed on the wooden floor. He felt his cheeks burn red for the second time that day.

He swore to himself, then and there, that he would never listen to that song for the next few months, or maybe even the next five years if he can help it.

    Sander slumped down onto the chair in an instant, elbows immediately propped up on the table, head falling straight to his hands, fingers deep in the mess of dark blond hair. He refused to look at Talya, or anyone for that matter, and stared down at the table, as if there was anything on it that could distract him. There wasn't.

    "Sander," said Talya, the tone in her voice gentle, "are you okay?"

    "Mmhmm."

    "You don't look okay."

    "I'm fine, Talya."

    "Really?"

    "Yeah."

    "Then why are you like that?"

    "Like what?"

    "Like this," she said.

    Sander heard two thuds, one after another, and felt the table tilt a little to Talya's side. There was an indiscernible sound across from him, one that sounded like soft static and a loud whisper that almost went something like "Shh." A rustle through hair, he realized a little later. Then silence.

    Sander's brows furrowed in confusion. "Like what?"

    "Sander," said Talya, with a sigh, "you're never going to know what I mean if you're not going to look at me."

    "I—Talya, what I did was embarrassing," said Sander.

    "So?"

    "So I can feel my face burning, warm and red. The second I look up, Tobey Maguire will come bursting through the door, and place a stack of boxes down on the table, and announce, 'Pizza time.' "

    Talya gave off a soft laugh. "I just want to see your face," she said. "I mean, I just want see your face to know if you're really okay."

    Sander said nothing, and kept his head and eyes down.

    "Sander, please."

    Be a man, Sander thought to himself. Be a man, Sander. For Talya.

    FOR TALYA, yelled an imaginary army of Sanders, a myriad of them assembled out on a vast, sunlit field in his mind's eye, each one with a sword in hand, which they all raised into the air.

    Screw it!

    Sander sighed and looked up, his green eyes meeting Talya's delicate blue ones staring right back at him. Her head was bowed low, just as his did. She had her elbows on the table, her head resting in her hands, her fingers in her hair. But—

    "I'm not puffing out my cheeks like that," said Sander, pointing out the nuance. "See." He patted his cheeks for a second of a heartbeat, replaced his hands in his hair, holding his head up once again. "Not puffing."

    "I know," said Talya, with a shy smile. "I just wanted to make you feel better."

    Sander chuckled. He didn't use the word often, but "adorkable" seemed the most suitable description. He felt his heart beat a little faster, turning to tender mush as the rhythm played out. "Guess it's working," he said, with a smile.

Looking at her like this, intent and fixated and completely drawn in by the girl he's liked for the past year and a half, reminded him of something, drew out a memory from the deepest recesses of his mind, the room in his brain where dreams had been left long abandoned and the books scarcely opened.

He was reminded of running through a sunlit forest with a young girl alongside him, her long golden hair blown back by the wind. He was reminded of bright spring days as they lay on grass, watching the clouds drift by, spilling secrets and confessions of the world around them, until the skies turned orange and the sun began to sink into the horizon. He was reminded of walking past stone walls on a cloudy day, of roaming through rooms of opulence on the days it rained, of sitting by the furnace in the winter. He was reminded of a raging fire, and the yell that escaped his lips as all he loved burned and fell down, down, down . . .

"Sander?"

Sander blinked, waking from the trance distant memories had woven in his headspace.

No, not memories, thought Sander. Fantasies. Dreams. Memories of dreams long forgotten . . . Yeah, that makes more sense.

"Are you okay?" asked Talya, elbows still on the table, head still propped on her hands, blue eyes still fixed on him.

"Y-Yeah," said Sander. "Guess I kinda zoned out a bit, huh?"

The worry in her eyes faded, and Talya smiled a small smile of relief.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess you did."

"Sooo," said another voice, the speaker hovering over their heads, "are you two going to keep staring at each other like that?"

    Sander and Talya sat up, both their cheeks burning red this time. By now, after all the times he and his friends had dined in at The Raven's Nest after training, Sander knew who it was. He recognized that voice anywhere.

    They looked up. TJ stood beside their table, sunlight pouring upon his tall form. He had a tray in his hands, and his hair was a more vibrant green than Sander remembered, dyed all the way to the roots. Then Sander noticed—

    "New piercing?" he asked.

    TJ placed the tray down on the table. "Yeah," he said, tapping at the ring pierced into the ala of his nose. "Just got it a few days ago after class."

    He then bent a little forward, picked mugs and plates and cutlery out of the large black tray, laid them out on the table. The smell of bacon and eggs and bread wafted strongly in the air. The bittersweet scent of hot chocolate and melting marshmallows made their mouths water. And when TJ had done his job, he smirked, and looking at them, said, "Want me to get a candle and put it right here for a centerpiece? Think it'll add more to those romantic vibes."

    "No, thanks," said Sander and Talya, at the same time, a little too quickly to be considered casual.

    TJ chuckled. "Anyway," he said, "tell me if you need anything. I'll be at the counter." And with that, he lifted the tray off the table, and turned on his heel, and walked away.

    "Sooo," said Sander, turning back to Talya.

    "Sooo?" Talya blinked, the look in her big blue eyes expectant.

    "Sooo, you wanna go to the park later?"

    Talya smiled, relaxing. "I think that's a good idea."

    "Oh, and Sander."

    "Yeah?" said Sander, turning to the tall, green-haired college boy.

TJ had paused in his tracks. He smiled, then pumped his fist into the air.

    Sander groaned and dropped his head down to the table, his forearms cushioning his head from the impact. If he felt his face burning a while back, now he was sure he was swimming in an inferno. "TJ, give me a break!"

    And with that, TJ walked on over to the counter, laughing.