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❛ ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ & ʟᴀᴄᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ғɪɢʜᴛ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ
ʀɪɢʜᴛ ( ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇ ) ꒱


❝ DON'T BLAME ME IF
THIS TURNS INTO
SOME TEEN DRAMA
LOVE TRIANGLE  SITUATION ❞

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Music and books had never been as important to Miya as they had been to her mother. Sure, Juliet had passed her Walkman and tapes onto her daughter, but the Asian girl didn't use them nearly as much as Juliet had. For one thing, they had cellphones now that could carry two or three times as many songs as a couple tapes could. For another, Miya liked to be aware of her surroundings rather than drown them out— it meant she was caught off-guard less when the mean girls at school were bored.

But, that wasn't to say that she didn't like music at all. In fact, she had become quite the proficient piano player and often accompanied her mom as she played the violin. Her earliest memories involved Juliet playing a lullaby on her instrument to send her off on a nap. Playing the piano also helped with her dyslexia, since it was practice for her eyes to focus on the page without jumbling the symbols up— for some reason, notes stayed on the staff better than words did in a line.

While she was less invested in the rest of the arts, she still enjoyed them from time to time. After all, they were required choose two electives each year for their schedule and there was no way she was picking theater or— heaven forbid— sports. That lead her decision to be music and art, the latter she had with all her friends while the former she only had with Farkle (he'd picked it so she wouldn't have a class alone.)

Miya would call herself a mediocre artist at best. She didn't only paint purple cats like Riley, but she had nowhere near Maya's skill level. Most of the time, the things she tried to create came out looking vaguely how she intended, and she called that a win. She was happy to have one skill she excelled in and didn't find it necessary to strive to be a savant of the arts. That meant, between the members of her friend group, they all had one area of school that they could claim as their own without overshadowing anyone else.

It was currently Maya's turn as they were in their afternoon art class. Miya sat next to Farkle as they were the unofficial pair (with Lucas and Zay and Maya and Riley being the other desk-mates.) She remained as acutely aware of her best friend as she had ever since his transformation a few weeks ago. She couldn't stop admiring his newfound confidence— not that he hadn't been confident before, but it was. . . different now— or noticing the little spark she felt whenever his skin accidentally brushed against hers. Particularly now as their seats in art class put them even closer together than usual since it wasn't the normal rows of desks set up. Miya kept her eyes firmly on her paper as she attempted the light and shadow they were supposed to be working on. She envied Maya and Riley, who had no qualms with how close they were.

"I'm better than you now," the brunette boasted, her arms covered in purple paint up to her elbows. "I am Riley, the artist, and you are Maya, the artist's best friend."

Ms. Kossal paced around the room as she observed her class, stopping by her— arguably favorite— student's desk. She admired the blonde's painting with a tilt of her head. "Thank you for working on light and shadow, Maya."

"Yeah, I look around outside now," the Hart answered. "I watch the light move during the day. Thanks for teaching me that, Ms. Kossal." When her teacher lingered nearby, she looked up at the older woman in concern. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"I get emotional when I'm around talent," she explained. Reluctantly, she moved on to the next painting and sighed. "And now I'm fine. What did I tell you about only using purple?"

Riley grinned, not at all put off by her teacher's scolding. "Are we gonna do this again?"

"Why is everything purple?"

"Because you hide the purple from me and I find it!" the brunette stated happily. She waved her violet-stained hands in front of the older woman's face.

"Are you finger painting?" Ms. Kossal accused her.

Riley clasped her hands together in a gesture of mock penance. "I believe you favor Maya over me."

"Oh, yeah? Well, let's explore that," the brunette invited her. "Let's see if I have unfairly judged you. Today's assignment. . ."

"Uh-huh."

". . .was the doorways of New York."

The teen's expression remained deadpan. "Yep. Yep."

"You were asked to specifically focus on. . ."

"Unique doorknobs," she finished. "Uh-huh. Yeah."

". . .and paint it from memory," Ms. Kossal told her.

Riley waved to her painting. "I did."

"You painted a cat," her teacher insisted.

"It's a door," she argued.

"It's a cat."

The Matthews girl shook her head. "The whole thing's a door." She demonstrated by pulling her canvas towards her and peering around the edge. "Anybody home? Okay, I'll come back later. Don't let the cat out."

Miya chuckled at her friend's antics. Her own painting was more of a red rectangle with slightly darker lines to indicate the wainscotting around the frame. She hadn't even put in her background yet, so the rest of her canvas was still white. It was no match for Maya's, which Ms. Kossal held up for them to appreciate: a partially opened blue door with bright light that spilled out onto the street.

"I'm gonna get you in that door, Maya," Riley promised her best friend.

Maya smiled at the brunette. "Oh, I know you are, Riley."

Ms. Kossal put the blonde's work in front of her again. "Good. Because it's Maya's last painting."

Maya paused as her teacher's words registered, then she hastily rose to her feet and followed the older woman as Ms. Kossal turned away. "W-wait, why is it my last painting?"

"Well, it's your last one for me, you beautiful girl," she clarified, rubbing Maya's arm comfortingly.

"What's going on?"

Their teacher took a deep breath, her voice coming out a bit tighter than usual as she informed them, "our school is running out of money. They're cutting art and music classes, effective after the next school board meeting."

Maya stared at her in disbelief as Riley demanded, "what? How will Maya learn? What comes after light and shadow?"

Miya's heart sank at the news. While what she knew was true— music wasn't her passion like it was her mom's— she thought about everything the music room had been for her: an escape from the constant grind of reading, a haven where the popular kids wouldn't go, a place where she felt confident enough to express herself, especially in her old school. That would all be gone.

"Music, too?" she inquired, hoping that maybe one area of the arts would be spared.

"And what about drama?" Farkle added. "My one-year suspension from not being able to audition for any of the plays ends on Tuesday. I'm gonna be Pippin!"

"They're not putting on Pippin," Riley pointed out.

The genius put his hands on his waist determinedly. "I'm gonna be Pippin in whatever they're doing."

"And that's how you got your one year suspension," the Asian girl teased him quietly.

Zay put his paintbrush down and got to his feet. "Nobody better cut my ballet." When everyone stared at them, he met their gazes defiantly. "Yeah, that's right. Ballet. That's why I'm so sinewy."

Lucas raised a brow at his choice of adjective. "Sinewy?"

"Hey, you spend your time hitting baseballs, I spend my time lifting beautiful girls." He turned to Maya and offered her his hand. "Ms. hart? Shall we dance?" Her flat glare gave him his answer. He retracted his hand for fear of losing it. "We shall not."

Ms. Kossal sighed. "Ballet. . . gone. Art, music. . . Drama, dance, all of it. . . gone."

Riley noticed her friend's shaken look as she sat back down. "Maya?"

"It's okay, Riles," the blonde reassured her quietly. "Just another door closed."

🌎🌎🌎

It seemed like cruel and unusual punishment to send six reeling teens to a class that required focus after such an announcement, but luckily it was Mr. Matthews' history, so they would be able to ease into it. The curly-haired man stood before them as he began his lecture, perhaps not as oblivious as they thought he could be. "The dark ages. . ."

"They're cutting art class and you want to talk about the dark ages?" Maya demanded.

Cory continued like she hadn't spoken: "the dark ages was a time of cultural deterioration."

"What does that have to do with me?" she complained.

"The dark ages was the decline of the creative spirit of an entire continent," he lectured them.

"What about me?" Maya whined.

Cory looked directly at her. "The dark ages is when they cut the art class at this middle school right now." He jabbed a finger at her to make his point. "And you, Maya Hart. Yes, you, Maya Hart, the one I'm looking at right here. . . can't paint anymore."

She pinned him with a look. "You know, a good teacher lets the students get there on their own."

"Daddy?" Riley spoke up.

Her father closed his eyes for a moment at the sight of the purple that was still on his daughter's arms. "Riley, if you put another purple cat on our fridge, I swear I'm moving to Brooklyn."

"Scratch my nose," she pleaded. "I won't be dry until math, and Mrs. Kravitz scratches my nose like she doesn't want to." He relented and did as she requested, earning a relieved smile from the brunette. "That's like a daddy would."

"So. . ." Cory began, "why were the dark ages dark, Pippin?"

"People lost interest in art and music because it was taken away from them," Farkle explained.

Lucas frowned at his reply. "Well, I don't want that for Maya. I want Maya to be happy."

His best friend smirked at his response. "Hey, Maya, it looks like Lucas here's gettin' all fired up on your behalf."

"And what about music, huh?" Farkle chimed in unexpectedly. Miya started behind him, having been zoned out and was doodling a few music notes on her paper. She stared at the back of his head in surprise, a warmth beginning to flutter in her chest at his defense. "I want Miya to be happy, too."

Zay's smug smile grew. "Ooh, he's not the only one speakin' up for his lady."

The Asian girl felt her face heat up and she was glad that the only outward sign of her blush was the slight redness on the tip of her nose. "It's not— we're not— we're just friends! I'm not his-his lady or anything! Besides, it's just music class."

"Yeah," Riley agreed brightly, oblivious to whatever subtle changes were going on between her friends. "Because Maya and Lucas are very good friends, just like Farkle and Miya. And very good friends speak up for each other."

"Uh-huh," the brunet remarked doubtfully, and in the same tone narrated, "and Miya is totally not staring at the back of Farkle's head right now. Did I just say that out loud? Oops, my bad."

Farkle turned fully toward her and she found herself speechless at the determined glint in his blue eyes— the same one he had when he declared that the category she'd been assigned in the yearbook shouldn't define her. "Miya, you belong behind a piano. Just like Maya belongs in front of a canvas. We're not letting them take that away from you."

"Farkle's talking big game here," Zay kept going. "I wonder what Lucas has to say. Let's find out." He leaned forward and held his fist out to his friend as if he were offering him a microphone.

Lucas ignored the other boy's gesture, pushing his arm aside as he gazed at Maya evenly. "Farkle's right. You and Miya are great artists. You have a real talent and want you to be able to get better and share it with people."

To Zay's amusement the two pairs fell silent but didn't look away from each other, though Maya's shock was less of the romantic kind than a deepening of her platonic respect for the Texan. "Now they're just lookin' at each other and not sayin' nothin'. Are they saying anything? No? Well, I wonder what they're thinkin'."

"I don't want them to take away your art class, Maya," Lucas finally insisted. "Or your music class, Miya."

"Bay window!" Riley exclaimed, lifting her finger in the air triumphantly. "Bay window right in five hours."

Maya nodded, still a little shocked by Lucas' vehemence. "Okay."

"Who's gonna do something about art class?" the blond wanted to know.

"I'm sure that'll be Riley," Maya told him, knowing her friend.

"Nope," she denied cheerfully.

Cory knew where they would usually go after this. "Well, I know you guys would like me to step in here. . ."

"Nope," his daughter repeated. "This is bigger than you, dad."

"You're right. This is," he agreed. "In fact, this decision comes directly from the New York City school board."

She shook her head. "That's not what I'm talking about. If they're gonna put us in the dark ages, then who's gonna get us out?"

"Ah," Cory mused with a smile. "Funny thing about that. You know who did get us out? Artists. Michelangelo, Da Vinci. . . There was an explosion of creativity called the Renaissance. Maya, I would think you'd have something to say about that."

"Cut the art classes, don't cut the art classes. What have I ever been able to do about my life?" she brushed off the issue, waving to Riley again. "And now my little purple friend will go crazy."

The brunette only smiled at her friend, a hint of mischievousness in her eyes. "Not this time, Maya. You're the artist, and I'm just the artist's best friend."

🌎🌎🌎

The next day, music class was a more somber affair than they were used to. The students sat on the risers as their teacher, Mr. Strickland, stood before them with a serious expression on his face. "By now I'm sure you've all heard the sad news regarding our arts department. I know you've all been working hard on the music for our Christmas concert, but unfortunately we will not be able to put it on as our general education board— in all of their esteemed greatness— has decided that the best way to cut corners is to drop our ability to have creative expression.

"But no," he sneered, "the sports teams can all get new jerseys. Yeah, I'm sure that's important to the budget, Todd! It's not like laundry machines exist!" He composed himself with a cough. "Sorry about that; the coach hasn't exactly been subtle in his boasting. Anyway, since we don't have a concert to work towards, do whatever you want for the remaining classes. I'll just be over here. . . by myself. . . looking for a new job."

Mr. Strickland headed over to his desk, slumping down in his seat as he opened his computer. The students exchanged uncertain glances before they broke off into smaller groups, their usual energy dampened by the weight of the announcement. Miya went over to the piano, running her fingers over the smooth keys but not pressing down. It felt wrong somehow, knowing that soon she wouldn't be able to do this at school anymore.

Farkle, who had remained by her side, leaned casually against the piano. "You gonna play something?"

Miya let out a soft breath before settling onto the bench. "I don't know," she admitted. "It feels kind of pointless now."

The genius frowned. "It's not pointless."

She glanced up at him, hesitating for a moment before she asked, "did you really mean what you said yesterday? About fighting to make sure no one takes music away from me?"

He pushed himself off the piano and crossed his arms. "Of course I did." His voice was steady, sure. "Miya, I've seen you play. I've heard you play. It's-it's kind of incredible."

Miya blinked at him, taken aback by the certainty in his voice. "Incredible?" she echoed.

"Yeah," he confirmed, his eyes getting a faraway look in them as he described, "the way you concentrate when you play. Your whole face changes. Your eyes get really serious and your hands. . ." His gaze flickered down to where hers rested over the keys. "You move so gracefully, like you know exactly where you're going before you even get there. It's like watching someone tell a story without words."

She swallowed, her face warming at her best friend's observations. He noticed all of that? He didn't even seem to be aware of everything he was saying, which was the worst part. At least if it made him nervous to tell her all of this, it would mean he felt something. . . different, right? But no, he was just speaking with her as he would normally.

"I-I actually wanted to learn from you, you know? I always help you with schoolwork so I thought it would be nice to swap roles." He sighed and shook his head. "But I guess we don't have the time now."

Miya hesitated for only a second before saying, "it's not too late. We can start now."

The words left her mouth before she could fully process them and the moment Farkle's face lit up in excitement, she realized she might regret this. Because now he was sliding onto the piano bench next to her, way too close (even closer than in the art classroom) and she was hyper-aware of the way his shoulder brushed against hers.

Unaware of her sudden nervousness, Farkle turned to her expectantly. "Okay, so, I know enough about music theory to read sheet music, but where do we start on an instrument?"

Miya swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. "Your hands on the keys, first." She reached out, gently guiding his fingers into position. She told herself to ignore the warmth of his skin beneath hers. This was just a piano lesson. That was all.

The genius flexed his fingers experimentally. "Like this?"

"Yeah," she confirmed, voice slightly unsteady. "Now, um, let's start with some scales. . ."

She played slowly and he attempted to mimic her movements. His fingers were clumsy at first, hitting the wrong notes, but Miya patiently corrected him, her hands brushing against his more than once. Each accidental touch sent tiny sparks up her arm and she bit her lip, trying to push away the fluttery feeling in her chest. More than once she had to remind herself that she did not have a crush on her best friend— it was just her still getting used to his transformation. . . two weeks later.

Farkle, meanwhile, was entirely focused on the music, determined to get it right. As he tried again, his brow furrowed in concentration, and Miya found herself smiling despite the turmoil in her chest. He was always like this— so intense when learning something new, so eager to master it. And now, he was putting that energy into something she loved.

"You're getting better," she murmured, nudging his pinky slightly so it landed on the right key. He'd always been a quick study— it came with the territory of being a child prodigy— but sometimes it still caught her by surprise with how fast he could learn things.

Farkle let out a breath, then grinned at her. "That's high praise coming from you."

Miya looked away quickly, hoping he wouldn't see the way her face warmed again. "It's just a scale, Minkus. You haven't composed a symphony."

"Yet," he teased her. "But give me time."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Okay, genius, let's see if you can keep up with both hands now."

Farkle groaned dramatically but followed her lead as she played the scale again, this time with both hands. He fumbled a few times, but Miya kept her patience, gently guiding him when needed. After a while, her best friend lifted his hands from the keys. "This is harder than I expected."

"Are you giving up already?" Miya challenged, raising an eyebrow.

"Never." His answer was immediate, filled with that same certainty as before. "I told you, I'd fight for this. I meant it."

"I know," she told him, fully aware of the lengths— and dramatics— her friends would go to protect the passions they cared about.

🌎🌎🌎

After school that day, Miya felt the need to vent her problems to an unbiased third party. This, of course, was Jonah. Now that she was living in America rather than England, her best friends' roles had reversed: she saw Farkle every day and called Jonah at least once a week, rather than vice versa. That still didn't keep her from missing having him physically there, but at least she would get to see him over the holidays.

When she got to her room, she tossed her backpack on the floor and found his name in her phone's contacts. She flopped backwards on her bed with her short, dark hair splayed out around her as she waited for him to accept her Facetime. He did after a few rings and she smiled instinctively as his familiar face filled the screen.

"'Hey,'" he sing-songed, drawing out the 'e.' "'What's up?'"

She huffed dramatically, throwing an arm over her eyes. "Everything is terrible."

He snorted. "'Yeah? What's the catastrophe this time?'"

"They're cutting the arts budget," the brunette shared, disappointment evident in her tone. "Everything will be gone. No more music, no more dance, no more arts. It's back to the Dark Ages for us. If they really had to cut the whole program, then they should include English, too! Then at least I could benefit and suffer one eighth less."

Jonah's expression sobered. "Oh, Miya, I'm so sorry. That sucks. Music's, like your one reprieve from the grind."

"Yeah, well, apparently, that means nothing to the school board," she grumbled. "I mean, we're obviously going to fight back on it, so there might be hope. Usually whenever we band together we accomplish what we've set out to do. But that's not all. Remember when I told you about the yearbook drama?"

"'Uh-huh.'"

"Well. . . I didn't tell you everything. I mean, I wasn't even sure of it myself for a while. Actually, I'm still not sure of it, but it hasn't gone away like I thought it would," Miya rambled. "These stupid teenage feelings are just so confusing!"

Her best friend chuckled, tossing his head a bit so that his bangs swished out of his face. "'What are you confused about?'"

She covered her face with one hand while still holding her phone with the other. Miya could feel her skin warm under her palm as she squeaked out, "Farkle."

Jonah's eyes widened with interest and he leaned closer to his screen. "'Oh, this is gonna be good.'"

"No! No, it's not good!" the Asian girl objected, her embarrassment giving way to annoyance. "I don't even know what I'm feeling! One second, he's my best friend that I've known practically my entire life, then the next I'm making goo-goo eyes at him! At least he's so busy running after Riley and Maya that he doesn't pay attention to the expressions I make, otherwise his genius brain would figure it out faster than I am!"

The boy grinned as he noticed his best friend's telltale fluster— something he remembered from the days when they'd first started dating. "'You like him.'"

"I do not!"

"'You totally do.'"

She glowered at him, though he could tell that she wasn't truly angry. "You're supposed to be helping me figure out my feelings, not jumping to conclusions!"

"'But I am helping,'" he protested, laughing. "'I think you and Farkle would be good together.'"

Miya groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. "You've never even met him!"

"'I know you,'" Jonah countered. "'I know what you're like when you like someone, and that's definitely how you're acting now.'"

The brunette let her arm holding the pillow flop to the side so that the cushion dangled off the edge of the bed. "It's almost a good thing that I don't know how I feel because it doesn't matter in the end anyway. Whatever this is, it's one-sided and it will always be one-sided."

"'Famous last words,'" the brunet teased her.

Miya sat up then and perched on the edge of her bed. Her dark hair was a bit staticky from the sheets so it frizzed out a little around her head. "Seriously, Jonah, you're not helping. I called you so you could talk some sense into me, not to make this worse."

"'I am talking sense into you,'" he argued, smirking. "'You're just not listening to my excellent advice.'"

She shot him a half-hearted glare before shaking her head. "Whatever. Let's talk about you now. Maybe you'll tell me something I can blackmail you with so I can get revenge for embarrassing me."

"'That's not gonna happen since I'm way too smart to do that,'" he countered, sticking his tongue out at her childishly. "'But anyway, I've got good news and bad news— what do you want first?'"

"Bad news," she decided firmly.

He didn't hesitate, instead choosing to tell her all in one breath: "'I'll be out of the country for Christmas.'"

Miya's shoulders slumped and the hand holding her phone dropped a few inches in disappointment. "Really? But I haven't seen you in months! I mean, in person. At least with Farkle we had our annual trips to Japan. . ."

"'I know,'" he responded apologetically, "'but remember that study abroad program that I applied for? Where I get to go to Scotland? Well, I got in and, uh, the deadline is earlier than I expected so I have to leave sooner to accommodate it.'"

Despite her initial disappointment, Miya's face lit up. "Jonah, that's amazing! You've been talking about this for ages! Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He shrugged. "'I wanted to wait until everything was official. Plus, I knew you'd get all excited and make a big deal out of it.'"

"Well, duh! That's because it is a big deal! I'm so proud of you!"

Jonah beamed at her enthusiasm. "'Thanks, Miya.'"

"That sounds like pretty good news to me," she pointed out. "I mean, it sucks we won't get to spend Christmas together, but I don't blame you— Christmas in Scotland? Wow! So you're saying there's even better news?"

"'Yep,'" he confirmed happily, "'guess where I'm gonna be going before Scotland?'"

"Ooh— where?"

"'Here!'" he exclaimed. Then, at her confused expression, he amended it to, "'uh, there, actually. I'm coming to visit you!'"

Miya gasped. "Are you serious? Oh, Jonah, we're going to have a great time! But. . . uh, how are you doing all this? Your mom's always said no to even just travelling to Disneyland!"

"'Well, the study abroad program had a scholarship available, so that helped. And my mom's saved up a bit since she knew I wanted to see you for Christmas— I'm not getting any other presents— and your mom pitched in, too,'" he explained, "'she's going to be my 'adult supervision' on this trip.'"

The brunette grinned brightly, feeling a happy bubble of excitement expanding in her chest— a relief after being saddened by her school's current events. "I can't believe she didn't tell me she was coming for a visit!"

"'It was all decided pretty recently,'" Jonah told her, "'and she knew that I wanted to surprise you first. I'm sure she'll tell you the details the next time you talk to her.'"

"This totally makes up for you ditching me on Christmas," she reassured him. "Well, almost. But with all these arrangements, where are you guys actually staying?"

Her best friend shrugged. "'Well, your mom's staying with you at the Minkus'— Mr. Minkus is the one flying us over— and I'll be in a hotel nearby.'"

Miya stared at him incredulously. "A hotel? Jonah, don't be ridiculous. You're staying with me and my mom at the Minkuses'. Stuart won't mind."

He hesitated. "'Miya, I don't know if that's a good idea. . . '"

"Why not?" she questioned him, furrowing her brows.

"'Well. . .'" He shifted uneasily. "'Farkle might not be comfortable with it. And besides, I don't know the Minkuses— not like you do. Not at all, actually. It's nice enough that Mr. Minkus will let me fly in his private jet.'"

"I suppose that second one is true," the brunette admitted. "But the best way to get to know someone is to spend lots of time with them! Which brings me to: why would Farkle care if you stay here?"

Jonah gave her a pointed look. "'Because although it's hard to believe as amicable as we are, I'm also your ex. And if he does like you—'"

"He doesn't like me," Miya cut in, rolling her eyes as she insisted, "he's too busy pining after Riley and Maya to think about me like that."

Her best friend didn't look convinced. "'You sure about that?'"

"Yes! And even if he did like me— which, again, he doesn't— he wouldn't care that you were staying over. He's not like that."

He sighed. "'Alright, fine. You can ask, and I'll stay if Mr. Minkus agrees. But don't say I didn't warn you.'"

Miya smirked. "To prove it won't be weird, you should come to the semi-formal with me."

Jonah raised a brow. "'As your date?'"

"As my friend," she corrected him. "That way, if anyone— including Farkle— actually does have a problem with it, we'll know."

"'Alright, I'm in,'" he relented. "'But don't blame me if this turns into some teen drama love triangle situation.'"

Miya laughed. "Jonah, please. I'm pretty sure we already have teen-drama-love-triangle action going on." A sudden knock at the door made her jolt slightly. She turned towards it in acknowledgment. "Hey, I gotta go. That's probably Farkle."

Jonah nodded agreeably. "'Alright, I'll text you later. Bye, Miya.'"

"Bye, Jonah." She ended the call and hopped off the bed before heading to the door. When she opened it, Farkle stood there with his usual confident posture, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

"We're meeting everyone at Topanga's in ten minutes," he informed her. "Maya and Riley's plan to get Mr. Turner to change his mind didn't work. Apparently, he was already against it, so now we're regrouping."

Miya nodded. "Got it. Just let me grab my stuff." She turned back into her room, stuffing her phone into her bag before slinging it over her shoulder.

As they started heading to the elevator together, Farkle glanced at her. "Who were you talking to?"

"Oh, Jonah," she replied easily.

He stopped in his tracks— no longer than a half second, but enough that his best friend pulled ahead by a fraction— before he forced himself back into motion. "Oh."

Just that. A flat, one-syllable response.

Miya didn't notice, too busy adjusting the strap of her bag as they reached the first floor. But Farkle felt the reaction in himself— a strange, inexplicable twinge in his chest. He knew about Jonah. Miya talked about him all the time. Jonah was her childhood best friend, the one person who had been around just as long as Farkle had. And, of course, he was also her ex.

Not that Farkle cared about that. Why would he?

Except. . . he kind of did.

Which didn't make any sense.

Miya and Jonah were close— of course they were. They had history. Farkle knew that their relationship was purely platonic now. So why did it bother him that she was talking to Jonah?

He realized that the brunette was still talking and he tuned in quickly to listen to what she was saying, although she was chattering rapidly in a way that reminded him of Riley. "—so I told him he was being ridiculous and that, of course, he should stay with us. I mean, it's not like we don't have room, and Uncle Stuart won't care. Honestly, he'd probably be thrilled to have more intellectual conversations over breakfast."

Farkle blinked, his brain still catching up. "Wait. Jonah's staying with us?"

Miya gave him a look as if he'd just missed a very obvious part of the conversation. "Yeah, well, if Uncle Stuart says yes. But I know he will."

The genius frowned, an odd irritation simmering to the surface. "You didn't even ask him yet?"

She waved a hand. "It's a formality. And besides, it'd be ridiculous for him to stay in a hotel when he could just stay with us. I mean, unless you have an issue with it?"

The moment she said it, she looked at him curiously, as if daring him to object. Farkle opened his mouth, then closed it. Did he have an issue with it? Logically, no. Jonah was her best friend, and Miya had never been anything but honest about their friendship. It had been a while since they dated and Miya certainly didn't act like she had lingering feelings for him.

And yet.

Farkle had been noticing something changing in the way he felt about Miya for a while now— subtle, but undeniable. It had started months ago when he realized that she was, in a way, the perfect balance between Riley and Maya. She had Riley's warmth but she wasn't as naive. She had Maya's wit but she wasn't as reckless. Somehow, she understood both of them and him in a way that felt different from the friendships he'd spent years cherishing. And the more time he spent with her, the more he noticed things.

Like how the tip of her nose turned pink when she was embarrassed. Or how she chewed on her bottom lip when she was deep in thought. Or how, when she smiled at him, he felt something shift in his stomach in a way he really needed to research more.

Now, a similar but more bitter feeling twisted inside him at the thought of Jonah— someone he'd never even met— suddenly being in his house, in her space.

Farkle made himself shrug. "No, of course not. Why would I?"

Miya grinned. "See? I knew you wouldn't care."

The words landed wrong in his chest. He shouldn't care. He didn't care. 

. . .Right?

He could see there was nothing he could do now; Miya was already looking forward to this visit so much and he truly did want her to be happy. So, he didn't mention the odd, burning feeling in his stomach at the thought of Miya-and-Jonah. Instead, he filed it away with the growing collection of observations he had about his changing feelings about his best friend.

After all, Farkle Minkus wasn't the type to jump to conclusions without evidence. No, he needed more research. More data. More time to analyze whatever. . . this was.

For now, though, he had a different problem.

Jonah was (most likely) staying with them over the (pre-)holidays. And for reasons he couldn't quite explain, Farkle really didn't like that.

🌎🌎🌎

With the problem of their disappearing arts department ahead of them, Farkle and Miya put their disordered feelings on the back burner. With Zay's encouragement and Maya's determination, they decided to strike in the eleventh hour. All six of them went to the board meeting that night, in addition to Riley's entire family and Mr. Turner. The Superintendent was the first to speak and he stood before the board with his notes in hand.

"I'm asking you to slow down before this vote becomes final," he pleaded in a clear, carrying voice. "Once these cuts are official, then art and music and drama and dance. . . they're gone. I mean, is that really acceptable? It's not too late to do the right thing here. Thank you, chairperson Sanchez."

The curly-haired woman who sat in the center of the council inclined her head in recognition. "Thank you, Superintendent Turner. That was a lovely, impassioned speech. Let me just check and see if it changed any of the numbers." She turned around and glanced at the charts behind her before she faced forward again, deadpanning, "no. I'm afraid not. Our next speaker is Mr. Isaiah Babineaux. Mr. Babineaux?"

Zay approached the microphone and gave the adults a slow smile. "Hello, chairperson. Thank you for seeing me."

"You're welcome, Mr. Babineaux," she acknowledged him. "We are happy to see a young representative of our school community, who is, I trust, going to address us with great respect for our process."

At their cue, the rest of his friends came to stand beside him. Maya was wearing a long, flowing red dress. Riley wore a black leotard and leggings with a skirt over them. Miya was sporting her mother's leather jacket; the sleeves were a little long over her fingers but it gave her a sense of comfort and 'toughness' that she felt she was needing tonight. Farkle had on a pauper's cap and Lucas was dressed in a tux. They certainly made an odd group and Zay smirked at the impression they were giving the board.

"No. That's not what's gonna happen," he stated firmly. "We couldn't reach you with logic, so we decided to think. . . differently."

"Oh. Super," Ms. Sanchez remarked flatly. She paused when she realized that she didn't quite know what he meant. "Okay. Wait a second. What exactly are you gonna do?"

Lucas began to snap his fingers as he started up a short tune ("bomp, bomp, bomp, ba, da, da, bomp, bomp, bomp. . .") and everyone else joined in. Riley and Farkle danced in front of them, chopping their arms in the air as they exchanged places.

In a sing-song voice, Zay addressed his friend, "oh Mr. Friar."

"Yes Mr. Babineaux." Lucas mimicked the lilt in his tone.

"I like this room," the brunet continued to sing.

"This is a nice room," Lucas agreed.

Zay's speech picked up a little: "so what do we do to a room if we want to kill the. . ."

"A-r-t-s, arts?" the Texan finished.

"We do this. . ." Zay backed up to the nearest painting. Together, all six of them took down the frames that were hanging up on the wall and placed them on the floor with their images hidden.

This, of course, confused the chairperson. "Gentlemen, what are you doing?"

"The same thing you're doing to us," Lucas explained.

"Not as interesting a room anymore. Get the picture?" Zay quipped.

Riley approached the platform, smiling at the board. She pointed to Ms. Sanchez. "That's a very colorful scarf you're wearing."

She looked down at her accessory. "Thank you."

"May I?" She put her hand out for it.

With her permission, Riley drew it off her neck and went to the middle of the open space before the adults' table. She held the scarf above her head as she announced: "a dance to the loss of purple."

She released one end of the fabric to let it trail down to her right. Then, she smiled happily again and spun around with it, letting the material float in the air gracefully. Lucas came up behind her and grabbed it from her. Riley froze, her expression becoming horrified as she realized that she was empty-handed. The brunette sank to the floor and curled up in a ball before looking dramatically off to the side. Then, she stood and did jazz hands as she left the 'stage,' much to the bemusement of Ms. Sanchez.

Maya went next. Her approach was more conventional as she spoke into the microphone: "my name is Maya Hart. This committee relies on charts and graphs. I have information to add to them."

The curly-haired woman nodded, appreciating the return to normalcy. "Please share it with us, Ms. Hart."

Unfortunately, she would be quite disappointed. "You want numbers?" Maya challenged her. "The United States ranking in math, science and reading has done nothing but drop for the past fifty years."

She arched a brow. "Your proposal?"

"Get rid of 'em," the blonde replied firmly.

Ms. Sanchez's brows furrowed. "Cut math, science and reading?"

Maya shrugged. "Why not? We stink at 'em. But you know what we're number one at? Movies and music! People all over the world are inspired by our creativity. But hey, I don't wanna get rid of anything." She pointed at the chairperson. "You started it."

"My hands are tied," the older woman insisted.

"Yeah, it's so funny. Everyone keeps saying that, but they're not." She gestured to where they lay on the table. "Look at 'em. Your hands are free. You just think they're tied."

"I'm afraid you're out of time." Ms. Sanchez gave her a dismissive wave. "We have a long list of speakers on the list today and we need to be getting back to them." She leaned forward and announced, "Topanga Matthews."

Topanga smiled at her family and stood. She walked over to the mic and cleared her throat with a cough. She opened her folder as if to read from it, then declared pointedly: "I yield my time to these children."

The Matthews gave the board a sarcastic grin and returned to her seat. A little surprised but not too put off, Ms. Sanchez looked at the next name on the list. "uh. . . Cory Matthews."

"Yield," Cory responded without even getting up from his seat.

"Gabriella Kossal?"

Their art teacher stood from her chair towards the back of the room. "Yield."

Ms. Sanchez let out an exasperated sigh. "Yes. Super. Okay. Wouldn't now be a good time for an adult point-of-view?"

"Yield!" the entire room asserted in unison.

"Oh, come on!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in frustration.

"The adults have failed them," Cory offered. He raised his voice to add on accusingly, "especially Superintendent Turner!"

"Matthews!" Jon snapped as everyone turned to look at him.

Lucas picked up the tune from before again and stepped forward with Farkle this time. "Oh Mr. Farkle?"

"Yes, Mr. Freakface."

"Although you are a scientist, we are also told that you have great creativity."

Farkle nodded. "Why, yes. I sing and dance and am the greatest Pippin the stage has ever seen."

"I love Pippin," one of the older board members commented.

"May we see some of it, please?" Zay asked.

"No, you may not!" the genius informed him. "There are no longer plays or concerts in this school. Instead, I shall perform for you a list of prime numbers."

"Oh, that's disappointing," the same man complained.

They picked up the rhythm once more as Farkle stood in front of the microphone. "Two. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven." The audience groaned. "Thirteen."

The crowd particularly didn't like that one. Ms. Sanchez put her hands up to stop him. "Okay, okay. I think we get your point, Mr. Farkle."

"With all due respect, Chairperson Sanchez, I don't think you do," Farkle disagreed. "And like I said, I can also do this."

He began to tap dance to the delight of the onlookers. Then he returned to the mic and continued his list: "seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-three."

As everyone booed again, Auggie growled, "I hate twenty-three! Let's get 'em!"

Topanga forced him back into his seat as Farkle resumed his tap dancing. He was rewarded with cheers and applause, which faded when he took up his spot in front of the mic for a third time. He nodded at their reactions. "Creativity feeds science, and science feeds creativity. That's what you're missing because you're not thinking creatively. Thank you."

Auggie approached the table next with his hand-drawn art, which he placed before the board. "I took all of my art off of the refrigerator. Do you have kids?" At their nods, he requested, "when you get home, please take their art off of the refrigerator, too. Otherwise you're hippopotamuses."

"Hypocrites?"

"Please don't cut reading," Auggie implored her.

Riley stepped forward as her brother returned to his seat. "A dance in which a hippopotamus returns home to find his art taken from the refrigerator."

The brunette bowed her head, then lifted it to reveal a big smile. She took large, gawky steps until she was 'in front of the refrigerator.' She froze and her expression became distressed, slumping over in apparent disappointment. Once the scene was finished, she grinned and exited with the same jazz hands as before.

Lucas, Zay and Farkle worked together to set up an electronic keyboard, which they'd borrowed from the music room before the meeting had started. When they were finished, Farkle introduced his best friend, glancing over at her where she stood off to the side. "Miss Capelwood, I've witnessed your excellent piano skills."

She ducked her head, feeling her face warm from the attention. "I'm not half-bad."

He gestured to the instrument they'd brought. "Would you do us the great honor?"

The brunette nodded and came over to sit down on the bench. She could feel the nerves tightening knots in her stomach, but she tried to ignore them. After making sure the piano was on (because wouldn't that be embarrassing?) she ran her hands over the keys in effortless, well-practiced scales. Her music was abruptly cut off as Farkle pulled the plug out of the power socket, leaving her fingers to bang on soundless keys until she stopped.

She leaned forward to speak into the mic: "and I was just warming up! But sorry, no more music. No one will ever know what their true potential is now."

"Chairperson Sanchez, with respect, you seem uncomfortable," Zay observed as Miya returned to her place off to the side next to her friends. The curly-haired woman coughed and glanced down at her notes. "Could that possibly have to do with your background?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," she denied.

"Oh, let me be more specific," he offered. "Where did you do your undergraduate work?"

"Princeton."

He nodded approvingly. "Oh. Good school. Good school. What'd you study?"

"I don't see how these questions are relevant to today's proceedings," Ms. Sanchez protested.

He whirled around and pointed at her accusingly. "Oh, you were an art major!"

"Yes, Mr. Babineaux," the older woman finally admitted over the crowd's gasps. "I have a degree in studio art."

Riley stepped forward once more. "A dance in which I graduate with a degree in studio art from Princeton university but then I get my hands tied."

Ms. Sanchez shook her head. "I don't need to see that one. I lived it."

"Does it hurt a little?" Maya wanted to know, coming to stand beside her best friend.

"It does. Especially since one of the paintings you took down was mine," she told them.

They all moved to the front of the room now to stand with them. Lucas was the first to speak as he wondered, "Chairperson Sanchez, got a favorite book?"

"Bridge to Terabithia," she answered.

"Un-read it," Maya ordered her.

"Favorite movie?" Zay inquired.

"The Wizard of Oz."

"Un-watch it."

"Favorite song?" Miya questioned her.

"Pachabel's Canon in D," she responded.

"Un-listen to it."

Ms. Sanchez blinked as she tried to picture a world without the media that was important to her. "Well, you've just kinda taken away my whole childhood, haven't you?"

"When does it happen?"

"When does what happen?" the chairperson repeated.

"When do you stop being able to think creatively?" Maya inquired.

Riley chimed in, "when do you get your hands tied?"

Lucas glanced at his friends' stubborn faces. "We don't want that to happen to us."

"You went to a great school," Zay pointed out. "I'm sure all of you did."

"You're very smart," Miya put in. "Smarter than most of us, probably. So why do we know that this is the wrong way to think and you don't?"

As the group turned away, the curly-haired woman called after them: "you didn't ask me who my favorite artist is." They looked back to let her continue, "it's Picasso. Do you have a favorite artist?"

Maya smiled at the question. "All of them. Everyone who ever tried, including you."

"You know, Picasso painted a masterpiece called Guernica," she shared. "Adults going to war on horses with swords. Except for one horse who was horrified at what the adults were doing. He's horrified because he knows it's wrong. I've always loved that horse. And when I was as young as you, I made a promise to myself that if I ever go to war, I would never forget Guernica and the horse that knew better. Thank you, Miss Hart, for reminding me."

"No. Thank you," Maya remarked appreciatively. "I love learning about art. I would have never known about Guernica if someone didn't care enough to teach me."

"Superintendent Turner, you have been requesting all along that we remain patient," Ms. Sanchez raised her voice to address the man.

He stood and replied, "well, we're all teachers here. I think we can appreciate the value of a good lesson."

"Turner!" Cory exclaimed brightly, also getting to his feet to point at his old teacher. "My man!"

"Would you tell him to stop?" Jon grumbled.

"I can't promise an immediate solution, but I can promise that we can try and think differently," Ms. Sanchez told them. "To think creatively as these students. Thank you all for coming. This meeting is adjourned." She turned to her other board members as everyone began to leave. "But our next meeting begins right now, and we will stay here until we come up with something that unties our hands and we begin to think differently."

The girls stopped on their way out after hearing the older woman call Maya's name. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Please hang up my painting."

The trio exchanged a knowing look as Maya agreed, "yes, ma'am."

They selected the one on the far left. As the blonde hung it up, Miya studied to closely and, in the background, she could see a tiny, white horse. Riley noticed it, too, and pointed it out so that Ms. Sanchez could see how they had known that one was hers. Then, they linked arms and left the room together.

🌎🌎🌎

A few weeks later, the arts department had stabilized and their normal electives were back up and running. To celebrate their win, Ms. Kossal was letting them paint whatever made them feel happy. As she did her habitual lap around the classroom, she stopped by Maya's desk. "Very hopeful, Maya. What do you call it?"

"The Renaissance," she declared.

Ms. Kossal moved onto her next student and reeled back, one hand flying up to block her sight momentarily. "Oh, my eyes!"

"Want to know what I call it?" Riley wondered.

Their art teacher sighed. "I don't care."

That didn't deter the brunette, who answered promptly, "Fifty million purple cats. Isn't it hopeful?"

"It is," she finally relented, offering the girl a rare, faint smile. "Keep painting, Riley. Because it makes you happy. It makes you feel something, which is what art is all about."

Riley beamed at her creation. "I'm happy. I'm a happy artist. This is why I stink."

"Alright. Remember your homework for the weekend is to visit any art museum in the city. Find something that inspires you and never forget it for the rest of your rich and creative lives," Ms. Kossal instructed them.

Farkle leaned over to see what his best friend was working on. For once, she didn't instinctively tense when she felt the warmth of his arm press against hers and instead welcomed the invasion of her space. Like usual, her painting was less than half complete. This time, she had outlined the distinctive shape of a keyboard piano. Wavy lines of staff filled with music notes paired with golden light emitted from it, as if her hope was quite literally dancing off the page.

"I think it's some of my best work," she decided proudly.

A/n: sorry about no chapter last week; I got writer's block and forced myself to take a break. But then I sat down yesterday and wrote 5k+ words in one sitting. Isn't being a writer fun? Lol.

I hope this chapter wasn't too boring; I wanted to include it since I haven't brought up Miya's piano playing abilities much and, like her Dyslexia, I wanted it to be more prevalent. The good news is that next chapter starts what I consider the very exciting section of act 2, and a particular New Year's episode (which is still 7 chapters away) gets a non-canon appearance from a certain someone😉