Friday, November 1, 2020 — All Saints' Day
Leo's POV
I don't put my implant in right away.
The garage is cold, the kind of cold that lingers in the corners of old grief. I sit up slowly, rubbing warmth into my arms, the blanket sliding to my lap. The faint smell of wax and marigolds still clings to the air from last night.
All Saints' Day.
I glance at the painting I left half-finished; a quiet swirl of orange and cream with soft blue outlines, like light seen through shut eyelids. I'll add more later. Maybe. Maybe not.
By the time I make it into the kitchen, the table's already set.
Ray is moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up on a white henley. He's got a carton of eggs cracked open and a bowl of chopped tomatoes and avocado waiting on the counter. His movements are practiced but distracted. Like he's thinking more than cooking.
Julie floats down the stairs in a pink cropped jumper. The sleeves are respectively green, and sky blue, the collar half-zipped. Her curls frame her face, and her smile is small but unmistakably warm. She's glowing.
She pauses when she sees Ray at the stove.
"This is new," I catch from her lips.
Ray turns, says something back—probably something about breakfast. He gestures broadly, like he's explaining himself.
Julie laughs, then nudges his arm. Whatever he says next makes her smile wider.
I notice Julie glance slightly beside Ray, her smile tugging wider. I don't see anything, but something about the way she reacts makes me wonder.
Julie's head tips slightly, her gaze again flicking to the side. Her lips quirk up. She looks down at her plate like she's trying not to laugh.
Ray says something else, more serious now. Julie straightens a little. Her hand rests briefly on the counter, and she nods.
I catch a few words from his mouth: "the other night... missed it."
Julie looks down, then up again.
Ray closes his eyes for a second. Then turns away to pour coffee.
I sit, quietly, and pour myself tea.
Ray speaks again, his voice low and uncertain. Julie looks surprised at first, then slowly sets down her fork. She asks something, probably clarifying. Ray nods, then smiles slightly—like he's trying.
I catch just enough to understand: he called in favors. Something about filming. A gig. Tonight.
Julie lights up. She says something that looks like, "You'd do that for me?"
Ray nods. "Yeah."
Julie grins. "I'll go tell the guys!" She hurries out toward the garage.
Ray watches her go, then sighs. The front door closes behind him a minute later.
I sip my tea slowly, alone at the table. The faint smell of tomato and something herby—maybe oregano—lingers from the pan. I get up and quietly take a plate of the omelet Ray made, steam curling gently toward my face. The sizzle from the stove is lost on me, but I watch the pan shimmer, still hot.. I prepare two more—one for Julie, one for Carlos—and place them aside under foil to keep warm. It feels like something Rose would've done. Maybe that's why it settles something in my chest.
Nobody says anything directly to me. But the warmth in the room lingers, filling the space between grief and gratitude.
Today isn't about saints with feast days or names carved in church stone.
It's for the ones we light candles for. The ones we wear in our hearts. The ones who shaped us even after they were gone.
I glance at Julie's empty chair.
And I think: Rose would be proud.
The morning passes in a blur.
Fridays are short, and I spend most of the early hours shifting between classrooms without really landing anywhere. Somewhere in the middle of the second period, a voice crackles over the PA: "Hello, students and faculty. Just a friendly reminder, tickets are still available for the marching band practice this weekend. All-you-can-eat pancakes!"
A few kids groan. One cheers quietly.
I don't react. Just keep moving.
On my way out doing lunchtime, I pass the gym—its doors propped open just enough to catch a flicker of movement.
Julie and Flynn stand in formation, both in matching black dresses and dance heels. Flynn's layered mesh top catches the gym lights, glowing faintly, while Julie's curls bounce slightly as she shifts her weight. They haven't seen me, and I don't linger. Just a glance.
Their expressions are serious. Focused. Like something important is about to begin.
I catch the city bus toward the community center. The streets feel quieter today.
The center hums gently when I arrive. Not loud, just full of movement. Familiar faces. Fingers signing across the lobby. Someone hands me a volunteer badge I don't need, but I clip it on anyway.
Willow is already in the art room, setting out colored paper, glue sticks, and a small pile of battery-powered tea lights. Today's project is simple: paper lanterns in honor of All Saints' Day. Something soft. Something light.
She doesn't speak but nods in greeting as I join her. We fold and shape the paper carefully, adding tissue-paper windows in soft colors—orange, violet, white. We slip the lights inside and test them in the dimmed corner of the room.
She begins sketching florals and names onto hers. A bird in flight appears on the side of one lantern. She finishes it, then hands it to me without a word.
It's peaceful here. Not silent, but filtered. Grounded.
Zay arrives halfway through the project, dropping his backpack beside us. He looks between the glowing lanterns and our scattered tools, eyes wide. He signs: "These are beautiful. Did I miss the hard part?"
I grin. Only the folding. "There's still decorating left."
He signs back with a smirk: "Nice. I brought glitter."
Willow groans and signs: "No glitter near my birds."
By the time the sun begins to dip toward late afternoon, the table is covered in small glowing lanterns, scraps of tissue, and scattered pencil shavings. I set mine apart, tracing the edges with a thin line of gold pen. Inside, I write three names—soft, simple letters that only I will read: Tía Rose, Abuela Teresa, Abuelo Mateo.
I never knew my father's family. That door was shut long before I could knock on it. But this, this is for the ones who stayed.
Willow leans over again and gently add a dahlia to the side of my lantern. I blink fast, but I nod.
Zay walks next to me after we clean up at the center. He's got his new hearing aid in, chatting easily as we cut through the side streets toward the Molinas'. The air smells faintly of glue and flowers, left over from the lanterns, and our arms are still speckled with bits of glitter that no one managed to keep off the table.
"Too bad it's a Friday," Zay says, adjusting his backpack and brushing glitter from his sleeve. "Dylan would've loved this. Especially with Ray calling in his filmmaker friends for extra cameras. You know how he gets about networking."
He laughs to himself and shakes his head. "He'd probably be cornering someone mid-lens swap and handing out QR codes to his portfolio. You'd think he was running a film festival every time we go out. He even has a list in his Notes app of everyone he wants to 'casually bump into.' It's ridiculous."
I grin and nudge Zay gently with my elbow. "He's already seen them, actually. At Dean's Café—New Artists Night. Dylan said they were raw but cool. That they gave him goosebumps."
Zay raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah," I say, smiling. "And he never says that about live sets. He told me it felt like something buzzing in his bones."
Zay laughs. "That does sound like him."
I nod slowly. That's exactly how it feels sometimes. Like music that reaches past hearing.
The sky is dusky by the time we reach the porch. Orange-pink light cuts through the tree branches, the air thick with that soft hum of excitement that lives just before a show. Faint music trickles out from the garage, rhythmic strums and faint static from a speaker testing the levels.
Carlos meets us near the walkway, clutching his GoPro like a secret agent on a mission. He's already grinning, eyes lit up like a kid on Halloween. He signs, "You're just in time. Want to help with the doors? Extra drama."
Zay immediately perks up. "Obviously, yes."
Carlos slaps his shoulder and beckons him along. The garage glows in string lights that blink along the top beams, their warm loops flickering against the cool dusk.
Flynn steps into view, bold and beaming like she's been waiting all day to say this. "What's up, everybody!" she shouts into the mic, grinning wide. "Time to put your hands up, do a little dance, yup. Here's the new anthem from Julie and the Phantoms!"
Applause erupts around us, people cheering from folding chairs and leaning against the fence. Someone whistles. A couple kids bounce on their toes like it's a stadium stage.
The garage doors are painted with bold, uneven shapes spelling out "Julie and the Phantoms" in purple and black. With perfect timing, Carlos and Zay pull the doors open in sync. The sign splits apart and disappears behind them as they move quickly into the crowd. Carlos darts to the front, holding the GoPro up high, and Zay glances back once before weaving his way to stand beside me and Ray, his smile just as wide as the rest of them.
Julie beams from just inside the garage as the doors swing open—Carlos and Zay pulling them back in sync for dramatic effect. The garage doors are decorated with bold, uneven shapes spelling out "Julie and the Phantoms" in purple and black letters—words that vanish the moment the doors are fully open. Carlos darts into the crowd, and Zay makes his way over to stand beside me and Ray, his eyes already wide with excitement.
Julie steps forward with a gleam in her eyes. She walks toward the piano with practiced confidence and poise, glowing under the string lights. The crowd settles, hushed with expectation, as Flynn slips offstage to rejoin us.
She sits at the keys, bathed in a single spotlight. Her fingers move with the grace of repetition, of memory. A deep breath lifts her shoulders. Then:
"Running from the past ♪"
Her voice emerges soft and sure, threading through the silence like something sacred. It wraps around the audience—delicate but steady.
"Tripping on the now ♪"
Julie keeps her eyes low, focused inward. Her shoulders remain curved, like she's holding something fragile within herself. The lyrics feel private, like she's sharing them more with herself than with us.
"What is lost can be found It's obvious ♪"
The melody begins to build. Her posture straightens, and the notes grow stronger, but she stays seated. Still alone.
"I believe ♪"
The moment shifts. The ghost boys—Luke, Reggie, and Alex—puff into existence behind her in a burst of light and energy. The crowd cheers, louder now. The band is complete. And the song begins again—with power.
Julie stands from the piano and turns to sing to Alex, her back still to the crowd. The lights swell as the energy shifts. The audience begins to move with her, clapping to the rhythm.
"I believe that we're just one dream Away from who we're meant to be. ♪ That we're standing on the edge of ♪"
Reggie dances wide across the garage, bouncing in place with a goofy smile that somehow still fits the emotional current of the song. Alex hunches over his drum kit, locked into the beat, every movement crisp and confident.
Julie holds her position for a moment—centered, steady—and then moves toward Reggie. The two lean into each other as they sing, not in perfect unison, but with shared joy.
"Something big, something crazy Our best is yet unknown ♪"
Julie grins and twirls, hair catching in the lights. She doesn't even glance at Luke. Zay notices and nudges me with an elbow, signing: "Is that on purpose?"
I shrug, but my eyes stay locked on Julie.
"That this moment is ours to own♪ 'Cause we're standing On the edge of great ♪"
She turns fully toward the audience, eyes fierce and open, and belts the final word. Arms wide. Complete control. Luke looks thrown, like he hadn't expected to be skipped over.
"On the edge of great♪ Great♪ On the edge of great♪ Great ♪"
Julie dances toward stage left, spinning, her sneakers squeaking faintly across the floor. The garage is glowing. And Julie's in charge. Luke (Alex, and Reggie) keeps singing backup, glancing at Julie with concern and hope. She walks past him without looking.
" 'Cause we're standing on the edge of Great ♪"
Julie takes center stage, mic held high.
"We all make mistakes♪ but they're just stepping stones To take us where we wanna go It's never straight, no ♪"
Luke sings alone. Julie keeps her back to him, still vibing with Reggie. Luke motions for her to come closer. She doesn't.
"Sometimes we gotta lean Lean on someone else ♪"
Julie joins back in the singing and briefly glances sideways, toward Luke. Her body remains angled toward the audience, but for a split second, something flickers behind her eyes. Not quite regret, maybe recognition. Then she straightens, planting her feet with purpose, grounding herself in the music again.
"To get a little help Until we find a way ♪"
Julie steadies herself at the center. Alex notices the look between them.
"I believe♪ I believe that we're just one dream Away from who we're meant to be♪ That we're standing on the edge of ♪"
Julie heads toward the crowd again, freer now. Reggie is moving over to sing at Luke's mic and looks between Luke and Julie, having noticed Luke's looks at her and her ignoring him.
Luke harmonizes. Julie lets the rhythm carry her. She sings with the crowd, unguarded.
"Something big, something crazy Our best is yet unknown ♪"
Reggie moves over to his own mic again, while Julie circles the piano and grabs Flynn's hand.
"Shout, shout♪ Come on and let it out, out♪ Don't gotta hide it Let your colors blind their eyes. Be who you are, don't compromise♪ Shout, shout♪ Come on and let it out, out ♪"
Julie climbs the piano, first one knee, then slides into sitting on the edge, out towards the crowd. The crowd cheers louder. Her voice is bold, defiant. She commands the room.
"What doesn't kill you Makes you feel alive ♪"
She rises to one knee, balanced in the beat.
"Oh, I believe ♪ [Guitar solo]"
She turns—finally—to Luke.
They lock eyes. And there is a shift.
"I believe that we're just one dream Away from who we're meant to be ♪"
Julie smiles, and steps down.
"That we're standing on the edge Of great♪ Something big, something crazy♪ Our best is yet unknown ♪"
She returns to the bench. Luke joins her. She begins to play, softer. Alex and Reggie puff out.
"That this moment is ours to own ♪ 'Cause we're standing on the edge of great♪ Running from the past Tripping on the now♪ What is lost can be found It's obvious ♪"
Luke moves beside her, playing in harmony. They sing gently together. No performance—just them.
The moment closes in. And Luke puffs out.
Zay claps beside me, eyes sparkling. I glance over and catch him signing: "That was amazing." I nod, and for a moment, we just stand there in the golden afterglow of it all.
The audience's reaction is louder than anything I've felt in a while. I feel it; the people on their feet, swaying, shouting, glowing. Phones are raised high, catching moments we'll probably see online by midnight.
We all end up in the kitchen, having dragged chairs around and pizza boxes half-opened on the counter. Julie and Flynn are perched cross-legged on a stool, Flynn waving her slice of pepperoni like a mic.
Flynn grins. "I can't say this enough: that was incredible. But epic fail on that eye contact thing."
Julie chuckles, shaking her head. "Yeah, yeah. I know."
Carlos, sitting on the counter, tilts his head. "So how do you do those holograms?"
Ray, who's settled beside me with a paper plate balanced on his knee, just shrugs. "Oh, don't try to understand it, Carlos. I don't."
"That's because you're old."
Ray fake-laughs. "Funny guy. I'd send you to your room—"
"—but then who's gonna clean up this mess?" Carlos jumps off the counter, grinning.
"Don't poke the bear," Julie teases with a giggle.
Flynn tuts, shaking her head, and Carlos heads out of the kitchen, probably in search of dessert.
Ray looks around and asks, "So what are the boys doing right now?"
Julie's voice softens. "Hanging out, I guess. You know… or whatever you do when you're from where they're from."
Flynn's already halfway into her next thought. "Hey, so what cameras did you use out there?"
Ray perks up, amused. "Interested in my work? Well, I shot with an XF105. That's what I used. The latest model. It's very good. But the other guys had the wide..."
The words start to fade into the background for me.
I don't say much. Just sketch a little; Julie's raised mic hand, the curve of Reggie's grin, the sparkle in Flynn's eye when she teases.
Luke's soft smile that he had during the last notes of the song, but his eyes hold more. There's a flicker of confusion. Then it shifts. His whole expression lightens. He leans back slightly, the corners of his mouth tipping into something gentler. Loving.
Warm light pools on the counters, and laughter swirls around the room across from me.
Later that night, the house grows still. Carlos is in bed, Flynn's gone home, and the soft hum of Ray's computer in his office clicks off with the lights.
I step quietly back out to the garage.
The air bites a little sharper than in the morning. I pull on my oversized sweatshirt, the one with the blue paint smudges across the sleeve, and sink into the pullout couch with a long exhale. The cushions are cool, but familiar.
Before I lie back fully, I reach up and carefully take out my implant. The click is soft and final. The buzz of the world disappears, replaced by stillness.
I set the processor gently on the nightstand and slide the sketchbook beside it.
I stare for a few breaths.
The garage is quiet now. But the echo lingers in my chest. And in that soft quiet, I pull the blanket up to my chin and fall asleep.