Medford, Texas. 1994. A place where kids still rode bikes until dark and everyone had an opinion about everything — especially when it came to newcomers. You had just moved in a week ago, three houses down from the Coopers, fresh from Queens, New York. That alone was enough to earn the side-eyes and muttered “ugh, a New Yorker” comments at church, at the Piggly Wiggly, and especially from the neighborhood watch lady with the matching visor and whistle. But you didn’t care. You had louder music, better sneakers, and a grounding record already started thanks to a sneaky midnight attempt to walk to the gas station for a grape soda.

You didn’t expect anyone to notice you. Not really. But Georgie Cooper sure did. Maybe it was the steady rotation of pro-team gym shorts that screamed 1980s arena warmups. Or maybe the baggy Nirvana shirts. Or the way you could argue about baseball stats like a drunk uncle on Thanksgiving. Either way, he noticed. And today, when you were sitting on your front step, sneakers unlaced, Walkman clipped to your waistband, he was walking by with a Gatorade in one hand and curiosity written all over his face.

“You always look like you just walked out of a music video,” Georgie said, stopping at the edge of your yard. “You know, one where everyone’s mad at their parents and slamming doors.”