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2016-07-24
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2019-07-07
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26/26
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Something Suspiciously Close to Hope

Chapter 26

Summary:

the big day arrives...

Notes:

welp, nearly three years after this concept began as what was supposed to be a one-off ficlet, we've finally reached the end of this story!!

like with the last chapter, I threw some pertinent excerpts into a tumblr post if you want a quick refresher on some older scenes.

man I'm kinda at a loss for words! I really hope you like how things end up. I'm dying to hear what you think so please lmk in the comments or on tumblr!

but most importantly, thank you all for reading about this dorky, precious, sappy family that has no reason to exist together in fiction, and yet here we are. we'll never see these characters interact on screen, but this made-up family feels as real as if we have, and that is thanks to you guys. thank you for coming along for the ride <3

Chapter Text

You can barely stop yourself from bouncing with excitement.

This hasn’t happened in a long time -- two or three foster homes ago, at least. And even then it was done at a neighbor’s kitchen table. It wasn’t anything special. Not like this.

You grip the metal arms of the chair and cross your legs at the ankle in an attempt to stay still. (Staying still is important, you remember.)

In the mirror, you see your moms standing off to the side talking to Meg, who you’d just met. She has a round, friendly face and grayish purple hair -- the same color as Lily’s favorite toy pony. Clarke said she’s been “going to her” for years, which made you feel special and grown up. You like sharing things with your Ma.

Lexa catches your eye in the reflection. She raises her brows, checking in, and you give her a thumbs up. It was her idea to take a “before” photo outside on the sidewalk, and you’re glad she thought of it.

Clarke and Meg finish their discussion and everyone turns to you.

“You ready, kiddo?” Clarke asks. You nod vigorously, gripping the chair even tighter.

Meg stands right behind you and steps on something -- a pedal, maybe -- that makes your chair rise up, inch by inch. “Okay, Eleven,” she says, running her fingers down to the ends of your hair. “Let’s get started.”

***

Getting your hair trimmed was just the kickoff to a very big week. Maybe your biggest ever. Tomorrow you and your moms will go to court for… something you try not to think about too much… and then the day after that is the Summer Sock Hop.

Your therapist said that one of the best ways to calm your nerves is to break a big event into a bunch of teeny tiny pieces that you can take one at a time, so that’s what you try to do.

Earlier, you got your hair trimmed. Then you took your after photo (and a selfie with your moms). Next, you went to the ice cream parlor for lunch, where Clarke “missed” Lexa’s mouth when feeding her a spoonful of black raspberry just so she could kiss it off. And now you’re in your room, deciding what to wear tomorrow.

Tomorrow’s event -- the one you’re trying not to think about -- is making you feel all funny. It’s like every possible emotion is swirling around inside you and you never know which one you’re going to get in any given moment. Sometimes when you’re scared you act angry, and when you’re happy you act sad. It’s like your brain’s got all its wires crossed.

Here, looking into your closet, you feel that happy-sadness creeping in.

None of your other foster parents had a lot of money, and you can tell your moms don’t either. But you wouldn’t know that by the state of your closet, which is practically bursting at the seams with all of the pretty things they’ve bought for you.

You thought it might be hard to choose an outfit for tomorrow, but before you even realize it you’re reaching for a hanger in the far right corner. On it is one of the first dresses your moms bought you -- soft and slipper-pink, like the cherry blossoms on the backyard tree.

As you take the dress off the rack, something else catches your eye. Behind it, wedged in the farthest corner of the closet, is the hand-me-down dress you wore on your very first day here.

You touch the back of your neck. The tag was so itchy.

Scratchy clothing was the least of your problems that day. You had a million emotions cycloning inside you then, too. You were grumpy about your new buzzcut, upset from having to leave Mike, and wary of what these new foster parents would be like.

But then, despite everything the world had taught you about life, things got better, and better, and better. You blink hard and try to ignore the thought that’s always there in the back of your mind, telling you that no one can be this lucky.

You step back and slam the closet door shut.

(Teeny tiny pieces, you remind yourself. You’re just picking out an outfit. That’s all.)

After taking a long, deep breath, you lay the pink dress on the bed and busy yourself looking through your box of hair accessories. You’re debating between a pink headband and a sparkly silver bow when you hear Clarke coming up the stairs.

(She has a heavy, bouncy step that you always hear coming. Lexa is lighter on her feet, with a sure and even stride. You’d recognize the cadence of their steps anywhere. You try not to think about that, either.)

“Everything okay in here?” Clarke asks, standing just outside your door. "Thought I heard a door slam.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “It was the wind.”

Clarke glances at the closest window, which is barely open, but she nods like she believes you.

“It was a bit blustery out there,” she offers, and you love her for it. “I just ran out to get something for you from the treehouse. Hope you don’t mind.”

Stepping into your room, she hands you your walkie-talkie -- the long-range one that could reach Mike, before he moved away.

“Thought you might want to bring it tomorrow,” she continues. “I know I loved having your old walkie-talkie with me when I went to California. Remember that?”

You smile, blushing a bit at the memory. “Thank you,” you whisper.

You glance at your old walkie-talkie -- now just a plastic brick propping up some paperbacks in your bookcase -- and definitely don’t think about how you tried to reach Mike on your very first night in this room.

You wish he could be there tomorrow. You wish you weren’t so nervous to see him at the Sock Hop. (You wish emotions hadn’t become so complicated.)

As if sensing your inner turmoil, Clarke pulls you in for a tight hug. You close your eyes and lean into her, clearing your mind of everything outside of her warm embrace. When you step back a moment later, you feel a little lighter.

***

Nighttime in this house seems sacred. It’s quiet -- quieter than the foster homes you lived in and much quieter than the group home, where kids in the other bunks would whisper or snore or call out in their sleep.

It was weird, at first. You know quiet is supposed to make it easier to sleep, but your first few nights here you tossed and turned. It’s like your ears were on alert, listening for sounds that never came.

You got used to it, eventually. You’re not sure when. Sometimes even the strangest things become normal before you stop to realize it.

But it isn’t the quiet that’s keeping you up tonight. Rather than dwell on the fears and worries that have been running through your mind, you decide to get out of bed. If you set yourself in motion, you think, maybe the bad thoughts will get lost in the dust.

You start by organizing your bows and barrettes by size and color, then you straighten the books on your bookcase. When you set your sights on the tupperware container filled with bottles of sparkly nail polish, you get an idea.

The hardwood floor is cool beneath your bare feet when you reach the first floor. Most of the lights are off downstairs, but you follow the low murmur of the TV to the living room and find both of your moms curled up together on the couch.

Lexa notices you first. “Hey,” she says, moving her arms from around Clarke’s waist and sitting up. “You okay?”

You nod, walking into the room and taking a seat on the coffee table, facing them.

“Trouble sleeping, El?” Clarke tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before her gaze falls to your hand. “What’ve you got there?”

You open your palm to show them the bottle of gold-flecked nail polish that they bought for you at Target a few weeks back. It was sparkly yet subtle, and you couldn’t take your eyes off it when you saw it in the makeup aisle. You didn’t ask to get it, though -- it cost nearly twice as much as the cheaper brands -- but it appeared on the conveyor belt at the checkout register, along with a wink from Clarke.

You’d decided to save it for a special occasion. And what is more special than the thing that’s happening tomorrow?

There’s a lot you want to say to your moms, but it’s hard enough to think those things, let alone verbalize them. So instead you twist off the top of the nail polish, run the brush along the inside of the bottle, removing the excess paint, and reach for Clarke’s hand.

The noise from the TV fades into the background as you delicately paint each of Clarke’s fingers before moving on to Lexa’s. You keep quiet and your moms do too, settling back against each other while they watch you work.

With each stroke of the brush, the restlessness inside you burns off like fumes. Somehow this feels productive. In some ways you feel like you’re going into battle tomorrow, and it makes you feel better to adorn your comrades with sparkly war paint.

Once you’re done, Lexa wordlessly takes the nail polish from you and paints each of your nails, and even though hers are still wet, you know she won’t mess them up. Soon the three of you have matching manicures, glittering in the dim light.

You take in your work and nod to yourself, feeling satisfied, like when you master a new drawing technique that Clarke has taught you. You take the nail polish back from Lexa, kiss each of your moms on the cheek, and head back up to your room.

You’re yawning by the time you crawl back into bed and, this time, it doesn’t take you long to fall asleep, with your hands carefully resting on top of the covers.

***

Waffles wakes you up.

You feel his two front paws on your back, gently kneading, but you don’t want to get up just yet so you roll onto your side and nestle into your warm, clean sheets. There’s a prickle at the corner of your consciousness -- an unpleasant reminder that there’s something you’re supposed to worry about. You try to ward it off, try to sink back into sleep, but it’s persistent, moving ever closer.

That’s when you lear Lexa’s laugh coming from downstairs. The bad thought vanishes as you smile into your pillow.

You’re not sure why you tiptoe down the steps. Maybe it’s because if you’re quiet, the day -- this big, momentous day -- won’t know you’re up yet. Or maybe, you think as you lean against the hallway wall and peek into the kitchen, it’s because you like catching glimpses of your moms like this.

Everything in this house is soft. The carpet and the lighting and the care with which you’re treated. But mornings, you’ve decided, are the softest time. And here in the kitchen, as the early sunlight eases through the windows, it feels like a pocket of time wrapped in cotton wool.

Your moms are sitting at the kitchen table, talking quietly. Lexa’s left arm is on the tabletop, palm facing up, and Clarke is leaning toward her, mindlessly playing with Lexa’s fingers. They’re both smiling. Every so often Lexa presses her lips together, like she’s trying to school her expression, but time and again a smile creeps back onto her face.

It hits you that you actually knows what that feels like -- to have so much joy inside you that you physically can’t keep it at bay. Before you came here, you never knew happiness could feel like that. Happiness was elusive and fleeting and ripped away too soon. Here, it’s all around you. Like the house was built from it.

Clarke lifts Lexa’s hand to her mouth and gently kisses her knuckles and, out of nowhere, you feel like you might cry. You look around the room to distract yourself. There’s a vase of fresh flowers on the table, which isn’t all that unusual, but the fact that there’s a tablecloth beneath it is. The table is set with the fancy dishes that your moms got as a wedding present, and there’s a steaming pile of waffles on a platter, which no one has touched.

You take a couple steps closer to get a better view and that’s when you see the balloons. There’s a whole bunch of them -- yellows and pinks and purples -- tied to the back of your chair.

You glance down at the wooden legs to check if they’re starting to float off the ground.

“She’s up!” Clarke stands so quickly her own chair wobbles. She and Lexa are beaming at you, so you walk the rest of the way into the kitchen, even though you haven’t made sense of it all.

“Morning,” you say, shifting on your feet. Lexa beckons you closer, and you lean down so she can kiss your cheek. Then Clarke’s there, squeezing you around the waist.

“Happy adoption day, kiddo,” she whispers. You’re not sure what to reply, but it doesn’t seem to matter because after one last squeeze Clarke steps back and gestures toward your chair. “Your throne awaits. Will you be having Eggos with us this morning?”

You giggle and carefully take a seat, making sure you don’t disturb the halo of balloons floating above it. “Yes, please.”

Working together, she and Lexa make you a plate with an assortment of your favorite waffles, topped with syrup and a mountain of whipped cream. You watch as they serve themselves, still smiling like they just opened the best present ever.

“Well?” Clarke raises her eyebrows at you. “Dig in!”

You smile at her (it’s contagious) and pick up your knife and fork.

“Wait!” Lexa says with an urgency that makes you and Clarke freeze in your tracks.

She swallows, as if she even startled herself, and then picks up her glass of orange juice, holding it out in front of her. Clarke, apparently catching on to something, raises her glass as well. Your eyebrows knit together because you have no idea what’s happening, but they’re both looking at you so you lift up your glass of OJ too.

“To Eleven,” Lexa says softly, gesturing toward you with her glass. “For making us a family.”

“To Eleven,” Clarke echos. She’s blinking rapidly and biting her bottom lip, and you’re not sure which of you is going to cry first. Thankfully, after another heavy moment, she and Lexa drink from their glasses, and you follow suit.

Once Clarke puts her glass back down she leans across the table to give Lexa a quick kiss, but Lexa holds here there for a bit longer, cupping Clarke’s face and brushing her thumbs beneath her eyes. Then Lexa leans in and kisses Clarke again.

You know you’re supposed to be grossed out, on some level. Your classmates would be if these were their parents. But you just can’t find that in yourself right now. You don’t know a lot about love, but you know that theirs is really something. It created this sweet little slice of the world that you were somehow lucky enough to get invited into, and that isn’t anything but beautiful.

So you dig into your Eggos and take a big bite, purposefully leaving the whipped cream mustache on your lip so your moms will laugh when they look over, which they do a few seconds later. Then Lexa takes a bite of waffles that’s so big she gets syrup on her cheek, and soon Clarke is squirting whipped cream from the can directly into her mouth, and you’re laughing so hard you can almost ignore the lump in the back of your throat.

You’re getting adopted today.

***

The sun is shining as brightly as you feel as you and your moms walk to the car. It rained overnight and the air smells fresh and sweet. You tilt your head up to the sky and take a deep breath, willing yourself to remember this moment. No matter what happens, you will always be able to look back at this time when anything seemed possible.

You trail behind your moms and watch as Lexa takes Clarke’s hand. The nailpolish on their fingers looks even better outside, and you’re pleased to see it goes with their outfits. Lexa is in her nicest suit -- one she only sports for big, important meetings -- and Clarke is wearing a lavender dress covered in a print of little white flowers.

Their hands stay tightly locked until the three of you reach the driveway and they have to part to get into the car.

It’s warm in the backseat. You smooth your the skirt of your dress, straightenen the bow in your hair (you chose the sparkly silver one, in the end), and fiddle with the knobs on the walkie-talkie. You twist the on switch and it hums alive, filling the air with static. You turn the volume down and hug it to your chest. You’re glad Clarke suggested you bring it today.

“Remember when you first came to live with us?” she asks, smiling at you in the rearview mirror. “You wouldn’t put your walkie-talkie down that first day.”

You nod. “It was all I had.”

You try to keep the memory at an arm’s length; to remember without feeling. You see yourself trailing behind the social worker on the front walkway, a half-filled backpack over your shoulder, a walkie-talkie in your hand, and an emptiness in your chest. You didn’t know that’s what it was then, but you see it now -- the aching chasm inside you that needed to be filled.

“I tried to reach Mike that first night.”

Lexa twists in the passenger seat and reaches back, placing a comforting hand on your knee. She looks at you with her soft, kind eyes and the realization hits you: You fell asleep, that first night, with the walkie-talkie in your hands, and when you woke up you groped blindly for it on the floor, because you always dropped it in your sleep. But it wasn’t there.

When you finally opened your eyes you saw it, sitting perfectly neat and upright on the bedside table. You didn’t give it much thought at the time (there was so much else going on) but now...

“You knew,” you whisper.

Lexa smiles gently, letting you know you’re right.

All your life, the world had taught you not to get your hopes up. By the time you showed up at Clarke and Lexa’s house, you knew not to expect anything different than what had happened in the past. But before you’d even begun contemplating letting down your walls, your moms were already busy loving you. Even that first night. Even when you were asleep.

You’re trying to find the words to let the know just what this means to you when the car comes to a stop in the courthouse parking lot. Clarke turns off the engine and your eyes find hers again in the rearview. She’s making one of her trademark scared-excited faces, and you can’t help but make one right back at her.

“Alright, kiddo,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Here we go.”

***

It’s like you’re leaving behind the calmness you felt earlier with every step you take. You try to focus on the little things -- the teeny, tiny pieces that make up this great, big, scary day. You’re just walking up the courthouse steps and through the echoing lobby. You’re just holding Clarke’s hand as Lexa talks to the lady at the desk. You’re just hearing your heartbeat in your ears and feeling it in you fingertips.

The courtroom is small and much less intimidating than the versions you’ve seen on Lily’s mom’s favorite lawyer show. There are rows of benches, like pews in church, and a desk where the judge will sit. Your moms and Ms. Jennings, the adoption attorney, have walked you through the details about how today was supposed to go, but you still had a hard time shaking the TV-drama images from your mind.

Clarke squeezes your hand. “See, no witness stand.”

You smile, feeling more relieved than you’d like to admit, and squeeze her hand back.

Ms. Jennings shows you and your moms where to sit in the front of the room. You get settled in and try not to fidget too much. There are things going on around you that you don’t understand, but you try not to worry about it. Somehow your nerves have settled; you’ve already gotten on the ride and all you can do now is wait and see where it takes you.

So you observe. Your moms are talking in hushed tones to Ms. Jennings. Ms. Jennings takes out a folder and flips through a stack of papers. A few more grown ups wearing suits stroll in, holding cups of coffee. They sit on the other side of the room. Your social worker, Jim Hopper, shows up next. His suit has fewer wrinkles than usual and he’s wearing a shiny blue tie. He winks at you as he walks past.

When the noise in the room starts to quiet down your moms take their seats, one on each side of you. There’s plenty of space in your row but they squeeze in tight. You balance the walkie-talkie on your knees so you can hold both of their hands. Lexa kisses your temple. You feel warm and safe.

There’s a flurry of motion, and before you realize the judge had entered the room -- and that you’re supposed to stand -- she has already taken her seat at the big desk. When you sit back down you notice you’re gripping your moms’ hands really tightly now, but you can’t help it, and they don’t seem to mind.

The judge starts talking and, again, you’re not totally sure what’s going on. Everyone’s eyes are on her, so you pay attention as if you’re following along. She has pretty dark skin and long, delicate braids and every time she looks over in your direction, she smiles.

You relax your hold on your moms’ hands.

She asks Ms. Jennings a few questions. She looks over some of the papers from Ms. Jennings’ folder. She talks to Jim about your file and his home visits. You let out a breath when he finishes speaking without mentioning the Jimmy Kenswood punching incident (and you think Clarke does too).

Finally, the judge turns to you and your moms. Lexa takes your walkie-talkie from your lap and places it on the bench beside her. Then she stands, and you and Clarke follow her lead. You pray you don’t have to talk because you’re pretty sure your heart has worked its way up into your throat.

“Before I make my decision, I have a few questions for the mothers,” the judge says. “First, why do you want to adopt?”

You know she is addressing your moms, but your pulse is racing as if she’s asked you. You focus on taking deep breaths, barely registering Lexa’s answer. You think she mentions her own childhood in foster care and how she and Clarke always dreamed of having a family of their own. Whatever she said, the judge seems satisfied.

“How do you plan to take care of Eleven once you’ve adopted her?” she asks next.

Clarke takes this one. She talks about her and Lexa’s jobs, how you’ve settled in at school, and your support system of friends and family.

“We’ve already gone through a lot together,” Clarke finishes, “but even when it’s hard, it feels right. We belong together -- all three of us.”

It almost hurts to swallow around the lump in your throat. You lean your head against Clarke’s shoulder to let her know you feel the same way.

“Now, Eleven,” the judge says. She’s smiling at you but you stiffen, caught off-guard. It feels silly that you thought you could get away with just being an observer at the hearing. You’re a participant in all this -- it’s all for you. “I just have one last question,” she continues. “Do you want to be adopted today?”

You know this answer by heart, but you look up at your moms first. They’re smiling down at you, hands still tethered to yours. Their eyes are shining with happy tears. You close your eyes, just for an instant, and look inward, feeling around for that empty spot that once sat inside your chest. But you don’t find it. You knew you wouldn’t it. It’s full now -- so full it’s nearly bursting.

Opening your eyes, you lift your chin (strong like Lexa), smile through your tears (strong like Clarke), and answer loud and clear.

“Yes.”

***

The next few minutes are a blur. You get that old feeling again -- like you’re watching the scene from a distance, outside of your own body.

Looking back, you only remember some of it: how quiet the room went when the judge signed the papers; the sound of Clarke’s cheer moments later; the feeling of Lexa’s hands on your shoulders, letting you know that’s it, it’s over, you did it; the warmth of your moms bodies as they sandwiched you in a hug -- your very first hug as an official family.

***

It’s amazing the difference an hour makes. When you walked into the courthouse, your Keds felt like they were weighted down with cement. Now that it’s over, you’re practically skipping through the echoey hallways.

“You happy, kiddo?” Clarke asks. She taps out a quick message on her phone -- probably telling Abby the good news -- and stowes it back in her purse.

“No.” You try your very best to keep a straight face during your dramatic pause. Clarke raises her eyebrows like she’s shocked and scandalized, and you can no longer hold back your smile. “Ecstatic.”

Clarke tips her head back as she laughs and the sound bounces off the ceiling.

Lexa bumps her hip against yours. “You’re gonna ace that vocab quiz, El,” she says.

And just like that, this terrifying day that you built up in your mind goes from being a massive boulder that you couldn’t see around to a plain-old regular afternoon.

You’re about to ask your moms if you can stop for ice cream on the way home when you hear a staticky sound coming from somewhere. Puzzled, you look up at your moms (Clarke’s making her wide-eyed trying-but-failing-to-contain-my-excitement face at Lexa) and then down at the walkie-talkie in your hand.

You twist the knob to turn up the volume and raise it to your ear.

“Eleven,” you hear between bursts of static. “Come in, Eleven.”

You stop dead in your tracks. Everything around you goes quiet. Your skin is tingling and you have to open your mouth to breathe properly. (He can never know that last part.)

You bring the walkie-talkie to your mouth and press the talk button.

“Mike?”

His laughter comes through the little speaker, crackly and beautiful. “Is that how--” he starts, but the static cuts him off again.

“Mike?” you say into your receiver, panic rising. “Mike??”

After a few more bursts of static, his voice comes through. “Keep walking.”

You feel a hand on your shoulder and look up to find Clarke biting her lip as she grins at you. She nods toward the main entrance of the courthouse, about 20 feet in front of you.

You glance at Lexa to confirm that this is real, out of old habit, you guess, and she fixes you with a teasing, pointed stare. “You heard him.”

Keep walking, he’d said, but you were never one for following orders. You take off in a run, dodging lawyers and briefcases. Your footsteps sound through the lobby and you feel your hair swaying with each stride.

You throw yourself against one of the many doors and step out, blinking into the June sunlight. And he’s there, right in front of you, at the top of the courthouse steps. He’s taller than you remember. He’s wearing gray trousers and a blue and red checkered shirt, buttoned up to the very top. He’s brushed his hair.

You open your mouth to speak but no words come out. But you know it doesn’t matter, because it’s him. One of you, or maybe it’s both of you, steps forward and then your arms are around him, hugging him as tightly as he’s hugging you.

Mike.”

“I knew they’d keep you,” he whispers.

You lift up on your toes and smile against his shoulder, giving into the overwhelming ache of happiness.

***

You’re not sure why you’re surprised when Mike tells you his uncle is parked around the corner. Maybe it’s because him being here, on this day, feels like magic -- like you summoned him with your mind.

It’s decided that Mike will drive back with you and that his uncle will pick him up from your house later. They’re staying at an AirBNB in the next town over, his uncle tells you. They were going to stay in a motel on the highway, but Mike wanted to be closer, he says.

(He doesn’t say closer to what, but Clarke winks at Lexa, like she knows.)

Mike mailed you a photo of his uncle once, but he seems taller in person. He’s awkward and gruff, but you know Mike loves him, even if he’s never said it in so many words, and that’s all that matters. Before his uncle gets back in his pick-up he sidles up next to Mike and puts an arm around him, in a kind of half-hug. The old Mike you met in the group home would’ve frowned on this sort of affection being directed at him -- especially from an adult -- but the Mike in front of you leans into it, and you add this moment to the list of beautiful things you’ve seen today.

You don’t talk much on the car ride home. Your moms ask Mike about school and his new friends and you listen attentively to his answers, soaking it all in. Every so often Clarke and Lexa glance back at you, making sure that you’re okay, and each time you smile reassuringly.

When you were first placed with your moms you didn’t talk much. Starting from your days in the lab, life had taught you that using your voice wouldn’t get you very far, so at some point you just decided to give up. To get by with the bare minimum.

You hope your moms know your silence now isn’t anything like that. You’re just… content. At peace, even.

Peace.

That’s something you haven’t thought of before, and you’re pretty sure you haven’t felt it. Peace, to you, was a sign you made with your hands or a word that some people said to each other in church. But now that things are finally, finally permanent -- that no one can take you away, not your social worker or the state or your Papa -- you think you get it.

You’re riding in a car with the three people you love most in this world -- who also happen to be the three people who love you the most -- and it’s a perfect moment; there’s nothing you need to add to it. So you sit and listen and bask in the warm glow of your luck.

***

The neighborhood seems extra quiet when you pull into the driveway. It’s like a hush has fallen over everything. You look at your moms and Mike to see if they’ve noticed too, but they’re chatting about what to order for lunch as they get out of the car, so it must just be you.

There’s still a spring in your step as you follow Mike and your moms up the walkway through the front yard. You catch sight of Waffles sitting in an upstairs window and you think about how you get to live here forever.

Then you stop dead in your tracks. You’ve never allowed yourself to think that before. You’d spent so much energy keeping any thoughts of permanence at bay that finally letting one through bowls you over.

It doesn’t take long for your moms to notice you’re lagging behind. Without speaking, they come to stand on either side of you, each taking one of your hands. The three of you look up at your little blue house and it’s chipping paint, and it’s memories, and it’s black-and-white cat in one of the upstairs windows, and somehow you know you’re all thinking the same thing.

Clarke squeezes your hand, and you’re sure she’s about to verbalize what’s on your minds. You grin to yourself; you know your Mama so well.

“Let’s go sit out on the patio,” she says instead.

***

The hush is back in full force as you walk around the side of the house to get to the backyard. Your moms lead the way and Mike falls back to take your hand. He’s quiet, which is suspicious, and you’re about to ask him what’s on his mind when you walk through the arched trellis that leads out back.

There, beneath the flowering branches of the cherry tree, is everyone who’s been a part of your new, beautiful life, cheering for all they’re worth.

You see Lily, jumping up and down between her parents as she hoots and hollers. Next to them is practically everyone else from the neighborhood, from Harry and Mrs. Mitchell to Maya and her family. Then there’s Abby and Indra, both smiling brighter than you’ve ever seen. And you can’t miss Octavia and Lincoln and Raven, who are making the most noise of all. Even Ms. Jennings and Jim Hopper are here.

You freeze, eyes going wide and mouth falling open at the scene. You might’ve stayed that way forever, still like a statue, if Mike and your moms weren’t there to propel you forward.

The cheering doesn’t stop as you walk to greet your friends and family (family) and once you get close everyone reaches into their pockets and tosses fistfuls of something into the air.

It’s glitter.

Pixie dust.

You think of movie nights and Tinkerbell and Halloween and how you’re not a Lost Boy, not anymore, and you never will be again. You have a lifetime’s worth of happy thoughts, now, and you’re feeling them all at once.

Your feet are firmly planted on the grass, and yet in this moment you are flying; absolutely soaring.

The joy swirling in your heart bursts out of you in a string of laughter. Mike joins the group as they circle around you and your moms, still showering you with glitter. You look at your moms in astonishment at, well, everything. It finally dawns on you that they carefully orchestrated this whole day just for you, from balloons at breakfast to Mike at the courthouse to this party in the backyard.

Your eyes well up as you press your hand to your chest, praying that they understand the feeling that you’re experiencing right now, one that you don’t think you could ever put into words.

You think they get it because the next thing you know they’re bending down and surrounding you in a massive bear hug.

“You did all this for me?” you whisper.

“Everything is for you, kiddo,” Clarke says, sniffling. “Always.”

Lexa kisses your cheek. “Always.”

You don’t have time to contemplate what they mean before Clarke steps back and Lexa hoists you up onto her left shoulder. The crowd cheers even louder and Clarke yelps, grabbing your hand to help keep you steady.

You tilt your head back and look up at the sky, watching as the sun lights up the glitter that is still falling around you, catching on your eyelashes and freckling your cheeks.

You’re not sure how you didn’t notice it before, but from up here there’s no missing it: strung across the width of your treehouse is a homemade banner with words written in Clarke’s strong block letters and Lexa’s neat print.

WELCOME HOME, ELEVEN!

(For good.)

***

You sit on the end of your moms’ bed as Lexa brushes your hair, still damp from the shower. You’re in your PJs -- soft gray shorts and your Grounders shirt, fresh from the wash -- and you feel clean and pleasantly tired.

The surprise party in your backyard felt like it lasted for ages, but in a good way. At some point Lincoln fired up the grill and Maya’s mom produced cartons of ice cream, and you ate and played until a summer storm rolled in, sending everyone running for cover.

The celebrations continued inside, everyone crowding around the kitchen table, kids drinking tangy-sweet lemonade while the adults poured glasses of wine. At some point the conversation turned to a topic you’re still getting comfortable with -- you. Everyone took turns sharing their favorite memories of you since you moved in with your moms.

Initially you blushed and looked down at your cup, thinking it would be over soon. But to your surprise there was no shortage of stories to share, and soon you traded your embarrassment for laughter as Octavia recalled swinging from the branches above your brand-new tree house, and Mike told the group about the time he made you laugh so hard milk came out your nose. But most stories were about you and your moms, and how everyone could tell right away that you just fit together.

Those were your favorites, you think. Later, after you hugged everyone goodbye, you ran upstairs and jotted them down in a notebook, to be sure you’d never forget.

Lexa places her hands on your shoulders, letting you know she’s done brushing your hair, and walks toward the closet to get changed. You crawl up the bed and get under the cool white sheets. There’s still glitter under your fingernails and you smile to yourself, knowing you’ll find the sparkling reminders of today for weeks, in the places you’d least expect.

“What are you smiling about?

You look up to see Clarke toweling off her hair, fresh from a shower of her own. Your smile only grows when you notice she’s wearing a Grounders shirt too -- the one you got her for Christmas, with “Mama” written on the back. Movement from across the room catches your eye as Lexa closes the closet door. She goes to stand next to Clarke, wearing the same tee, except you know the back of hers reads “Mum.”

Lexa throws an arm around Clarke’s shoulders and Clarke puts her hand on her hip, striking a pose and smirking. The growing “teenage side” of you (as Clarke calls it) makes you roll your eyes, but inside you’re glowing.

“How’d you know I was gonna wear mine too?” you ask. Your moms exchange coy looks as they start going through the final steps of their nighttime routine, one that you now know by heart.

“We didn’t,” Lexa says, turning off the overhead light.

“But we kinda figured.” Clarke smoothes her fingers under her eyes, rubbing in her nightly ‘syrup.’ (That’s what you thought it was called the first time you heard the word, and now that’s how you all refer to it, to the point that you don’t even remember the actual name.)

“You’re a sap, kiddo,” she continues. “Just like us.”

You want to roll your eyes at this, too, but you just can’t. “I guess I am,” you say instead.

You shimmy down further under the covers as your moms climb into bed on either side of you. Lexa reaches to switch on the little fan on the windowsill and Clarke turns off the bedside lamp. It’s all so familiar -- so peaceful -- that it makes your eyelids feel heavy.

“Are you still nervous about the big day tomorrow?” Clarke asks, snuggling in close.

You yawn. “Big day?”

“The dance,” Lexa prompts. She turns onto her side and scoots in, laying her arm across you and Clarke. “The Summer Sock Hop. Remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

You pause, checking in with yourself. You had been so nervous about it before the mere thought of the dance freaked you out. But, to be honest, it hadn’t crossed your mind all day. And now you’re just excited that it means seeing Mike again.

“No,” you answer. “I’m not nervous anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence and you have a feeling your moms are giving each other a look over your head, but you’re too tired to open your eyes to check.

“Good,” Lexa says, kissing your temple.

Clarke hums in agreement and kisses your cheek. “Tomorrow will be a good day.”

It will, you think, as you drift off to sleep.

They all will.

You are Eleven Griffin-Woods and you’re home.