Milly and Tuesday

Milly goes to school the day after Jr Burger wakes up.

Story One - "Milly and Jr Burger" 
Milly and Tuesday

         Milly laced her new boots tighter than she needed to.
         The leather was still stiff, not yet broken in, like it wanted to argue with her foot. She pulled the laces through the last set of hooks and double-knotted them. The knot sat neat and hard against the tongue. She flexed her ankle. The boot didn’t give much.
         Good.
         In the mirror, she looked like herself. Black jeans. Black shirt. A belt with dull silver hardware. Hair straightened until it lay flat and obedient. Eyeliner that made her eyes look sharper than she felt.
         People at school called it goth, like it was a diagnosis.
         Milly called it armor.
         She leaned closer to the mirror and studied her face, searching for something new. A mark. A glow. A crack that would explain Monday.
         Nothing.
         She looked normal.
         She didn’t feel normal.
         Down the hall, cabinet doors clicked. Her mom’s steps moved from the pantry to the counter. The house smelled like coffee and toast, the usual morning smell. Milly listened to it all as if it were a sound from another life.
         Monday had been loud.
         Sirens. Hospital intercoms. Adults talking over her like she wasn’t in the room. Two police officers standing too close. One in uniform that looked like it belonged on base. The other was in plain civilian clothes, badge clipped near her waistband.
         The MP had watched her with a blank face. The civilian officer had watched her like she was a math problem.
         Both of them had asked the same question in different ways.
         What did you do to the boy?
         Milly hadn’t known what to say.
         She still didn’t.
         She picked up her backpack and went downstairs.
         Her dad sat at the table with his coffee. He wore his uniform today. That meant he was going in early. His hair was damp from the shower. His eyes were tired.
         Her mom stood at the sink, rinsing a mug that didn’t need rinsing. When Milly entered, her mom’s hands paused for half a second, then resumed moving.
         “Morning,” Milly said.
         Her voice came out steady. She was proud of that.
         “Morning,” her dad said. He didn’t look up.
         Her mom glanced over her shoulder. “You sleep?”
         Milly nodded. Another thing to be proud of. She had slept. She hadn’t dreamed of the boy’s eye held open. She hadn’t dreamed of the pressure building behind her own eyes like something trying to get out.
         That had come later.
         When she was awake, alone, and staring at the ceiling.
         Her mom slid toast onto a plate and set it down in front of her, as if feeding her would fix something.
         “You want a ride?” her dad asked.
         “I take the bus,” Milly said automatically.
         Her dad looked up then. He studied her as he might a bruise. “I can drop you.”
         Milly felt it, that tiny swell of panic, and with it the faint tightening behind her eyes. She kept her face calm.
         “No,” she said. “It’s fine.”
         Her mom dried her hands on a towel. “We can talk tonight, okay?”
         Milly didn’t ask what they needed to talk about. She already knew.
         Her parents didn’t know what happened on Monday. Not really. They knew she’d been accused. They knew she’d been scared. They knew the boy had woken up after Milly demanded a minute alone with him.
         They did not know the truth.
         Milly wasn’t sure she knew the truth.
         She ate two bites of toast, forced herself to swallow, then stood.
         “I gotta go,” she said.
         Her dad nodded once. “Text me when you get to school.”
         “I will.”
         She left the house before her mom could add anything else.
         Outside, the morning air was cold and bright. Milly’s boots hit the sidewalk with a heavy thud, each step loud enough to annoy her. She liked the sound anyway. It reminded her she was real.
         She walked to the bus stop with her shoulders squared.
         Act normal.
         Normal was a costume she knew how to wear.

***

         The bus smelled like vinyl seats and cheap body spray.
         Kids talked too loud, like they had something to prove. Milly slid into a seat halfway back and stared out the window. She watched houses blur by. She watched the sun hit windshields. She watched her reflection overlay the neighborhood like she was a ghost riding through it.
         At the first stop, a girl got on and looked at Milly for half a second too long.
         Milly didn’t know her name. She knew her type. Cheerful. Normal. Hair tied back with a bright scrunchie. The kind of girl who could laugh in the hallway without checking who might be listening.
         The girl whispered something to her friend as she passed.
         Milly didn’t hear the words. She didn’t need to.
         She felt the sting anyway.
         That sting lit something in her chest, and the pressure behind her eyes tightened in response. It was like a reflex. Like a muscle that had learned a new trick.
         Milly looked down at her hands.
         Keep it down.
         Keep it quiet.
         The bus rolled on.
         By the time they reached school, Milly’s stomach felt hollow.
         She stepped off the bus and walked toward the building. Her boots struck the pavement, then the concrete walkway. Each step sounded like it was announcing her.
         Here comes Milly.
         Here comes the girl who babysat the kid who won’t wake up.
         Except the kid did wake up now. That was the problem. That was the reason she had survived Monday at all.
         The school building rose ahead, brick and glass and fluorescent light waiting inside.
         Milly paused at the entrance and took a breath.
         She could do this.
         It was just Tuesday.

***

         The hallway was already alive.
         Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. Teachers called out names and warnings. Someone laughed too hard. Someone else argued about something that did not matter.
         Milly moved through it all as if she were underwater.
         She heard her name.
         Not shouted. Not spoken to her face. Just… said.
         “…Milly…”
         “…her…”
         “…the kid…”
         Her cheeks heated. She kept her gaze level, like she didn’t care. Like it didn’t get to her.
         It got to her.
         At her locker, she spun the dial too fast and had to correct it. Her fingers felt clumsy. She was aware of every motion, every second she stood still with her back exposed.
         A group of girls drifted past. One of them glanced at her and then quickly looked away, as if Milly were something contagious.
         Milly’s throat tightened.
         The pressure behind her eyes gathered again, faint but present.
         She shut her locker harder than necessary.
         The sound echoed.
         A teacher at the end of the hallway looked up. Not at her directly, but close enough that Milly felt seen.
         She walked to first period and sat down.
         The teacher passed out worksheets. Kids complained. The teacher ignored them.
         Normal.
         Except Milly could feel the thin thread of tension running through the room, all of it pointed at her.
         People kept looking.
         People kept looking away.
         She didn’t know which was worse.
         Halfway through class, the boy behind her leaned forward and whispered to someone else.
         “…drugged him…”
         Milly heard it clear.
         Her pencil stopped moving.
         Heat surged into her face. Her heartbeat kicked once, hard. The pressure behind her eyes swelled so quickly it surprised her.
         She felt it, like a push building inside her skull, like a wave that wanted to break.
         Her breath caught.
         The boy laughed softly, like he’d told a funny secret.
         Something inside Milly snapped.
         Stop.
         It wasn’t a word she spoke.
         It was a thought.
         It left her like an exhale.
         The boy behind her went silent.
         Not the normal kind of silent. Not the “I’m done talking” kind.
         The room around Milly kept going, but behind her, there was a sudden pause, like someone hit mute on only him.
         Milly didn’t turn around.
         She didn’t need to.
         She felt the ripple. The tiny shift.
         Then the boy cleared his throat, confused, and said, too loud, “I forgot what I was saying.”
         A couple of kids laughed.
         The teacher snapped, “Then stop talking.”
         Milly’s hands trembled under the desk.
         She pressed her palms flat on her thighs, forcing them still.
         That had been small.
         Barely anything.
         But it had worked.
         Her stomach dropped with a sick twist of relief and fear.
         She could do it without meaning to.
         Or she could do it on purpose.
         Either way, it happened.
         Milly forced herself to finish the worksheet, but the words blurred. Her mind kept replaying the sensation.
         The push felt like pressure behind her eyes and a tightening in her chest, like holding your breath before you dive underwater. It released with a strange ease, as if something had been waiting years for permission.
         She didn’t want it to feel easy.
         She wanted it to feel impossible.
         Because if it was easy, then she was the dangerous part.

***

         In the second period, she was called to the office.
         Her name came over the intercom with that fake-cheerful tone secretaries used when they wanted you to think you weren’t in trouble.
         “Milly, please come to the office.”
         Her spine stiffened.
         Kids turned to look at her. Whispering started immediately.
         Milly stood slowly, keeping her face neutral. She walked to the door, her boots hitting the tile in measured beats.
         She could feel eyes on her back.
         Her teacher didn’t ask why. He just nodded like he was glad she was leaving.
         In the hallway, the school felt too bright. Too open.
         As she walked, she remembered the hospital corridor on Monday. White walls. Smell of disinfectant. The fluorescent lights that made everyone look sick.
         She remembered the MP’s face as he asked, “Tell me exactly what you did when you were alone with the boy.”
         She remembered the civilian officer’s voice, softer but sharper. “You understand how this looks, right?”
         She remembered her own voice when she said, “Please. Just give me a minute. Alone.”
         She remembered how the adults, somehow, had left.
         She hadn’t pushed them then. Not consciously.
         Or maybe she had.
         That thought made her stomach turn.
         At the office door, she paused and took a breath.
         Then she went in.
         The secretary looked up. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
         “Have a seat, honey.”
         Milly sat.
         The chair was plastic and slightly too small.
         A moment later, the vice principal stepped out of her office.
         “Milly,” she said, smiling in a way that was meant to be kind. “Come on in.”
         Milly stood and followed her into the office.
         The vice principal gestured toward a chair. Milly sat again.
         The vice principal sat behind her desk, folding her hands. “We just want to check in with you after yesterday.”
         Milly kept her face blank. “I’m fine.”
         “I know it was… a lot,” the vice principal said. “Police coming to the school. Your parents being called. People talking.”
         Milly stared at the corner of the desk.
         The pressure behind her eyes stirred, low and wary.
         The vice principal continued, “I want you to know you can talk to us. If there’s something you need to tell us about what happened with Junior—”
         “I didn’t do anything,” Milly said.
         The words came out too fast.
         The vice principal’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Okay. Okay. I’m not accusing you, sweetheart.”
         The word sweetheart made Milly’s skin crawl.
         The vice principal leaned forward. “But you understand why questions were asked.”
         Milly didn’t answer.
         The vice principal’s gaze held hers. Not harsh. Not kind.
         Evaluating.
         Milly felt the pressure build again, defensive. It was like her mind didn’t want to be pinned down.
         She didn’t intend to push. She really didn’t.
         But the thought flashed, sharp and desperate.
         Look away.
         The vice principal blinked and dropped her eyes to the papers on her desk.
         Milly felt the pressure ease instantly.
         Her breath came out slow.
         The vice principal said, still looking at the papers, “We just want to make sure you’re safe, Milly.”
         Milly’s heart hammered.
         She hadn’t meant to do that.
         She had meant to sit there and endure.
         But now she knew something worse than rumors in the hallway.
         She could make adults do what she wanted.
         And adults didn’t even know.
         The vice principal looked back up. “Would you be willing to see the school counselor today?”
         Milly’s throat tightened. “No.”
         The vice principal’s smile thinned. “It could help.”
         Milly felt the pressure twitch again. She clamped down hard.
         “I’m fine,” she said, voice controlled. “Can I go back to class?”
         The vice principal hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
         Milly stood and walked out without looking back.
         The secretary’s eyes followed her.
         Milly could feel them like heat on her skin.
         Back in the hallway, she kept walking until she turned a corner and found an empty stretch near the library.
         She leaned against the wall for a second, letting her breathing steady.
         Her boots were still. Planted. Solid.
         Her hands shook anyway.
         That was the first time she’d pushed an adult on purpose.
         Even if she hadn’t meant to.
         Even if it was just a whisper.
         It had worked.
         And nothing in the vice principal’s face had suggested she knew what happened.
         No fear.
         No confusion that lasted longer than a blink.
         Just a normal person being nudged off course.
         Milly swallowed hard.
         She straightened and walked back to class.
         Act normal.
         Act normal.

***

         By lunchtime, her nerves felt like they were wrapped in wire.
         She walked to the table where her usual group sat.
         They weren’t her best friends. They were just… her people. Kids who wore black, kids who didn’t care about pep rallies, kids who drifted at the edge of everything.
         She wanted them to be her real friends.
         She wanted belonging the way some kids wanted candy.
         But belonging never came easy.
         Milly slid into her seat and set down her tray. She picked at the fries she didn’t want.
         Jenna sat across from her, chewing gum. Jenna’s hair was dyed so dark it looked blue in the light.
         “People are talking,” Jenna said quietly, like she was stating a weather report.
         Milly kept her eyes on her fries. “Yeah.”
         Jenna leaned closer. “Did you, like… do something?”
         The question landed like a punch.
         Milly felt heat rise up her neck. The pressure behind her eyes stirred immediately, as if it recognized danger.
         She forced herself to keep her face calm. “No.”
         Jenna’s gaze searched her. “My cousin said the cops came for you.”
         Milly’s fingers tightened around a fry. “They did.”
         Another kid at the table, Marcus, snorted. “Small town drama. Somebody always gotta be the villain.”
         Milly’s mouth went dry.
         Villain.
         That word stuck.
         Jenna said, “Junior’s awake now, though, right?”
         Milly’s stomach flipped.
         She could have said nothing.
         She could have shrugged.
         She could have lied.
         Instead, she heard herself say, “Yeah. He woke up.”
         Jenna’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s weird.”
         Milly stared at her tray. The pressure behind her eyes pulsed faintly, like it wanted to protect her from this conversation.
         Marcus said, “Maybe he was faking.”
         Jenna said, “Shut up. People don’t fake a coma.”
         Marcus shrugged. “People fake lots of things.”
         Milly’s throat tightened.
         She wanted them to stop talking about it. She wanted the topic to disappear. She wanted to be normal again.
         The thought came, dangerously soft.
         Stop.
         Milly clamped down hard, biting the inside of her cheek.
         No.
         Not here.
         Not them.
         The pressure eased slowly, like a muscle reluctantly relaxing.
         Jenna watched her for another second, then leaned back.
         “Well,” Jenna said, pretending to be casual, “if you need someone to tell people to shut up, I can do that.”
         Milly looked up.
         For a second, hope flickered.
         Then the question stabbed in.
         Is this real?
         Or did I push something without knowing?
         Milly didn’t answer right away.
         She forced herself to smile, small and controlled. “Thanks.”
         Jenna nodded like it was no big deal. “Whatever.”
         The table conversation drifted to other things. A band. A teacher. A rumor about a fight behind the gym.
         Milly nodded at the right times, laughed once when everyone else did, and kept her posture loose.
         But inside her thoughts spiraled.
         Jenna had offered loyalty.
         That was what Milly wanted.
         But she couldn’t trust it.
         Not anymore.
         Because she didn’t trust herself.

***

         The rest of the day moved in slow, tense chunks.
         In English, the teacher read aloud from a book about witches, and the irony made Milly’s stomach twist.
         In math, she caught someone staring at her and quickly looked away.
         In science, a kid dropped a pencil, and Milly’s mind flashed, uninvited.
         Pick it up.
         The kid picked it up.
         Milly’s heart thudded.
         She hadn’t even decided.
         She’d just… thought.
         That was the worst part.
         It wasn’t like flipping a switch.
         It was like her thoughts had weight now.
         Like a thought could become a hand.
         She spent the last class period trying to keep her mind quiet.
         No sharp wishes.
         No angry commands.
         No desperate wants.
         Just silence.
         By the final bell, she felt wrung out.
         Kids surged into the hallways again. Lockers slammed. Teachers shouted reminders about homework.
         Milly walked with her group toward the buses.
         Jenna chatted about something, and Milly nodded, barely hearing.
         As they reached the doors, Jenna bumped her shoulder lightly. “See you tomorrow.”
         “Yeah,” Milly said.
         She stepped outside.
         Cold air slapped her face.
         The bus line was chaotic. Kids climbing steps, pushing, laughing.
         Milly adjusted her backpack strap and walked toward her bus.
         That’s when she saw it.
         A black SUV sat beyond the parent pickup line.
         Not parked crooked. Not blocking anyone. Not drawing attention.
         It was placed like it belonged there.
         Engine running.
         Windows dark.
         Milly slowed.
         Her boots struck the pavement softer, as if even the sound might give her away.
         Her heartbeat kicked hard once, then settled into a fast rhythm.
         The pressure behind her eyes flared instantly.
         Not the slow build of emotion in a classroom.
         This was immediate. Defensive. Sharp.
         Someone is inside.
         She knew it without proof.
         She could feel it in the way the pressure tightened, like her mind recognized something watching it.
         Milly stopped walking for half a second.
         Her breath caught.
         She wanted to look directly at the windshield. She wanted to see if anyone was looking back. She wanted to know if this was real or if her nerves were inventing threats.
         Fear held her still.
         Then she forced her feet forward again.
         Act normal.
         Act normal.
         She walked toward the bus steps, eyes forward.
         The SUV didn’t move.
         Didn’t roll forward.
         Didn’t signal.
         It just idled.
         Patient.
         Milly reached the bus door. She climbed the steps and swiped her eyes across the seats, choosing one by the window halfway back.
         She sat, keeping her posture loose.
         Outside, kids kept moving like nothing was wrong.
         The bus engine rumbled.
         The doors folded shut.
         The bus pulled away from the curb.
         Milly kept her eyes forward until the bus turned slightly, then she let herself glance back through the window.
         The SUV was still there.
         Still idling.
         Not following.
         Not reacting.
         Just… watching the bus leave.
         Milly’s stomach turned cold.
         If it wasn’t following, then it didn’t need to.
         That thought slid into her mind like a knife.
         She faced forward again and forced her hands to stop shaking.

***

         Home felt too ordinary.
         Her dad’s truck sat in the driveway. Her mom’s car was there too.
         Her parents were both inside, which meant they were waiting.
         Milly stepped off the bus and walked up the driveway. Her boots sounded loud again. She hated that.
         Her dad opened the front door before she reached it.
         “Hey,” he said, trying to sound normal.
         Milly nodded. “Hey.”
         Her dad’s eyes studied her face. “How was school?”
         “Fine.”
         Her dad hesitated. “Any trouble?”
         “No.”
         Her mom appeared behind him. Her expression was tight.
         “Milly,” her mom said softly, “we got a call today.”
         Milly’s stomach dropped.
         From who?
         School?
         Police?
         Hospital?
         Her mind flashed, and the pressure behind her eyes surged.
         No.
         She clamped down hard.
         Her mom continued, “They said Junior’s parents are… still upset.”
         Milly swallowed. “I didn’t do anything.”
         Her mom sighed. “I know, honey. I know. But you understand how people talk.”
         Milly stepped inside and let the door close behind her. The sound of the latch clicking felt final.
         Her dad said, “The police are probably done with it now.”
         Probably.
         Milly’s heart pounded.
         Probably wasn’t a promise.
         She thought of the SUV again.
         She wanted to tell them. She wanted to say, There was a black SUV watching the buses.
         But the words stuck.
         What would she say?
         I felt watched?
         I felt something behind my eyes?
         Her parents already looked like they were trying not to break.
         Milly wasn’t ready to add another crack.
         “I’m going to my room,” she said.
         Her mom nodded. “Dinner at six.”
         Milly went upstairs and closed her door.
         She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her boots.
         They were still on.
         She hadn’t taken them off at school. She hadn’t loosened them on the bus. She hadn’t unlaced them even now.
         Like taking them off would mean letting her guard down.
         She listened.
         The house settled around her. Pipes ticking. Refrigerator hum. Her mom moving in the kitchen downstairs.
         Outside, a car passed.
         Milly held her breath, listening for an engine idling.
         Nothing.
         She forced herself to exhale.
         Then she stood and went to the window.
         She pushed the curtain aside just enough to look out.
         The street was empty.
         No black SUV.
         No dark windows.
         Just a quiet neighborhood and bare trees.
         Milly’s shoulders sagged slightly.
         Maybe she was imagining things.
         Maybe the SUV belonged to someone waiting for their kid.
         Maybe it was nothing.
         But the pressure behind her eyes had reacted to it.
         It had flared like an alarm.
         Milly stepped back from the window and sat down again.
         She stared at the floor, trying to think through it like it was a problem she could solve.
         She could push people.
         She could make them stop talking.
         She could make them look away.
         She could make them pick up pencils.
         Small things.
         Whispers.
         But she didn’t know how far it went.
         She didn’t know what would happen if she pushed too hard.
         She didn’t know what would happen if she panicked.
         Her mind flickered to the hospital again.
         Junior’s eye open.
         Her fingers holding his face still.
         The way the pressure behind her eyes had built until it hurt.
         The way it was released was like a dam breaking.
         Wake up.
         And he had.
         Milly’s hands trembled in her lap.
         Fear.
         She wanted to be safe. She wanted to be normal. She wanted to go back to being a nobody with a weird style and a quiet table at lunch.
         But normal had changed.
         Even if nobody else knew it.
         She knew.
         She stood and finally unlaced her boots.
         Slowly.
         One lace at a time.
         The leather loosened. Her feet felt suddenly light, exposed.
         She set the boots beside her bed as if they were fragile.
         Then she lay back on the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
         She listened for engines outside.
         She listened for footsteps.
         She listened for anything that sounded like hunting.
         Nothing came.
         But she couldn’t shake the feeling.
         Something out there had looked at her today.
         Not gossiping kids.
         Not a vice principal.
         Something else.
         And somehow, she had felt it.
         Milly turned her head toward the window again.
         The curtain was still slightly open.
         A thin strip of the outside world showed through.
         Darkness gathering.
         Streetlight glow.
         Quiet.
         She stared until her eyes watered.
         Then she whispered, not to anyone, not even to herself.
         “What am I?”
         The room didn’t answer.
         But inside her head, the pressure shifted faintly, like something waking up.
         Like something that had been waiting.

Story three - "Milly and Edges"