Welcome to Reefside (editing in progress)

Last Day at Reefside High Part 2

Tracy's POV

Okay, I'll admit it—I'm a little mad. I didn't get to fully relive first-grade gym class like the rest of the seniors because of this dumb sprained ankle. And I mean, yeah, I know I got to help the twins with the parachute and cheer from the sidelines, but still. I wanted to race on the scooters again without looking like a rolling caution sign. That said... I did prop myself up on my bad ankle just long enough to challenge Conner to a hula hoop contest. And I totally won. He tried to claim a "height disadvantage," but no one bought it.

Now the twins, Conner, and I are all settled at the table with plastic trays, square slices of pizza, and the kind of juice boxes that belong in a time capsule. Madge practically throws herself into the seat next to me, waving my yearbook like it's a winning lottery ticket. "Tracy, can I sign your yearbook now?" she asks, already popping the cap off a glitter pen.

"Yes," I say, holding up a hand. "But after you finish your pizza. I don't want greasy pizza sauce on my senior memories."

She frowns dramatically but takes a bite. Across the table, Ashley's taking tiny nibbles out of her slice like she's analyzing it for a lab report. "I still can't believe the lunch ladies here were able to recreate the pizza we ate in elementary school."

"Yeah, it's uncanny," Ethan says, sitting down beside her with a second slice like it's sacred. "Same weirdly perfect crust. Same suspiciously orange cheese."

"Same cardboard tray, too," Conner adds, tapping his. "It's like a full sensory flashback."

Eli is sitting on my other side, carefully sipping from his Little Hug juice bottle and looking very serious. "I think this juice is even better than the ones at Chuck E. Cheese."

Ashley gasps. "Bold opinion, sir."

Eli nods once, solemn. "I stand by it."

I laugh, biting into my slice and leaning back in my seat. For a second, everything feels right. There is no stress or pressure. It is just friends, cousins and a cafeteria full of nostalgia and cheesy goodness.

Madge finally finishes her last bite and nudges my yearbook closer. "Okay, now I'm ready." I open it to a blank page and hand her one of my best pens. "Write something epic," I tell her.

She grins. "Don't worry—I brought glitter stickers." Of course, she did.

Too soon, the lunch monitors start calling for the elementary school buses. The twins' half-day is over. Madge caps her glitter pen with a dramatic sigh and adds a final, sparkly heart to the page. Eli gives me a fierce hug around the waist, and Samason, who's been quiet through lunch, pats my hand.

"Bye, Tracy," Madge says. "Don't forget us when you're a college person."

"Never," I promise, my throat a little tight as I watch them get herded away with the other little shadows. And just like that, the energy shifts. The day is no longer about sharing my world with them; it's about saying goodbye to it myself.

Mr. Johnson's POV

There's a quiet kind of finality that comes with the seniors' last day. You think you'll be glad to see them go—less noise, fewer missing homework excuses—but when they start filing in for their last period with me... it hits. These kids, my students—some I've taught since sophomore year—won't be walking through this door again. No more notes passed under graph paper. No more complaints about cosine graphs. No more eye rolls at my terrible math puns. And yes, I plan to use one more before the bell.

As the students settle in, I set a stack of special worksheets on each desk. It looks like a standard coordinate-plotting assignment at first glance. But I know better. This one's different. Each student has a custom message embedded in the chart—a goodbye disguised as a graph.

Tracy walks in—her crutches thumping with a steady, solitary rhythm. She's alone now, but she's already smiling, even before she sees the sheet waiting on her desk. Mike sits down beside her, and I see him give her a small, knowing look.

"You really gave us graphing on our last day?" she says, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course," I say, deadpan. "You didn't think you'd escape this room without one final data set, did you?"

She narrows her eyes, but there's a flicker of amusement. "You're too predictable, Mr. Johnson."

"I prefer reliable."

The class chuckles as they get to work. The room fills with the scratch of pencils and light laughter as the messages slowly emerge. I keep an eye on Tracy's table. She's steady with the plotting, and Mike is already finished, watching her with a soft smile. Once she connects the last point, I watch her eyebrows knit together... then lift. The message appears clean and clear in the center: "Math may be over—but your story's just beginning."

She stares at it for a second, a ghost of a memory crossing her face. She glances at Mike, who grins. She looks back down at the paper, then up at me, her voice softer than usual.

"That's... really nice. Thank you."

I offer a shrug, but there's a warmth in my chest that gives me away. "Don't let it go to your head. You still owe me a clean locker."

She smirks. "I left you a sticky note and a half-used eraser. You're welcome."

"Can I keep this?" she asks, gesturing to the graph.

"Of course," I say. "Consider it the bookend to your first major assignment in here." Because I remember the boy who nervously asked me for help plotting out "PROM?" a few months ago, it seems only fitting to help plot out their future.

Miss Drew's POV

The last day of school always brings out the best and worst in students—wild energy, sugar-fueled goodbyes, and that chaotic belief that rules no longer apply. Normally, I'd rein it in. But not today. Today is for them.

I lower the lights and fire up the projector, hearing the familiar Disney logo bounce to life as the nostalgic opening of Recess: School's Out plays. The room erupts in soft gasps, a few students whispering, "No way!" and "I loved this movie!" I smile to myself as I lean against my desk. Yeah... I knew this one would hit just right. It's about growing up, after all. About moving on—but not forgetting who you were. Perfect for seniors on the edge of something new.

In the third row, I spot Tracy Burlew and Mike sitting side by side. They're not talking. Not really. Just sitting there—close but not holding hands. There's something quiet about them. Something steady. Something earned. I turn my attention back to the class, giving them their moment.

Tracy's POV

I glance at the screen just as T.J. and the gang come crashing through the playground gates, but my focus drifts again. The colors blur and the sound fades. Mike leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You ever think about how far we've come?"

I blink. "Since the beginning of the school year?"

"Since everything," he says. "Reefside. The battles. The long nights. You, shyly offering to help with recon. Me pretending I wasn't nervous about talking to you."

I smile. "You? Nervous?"

"Terrified," he admits, eyes still on the screen. "And now... here we are. Last day. Crutches and Recess: School's Out."

I chuckle softly. "Feels like the universe gave us a chance to be kids again today."

Mike nudges my knee. "You deserved that. After everything we've fought through—you deserved this moment."

I look at him, really look. "So did you."

He shrugs like it's nothing. But I know better. "Hey," I say, bumping his arm gently. "We made it. We actually made it."

He nods. "As Rangers. As students. As..."

"Us," I finish.

He grins. "Yeah. Us."

For a second, the movie fades even further. It's just me and Mike, in the soft glow of a classroom where we grew up. We stood side by side through battles most people will never know about, and somehow—somehow—still ended up here.

Together.