A Fearless Heart Beneath the Open Sky

I was halfway through claiming the moon when the auditorium lights went out. "Then I shall build my own," I declared into the darkness, one hand raised above my head. "With a ladder, a can-do attitude, and possibly a student activities grant." Someone in the back row coughed. Someone else laughed. I lowered my hand. The plywood stage beneath my boots gave a theatrical creak, right on cue, though I hadn't planned it. I stood in a homemade silver space suit stitched from insulation blankets and a discarded raincoat, a cardboard helmet tucked under one arm. The costume was ridiculous. I knew that. The student who had worn it before me had known it, too. That student had been Juniper Vale. I was Juniper Vale now. The stage lights snapped back on. I blinked into them, and the auditorium resolved around me: two dozen students gathered for the Bellwether College activities fair, a few student leaders clutching clipboards, and a woman at the aisle with a neat silver bob and a lanyard that said MARA VOSS, STUDENT ACTIVITIES. Mara glanced at the paper in her hand. "That was... memorable." "I accept your praise," I said. "It wasn't praise." "Then I accept your honesty." The laughter this time was warmer. I bowed, nearly lost my balance, and caught myself on the old curtain rope. A familiar, impossible ache rose in my chest. I had died at thirty-four with a laptop open beside my hospital bed and a list of unfinished projects in my head. I had been good at almost everything I tried: piano, distance running, set design, grant writing, crisis management. I had also spent my whole life polishing every gift until it could be sold to someone else. Now I was nineteen, in another person's body, with a cracked phone, a scholarship that covered tuition but not housing, and a reputation as Bellwether's resident space-cadet. My memories of Juniper came in fragments: a father who lived across the country, a mother who mailed grocery money, and a habit of wearing a silver helmet to class because "the atmosphere is hostile." I didn't know what had happened to the girl whose life I'd inherited. I only knew what I had to do with the one in front of me. Mara stepped closer. "Juniper, right?" "Captain Juniper Vale, surveyor of uncharted opportunities." "Juniper is fine." She gave my costume a quick, appraising look. "The student theater group is looking for people. They're losing their building at the end of the semester. Maybe you could help them." "Losing it to what?" "A renovation plan," Mara said. "The college has a lot of old buildings and not a lot of money. The student groups are being offered a chance to compete for a renewal grant." "Compete how?" "A showcase. One proposal from each group. The winning team gets funding and first claim on the renovated arts space." I looked past her at the auditorium, with its peeling paint and dusty red curtains. It wasn't much. But it felt like the kind of place where an imperfect person could walk onstage and be heard. "What happens to the other groups?" I asked. "They find somewhere else to meet." "And if there isn't somewhere else?" Mara's expression shifted. "That's why we're giving them a chance." A chance. The word followed me all the way out of the auditorium. ***** I found the theater group in a cramped basement room that smelled like paint, damp cardboard, and old coffee. A hand-lettered sign on the door read THE NIGHTJAR: STUDENT THEATER, OPEN TO EVERYONE. Beneath it, someone had added, PLEASE DON'T ASK US TO DO SHAKESPEARE AGAIN. A tall girl in paint-splattered overalls looked up from a stack of props. "You're the moon person." "I'm pleased the mission reached the surface." "I'm Tessa Morgan." She pointed at the chair beside her. "That's Eli Park. He does sound. The one trying to fix the lamp is Nia Brooks, who does everything else." "I object to the word everything," Nia said from under the lamp. "I only do the lighting, scheduling, costumes, and emergency snacks." "I'm Juniper." "We know," Tessa said. "Mara told us she found you in the auditorium." Eli dragged a folding chair free with his foot. "You don't have to wear the helmet down here." I set it on the floor. "I wasn't aware it was compulsory upstairs." Tessa's mouth twitched. "We meet tomorrow to discuss the grant. We could use another person." "I have many skills." "That sounded like a warning." "It may be." Nia emerged from under the lamp and wiped her hands on her jeans. "Tomorrow at seven. No helmet required." I nodded, though I left the helmet beside my chair. Outside, the afternoon sun laid a bright strip across the basement floor. For the first time since waking in a life that didn't belong to me, I felt something I could recognize. A stage. A team. A problem worth solving. I just had to remember I wasn't the only one allowed to speak.