The Ascension

Aaron Marshall had perfected the art of being nobody. It wasn't something he'd set out to accomplish—more like a survival mechanism that had calcified over seventeen years of existing in spaces that didn't particularly want him there. He moved through the hallways of Westridge High like a ghost, shoulders hunched beneath an oversized Radiohead hoodie, dark hair falling into eyes that observed everything while pretending to see nothing at all. The thing about being invisible was that people said s**t around you they'd never say otherwise. "Did you see what Melissa wore to Jake's party? I swear to God, if I had her body I'd never wear clothes." "Bro, I'm telling you, if Coach benches me again I'm transferring. My dad's already talking to scouts at—" "—completely wasted, like couldn't even stand, and then she—" Aaron wove through the conversations like they were physical obstacles, his backpack heavy with textbooks he'd actually read, heading toward his locker with the single-minded focus of someone who knew exactly how long he could survive in the open before something bad happened. Today, it was about forty-five seconds. "Yo, Marshall!" Aaron's jaw tightened. He didn't turn around. The voice belonged to Derek Castellano, a linebacker with the IQ of a concussed hamster and the self-awareness of a brick wall. Derek traveled in a pack—they always did—and Aaron could hear at least three sets of footsteps closing in behind him. "Marshall, I'm talking to you, man." Aaron reached his locker, spinning the combination with practiced efficiency. His pale fingers moved quickly over the dial. Twenty-three. Fourteen. Seven. "Dude, are you deaf or just stupid?" The locker opened. Aaron grabbed his chemistry textbook, his expression carefully neutral. He'd learned early that showing fear was blood in the water, but showing defiance was a death sentence. The sweet spot was complete, absolute indifference—like they were weather patterns. Unpleasant, but ultimately beyond his control. "I think he's ignoring you, D." That was Tyler Chen, Derek's second-in-command, a kid who'd probably be decent if he wasn't so desperate to be liked by people who barely tolerated him. Aaron closed his locker and turned, finally meeting Derek's eyes. The linebacker was a full head taller, broad-shouldered, with the kind of conventional attractiveness that came from good genes and zero personality. He was grinning, which meant he was bored, which meant Aaron's day was about to get significantly worse. "Can I help you?" Aaron asked, his voice flat. "Yeah, actually." Derek stepped closer, invading Aaron's space with the casual entitlement of someone who'd never been told no. "I need you to do me a solid." "I'm not doing your homework again." "Again?" Derek laughed, looking back at his friends. "Bro, you did it once, like, freshman year." "Twice. And you still failed." The grin faltered. Tyler and the others—Aaron didn't bother learning their names—shifted uncomfortably. Derek's jaw worked like he was chewing on a response that wouldn't come. This was Aaron's fatal flaw: he couldn't keep his mouth shut. His body might be small and weak, incapable of throwing a punch that would do anything except break his own hand, but his brain moved faster than his self-preservation instincts. It was a problem. "You think you're funny?" Derek's voice dropped, losing its performative friendliness. "I think I'm late for class." Aaron tried to step around him. Derek's hand shot out, shoving him back against the lockers. The metal clanged, and several students glanced over before quickly looking away. Nobody intervened. They never did. "See, that's your problem, Marshall. You got this attitude like you're better than everyone." Derek leaned in, his breath hot and vaguely chemical. Energy drink, probably. "But you're not. You're a scrawny little b***h who's gonna spend the rest of his life jerking off to girls who don't know he exists." Aaron's face remained expressionless, but something flickered in his eyes—dark and sharp and dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical strength. For just a second, Derek looked uncertain. Then the moment passed. "We done here?" Aaron asked quietly. Derek shoved him again, harder this time, and walked away laughing with his pack trailing behind. Aaron straightened his hoodie, picked up the textbook he'd dropped, and continued toward class like nothing had happened. Because nothing had. This was just Tuesday. Chemistry was taught by Mr. Reeves, a man in his late fifties who'd clearly given up on the education system sometime during the Clinton administration. He spent most of the period reading from a textbook in a monotone that could induce comas, occasionally looking up to make sure nobody was actively dying. Aaron sat in the back corner—his preferred location in every class—next to the only person in school who made invisibility look like a choice rather than a curse. Veronica Jackson was small, pale, and possessed the kind of beauty that made people uncomfortable. She had sharp, defined features—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and dark eyes that seemed to look through the world rather than at it. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, and she wore all black: hoodie, jeans, boots. She looked like she was perpetually attending a funeral for something nobody else could see. She was also the only person Aaron trusted completely. "You've got locker imprint on your face," Ronnie said without looking up from her notebook. Her voice was low, slightly raspy, with the kind of deadpan delivery that made everything sound like a threat. Aaron touched his cheek. "Derek." "I know," She finally glanced at him, those intense eyes scanning his face with clinical precision. "You antagonize him on purpose." "He antagonizes himself. I just provide commentary." "One day he's going to actually hurt you." "One day the heat death of the universe will render all of this meaningless. I'm not losing sleep over either." Ronnie's mouth twitched—the closest she came to smiling. "You're an idiot." "And yet, here you are. Voluntarily sitting next to me." "I like idiots. They're entertaining." This was their dynamic: caustic, honest, comfortable in a way that didn't require performance. Aaron had known Ronnie since they were babie's—their fathers were friends, though Aaron had never quite understood the connection. His dad was... complicated. Distant. Present but not really there in the way other fathers seemed to be. Ronnie's dad was retired, some kind of former military or government work that she never talked about. But he'd taught her things. Aaron had seen her move objects without touching them once, when they were fourteen and she thought he wasn't looking. She'd made a book slide across a table with just a glance, then immediately pretended it hadn't happened. He'd never mentioned it. She'd never brought it up. Some things didn't need to be said. "You coming over after school?" Ronnie asked, her pen moving across the page in sharp, precise strokes. She was drawing something—not taking notes. She never took notes. "Can't. Peter's having an existential crisis about his outfit for Friday." "It's Tuesday." "He's very thorough." Ronnie actually smiled at that—a real one, small and fleeting but genuine. "He texted me seventeen times last night about whether burgundy was 'too fall' for a spring party." "What did you say?" "That I'd rather die than continue the conversation." "And?" "He sent me a poll." Aaron laughed, the sound quiet but real. Mr. Reeves glanced up, frowned vaguely in their direction, then returned to his textbook. The man had the observational skills of a particularly unambitious potato. "You should come anyway," Aaron said. "Suffer with me." "I don't suffer. I observe suffering from a comfortable distance." "That's just suffering with better marketing." Ronnie's pen paused. She looked at him again, and for a moment something passed between them—something Aaron couldn't quite name. It was there sometimes, in the spaces between words, like a frequency only they could hear. Then she returned to her drawing. "Fine. But I'm not participating in the fashion show." "Noted." The bell rang. Students gathered their things with the enthusiasm of prisoners granted parole. Aaron and Ronnie moved together through the hallway, a unit of two that didn't invite expansion. People parted around them—not out of respect, but out of sheer disinterest. They were nobodies. And for now, that was exactly what they needed to be. Lunch was held in the cafeteria, a fluorescent-lit hellscape that smelled like industrial cleaning products and depression. Aaron grabbed a tray of something that might have been lasagna in a previous life, paid the lunch lady who looked like she was contemplating arson, and headed toward their usual table in the far corner. Peter was already there, holding court with himself, his phone propped against a water bottle as he filmed what appeared to be a video essay on the sociopolitical implications of RuPaul's Drag Race. "—and if you don't think that's a direct commentary on late-stage capitalism's commodification of queer identity, then you're not paying attention," Peter said to his phone, his hands moving expressively. He was dressed in a fitted black jacket over a vintage band tee, his dark hair styled with the kind of intentional messiness that took genuine effort. He looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion editorial, which was impressive considering they went to public school in suburban California. Aaron dropped his tray on the table. "Are you seriously filming right now?" Peter didn't look up. "I'm creating content, Aaron. It's called having a personal brand." "It's called narcissism." "Those are synonyms in 2024, babe." Peter finally stopped recording, setting his phone down and giving Aaron his full attention. His eyes—warm and sharp and perpetually amused—scanned Aaron's face. "You look like s**t. What happened?" "Derek happened." "Again? Jesus Christ, that man has the creativity of a Republican s*x scandal." Peter leaned back, crossing his arms. "You know, one day you're gonna snap and murder him, and I'm gonna have to testify at your trial about what a sweet, gentle soul you were before the system failed you." "I appreciate your confidence in my homicidal potential." "I'm just saying, I'd understand. Temporary insanity. Crime of passion." Ronnie arrived, setting her tray down with the careful precision of someone handling explosives. She'd gotten a salad—she always got a salad—and was already picking at it with the enthusiasm of someone fulfilling a biological obligation rather than enjoying a meal. "We talking about Aaron's inevitable murder charge?" she asked. "We are now," Peter said brightly. "I'm workshopping my witness statement." "Make sure to mention his obsession with Katie Smith," Ronnie said, her voice carefully neutral. "Crimes of passion are more believable with a romantic element." Aaron felt his face heat. "I don't have an obsession." "You've been staring at her for three years." "I don't stare." "You absolutely stare," Peter confirmed. "It's like watching a Victorian orphan gaze longingly through a bakery window." "That's... disturbingly specific." "I'm a writer. Specificity is my brand." Aaron stabbed at his lasagna, refusing to look across the cafeteria where Katie Smith sat with her court of popular kids, laughing at something one of the football players said. She was wearing a blue top that matched her eyes, her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, and she looked like every teenage movie's idea of unattainable perfection. She also had no idea Aaron existed. "She's vapid," Ronnie said, following his gaze with those sharp, analytical eyes. "You don't know that." "I know she spent fifteen minutes in English class yesterday arguing that The Great Gatsby was a love story." "Maybe she's romantic." "Maybe she failed basic reading comprehension." Peter snorted. "Ronnie's just jealous." Something flickered across Ronnie's face—too quick to read. "Of what?" "Of Katie's ability to exist in Aaron's brain rent-free." "I don't pay rent either," Ronnie said coolly. "I've been there longer. Squatter's rights." Aaron looked between them, sensing something beneath the banter that he couldn't quite grasp. Peter was grinning like he knew a secret, and Ronnie's expression had gone carefully blank—her default when she was hiding something. "Can we talk about literally anything else?" Aaron asked. "Sure," Peter said. "Let's talk about your birthday." Aaron's stomach tightened. "It's not for another two months." "Two and a half. But still. The big one-eight. You gonna have a party? Lose your virginity? Finally develop a personality?" "I have a personality." "Sarcasm and self-loathing don't count, babe." Ronnie was watching Aaron now, her gaze intense in that way that always made him feel like she could see things he was trying to hide. "You okay?" she asked quietly. The question caught him off guard. "Yeah. Why?" "You've been weird lately." "I'm always weird." "Weirder than usual." She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Like you're waiting for something." Aaron's pulse quickened. He didn't know how to explain the feeling that had been building for months—like something was coming, something inevitable and terrifying and necessary. Like his body was a countdown clock ticking toward an explosion he couldn't prevent. Sometimes he felt too big for his skin. Sometimes he woke up aching, his bones feeling like they were trying to break through his flesh. Sometimes he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the person staring back. But he couldn't say any of that without sounding insane. "I'm fine," he said instead. "Just tired." Ronnie didn't look convinced, but she let it drop. Peter, mercifully, launched into a story about his latest Grindr disaster, and the conversation shifted to safer territory. But Aaron could still feel it—that sense of something building, something waiting. Two and a half months until his eighteenth birthday. He had no idea why that felt important. He had no idea why it felt like a deadline. The rest of the day passed in the usual blur of classes, hallways, and carefully maintained invisibility. Aaron moved through it all on autopilot, his mind elsewhere, thinking about things he couldn't name. By the time the final bell rang, he was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. He found Peter waiting by his locker, leaning against the metal with the casual grace of someone who'd never experienced an awkward moment in his life. "Ready for the fashion emergency?" Peter asked. "Is it actually an emergency, or are you being dramatic?" "Those are the same thing." Peter pushed off the locker, falling into step beside Aaron as they headed toward the parking lot. "Ronnie's meeting us at my place. She's bringing her brutal honesty and complete lack of fashion sense." "She has fashion sense. It's just all black." "That's not fashion sense. That's a color palette." They reached Peter's car—a beat-up Honda Civic that he'd decorated with stickers from every pride parade and indie band he'd ever attended. It was aggressively, unapologetically queer, and Aaron loved it. As they drove through the suburban sprawl of their California town, past strip malls and cookie-cutter houses, Aaron stared out the window and tried to shake the feeling that everything was about to change. "You really okay?" Peter asked, his voice softer now, stripped of its usual performance. Aaron glanced at him. Peter's eyes were on the road, but his expression was open, genuine. Concerned. "Yeah," Aaron said. "I think so." "You'd tell me if you weren't, right?" "Probably not." Peter laughed. "Fair enough." They drove in comfortable silence, the radio playing something indie and melancholic, and Aaron felt the tension in his chest ease slightly. This was good. This was real. Whatever was coming—whatever he was waiting for—at least he wouldn't face it alone. He had Ronnie, with her sharp edges and hidden depths. He had Peter, with his fearless authenticity and relentless optimism. And he had himself—small, weak, invisible Aaron Marshall, who somehow kept surviving in a world that didn't want him. For now, that was enough. For now. But in two and a half months, when he turned eighteen, everything would change. He could feel it coming like a storm on the horizon. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.