The Last Bell Before Summer

The first thing Mari notices is that you’re already watching the empty stage instead of the script in your hands.

Mari:  “You look like you’re trying to solve the whole festival by glaring at it.”

Her smile lands soft and easy. Your pulse stumbles anyway.

The auditorium smells of dust, gaffer tape, and the sugary punch someone spilled near the exit during setup. Folding chairs crowd the aisle in crooked rows. Above them, paper lanterns hang from the rafters, pale and unlit, waiting for someone braver than you to bring them to life. Mari stands beside the stage steps in her coral cardigan, one thumb marked with a familiar streak of blue paint. She carries that bright, steady focus that makes even the surrounding chaos feel chosen.

You look down at the co-host script. Your name and hers sit side by side in the opening announcement, neat black letters that seem far more official than your courage.

Theo lounges in the front row, his green varsity jacket half-zipped, his grin already promising trouble. He gives you a silent thumbs-up, as if your panic is the evening’s best entertainment. Across the aisle, Celeste Armitage checks a clipboard with the calm, measured expression of someone who has color-coded the universe and expects it to cooperate.

Theo:  “If either of you forget your lines, I’m legally allowed to improvise for the sake of theater.”

Celeste:  “No one is legally allowed anything. Please remain on script.”

Mari laughs under her breath, warm and low, then catches the way your fingers have tightened around the pages. Her expression changes. Just slightly.

“I asked for this pairing,” she says, gentler now. “Not because I needed a partner who won’t mess up. Because I wanted someone I trust.” Her gaze holds yours. “That’s you, Benz.”

The words slip beneath your ribs.

They should feel simple. They don’t. They find the soft, dangerous place where friendship and hope have been circling each other for months, neither brave enough to land. You force out a dry little shrug—the old reflex, polished from use, designed to fold your feelings small enough to hide.

“Careful,” you say. “Keep saying things like that and I’ll start thinking I’m beloved instead of merely available for emergency stage management.”

Mari’s eyes warm at the corners. For one breath, she looks as if she might tell you something that would change the shape of the room.

Then she steps closer.

The script taps once against your chest. A tiny, grounding gesture. Your thoughts scatter anyway.

“Good,” she says. “Because I need you to stay after rehearsal. There’s something I made for the festival, and I want you to see it before anyone else does.”

The auditorium seems to draw tight around you.

Theo’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. Celeste finally looks up from her clipboard. Mari keeps her voice calm, but a hesitation catches at its edge, so faint you might have missed it if you hadn’t spent months learning the smallest changes in her. She has been deciding how much to reveal. Maybe she still hasn’t decided.

That does something reckless to your hope.

Mari turns toward the stage and gestures for you to follow. The paper lanterns sway overhead, brushing softly against their strings as a draft slips through the side doors. She takes one step, then another.

You don’t move.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

The sound cuts through the room. You pull it out, and an unfamiliar number glows across the screen.

Don’t let Mari show you the surprise alone. You need to know what it is first.

For a heartbeat, the whole auditorium hangs suspended—the chairs, the lanterns, Theo’s half-hidden smirk, Celeste’s watchful silence. Even the dusty air seems to wait. Mari stands at the foot of the stage with the script tucked against her side, looking back at you with a smile made entirely of trust.

No warning. None.

Your thumb hovers over the message. Then you look at Mari, at the paint on her hand and the invitation in her eyes, and feel the first thin crack run through your certainty.

You can follow her.

Ignore the message.

Or ask who just tried to reach you before the surprise begins.

You tuck the phone away without reading the rest of the message, and the small act feels strangely brave. Mari is already waiting at the stage steps, one hand braced on the rail, patient in the way she always is when she knows you need a second to catch up to yourself. When you move toward her, the tension in your chest loosens by a thread.

Not gone. Just softened enough to breathe.

Benz:  “If this is where you reveal the surprise is a trapdoor, I want it noted for the record that I was supportive right up until the falling part.”

Mari huffs out a laugh and gives you that look—the one that makes you feel as if she can see every half-finished thought you try to tuck away. She climbs the steps first, then turns and holds out her hand, not because she needs help, but because she knows the gesture matters.

Her fingers are warm. Steady. Brief.

Somehow, that makes it worse, because ordinary is where your heart always gets the most reckless.

The stage boards creak beneath your sneakers as you follow her into the shallow wash of work lights. From here, the auditorium opens below in hushed layers: rows of folded chairs, hanging lanterns, the dark balcony curving overhead. It looks less like a school event and more like the inside of a memory waiting to happen.

Mari leads you behind a curtain of silver streamers, where a narrow corner has become a hidden workspace. Cardboard, ribbon spools, paint pens, and folded poster board crowd a small table. In the middle sits something covered by a clean white cloth.

Mari draws in one nervous breath.

Then lets it go.

That tiny tell does more to your pulse than any grand confession could have. She built this with care. You can see it in the taped edges, the sorted markers, the little stack of cue cards written in her neat, slanted hand. Whatever the surprise is, it matters to her.

“I wanted it to feel like a sendoff,” she says, quieter now, her voice aimed mostly at the cloth-covered shape. “Not just another school thing. Something people would remember when the year ended.” She glances at you, and the seriousness in her eyes softens your own smile. “And I wanted you to see it first, because you’re the only one who knows how much I overthink these things.”

You almost answer with a joke.

The words hover, ready to save you as they always do. But the room has gone too still for armor, and Mari stands there with her hands folded at her waist, trying very hard to look casual while waiting for your reaction.

You understand it then, with uncomfortable clarity.

This isn’t just a festival project. It’s an offering. A deliberate one. Private.

She chose you for the first reveal, and that choice settles inside you with a quiet, dangerous tenderness.

So you step closer instead of speaking. Close enough to see the faint paint smudge on her thumb. Close enough to smell lavender soap clinging to her cardigan. Close enough that her breathing changes, just slightly, when you stop beside her.

The white cloth lifts at one corner as she reaches for it.

Then she pauses.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moves. She looks at you again, and the question in her expression is unmistakable.

She wants to know if you’re ready too.

The cloth stirs beneath her fingers. Whatever she has made remains hidden between you, waiting for the moment she decides to let it show.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to become ridiculous, then tip your head toward the covered shape and deadpan, “If you unveil a volcano or a haunted saxophone, I’m transferring schools immediately.”

Mari freezes for half a beat.

Then she laughs—full and bright, the sound loosening her shoulders all at once. It spills into the hidden corner of the stage, shaking the tension loose until it drifts through the dusty light. She presses a hand to her mouth, trying and failing to smother the grin spreading across her face.

Mari:  “A haunted saxophone is somehow exactly the kind of thing you would say.”

Benz:  “Thank you. I strive for educationally useful panic.”

Her laugh comes again, softer now. Relief warms it.

She settles the cloth back into place without revealing anything, but her hands move more easily, no longer so careful, no longer hovering as if one wrong motion might expose more than the project. You feel a sharp little twist beneath your ribs when you realize the joke worked. You gave her room to breathe.

You gave yourself some, too.

The moment remains charged, intimate in that quiet way that tightens your throat, but it no longer feels like a line pulled taut between confession and retreat.

Mari tilts her head, studying you with that warm, inventive attention of hers. Then she nudges the cloth’s edge with one finger, guarding the secret from you as if your curiosity has physical weight.

“You always do that,” she says. “Make things lighter right when they get too serious.”

There’s no accusation in her voice. Only recognition.

You glance down at the script in your hands, then back at her. “That’s generous. Sometimes I’m just avoiding becoming emotionally legible in public.”

Theo, still in the front row, releases a dramatic groan loud enough to reach the stage.

Theo:  “He says, while standing alone with the mystery project and the pretty co-host.”

Celeste looks up from her clipboard. The sternness she aims at Theo is weakened by the smallest, almost invisible smile.

Celeste:  “Theo, if you interrupt rehearsal again, I will assign you three consecutive announcements about recycling etiquette.”

Theo:  “Cruel and unusual.”

Mari rolls her eyes, but the brightness stays in them. She steps closer again, with less hesitation this time, and taps the folded script against your wrist.

“You know,” she says, lowering her voice until only you can hear, “I was worried you’d read the message and make a face like you’d swallowed a battery.”

Your mouth quirks before you can stop it. “For the record, I make a very dignified battery face.”

That earns another smile—smaller now, more private. She looks at you for a moment that lasts unfairly long, and your attention catches on the paint smudged across her thumb, the faint citrus smell of cleaner clinging to her sleeve, the way she seems to forget the rest of the auditorium exists.

Then she nods toward the covered display.

Whatever waits beneath it is still hidden. Somehow, that makes it matter more. She wants you here when she reveals it. Wants you close enough to see what she made before anyone else gets the chance.

You stay.

You lean one shoulder against the prop table, close enough that Mari has to angle herself away to keep the secret out of your reach. With anyone else, the wordless pause might have turned awkward. With her, it settles around you, warm and almost safe. Her paint-smudged thumb drums once against the table. Your fingers tighten around the script.

Somewhere below, Theo whispers something to himself and gets shushed by Celeste for what sounds like the fourth time.

Mari draws a careful breath. Her gaze moves from the cloth to you, weighing whether the secret can survive another minute.

She still hasn’t opened it. She’s still holding back.

But the laughter you pulled from her has changed the room. Now her next move feels more intimate than the first, and your pulse trips over itself at the thought of what she might trust you enough to show.

She reaches for the cloth again.

This time, she doesn’t stop.

You pivot before Mari can lift the cloth, turning toward the front row with a grin that arrives half a heartbeat before your nerve does. Reckless. In the best way.

Like stepping onto a slick stage and deciding your balance is somebody else’s problem now.

Benz:  “Before we reveal anything, I’d like to thank our live studio audience for enduring this emotional suspense. Your silence has been noted. Your suffering, appreciated.”

Theo claps once. Slowly. As if he has just witnessed fine art.

Theo:  “Finally. A host with respect for the people.”

Celeste’s pen stops above her clipboard. Her expression stays composed, but the faint twitch at one corner of her mouth betrays her.

Celeste:  “If this becomes a group performance, I am formally requesting advance notice.”

Mari turns toward you. Surprise flashes across her face, then amusement, followed by that bright look she gets when something has grown more interesting than expected. You feel the entire auditorium lean closer without anyone actually moving. It is tiny. Absurd.

It changes the air.

The shadowed corner of the stage no longer belongs only to the two of you. Now it belongs to the room—to the joke, the waiting audience, their terrible manners and impeccable timing.

You hook a thumb toward Theo, then Celeste, presenting them like a very serious committee.

Benz:  “Since everyone’s invested, I think we owe them a teaser. Theo gets a dramatic hint. Celeste gets a schedule update. And Mari gets to keep one secret, because apparently I have a reputation for supporting art and not just making wise remarks under pressure.”

Theo leans forward at once, delighted.

Theo:  “A teaser? I’m listening. If this is a sentimental montage, I want at least one tasteful spotlight.”

Benz:  “You can have a spotlight if you promise not to use it to blind the audience or propose anything illegal.”

Laughter breaks from him, warm and immediate. Even Celeste exhales through her nose, her clipboard dipping in her hands. Mari hides her smile behind one palm, but you catch the tremor of her shoulders.

The joke has done its work.

The room opens.

They are no longer waiting for a secret to happen to them. They are part of it now.

Mari steps beside you instead of remaining behind the cloth, her shoulder nearly brushing yours. The contact never quite happens, yet your body registers the possibility with embarrassing precision. Heat gathers beneath your collar. She looks toward the seated pair, then back at you, and the quiet approval in her eyes feels like a reward meant for you alone.

Small. Dangerous.

Mari:  “He’s not wrong, though. Everyone gets a hint.”

She folds her arms with exaggerated mystery, then gestures toward the hidden display in a flourish theatrical enough to earn a groan from Theo.

Mari:  “The final festival surprise involves a lot of light, a little sound, and one thing that absolutely is not a haunted saxophone.”

Theo:  “You stole his brand.”

Benz:  “I’m devastated. My niche has been commodified.”

This time Celeste smiles fully, and the expression softens the hard edges of her usual concentration.

Celeste:  “If it helps, the concept sounds workable. And less cursed than your original guess.”

Mari’s eyes flick to yours. They shine with mischief now, but beneath it runs something warmer—the unmistakable pleasure of seeing you like this. Loose. Funny. Brave enough to turn nerves into something the two of you can share.

She likes this version of you.

The realization lands harder than it should.

It is relief and risk braided together. You have let the audience in just far enough to make the secret feel larger, and by doing so, you have made yourself more visible too.

That should frighten you.

Instead, it feels dangerously good.

Behind the cloth, Mari reaches down and presses a hidden button on the device or display beneath it. A soft chime answers from inside the folded setup, brief and bright, like a struck glass. Not enough to reveal anything. Only enough to promise that the thing is real, that it works, that she made it for this exact moment.

She glances at you again.

You know what that look means.

She liked your choice.

Then the sound fades, and her smile tightens around a thin thread of anxiety. The audience, included as a joke only seconds ago, has become a witness. The secret carries weight now. Mari’s surprise is no longer just between friends.

It is almost ready.

She draws the cloth back a fraction farther, and the first sliver of what waits beneath catches the stage light.

Mari pauses.

She is waiting to see whether you will keep playing along when the truth finally comes into view.

You say it before you can overthink it, the words tumbling out in a rush that lands somewhere between bravery and panic.

“After this, can we hang out? Just us. Properly. No scripts, no committee, no audience, no emergency stage nonsense.”

Mari blinks.

Then her expression softens so completely it nearly undoes you. The cloth covering the hidden display trembles between her fingers, but she doesn’t pull it away. Instead, she turns fully toward you, the corner of her mouth lifting until the smile becomes unmistakably fond.

Theo, sprawled in the front row, goes very still—the delighted stillness of someone smelling drama from across a parking lot. Celeste lowers her clipboard. The sharp focus in her face eases into quiet approval.

Mari:  “Benz, I would very much like that.”

The answer is simple.

It hits like a struck match.

Your shoulders loosen, and for one bright, impossible second, you forget the stage, the lanterns, the rehearsal schedule, the unknown text message—all of it. There is only Mari, looking at you as if your question matters more than she expected it to. As if you matter.

She lets the cloth fall.

Beneath it sits a handmade lightboard for the festival finale: colored switches, reflective foil, taped-together paper stars. Clever little wires disappear beneath the table, ready to turn the lanterns overhead into a slow, shifting sky. The whole thing is neat and charming and unmistakably Mari. Beside it, cue cards display timings in her precise handwriting. At the center, hidden in plain sight, a small sign reads:

LAST BELL, NEW LIGHTS.

Theo makes a noise of theatrical heartbreak.

Theo:  “That is unfairly good. I was prepared for cursed saxophones, not actual sentiment.”

Celeste:  “It is excellent work.”

Her voice remains cool, but warmth moves beneath it now. She steps closer, gives the setup one sharp, appraising look, then nods toward Mari.

“This will look beautiful if the timing stays consistent. I can adjust the cue order with you after rehearsal.”

Mari looks stunned for half a heartbeat.

Then pleased.

The expression belongs to someone who has carried a secret for too long, someone who had begun to fear it might never reach anyone. She lifts one hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her thumb, still smudged faintly with blue paint, brushes the edge of the sign.

“I wanted it to feel like a beginning,” she says.

Her voice drops lower, meant for you, though Theo and Celeste are close enough to hear. “For everyone. But especially for…”

She stops.

Her gaze catches yours, and the rest of the sentence settles between your breaths.

You don’t make her finish it. That would be the easy joke—the one that keeps you safe, lets you turn tenderness into something harmless. Instead, you smile. Small. Genuine.

Then you step beside her, close enough that the stage light catches you both at once.

Theo notices. For once, he chooses mercy. He leans back in his seat with a grin that says he understands exactly what this is and is kind enough not to make it worse.

Theo:  “Fine. I’ll admit it. This is adorable. Painful, but adorable.”

Mari laughs.

The sound slips through the room and settles into the warm spill of light.

After that, rehearsal moves forward. Celeste makes practical notes. Theo volunteers to help with the final cue test and is promptly assigned enough tasks to keep him mostly useful. You stay beside Mari while she walks you through the surprise piece by piece, her shoulder brushing yours whenever she reaches across the board.

Each contact is brief.

Each one stays with you.

When the switches are tested, the lanterns overhead bloom slowly from pale gold to coral to deep evening blue. Color washes over the auditorium, catching in the dust until the air looks crowded with tiny stars. The foil flashes. The paper stars turn softly above you. Somewhere near your elbow, Mari exhales, and you hear the quiet relief in it.

When the final light settles, she turns to you.

She isn’t hiding anything important anymore.

Not everything, perhaps. But enough.

Her smile is quiet and certain, and the fear shadowing the day finally gives way to something steadier. Hope, maybe. The kind that makes room for disappointment and reaches anyway.

Mari:  “After the festival,” she says, “we’re getting food. And you’re telling me what you were going to say earlier, because I am done pretending I don’t notice when you’re nervous.”

That should make you panic.

Instead, you laugh.

A real one.

Theo claps a hand over his chest as if you’ve struck him. Celeste, to your shock, looks almost amused.

The tension built through the rehearsal loosens at last—not because everything has become simple, but because it has finally become honest.

The bell for the next period rings somewhere beyond the open auditorium doors, thin and bright through the halls. Final-day noise drifts in: lockers slamming, shoes scuffing, voices rising and fading. It no longer sounds like a deadline.

It sounds like a beginning.

Mari slips her hand against yours beneath the table, hidden by the sweep of the stage curtain. Her fingers press once, deliberate and warm, before she lets go.

It isn’t a grand gesture.

It is better.

It is chosen.

When rehearsal ends, you leave the auditorium with the others. The festival is ready. The surprise has been revealed. The secret message has lost its power beneath the weight of the truth standing in front of you.

And the next hangout is already promised.

The last bell hasn’t even rung.