Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The school year churned onward, a predictable cycle of classes, practices, and easy victories on the court. Max and the Ravens remained the only real storm cloud on the horizon, a challenge I both anticipated and relished. Academically, Alex and I navigated the Valedictorian race with a newfound, respectful truce, though her competitive fire still burned fiercely.
But on the physical front, things were changing rapidly. I was finally hitting the upper stages of my puberty. That awkward, gangly phase was giving way to something new. My growth plates began extending, a series of aches and sudden stretches that signaled the arrival of the height I had always wanted. Over the course of eight months, from the start of the school year to the spring, I had grown by over five inches, a rapid ascent that necessitated an entirely new wardrobe and constant adjustments to my center of gravity on the court. The world, quite literally, looked different from up here. I had a hunch it would slow down somewhere in the summer, eventually stabilizing as I turned fifteen or sixteen. But a part of me, the part that always wanted more, hoped it might carry on well beyond eighteen, too.
Funnily enough, the most happening thing during this time wasn't the predictable march of our basketball season or the quiet evolution of my relationship with Alex, but Erin's school play. It was an ambitious production of Musical Trip Around the World, scaled down for middle schoolers, and the whole chaotic affair was being directed by none other than Cam, who had somehow maneuvered himself into the position of interim music director after the previous one had a minor nervous breakdown (possibly unrelated, but knowing Cam, probably not).
Erin's updates on the rehearsals were a constant source of amusement. "It's a disaster, Brad," she'd declared one evening, dramatically collapsing onto my bedroom floor. "Mr. Tucker keeps trying to add interpretive dance sequences during the chandelier drop. And his costume suggestions... let's just say there's a lot of sequins. A lot."
"Sounds intense," I offered sympathetically. Erin described his help and direction as a blind man describing how beautiful the Mona Lisa looked.
"He keeps telling the Narrator to 'find his inner sparkle.' The Narrator is supposed to be stoic, Brad, not sparkly!" I had to agree; that was a poignant observation. Yet, despite the directorial eccentricities, she still ended up having fun, throwing herself into the role of the Spanish Ambassador with a surprising amount of gusto.
The night of the performance arrived, and the entire extended family turned out in force. The elementary school auditorium was packed, buzzing with parental pride and the scent of lukewarm coffee. The play itself was... memorable. Costumes malfunctioned, lines were forgotten, and Cam's aforementioned interpretive dance sequences were every bit as baffling as Erin had described.
But the true highlight, the moment that would live on in family lore, came during the climax. Luke Dunphy, cast in the pivotal role of "Traveller," was supposed to be lowered dramatically from the rafters via an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys engineered by Phil. Instead, due to a slight miscalculation involving counterweights and excessive enthusiasm, Luke wasn't lowered; he was launched. He swung wildly across the stage, narrowly missing the Narrator, before becoming hopelessly strung up about ten feet above the bewildered cast, spinning slowly like a confused, sequined piñata.
A wave of shocked silence swept through the audience. Claire gasped. Phil looked horrified. Cam let out a theatrical wail. But next to me, I heard a sound I rarely heard: my dad, outright laughing. Not a quiet chuckle, not a reserved smile, but a loud, uproarious belly laugh, the kind that shook his whole body.
It was one of the only times I saw him lose his military composure so completely. Mom had told me he loved physical comedy but hearing it and seeing it are two different things. His laughter was infectious. Soon, a few other parents started chuckling, then more, until the entire auditorium was filled with relieved, slightly hysterical laughter. Everyone was amazed by how free Dad was with his emotions then.
Up on stage, the initial shock on the kids' faces gave way to confusion, then amusement. Even Erin began laughing on stage, her clear giggle cutting through the general mirth. From there, the entire musical completely derailed. The Narrator forgot his stoicalness and started making faces at the spinning Luke. Christine dissolved into giggles during her big solo. The rest of the cast followed suit. What had been a borderline disaster transformed into an unintentional, utterly charming comedy of errors, and all the parents just ended up enjoying the sheer, unscripted joy of it all. Even Cam, after a moment of theatrical despair, seemed to embrace the chaos, leading the audience in a round of applause for the "flying traveler."
It was, in its own strange way, a perfect performance.
The basketball season ended up just as I predicted it would be. A long, often tedious march through a league that offered little resistance, punctuated by the high-stakes, adrenaline-fueled battles against one team. Jefferson Junior High. Max's Ravens. They were the measuring stick, the storm cloud, the only real game in town. And, inevitably, they were the team that found us in the finals. Boy, was that match to be remembered.
Max, Alan, and Tony had come back with vengeance in their hearts. You could see it in their eyes during warmups, a burning intensity that hadn't quite been there last year. Throughout the season, there were games where we beat them and games where they beat us. Blowouts were rare; usually, it was a grind, a possession-by-possession war decided by a few points. No clear-cut dominant winner had been established. This being the last year of junior high for us, the stakes felt higher. Our victory would solidify us as their equals – two championships apiece. Though, in my opinion, we would be better, having dethroned the two-time champs and then defended our title against them.
The game began with a ferocity that reminded me of last year's final. The jump ball was a war cry. Tony jumped so hard against David that he almost crashed into him on the descent, drawing an immediate glare from David. The ball went loose, a chaotic scramble, and somehow Alan came up with it.
Alan was always in my face, a constant, yapping annoyance. "Not this year, Naird! Not this year!" he spat, trying to body me up as I guarded him.
"You say that every time, Alan," I returned that with equal force. "Maybe try a new line." I waited for him to make his move, anticipated the crossover, and poked the ball loose. On the ensuing fast break, I saw him trying to catch up. I slowed slightly, waited for him to commit, then hit him with a sharp ankle-breaking maneuver. He stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and went down in a heap as I pulled up for an easy jumper. Chalk one up for the captain.
But for every punch I dished out, Max came back and returned it with equivalent fervor. He'd score on one of his impossible, spinning layups, his body contorting in ways that shouldn't be possible, and then he'd jog back past me, that infuriating, joyful grin plastered across his face.
"Yo, you ain't winning this time!" he taunted during a free throw.
"What makes you think that?" I asked, my voice flat.
He smiled cheekily. "It's because I'm hungrier, Naird. You and your team could have surpassed us easily, but you slacked off during the summer. We worked. That is why you will lose today."
"We shall see," I replied, meeting his gaze. The fire in his eyes was real. He believed it.
Throughout the match, everyone on my team performed impossible feats. It was like the intensity of the game unlocked something in them. Patrick had improved on his fadeaway jumpers so much that his step-backs were almost like leaps now, creating impossible space for clean looks. He hit two clutch shots in the second quarter that kept us afloat. David had increased his hangtime, somehow hanging in the air a fraction longer, allowing him to collect rebounds even if they were contested, ripping the ball away from Tony with a primal roar. And Leo, my god, Leo had learned to mimic my stealing ability. He was reading passing lanes, anticipating dribbles, his hands a blur. It helped me out majorly. I could trust him to disrupt their plays, leave it to Leo to snatch the ball, which freed me up to focus on playmaking or taking on more shooting actions.
But the Ravens matched us blow for blow. Max countered each one of my three-pointers with his formless shooting, bordering on unrealistic. He'd throw up shots off the wrong foot, double clutching in mid-air, spinning prayers that somehow found the bottom of the net. Alan, pushed by my earlier taunt, somehow developed his own variation of a bullet pass, whipping the ball through impossibly tight windows that greatly increased their offensive capability. Tony, while not possessing David's hangtime, improvised his ability to throw long outlet passes after rebounds, catching us off guard and leading to easy fast-break points for them.
It was so exhilarating. The pace was frantic, the skill level astronomical for junior high. At one point, I forgot I was playing with a team. Max and I entered a state of flow, a zone where only the two of us existed. We guarded each other, trading baskets, fouling each other hard but clean, pushing each other to a level neither of us could reach alone. It was pure competition, distilled down to its very essence.
Finally, as the last quarter rolled up, the inevitable crash came. We were all exhausted. All of our teammates were tired, and more importantly, so were Max and I. But the fire hadn't gone out. Instead of it being a battle of attrition, it became a battle of skill and strategy. Who could execute while running on fumes?
"Okay, listen up!" I called during a timeout, my voice hoarse. "We stop defending hard. Conserve energy." I looked at David. "Only go for the easy rebounds. No more boxing out wars." I looked at Leo. "You leak out. Stay near half-court. The second we get the ball, you're gone." I looked at everyone else. "Spread the floor. Create space. If you're open, shoot. Otherwise, find me."
It was risky. We were essentially giving up on defense, betting everything on outscoring them in the final minutes. But I saw the exhaustion in their eyes, too. We just had to be smarter.
I attempted threes whenever I could create the opening. I started brutally feeding their defenders into David's screens at the top of the key. They were tired, slow to react, and David's picks felt like hitting concrete. They lost whatever energy they had left fighting through them. Finally, Max too lost his energy, his formless shots starting to rim out, his drives less explosive.
In the last thirty seconds, we secured a comfortable five-point lead. The final buzzer sounded, and the Northwood side of the gym erupted. We had done it. Back-to-back champions.
It was the hardest I had played since I came to this world. I looked over at Max. He was doubled over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. And I could see that Max was disappointed, for the first time. Not angry, not defiant. Just... disappointed.
I jogged over to him, ignoring the screaming protest from my own legs, and helped pick him up. "You and I are gonna be in the NBA, dude," I said, my voice rough but sincere. "So don't give up."
He looked at me, stunned, then a flicker of conviction returned behind his eyes. The trademark grin that formed his face touched even me, and I replied in kind. We had beaten each other senseless, pushed each other to the absolute limit, and in doing so, forged a respect that went beyond wins and losses.
The victory tasted better knowing that I had much to enjoy and even more to look forward to when high school rolled around. After that everyone just went crazy partying, roaming and hanging out. Northwood had produced its first repeat champions and that reputation alone would land us many benefits as to where we wanted to go from here.
The final stretch of the academic year was a blur of late-night study sessions and high-stakes exams. The basketball championship felt like a distant memory, replaced by the relentless pressure of the Valedictorian race. It had come down to just Alex and me. Sanjay was out, having stumbled on the Chemistry paper, leaving the two of us locked in a head-to-head battle.
And Alex had begun showing her own genius-level intellect. Fueled by her rivalry with me (and possibly Sanjay), she became an academic force. She didn't just keep pace; she started pulling ahead, outscoring me in Biology and English (likely courtesy of one Mandella and their intense literary debates) along with her second language. This frankly amazed me. As far as I remembered from the show, she was smart, but not this kind of prodigy level. Had I unintentionally pushed her to this new height? Was this the butterfly effect in play?
Ultimately, Alex eked me out to become Valedictorian. She won by a single, solitary point on the final weighted average. I was proud of her. I had given it my all, competed fiercely as promised, and she beat me. She earned it.
She had kissed me so many times the day the results were announced, right there in the crowded school hallway. Her initial shriek of disbelief had turned into pure, unadulterated joy, and she'd just thrown her arms around me, planting kiss after kiss on my face until a teacher literally had to step in and tell her to maintain decorum. I will never forget the crimson red her face became afterwards.
When the day for graduation came, it was a very messy sort of affair, in true Dunphy-Pritchett style. The ceremony itself was standard – caps, gowns, boring speeches. But Alex was a nervous wreck beforehand, not about giving the speech, but about what speech to give. Apparently, Haley had dissuaded Alex from giving her original, condescending speech, the one I vaguely remembered her giving in the original timeline.
Alex told me about it later, recounting the conversation with a mixture of annoyance and dawning respect for her older sister.
Haley had cornered her as she gave her a dressing down "You know what? Give your stupid little speech, be an outcast. But you're only doing it to yourself, because you're smart, pretty, and sort of funny in a way that I don't really get but other people seem to enjoy. You can either start fresh next year or be the freak who flipped off her class."
Alex was stunned "You really think I'm pretty?"
"Shut up!" Haley said in embarrassment.
Then came the ceremony itself. Phil and Claire were nowhere to be found as the procession began. We were all seated, the principal was droning on, and still no sign of them. Just as Alex's name was about to be called for the Valedictorian address, there was a commotion near the back entrance. We all turned to see Phil and Claire somehow making their way down the steep grassy hill behind the stands, sliding down on tumbling and picking themselves up only to tumble again, arriving in a mess of grass stains and flustered apologies.
Something Dad enjoyed more than anyone else. He started laughing, that same deep, unrestrained laugh I'd heard at Erin's disastrous play. Mom literally had to jab him in the ribs to make him stop, but then Jay started chuckling, which restarted the whole thing again. Mom and Gloria exchanged exasperated looks.
Amidst the low-key chaos, Alex was finally called up. She smoothed down her gown, took a deep breath, and walked to the podium. She looked out at her classmates, then at her disheveled parents, and a small, genuine smile touched her lips. She gave her iconic speech, imbued with Haley's unexpected wisdom.
"I find it ironic that I'm up here representing my classmates when... they're so... awesome, they should be up here themselves," she began, her voice clear and steady. "But I'm up here, and I'm saying stuff because everybody's got their... stuff... whether you're popular, or a drama geek, or a cheerleader, or a nerd like me. We all have our insecurities; we're all just trying to figure out who we are." She paused, making eye contact with Haley in the audience. "I guess what I'm trying to say is don't... stop... believing... and get this party started!"
The applause was genuine and warm. She had nailed it. Even though it was laced with generic statement it appealed to the broader sentimentality of the audience who were on the cusp of starting a new chapter of their lives. All the students resonated with is as there was an eruption of applause and throwing of scholar hats into the air.
After that, all our families were headed out for a celebratory dinner together, but Alex and I had a class party to attend, a final gathering before we all scattered for the summer and then regrouped for the daunting new world of high school. We excused ourselves amidst promises to meet up later.
Walking out of the junior high gates for the last time, a strange mix of nostalgia and anticipation washed over me. Junior High was over. And despite the bumps, the fights, and the sheer weirdness of my transmigrated life, I had loved every second of it. Summer would be unbearable because I couldn't wait for high school when things would finally begin to shape up for not just me but everyone I loved and cherished. The system had also reflected how much things had changed for me.
____________________________________________________________________
That marks the end of the timeskip. Next chap the High School saga begins.