Chapter Text
In ’71, the United States was a boiling pot of murals, slogans, and cries for change. If you stood for just a minute on any corner of a major city, you could feel the fury in the air—the sense that something big was about to explode. At that time, Schroeder Felton was starting his first year of college.
He was stubborn, always had been. The same guy who had managed to stand in front of an auditorium and play the piano, yet at the same time, he couldn’t ignore what his parents, his friends, said to him.
You know how youth is—so intense, so certain, yet so lost at the same time. Schroeder lived that contradiction in the rawest way possible. But in the end, no matter his dreams, he knew that adulthood was coming, and with it, something was bound to change. He hated it.
In Hennepin County, people stayed in-state. That was just how it was. The University of Minnesota, St. Olaf, Gustavus, maybe Madison if you were feeling adventurous. There was comfort in that, in knowing that the faces you had grown up with wouldn’t be too far, that the world remained just small enough to be familiar. But for Schroeder, that had never been part of the plan.
He had grown up believing in something bigger—concert halls, international tours, playing to audiences who would hold their breath at every note. He had seen himself in places with grand pianos that gleamed under stage lights, where music was not just passion but legacy. And for years, he had clung to that dream, practicing late into the night, perfecting his technique, convincing himself that talent was enough.
But it wasn’t.
The Juilliard rejection letter arrived in April, crisp and impersonal, the weight of its contents crushing in its simplicity. He read it once, twice, a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something different. But they didn’t. The financial aid request hadn’t helped, of course. They wanted the best of the best—the prodigies, the ones who had been trained since childhood under world-renowned tutors, the kids who had spent summers at music conservatories in Europe, not playing on a toy piano in a Minnesota living room. He had been fooling himself to think otherwise.
So that was it. The dream, or at least the one he had built in his head, was over. No Juilliard. No New York. No grand escape from the small-town inevitability he had spent years trying to outrun.
And so, like everyone else, he was staying in-state.
There were a few exceptions, of course. A handful of people actually made it out, broke the invisible boundary that kept Hennepin County kids tied to Minnesota soil. Some kid from their year had gotten into Northwestern, another into UCLA, but the one that stung the most, oddly enough, was Marcie.
She had gotten into an Ivy League. Brown, specifically. And even though Schroeder had never particularly been close to her, there was something about it that made his stomach turn. Maybe because it confirmed what he already knew—that some people were just meant for bigger things, and some people weren’t.
This is where Schroeder’s real dilemma begins. He grew up with three friends who shaped his life in different ways but had always been there in some form: Charlie Brown, Linus, and Lucy. Together, they shared their childhood and the most memorable moments of their youth, and even as the years passed, they remained his refuge.
Charlie Brown had grown into a thoughtful and introspective man, still carrying that same resilience and awkwardness he had as a boy, always searching for meaning in the smallest of things. Linus had ditched his blanket and his hair surprisingly grew, often lost in his own thoughts. And then there was Lucy—Lucy, who had become even more assertive than she was as a child. She knew exactly what she wanted and had no patience for anything that stood in her way. A firm believer in women’s lib, she was unapologetically bold, driven, and fiercely independent.
Lucy had grown into a strikingly beautiful young woman, but it was more than just her looks that made her stand out—it was the way she carried herself, the unwavering confidence in her step, the sharp, knowing glint in her warm brown eyes, and the way her presence demanded attention the moment she entered a room.
Her once short, choppy curls had grown into sleek, dark waves that framed her face, complementing her strong, determined expression. She had always been outspoken, but now, she knew exactly what she wanted—whether in life, love, or ambition—and she never backed down from a challenge.
Her friendship with Schroeder had always been complicated. As children, she chased after him relentlessly, fawning over his talent and passion for music, while he stubbornly dismissed her affections, more interested in his piano than in romance. But time has a way of changing things. She was no longer just the girl who interrupted his practice sessions—she was a force of nature, a woman who challenged him, who saw the world in a way he never had. Always pushing those around her to do things they never would have dared to try if it weren’t for her. She had a way of dragging people into her orbit, making them part of her grand schemes, her unstoppable drive.
One of those moments—one that Schroeder still remembered vividly—had happened the summer before they started high school. For some reason he never quite understood, Lucy had decided that she couldn’t enter true adolescence without having had her first kiss. And, of course, once she had made up her mind, there was no arguing with her.
It had been one of those humid summer afternoons, the kind where the heat clung to your skin and the whole world seemed to move in slow motion. Schroeder had been sitting on the porch, lost in the rhythm of a piece he was composing in his head, when Lucy stormed into his yard like a gust of wind, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming with that unmistakable look of determination.
“We have to do it,” she announced, as if they had already discussed it a hundred times before.
Schroeder blinked up at her from the steps. “Do what?”
She rolled her eyes, as if he were the slowest person on Earth. “Kiss. We have to kiss before summer’s over.”
He nearly choked on nothing. “Why?”
“Because!” she threw her hands in the air. “We’re starting high school, Schroeder. High school. I refuse to go in there like some kind of child who’s never been kissed before. What if someone asks? What if I have to—” she hesitated, as if embarrassed by the absurdity of her own logic, then pressed on— “I just have to, okay? And you’re my best friend. You make sense.”
Schroeder had long since learned that arguing with Lucy was an uphill battle, and yet, there was something about the way she stood there, half-demanding, half-uncertain, that made him sigh and say, “Fine.”
And so, right there, on the steps of his house, with the cicadas humming in the distance and the sun dipping lower into the sky, Lucy Van Pelt grabbed his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him.
It was quick—just a press of lips, soft and warm and completely unexpected—but it was enough to short-circuit Schroeder’s brain. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, twitched as if they weren’t sure whether to push her away or pull her closer. Before he could react, she pulled back, grinning like she had just crossed something monumental off her to-do list.
“There,” she said, satisfied. “Now I’m officially ready for high school.”
Schroeder just sat there, staring, his entire world suddenly off-kilter. He had spent years brushing off her flirtations, rolling his eyes at her dramatics, retreating into his music whenever she got too close. But now, with the ghost of her kiss still lingering on his lips, he wasn’t sure if he had just humored her or if something had shifted between them forever.
But Lucy was Lucy, and by the time freshman year rolled around, she had already thrown herself into everything. She joined the debate team, formed a baseball team composed of women, she signed up for a book club, something Schroeder never would have expected from her, but then again, Lucy always had layers no one saw coming. And, as if that weren’t enough, she even founded a creative writing club, because, of course, she needed another place to pour out all the thoughts constantly buzzing in her head.
With all of that, she started spending less time at Schroeder’s house, their easy afternoons replaced by Lucy’s growing list of commitments. And then she got a boyfriend. Shermy, someone who probably never dismissed her feelings the way Schroeder had always done.
And yet, despite the changes, despite the shifting dynamics of their friendship, Schroeder couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, he had missed something important that summer—that maybe, just maybe, Lucy’s first kiss hadn’t just been about crossing something off a list after all.
It was the fall of sophomore year when Lucy showed up at Schroeder’s house again, just like she used to. No warning, no explanation—just knocking on his door one afternoon like she had never stopped coming over in the first place.
Schroeder had barely looked up from his piano when she flopped onto the couch, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s over.”
He raised an eyebrow but kept playing, letting the notes fill the room. “That what?”
She groaned, throwing an arm over her face. “Me and Shermy.”
Ah. Schroeder wasn’t surprised. Not because Lucy was impossible to love—quite the opposite—but because she was too much for most people to keep up with. He had seen the way Shermy tried to match her energy, tried to win arguments against her just for the sake of winning, how he got frustrated when Lucy wouldn’t bend, and wouldn't become smaller just to make him feel bigger.
Schroeder had never cared enough to like or dislike the guy, but he had known it wouldn’t last.
Lucy exhaled sharply. “He said I’m exhausting.”
Schroeder smirked, fingers still moving over the keys. “You are.”
She threw a pillow at him, hitting him square in the shoulder. “Not helping.”
He laughed softly but didn’t push it. Instead, he kept playing, and Lucy stayed there, listening. Just like before. Just like always.
For a few weeks, it was almost like she had never left. She came over after school, sprawled out in his living room, sometimes talking, reading, sometimes just listening to him play. She would close her eyes and let the music fill the space between them, no need for conversation. Some days, she would hum along. Other days, she would let out deep, tired sighs, like she was carrying something too heavy to say out loud. Schroeder never asked.
And then, as suddenly as she had returned, she vanished again.
By junior year, he saw less and less of her. She was still around—of course, she was Lucy, she was everywhere—but never in the same way as before. She was busy, always moving, always chasing something. She threw herself into debate tournaments, leadership positions, new clubs, new friends. She was loud in the hallways, flirting, laughing, arguing. It was like she had made a decision to live every single moment to its fullest, as if she were afraid of wasting time.
Schroeder, on the other hand, stayed the same. His piano, his music, his quiet world. He watched her from a distance, not bitterly—never bitterly—but with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Something like nostalgia. Something like understanding.
By the time senior year rolled around, Lucy was fully immersed in “making the most of adolescence.” She was out every weekend, going to parties, saying yes to everything. “It’s my last year, Schroeder, I’m not gonna waste it,” she had told him once, with that defiant spark in her eyes.
She was also drowning in college applications— trying to write the perfect essays, make the perfect choices, figure out who she was going to be after high school. Some days, she looked more exhausted than excited, but she never let it show for too long.
Schroeder watched it all happen from his familiar place at the piano. They still talked, still had moments, but she was always slipping away.
And maybe, just maybe, he was finally starting to understand why it bothered him so much.
The gym was packed—too many bodies, too much noise, too many emotions. Schroeder had never cared much for school events, but this one felt different, like an ending he hadn’t been prepared for. People were crying, hugging, taking pictures. Plans were being made, promises exchanged, the future rushing in too fast.
And then, he saw her.
Lucy Van Pelt, standing by the trophy case, surrounded by people—laughing, dazzling, already halfway into a life he wasn’t part of.
And just like that, the realization hit him, knocking the breath out of his lungs.
He loved her.
It was stupidly obvious now, like a song he had been playing for years without realizing it had lyrics. He had spent so much time dismissing her, avoiding her, pushing her away—and somewhere along the way, she had stopped waiting for him.
He barely had time to process it before she caught his eye.
“Oh, Schroedeeerrr!” Lucy beamed, breaking away from her circle of friends. She crossed the gym in just a few steps, looking so effortlessly confident, so completely untouchable.
“Hey,” Schroeder said, forcing his voice to stay steady.
She grinned, looking him up and down. “You actually wore the cap and gown. I’m shocked.”
He smirked. “Figured I’d make my parents happy at least once.”
“Big of you,” she teased. Then, before he could think of something clever to say, she pulled him into a hug.
It wasn’t like the ones from their childhood—not the playful tackles, not the teasing headlocks. It was brief, warm, friendly. She smelled different now, like vanilla and something sharper, something new.
But then, Lucy sighed dramatically, running a hand through her hair. “So, guess what?”
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
She groaned. “I’m staying in-state. At least for my first year. I mean, I’ll probably transfer, but… yeah.”
His heart skipped. Just once. Just enough for him to notice.
Lucy kept talking, oblivious. “Stanford didn’t happen, and, well, I’m not gonna sit around being bitter about it, so I’ll make the best of it here and then figure it out.” She shrugged, but there was an edge to it—as if it wasn’t a failure, just a reroute.
And that’s when it hit him.
She didn’t love him anymore.
Not the way she used to.
Not the way he had only just realized in this moment that he loved her.
Not really. Not when she ran off and came back. Not when she vanished for months and reappeared like she had never left. Not when she decided things impulsively and then changed direction completely.
For years, he had thought she was the one slipping away—but maybe, just maybe, he had been the one waiting for something final that was never meant to be final.
“So,” Lucy said, oblivious to the sinking feeling in his chest, “are you excited for college?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Sure.”
She laughed. “Liar.”
And then, before he could say anything else, someone called her name. She turned, waving them off before looking back at him. “I’ll see you this summer, okay?”
Schroeder hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
But they both knew better.
Lucy smiled—a simple, easy smile, nothing lingering, nothing unspoken. Then she squeezed his arm and walked away, back to her future, back to a world where he was just someone she used to know.
Schroeder stood there, diploma in hand, feeling like he had just missed his cue in a song he would never get to play again.