Dayton: The Junior Guardian Chronicles: Episode 22

Thursday showed up pretending nothing had happened. 

The sky was blue, the air was cold, and Roosevelt Middle looked exactly the same as it had every other morning that week. Kids clogged the front steps, yelling about tests and shards and which lunch line was faster. A Little-safe ramp gleamed next to the stairs in the patchy sunlight. 

None of it matched the way Dayton’s stomach felt, which was somewhere between “quiz day” and “emergency drill.” 

She shoved her locker open harder than she meant to. The door banged off the one next to it. 

Nicole jumped a little. She was already there, leaning inside her own locker, braid half done, earbuds wrapped around her phone like a nest. Hayden hovered nearby, scrolling, backpack half unzipped as usual. Hannah arrived a second later with a thermos of tea and that permanent “did I forget something” look. 

“Someone’s in a mood,” Nicole said, but her voice was thin around the edges. 

“Door was stuck,” Dayton muttered. 

“It wasn’t,” Hannah said gently. 

Dayton ignored that. 

She swapped out one of her class books for her English binder. Her Guardian certification card sat still taped to the inside wall. It felt louder today. Like it was shouting. 

“Okay,” Nicole said. “What are the vibes for English. Scale of one to ten, how cancelled do we think I am after yesterday.” 

“You are not cancelled,” Hannah said immediately. “No one is cancelling you.” 

“Some people definitely want to,” Nicole said. “I heard Marcus in the hallway doing that ‘wow, must be nice to own your sister’ joke after everything Rhys said.” 

“Marcus is an idiot,” Hayden said. “He thought Finland was a city.” 

“That is not making me feel better,” Nicole said. 

Dayton shut her locker, the metal thunk carrying more force than she meant. “If he bothers you again, tell me,” she said. “I’ll handle it.” 

Nicole eyed her. “You already tried handling something yesterday and almost went nuclear with our English teacher.” 

“Yeah,” Hayden added. “Not saying it wasn’t iconic. Just… maybe scale of one to ten, that was like a twelve.” 

Hannah worried at the sleeve of her cardigan. “Did you talk to him after?” she asked Dayton. “Like… alone?” 

Dayton’s jaw tensed. “Yeah.” 

“You did?” Nicole’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t say that.” 

“You looked like you were going to puke at the bus stop,” Hayden said. “We figured maybe save the ‘I went to confront him’ info dump for today.” 

“Hayden was in the hall.” Dayton said explaining to Nicole she didnt know Hayden was there. 

“Obviously,” Hayden said. “I’m not letting you walk into a boss fight solo.” 

Nicole put a hand to her chest. “Wow. Betrayed. My own best friend got into a secret argument with our tiny teacher and didn’t live text me.” 

“It wasn’t a live text situation,” Dayton said. “It was a ‘try not to scream at our Little English teacher’ situation.” 

“Did he apologize?” Hannah asked. 

Dayton hesitated. “Not really.” 

“Did you yell?” Nicole’s eyes were shining now, half nervous, half morbidly curious. “Please tell me you yelled.” 

“No,” Dayton said. “I used my training voice.” 

Hayden grinned. “She went full Guardian. It was actually terrifying.” 

“She told him Kinsley is family and that he’s never allowed to use her as a class example again,” Hayden added. “And that if he keeps messing with you, she’s filing to the Smallara Enforcement Agency directly.” 

Nicole’s mouth fell open. “You.. you actually said that?” 

“Yes,” Dayton said. “Because I meant it.” 

“Dude,” Nicole whispered. “You threatened to claim our English teacher.” 

“I didn’t threaten,” Dayton said. “I explained the consequences.” 

“Those are the same thing,” Hayden said. 

“They’re really not,” Dayton said. “Guardians don’t do threats. We set boundaries.” 

“Sure,” Nicole said faintly. “You set a boundary with a leash on the other side.” 

The second bell beeped down the hall. The hallway traffic shifted, students peeling off toward their classes. 

Hannah twisted the lid on her thermos shut. “Do you think he’ll… like… change anything today?” she asked. “Because of what you said?” 

Dayton closed her locker. “We’ll see,” she said. 

She didn’t say what she was actually thinking. 

If he doesn’t, then I was right about everything. 

They walked toward Room 305 together, but it felt different from other mornings. Usually, there was some joke floating between them, some conspiracy about what was in the cafeteria mystery meat. Today the space between them was heavier. Filled with yesterday’s words, with the look on Nicole’s face when Rhys had said “gatekeeper,” with the tiny crack in his voice when he’d said, I did not reduce her. 

Dayton kept replaying his last line in the empty classroom. 

Whatever happens, you’re not the villain in this story. 

She wasn’t sure if he believed that. She wasn’t sure if she did. 

The closer they got to his door, the more her nerve endings lit up. Her Guardian training brain was in overdrive, scanning: noise level, number of bodies in the hall, any Littles on the floor. It was automatic now. Built in. 

Thought like a Guardian. Walk like a Guardian. Talk like a Guardian. 

In 305, he was already on his platform when they walked in. 

No Ms. Whittaker. No transfer board. He must have gotten there early. 

His tie today was deep blue. His sleeves were rolled down, cuffs buttoned. His jacket was back on. Every line of him screamed formal. 

The mic was on. His tiny voice came from above them. “Phones away,” he said. “It’s Thursday, which means half of you have mentally left your bodies already. Let’s try to keep your physical forms in the room for at least forty minutes.” 

The class chuckled weakly. The vibe was wrong. Tighter. Stretched. 

Dayton slid into her seat. Hayden by the window. Nicole on her right. Hannah in front, already taking out her pens like normal. 

Rhys glanced at the clock, then at the door. When the final stragglers slipped in and the late bell beeped, he clapped his small hands once. 

“Yesterday’s discussion was…” he paused, “…energetic.” 

A nervous ripple of laughter. 

“We touched on some… sensitive topics,” he went on. “Guardianship. Reduction. Exile. Some of you felt… uncomfortable.” 

He let that sit. Then he smiled, sharp. 

“Good,” he said. “Literature that never makes you uncomfortable is usually not about anything real.” 

Dayton’s fingers curled around her pen. Her eyes flicked to Nicole, whose shoulders had drawn up like she was trying to hide inside her hoodie. 

“Before we begin,” Rhys continued, “I will say this: If any of you wish to continue yesterday’s conversation in a more private setting, my office hours are posted on the board. You may speak to me one-on-one, or with a counselor present, or with your SEA-appointed case manager if you have one.” 

His gaze skated across Dayton for half a second. Not lingering, but not missing her either. 

“What I will not do,” he said, “is allow any student to dictate which topics are off limits in this classroom. We are dealing with texts that intersect with your lives. That is the point. We will be respectful. We will be rigorous. We will not be sanitized.” 

He tapped his pen against the mini board, a crisp little sound. “Now. Today’s theme.” 

His eyes went to the big whiteboard behind him, still half smudged from some other teacher’s notes. 

“Dayton,” he said. 

Her stomach clenched. “Yes.” 

“The board, please,” he said. “Today we are dealing with perception. Be a darling and write that for me.” 

Nicole muttered under her breath, “Here we go again.” 

Dayton stood up. The eraser felt rough in her hand, edges crumbling. She wiped away the ghost math, then grabbed a fresh piece of chalk and wrote in big letters: 

PERCEPTION. 

Her “P” came out a little crooked. She went over it, fixing the curve. 

Rhys watched her from his platform. “Careful,” he said. “Don’t let the C swallow the T.” 

A couple of kids laughed. It was automatic now, the rhythm of it. He poked. They reacted. She swallowed. 

She underlined the word, put the chalk down, and went back to her seat. 

“Thank you,” he said. It was almost a normal thank you. He ruined it a second later. “Our junior calligrapher grows stronger every day.” 

The class chuckled again. 

Dayton sat, spine straight, jaw tight. Guardian tone, she reminded herself. Calm. Firm. Clear. 

“Perception,” Rhys said, underlining the word on his tiny board with his microscopic marker. “How we see. Who gets to call what they see ‘real.’ Today, we’re going back to Dickinson.” 

He read Much Madness is divinest Sense, his amplified voice wrapping the words around the room. 

“Much Madness is divinest Sense  

 To a discerning Eye 

 Much Sense the starkest Madness. 

’Tis the Majority  

 In this, as all, prevail  

 Assent and you are sane 

 Demur, you’re straightway dangerous 

And handled with a Chain…” 

He let the last line hang. 

“Handled with a chain,” he repeated. “Poetic, isn’t it.” 

No one said anything. 

“The majority decides what’s normal,” he went on. “The majority decides what’s dangerous. And when they decide you’re dangerous, they don’t ask you for your opinion before they put you on a leash.” 

His eyes flicked toward Nicole. Barely. Just enough that Dayton felt it like a shove. 

Nicole stared at her notebook, face blank. 

Dayton’s hand tightened around her pen hard enough to make it creak. 

“We live in a world,” Rhys said, “where this poem has become… quite literal for some people. Do we have anyone in this room who has been officially labeled dangerous by a majority.” 

He let his gaze drift now. Slowly. 

Dayton knew what he was doing. He was waiting for her to speak. To jump in. To block. 

She didn’t. 

Her heart hammered, but she stayed still. 

“Let’s expand the question,” he said when no one offered themselves up as an example. “Anyone whose family member has been officially reclassified. Reduced. Re-labeled as something less than they were the year before.” 

The word family hit like a slap. 

Nicole’s breathing had gone shallow. Dayton could see it in the rise of her shoulders. 

Again, Rhys’s eyes brushed her and Nicole. Again, he moved on before Dayton exploded. 

“Miss Merriweather,” he said instead, pointing at Hannah. “Spare us for the moment, please, from the drama of our resident Guardians. Talk to us about perception. Has there been a time when you felt the majority misread you? Treated you like you were something you weren’t.” 

Hannah jumped a little at her name. “Um. When I moved here in fourth grade,” she said. “I moved here from Canada. We speak French but we know English.  Just because I was quiet. They kept talking really slow at me. It was… weird.” 

“Excellent,” Rhys said. “A more mundane example, but very useful. The chain in that situation was assumption. You were handled with a chain of other people’s expectations about what a girl who looks like you must be like.” 

He kept going. He called on other students. He talked about labels, about “crazy” and “sane,” about how power decided who got which. 

He did not say Kinsley’s name. 

He did not have to. 

Every time he said chain, leash, dangerous, Dayton could feel it pressing against her. Against Nicole. Against everyone in the building under four inches tall. 

She lasted fifteen minutes before she raised her hand. 

“Dayton,” he said. Of course he called on her immediately. 

“Yesterday you said law and morality aren’t the same thing,” she said. Her voice was level. Measured. “Today you’re saying the majority decides who’s dangerous. Those are both about power. Just different kinds.” 

“Go on,” he said. 

“If the majority passes a law that says a certain group is dangerous,” she said, “that doesn’t automatically make them dangerous. It just means the majority has the power to call them that. Guardianship’s like that. Littles didn’t vote for it. But they’re stuck with it.” 

“Spoken like someone who’s been reading the SEA handbook for fun,” he said. 

A couple kids laughed, but it was quieter this time. 

“So you see yourself as… what,” he asked. “A necessary evil. A kind chain.” 

“It’s not about what I see myself as,” she said. “It’s about what happens if we aren’t there. You know those stats too. Uncollared Littles getting hurt. Going missing. Ending up in ‘private collections.’” She made air quotes around the phrase. 

A little shiver went through the room. Everyone knew somebody’s cousin’s cousin who’d disappeared after reduction. 

“And who made those stats,” he asked. “Who collected them. Who framed them. Who decided the solution was state or federal sanctioned ownership.” 

“The government,” she said. “Obviously. But just because they did it wrong doesn’t mean the answer is no safety at all. We’re the safety.” 

“You keep saying we,” he noted. 

She met his eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “We. Guardians. I’m not pretending I’m not part of it.” 

He studied her for a moment. “So when a Little like myself questions the people holding the chain,” he said, “you see that as… what, exactly. Insubordination? Ingratitude?” 

“It depends how you do it,” she said. “If you’re asking real questions, that’s one thing. If you’re embarrassing kids in front of their whole class, that’s another.” 

There was a tiny hitch in his expression. Then it smoothed out. 

“We’re back to Nicole,” he said. 

The room tensed. Nicole’s shoulders hunched a fraction. 

“Yes,” Dayton said. “We’re back to Nicole.” 

He nodded slowly. “I see.” 

He capped his marker with a sharp little click. 

“Here’s the thing, Miss Harris,” he said, voice still calm. “And yes, I am using your title on purpose. Guardianship is a legal classification. This school district spent a great deal of time with lawyers, union reps, and more local bureaucrats than I care to think about, working out what my position would look like post-reduction.” 

He spread his hands. Tiny, precise. “My continued employment here is not an accident. It is not a loophole. It is the result of reading the law very carefully. I assure you, you are not the first person to worry about my collar status.” 

Dayton’s pulse spiked. “Then why…” 

“And,” he went on, “those same adults determined that discussing the realities of reduction and Guardianship in a literature classroom was not only allowed, but educational. That includes…” his eyes flicked briefly to Nicole “…referencing real experiences my students are living.” 

“That doesn’t make it right,” Dayton said. “Just because a bunch of adults signed off doesn’t mean it’s not hurting people.” 

“You filed something, did you not,” he said. “Or you are planning to. Your threat yesterday was not subtle.” 

A couple of kids shifted in their chairs. Nicole’s head snapped toward Dayton. She whispered something quietly, but Dayton kept her eyes on Rhys. 

“I’m following procedure,” she said. “That’s literally what we’re supposed to do when we see a violation.” 

Rhys’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Then by all means,” he said. “Follow it. File whatever you like. The SEA and the district will hash it out. Perhaps they’ll discover they’ve all been terribly wrong and a thirteen year old knows the regulations better than they do.” 

“That’s not what this is about,” she said. Her voice was still steady, but she could feel the heat rising in her face. 

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “From where I stand, it looks very much like a power struggle. You are used to having the enforcement arm of the federal government behind you. The weight of the gracewood name backing your moves. That must feel… intoxicating.” 

“It feels heavy,” she said. “Like responsibility. Like if I mess up, someone dies.” 

The room had gone so quiet that the hum of the lights was louder than breathing. 

He looked at her for a long moment. 

“Perception,” he said finally, tapping the word on his board. “To you, Guardianship feels like a burden. To Littles, it feels like a chain. Both are true. Both exist at once. That tension? That’s what Dickinson is talking about.” 

“It’s also what you’re living in,” she said. “You can talk about it without putting my friends on display.” 

“If Nicole wishes to discuss this privately, she may,” he said. “That is her choice. What I will not do is write my lesson plans around the comfort level of one or two students who happen to carry guardian licenses” 

He said it matter-of-factly, but the line landed hard. 

“I am the teacher,” he added, and there it was, the steel under the words. “You are the students. That hierarchy has not changed, regardless of what recent medical mischief the universe has visited upon my body.” 

A low ohhh rippled through the room. Someone whispered, “He’s pissed,” under their breath. 

Dayton stared at him, throat tight. 

“So,” he said briskly, “let’s get back to the poem, shall we. Miss Myers.” 

Nicole flinched. “What,” she said. 

“How does Dickinson’s chain compare,” he asked, “to the leash on your sister’s collar.” 

A couple of kids made tiny panicked sounds. Hannah slapped a hand over her mouth. 

Nicole went very still. 

Dayton opened her mouth. 

Nicole beat her to it. 

“She hates it,” Nicole said, voice low but clear. “The collar. She says it feels heavy. Even when I loosen it. Even when we put the soft lining in. She says it reminds her she’s Little now.” 

The words hung in the air. Raw. Unpolished. 

“And how do you feel about it,” he asked. 

Nicole’s jaw worked. “I feel like if I don’t make her wear it, something worse will happen,” she said. “Like if I mess up one rule, they’ll come take her. Or she’ll get stepped on. Or lost. Or… something. So I tighten it and I hate it and I pretend I don’t.” 

Her eyes were shining now. She blinked hard. 

“And in that tension,” he said softly, “between her hating the collar and you hating what no collar would mean… there is your chain.” 

He turned back to the class. “That’s the tension Dickinson is naming. Assent and you are sane. Demur and you are dangerous. What happens when saying no to the chain means you lose the person you’re trying to protect.” 

He moved on then. Called on other people. Layered their answers into his analysis, wove it all together like he always did. 

He did not look back at Dayton. 

At lunch, the cafeteria felt louder than usual. Or maybe that was just the noise in Dayton’s head. 

They sat at their usual table by the windows. Trays. Cafeteria food. Juice boxes, soda’s coffees. 

Nobody touched their food for a solid minute. 

“Okay,” Nicole said finally. “That was… a lot.” 

Hannah’s eyes were still a little red. “You were really brave,” she told Nicole. “Saying that about Kinsley.” 

“I was not brave,” Nicole said. “I was cornered. He just wouldn’t let it go. Again.” 

Hayden shook her head. “He literally gave a whole speech about not letting middle schoolers tell him how to teach,” she said. “He’s calling your bluff, Day.” 

Dayton shoved her lunch around with her fork. “I know,” she said. 

“Just… by the way,” Nicole said, looking at her. “Did you actually file? Because I feel like that should be a group chat announcement, not a surprise.” 

“I submitted it to the SEA directly,” Dayton said.  

Nicole chewed on a straw wrapper. “Do you think he really believes the district did everything right?” she asked. “Or is that just, like, denial.” 

“He sounded pretty sure,” Hannah said. “Like, ‘I have spoken to ten lawyers’ sure.” 

“Of course he believes them,” Hayden said. “He’s Rhys. He trusts books and rules. He probably thinks the system can’t be that bad if it kept him in his job. Lets him walk around uncollared and live guardian free. Get cartered round by Ms. Whittakker like a king.” 

Nicole laughed once, sharp. “Meanwhile the system turned him into a small chalk gremlin.” 

“Nicole,” Hannah said, horrified laughing. “Oh my God.” 

“I’m just saying,” Nicole said. “If reduction doesn’t break your faith in authority, nothing will.” 

Dayton stared out the window for a second. The Little safe ramp glinted in the weak sun. A tiny pair of students moved along it, one full sized, one small. The bigger kid walked just a half step slower, matching pace. Guardian instinct. She could spot it now from across a room. 

“He thinks I can’t do anything,” she said quietly. 

“What?” Hayden leaned in. 

“Rhys,” Dayton said. “He thinks the district and the lawyers are on his side. That I’m just… what did he call me? ‘A student with a card.’ He doesn’t believe I can actually change anything.” 

Nicole toyed with her bracelet. “To be fair,” she said, “the idea of you going up against like, three lawyers and the entire school district is kind of, you know. Big boss level.” 

“He underestimates you,” Hannah said. “That’s his problem.” 

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “He thinks the hierarchy is fixed. Teacher up here, student down there. He’s not ready for Guardian Harris speedrunning the bureaucracy.” 

“Please never say ‘speedrunning the bureaucracy’ again,” Nicole said. 

Dayton didn’t smile. 

“The line was Nicole and Kinsley and he crossed it. I told him I’d file if he didn’t stop,” she said. “He didn’t stop. That means I either do it or I prove him right.” 

“And you hate proving people like him right,” Hayden said. 

“More than anything,” Dayton admitted. 

Nicole exhaled. “Okay,” she said. “Real talk. You filed… so if you…somehow, like, win, what happens?” 

“Best case?” Dayton said. “SEA rules the district out of compliance. They either assign him a Guardian from the agency, force the district into compliance or transfer him out of the classroom to a registered facility.” 

“Worst case?” Hannah asked. 

“They say everything’s fine,” Dayton said. “And he knows I tried to claim him and failed.” 

Nicole winced. “That would… not be fun.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Hayden said. “He’d be insufferable.” 

“So what do you do?” Nicole asked. 

Dayton looked down at her tray, then up at her friends. 

“I do my job as a guardian,” she said. “Even if it makes him hate me.” 

“You sure?” Hayden asked softly. 

“No,” Dayton said. “But I can’t keep sitting in that room, listening to him pull us apart and call it a lesson, and do nothing. That’s not who I am.” 

Nicole reached across the table and flicked her Guardian card through Dayton’s lanyard with one finger. “Then go be who you are,” she said. “I’ll just be over here, trying not to throw up.” 

Hannah smiled weakly. “We’ve got you,” she said. 

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “If this ship sinks, we’re all going down together. It’ll be very dramatic.” 

“That’s not actually comforting,” Dayton said. 

“It’s the only kind I know,” Hayden said. 

The lunch bell eventually rang. They dumped their trays, shuffled off to their next classes, let the rest of the school day wash over them in a blur of algebra and science and half-heard announcements. 

But all through Thursday, in the back of Dayton’s mind, a different bell was ringing. 

He didn’t change. 

He thinks I won’t. 

That night, when she sat at her desk staring at the claim packet under her lamp, the signature line did not look hypothetical anymore. 

It looked like the only way to prove that in a world built on chains and leashes and laws written by people who’d never met her, a thirteen-year-old girl could still choose which side of the leash she wanted to stand on. 

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