Dayton: The Junior Guardian Chronicles: Episode 41

Ezra stayed still and quiet as Dayton worked, because being noticed in this room had become a kind of danger. 

Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind that came with yelling or punishment or a hand slamming down. The quieter kind. The kind where someone glances at you and decides what you are, and that decision sticks. 

He sat on the hard laminate surface of Dayton’s desk, legs tucked beneath him because the desk was slick and the posture was stable. The “Little sit” wasn’t a choice so much as physics dressed up like etiquette. Sit like this or risk tipping. Sit like this or draw attention. Sit like this and you look “trained,” which was apparently the closest thing to “safe” he had left. 

The surface beneath him held a faint warmth, leftover sun that had streamed in earlier. It was a nice lie. Under the thin heat was plastic. Under the plastic was the reality that he didn’t belong at a desk anymore. He belonged beside a laptop, in a designated spot, like a pencil case. 

Fifth period. Computer Arts. Ms. Darquartz’s kingdom of storyboards and file names and cheery rules. 

A digital clock in the corner of the whiteboard blinked 12:43 PM. The numbers were bright and indifferent. Each minute passed with aching clarity. 

Around him, the room hummed. 

Keys clacked. Trackpads clicked. Someone’s mechanical pencil clicked in that compulsive, maddening way that would have gotten them a look from him back when he still had the height to enforce one. Somewhere nearby, Cheez-It dust and cafeteria ranch clung to the air like ghosts of lunch. The classroom had that particular school smell too: dry Expo marker, warm electronics, and the faint citrus of sanitizer that never quite covered anything. It just added a top note. 

Nicole was humming under her breath, some pop hook that had been stuck in everyone’s head since homeroom. Her lip gloss caught the light when she smiled at something Hayden whispered. Hannah was already three tabs deep and pretending she wasn’t. 

And Dayton… Dayton was working. 

That bothered him more than almost anything. 

She wasn’t gloating. She wasn’t playing to the room. She wasn’t making him perform. No forced apology tour. No “Say it again, louder.” No public humiliation beyond the fact of his existence. 

She had simply placed him here. 

Her Little. 

And then she had moved on, like he was a responsibility properly handled. 

Not forgotten. Not the way you forget your homework or your locker combination. Forgotten in the way you forget a seatbelt once it clicks. You don’t think about it again unless it fails. 

Ezra glanced up at her. 

Dayton’s head was bent over her laptop, hair falling like a curtain along one cheek. Today she had those oversized white sleeves pulled over her knuckles, the kind she always wore when she wanted to look soft while being absolutely ruthless. They were probably some expensive fabric he would have silently judged in the past, back when his job included judging everything about everyone in the name of “rigor.” 

Her fingers moved with precision. Trackpad. Click. Drag. Drop. Resize. Her eyes flicked from template to rubric to her own slide deck without hesitation. Efficient. Capable. The cursor blinked like a tiny metronome measuring his fall. 

She wasn’t even thinking about him. 

The realization landed in his chest like a small, ugly stone. 

This morning, she’d stood in his classroom while SEA agents spoke over his head like he was already less than fully present. She’d signed what they put in front of her like she was born to it. She’d held him in her palm with cool certainty. She’d answered for him when Ms. Darquartz tried to speak directly to him. She’d drawn boundaries with the kind of calm that made adults obey. 

Now she was highlighting text on a storyboard slide and typing bullet points into her notes, lips pressed together in concentration like she had a test to ace. 

The irony made his jaw tighten. 

Dayton Harris, the girl he’d singled out for precision, for “black-and-white” grading, the student he’d demanded more from because he’d refused to let her coast… was now outworking half the class while he sat beside her laptop like a decorative warning label. 

The desk trembled slightly when she shifted in her chair. Not an earthquake. A reminder. A gentle quake that said: You exist at her scale now. 

Ezra tried not to look at the other students. It didn’t help. Their attention had a gravity of its own. 

Some were watching him the way you watched an exhibit you didn’t want to admit fascinated you. Quick glances. Whispered confirmations. A little shiver of disbelief that hadn’t fully settled into normal yet. 

“That’s Mr. Rhys.” 

“No, that’s him, like actually.” 

“Bro, the tag—” 

They’d all seen Littles. But this was different. This was personal. This was seeing the adult world cracked open and rearranged by a kid they sat next to in math. 

His collar itched in his mind. 

Not physically. Mentally. Conceptually. The jingle of the charm was a constant punctuation mark at the end of every thought. 

He could still feel Dayton’s thumb brushing his shoulder earlier, not to hurt him, not to shove him, just to nudge him back into place without thinking. The lack of malice was what made it sting. If she were cruel, he could hate her cleanly. If she were mocking him, he could cling to indignation like a life raft. 

Instead, she was competent. 

And he was managed. 

“Okay, quick reminder!” Ms. Darquartz called from the front, voice bright as a ring light. She drifted between rows like a game show host who’d decided education needed more sparkle. “Your storyboard is communication. Think of it like… texting your future self. If it doesn’t make sense, you’re gonna be mad at you later.” 

A few kids laughed. Hayden did, too, and Ezra felt the vibration of it through the desk. 

Ms. Darquartz continued, cheerful and firm. “And if you’re using Canva, make sure sources go in the footer. No floating images without text anchors. I can tell when you’re just vibing.” 

Ezra didn’t look at her. 

He didn’t want to see her face again after earlier, after she’d asked if he needed anything and Dayton had answered for him like he was a pet at the vet. 

Ms. Darquartz had accepted it. She’d nodded and moved on because what else could she do? There were rules. For students. For Littles. For teachers. 

Especially for teachers. 

Dayton’s elbow bumped her laptop and nudged Ezra an inch left. 

She didn’t notice. 

Didn’t say sorry. 

Didn’t glance down. 

He steadied himself automatically, palms flattening for balance, then forced his hands back into his lap. He sat straighter, as if posture could still mean something. As if sitting like a person could make him one. 

He tried to imagine what he would’ve said if he still had authority. If he still had height. If she were still “Dayton Harris,” the girl who raised her hand at the exact halfway point of every lecture and argued about comma splices like it was sport. 

Now she was doing better. 

And he was silent. 

The corner of her laptop lid had a sticker Ezra hadn’t noticed before. Pink and shimmery, the kind of thing you’d find at a boutique store in SoHo and pretend you didn’t care about. 

CHANGE THE WORLD, EVEN IF THEY TELL YOU NOT TO. 

He hated how sincere it felt. 

Dayton clicked. Copied a paragraph from the template. Pasted it into her slide. Adjusted font. Cropped a photo. Everything she did was clean, controlled, like she was already practicing adulthood. 

She doesn’t need me anymore, he thought bitterly. Not as a teacher. Not even as a trophy. 

His stomach gave a small residual growl, a soft ache left over from pellets and water. He shifted his weight and stopped himself. Movement felt like asking for attention. 

Attention meant validation. 

Or correction. 

Or a command. 

Invisible was safer. 

“You guys,” Hayden hissed from the desk in front of Dayton, “if my Canva crashes again I’m literally throwing my laptop into the Hudson.” 

Nicole snorted quietly. “Girl, it’s because you have like twenty-seven animations.” 

“I’m making it cute,” Hayden whispered back, offended. “We need flair.” 

“Flair is how you fail,” Hannah added, deadpan, eyes still on her screen. 

Dayton’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. 

Ezra felt it through the desk. 

And still she didn’t look at him. 

The clock ticked over to 12:47. 

Ezra stared down at the polished surface beneath him. In it, he could see the faint reflection of himself. Smaller than ever. A tiny shape tucked in beside a laptop, collar glittering faintly like a cruel accessory. 

His name had once been on a door plaque. 

Now it jingled from a tag on a girl’s wrist. 

And she wasn’t even looking. 

Then Hayden twisted halfway around in her chair again, bored-mischief practically vibrating off her. She squinted at Dayton’s face like she was conducting a serious investigation. 

Dayton didn’t look up. “Hayden.” 

“I’m just checking,” Hayden whispered, solemn like a doctor delivering a diagnosis, “because you remember what we said earlier.” 

Nicole’s mouth twitched. Hannah’s eyes flicked up, already anticipating the bit. 

Dayton’s fingers paused over the trackpad for half a second. “No.” 

Hayden nodded gravely, then put on the most ridiculous, overly respectful voice she could manage, the one that made it sound like she was addressing a queen. 

“Ma’am,” she said, barely audible, “your lip gloss is expired.” 

Nicole immediately covered her mouth with her sleeve, shoulders shaking. Hannah made a noise that was half laugh, half choke. 

Dayton finally looked up, eyes narrowing, trying to be stern and failing because her mouth betrayed her with the smallest smile. “It is not.” 

“It is,” Hayden insisted, whisper-urgent. “It’s a safety hazard. It’s basically… malware.” 

Nicole lost it silently, a wheeze trapped behind her hand. “Malware—” 

Hayden nodded fiercely. “Digital citizenship. Expired gloss is like… compromised security.” 

Dayton’s laugh slipped out, quick and quiet, the kind of laugh she tried to swallow but couldn’t. She shook her head and flicked her cursor back to the storyboard. 

“Focus,” Dayton whispered, still smiling. “Before Ms. Darquartz makes us write a reflection on lip gloss hygiene.” 

Hayden grinned. “Ma’am, that reflection is overdue too.” 

Dayton’s smile widened despite herself. 

And Ezra sat still beside her laptop, watching them turn the day into something survivable with a joke. 

For a moment, the room felt lighter. 

Not because anything had changed. 

Because thirteen-year-old girls had a talent for pulling laughter out of wreckage. 

Ezra stayed quiet. 

But the laugh, small as it was, landed in him like a strange kind of permission. 

To keep breathing. 

To keep sitting. 

To keep existing in the margins of Dayton Harris’s screen. 

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