The morning sun was already bright, promising another warm California day. Claire Dunphy's minivan idled in the driveway, the engine humming.
Aman walked out of the duplex, backpack slung over one shoulder. He opened the sliding door and climbed into the backseat next to Luke, who was trying to jam a juice box straw into the pouch with aggressive force.
"Morning everyone," Aman said, buckling his seatbelt.
everyone greets back .
"Hey," Luke grunted, finally piercing the box and squirting juice on his shirt.
Aman looked toward the front. Claire was gripping the steering wheel like she was piloting a fighter jet through turbulence. In the passenger seat sat Alex.
Or rather, someone who resembled Alex, but dipped in ink.
She was wearing a black long-sleeve shirt (despite the heat), a dark skirt, and enough black eyeliner to supply a My Chemical Romance tour.
"So..." Claire said, her voice pitched a little too high, maybe trying to point to her and a little desperate to be casual. "Alex. Big choices today. With the... aesthetic."
"She looks like a vampire," Luke stated, wiping apple juice off his chest.
"Luke, honey, don't say that," Claire said through gritted teeth. "It's creative! It's... bold."
Aman leaned forward slightly, checking the rearview mirror.
"It's a look," Aman noted, keeping his tone light.
Alex whipped her head around, her dark eyeliner making her glare even more intense.
"It's not a 'look,' Aman," she snapped. "And it's not practical. It's who I am now. It represents the void of the suburban existence."
"Okay!" Claire chirped, slamming the gas "Void of existence! Sounds great! Let's get to school before I drive into the ocean!"
Aman " hey i quite like the aesthetic . "
Claire look at rear mirror " Aman not helping ."
===
INT. PALISADES HIGH - HALLWAY - AFTERNOON
The bell rang, signaling the transition between periods. The hallway was a river of noise—slamming lockers, shouting students, and the squeak of sneakers on linoleum.
Aman was navigating the crowd, heading toward AP History. As he passed the side exit near the science wing, he spotted two figures trying to blend into the shadows.
One was Alex. The other was a girl with chopped black hair and combat boots (Sam). They were moving fast, heads down.
"Hey," Aman called out, his voice cutting through the noise.
Alex froze. She spun around, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Aman walked over, stopping a few feet away.
"Where are you going?" Aman asked, raising an eyebrow. "Alex, don't you have History with me right now?"
Alex stammered, clutching her bag tight. "No... nowhere. I was just... going to the washroom."
Aman leaned back against the lockers, crossing his arms. He didn't buy it for a second.
"Liar," Aman smirked. "Running away to the circus?"
Alex's defensive walls slammed up. She dropped the whisper and glared.
"We're going to the house," she hissed. She pointed to Sam, who was chewing gum aggressively. "We're cutting our hair. Sam knows how to do layers. Don't tell Mom."
Aman looked at Sam's hair, which looked like it had been cut with a lawnmower. Then he looked at Alex's hair which were good.
"Right," Aman said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen casually.
"I don't know..." Aman mused, looking at the device. "Claire might want to know. She seemed really invested in your 'void' this morning."
Alex's eyes went wide. Panic flashed across her face.
"Aman, don't," she pleaded. "Seriously. She'll freak out."
Aman held the phone for a beat longer, letting her sweat. Then, he laughed, sliding it back into his pocket.
"Relax," Aman said, pushing off the locker. "I'm not a narc."
Aman waive bye turned and walked toward class.
Alex stood there for a second, blinking. She looked at Sam.
"Your cousin is weird," Sam said.
"Yeah," Alex muttered, relief washing over her. "Let's go."
==
The history class was going om.
Sunlight poured in through the tall windows on the left wall, the kind that didn't warm so much as expose—dust motes floating lazily in the air, catching the light like evidence. The room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and old paper, the scent of a place where history was discussed but never truly felt.
Posters lined the walls in uneven rows.
The French Revolution—all red banners and guillotines.
World Wars I & II—black-and-white soldiers frozen mid-march.
The Civil Rights Movement—faces caught between defiance and exhaustion.
Above the whiteboard, half-faded and curling at the corners, a quote clung stubbornly to the wall:
"History is written by those who survive it."
Aman sat in the back-middle row, notebook already open, pen resting neatly between his fingers.
His gaze drifted diagonally, one bench up and to the side.
Olive Penderghast.
She sat relaxed in her chair, one leg hooked casually around the metal rung beneath the desk. Her pen lay idle across her notebook, untouched, as if she already knew she wouldn't need it. She looked like Emma Stone.
Olive was facing forward, listening to the teacher, but her eyes flicked sideways once—just once—and caught him looking.
They lingered.
Not hostile. Not shy.
Assessing.
At the front of the room, Mr. Griffith—late forties, tweed jacket, the faint air of a man who enjoyed hearing himself think aloud—clapped his hands once to gather attention.
"Alright," he said, pacing slowly. "Let's wake up."
A few students shifted. Someone yawned without bothering to hide it.
Mr. Griffith smiled faintly, like he'd expected that.
"History," he said, drawing the word out, "doesn't just make villains."
He paused.
"It also manufactures saints."
That got a little more attention.
Aman leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes returning to the front, though his awareness stayed split—half on the lecture, half on Olive, who had stilled completely now.
"Today," Mr. Griffith continued, turning to write on the board, "we're talking about Joan of Arc."
The name landed without ceremony.
"No angels descending from heaven," he went on. "No glowing halos. Let's be very clear about what she actually was."
He turned back to face the class.
"A teenager," he said, ticking off fingers.
"Poor."
"Illiterate."
"And—most importantly—politically useful."
A few students blinked at that.
Aman didn't.
He'd heard this story before.
Saints weren't born they are made by people .
From the corner of his vision, he saw Olive shift again. This time, she turned her head fully toward him.
Her voice was low, pitched just beneath the teacher's cadence.
"Hey," she murmured, eyes flicking briefly to the front before settling back on him. "You're going to burn a hole in my head if you keep staring like that."
Aman blinked, caught—but not embarrassed.
"Sorry," he whispered back. "I don't mean to be rude."
Her eyebrow lifted slightly.
"But you mean to stare?"
A fraction of a second passed.
"Yes," Aman said honestly. "I think I've seen you somewhere."
She studied him now, openly, like she was flipping through mental files.
"No," Olive said flatly. "You don't."
The certainty in her tone made him smile despite himself.
"Alright," he said. "You got me."
That did it.
The corner of her mouth curved—not mocking. Just amused. A recognition smile. The kind exchanged by people who knew what it was like to be talked about instead of talked to.
They both turned forward again as Mr. Griffith cleared his throat.
"For your assignment," the teacher said, writing deliberately, "you'll be reading The Scarlet Letter."
A groan rippled faintly through the room.
He ignored it.
"Not," he added, underlining the title, "as a morality tale."
He paused. Let it breathe.
"But as a rehearsal."
The bell rang before anyone could respond.
Chairs scraped back. Zippers hissed. Conversations bloomed instantly, drowning the room in noise as students packed up and filtered toward the door.
Aman closed his notebook without having written a single word.
As he stood, Olive passed by his row, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She didn't stop—but she slowed just enough to glance sideways.
Then she was gone, swept into the current of students.
Aman remained for a moment longer, eyes drifting back to the faded quote on the wall.
==
INT. MITCH & CAM'S DUPLEX - DINING ROOM - NIGHT
The mood at dinner was subdued. Mitchell and Cameron looked like they had just returned from a war zone, while Lily was happily eating spaghetti.
"So," Aman said, twirling pasta on his fork. "How was the day?"
Cameron let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"The playdate?" Cam asked, his voice hollow. "It was... informative."
"It was awkward," Mitchell corrected, reaching for the wine.
"I tried to serve quiche," Cam recounted, looking at Aman with wide eyes. "A beautiful spinach and gruyere quiche. And you know what they did? They pulled out a bag of 'raw flax crackers.' They brought their own snacks, Aman! To my house!"
"Maybe it's time we stop serving quiche," Mitchell muttered into his glass.
Cam shot Mitchell a look—hurt, but silent. He turned back to Aman.
"And then there was the judgment," Cam whispered. "Pam... she's a carpenter. Or she builds decks. Something involving wood. She walked around the living room . And she act tough in front of me ." cam raising his hand " hello farm born ."
"It's a thing," Mitchell said. "Some lesbians... they see gay men as... well, sissy. Like we can't handle the hardware."
"I can handle hardware!" Cam protested. "I grew up on a farm! I've birthed a cow!"
"Did you tell them that?" Aman asked.
"I tried to lighten the mood!" Cam said, throwing his hands up. "I told a joke. I did the snort, Aman. The pig snort. It kills at parties. And they just... stared at me."
Cam shuddered at the memory.
"Susan asked if I had sinus issues. Sinus issues! It was humiliating."
INT. MITCH & CAM'S DUPLEX - LIVING ROOM (CONFESSIONAL)
Mitchell is sitting alone on the sofa. He looks directly at the camera.
MITCHELL " Cam is spiraling. He's obsessing over these small things because he has nowhere else to put his energy."
(He gestures to the empty house)
MITCHELL "Lily is off to Kindergarten all day. And Aman? He's entirely self-sufficient. The kid could his own taxes and i wont be surprised . So Cam has... a lot of time."
(He pauses, a lightbulb going off)
MITCHELL " Maybe... Cam needs a distraction. A job!"