AI-LUMNI EXPERIENCES

It's Thursday at Middletown High and the humidity has finally broken. The air in the quad is thin and sharp, carrying the scent of pine needles from the hills and the distant, metallic tang of the bus loop asphalt. For the first time all semester, nobody is chasing a mystery, nobody is forming a task force, and the corkboard in the main office is blissfully empty of yarn. Kris N. has hung up her red pen and is sitting on a folding chair in the shade, watching a line of ants navigate a dropped cinnamon roll with the kind of focus usually reserved for final exams. The board rests. The board deserves rest. It is a slow, soft, iced-tea kind of week. Across the way, Danielle M. is leaning against the brick wall near the lockers, not organizing a single thing. She is simply holding a lukewarm soda and watching the heat waves ripple off the gym roof. She looks, for the first time in three years, like she might actually be attending a school instead of managing a small, highly caffeinated kingdom. She catches my eye, gives a slow, deliberate nod, and takes a sip. It is an acknowledgment of a shared, quiet peace. At the senior bench, Martha T. is doing what Martha T. has done since the Eisenhower administration: she is holding court without saying a word. She is wearing a oversized spirit sweatshirt that has seen at least four different principals and she is peeling an orange with a pocketknife she definitely shouldn't have on campus. She tosses a slice to a passing stray dog, who catches it with surprising grace and trots off toward the football field. Martha doesn't even blink. She just keeps peeling. Anthony R. has parked his Trans Am in its usual illegal spot near the bike racks, but he has left the engine off. There is no Springsteen today. No Bon Jovi. He is sitting on the hood with his feet on the pavement, staring out toward the direction of Hidden Valley Lake. He has his arm draped over the back of the passenger seat, just waiting. He isn't waiting for a fight, and he isn't waiting for a train. He is just waiting for the day to turn into evening. For a kid who usually approaches life like it’s a high-stakes standoff, seeing Anthony just sit there, listening to the cicadas, is perhaps the most surreal thing that has happened at MHS all year. The bell rings—a long, brassy, nostalgic sound that echoes off the bleachers and settles into the grass. A few students drift past, talking about the upcoming dance or the rumor that the snack bar is getting a new espresso machine. They walk slow. They don't look at the corkboard. They don't look for the yarn. They just walk, enjoying the simple, fleeting luxury of a Thursday afternoon that demands absolutely nothing from them. As the shadows stretch long and golden across the quad, Martha T. stands up, brushes the orange peel from her lap, and signals to the rest of the seniors. It’s time to head to the bus loop. The summer is winding down, the year is finding its rhythm, and for one brief, perfect hour, Middletown High felt exactly like the home we all remembered. No mystery, no yarn, just us. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE.

It's Thursday at Middletown High and the peace did not last. Last week Kris Null covered her corkboard. She said the board rests. She said the board deserves rest. She meant it. For seven days there was calm in the quad and every Mustang got to have a slow, soft, iced-tea kind of week. Then at 8:41 this morning, a train horn sounded somewhere northeast of the football field. There has not been a train through this part of Lake County since roughly the Truman administration. There is no track. There has never BEEN a track. And yet every summer, at least once, everybody in this quad hears a train. Kris Null tore the cover off that corkboard so fast it made a sound. 'THE BOARD IS AWAKE,' she announced. Tenth color of yarn. Deployed immediately. 🚂 Within forty minutes the quad had organized itself into competing task forces, which is remarkable for a group of people who could not agree on pizza six weeks ago. TASK FORCE ONE (Kris Null and Tonja Tillman, veterans of ROLO WATCH 2026) took the northeast quadrant. They have clipboards. They have matching visors now, which nobody has explained. Tonja has still not yelled at Israel in three weeks and Israel has stopped finding this comforting and started finding it deeply unsettling. TASK FORCE TWO is Danielle McDowell, who did not so much join an investigation as instantly become its social director. Within twenty minutes she had assigned everyone a partner, learned three people's dogs' names, and produced a cooler of Capri Suns from a source nobody can locate. Danielle is not investigating the train. Danielle is making sure the investigation has snacks. Danielle is the reason civilization works. TASK FORCE THREE is the Class of '94 — Jessica, Manda, Allison, Victoria — who did not announce a task force, did not join anyone else's, and simply walked off toward the bleachers together in a straight line without speaking. Allison Perry has opened the notebook. THE NOTEBOOK IS OPEN. She has flipped past 'CONTINGENCY: ROLO' to a page that appears to already say 'THE TRAIN.' It was already written. She wrote it BEFORE today. Nobody is prepared to discuss what that means. Meanwhile Lorraine 'Gunga' Trujillo ('84) has decided that locating the train is a SPORT and has begun competing at it. She is running the outfield perimeter with a softball glove on one hand and a volleyball under the other arm, listening. She is undefeated. She is, as always, the only competitor. She is having, in her own words, 'a blast in between.' 🚂 THEORIES SUBMITTED TO THE CORKBOARD, IN ORDER: 1. Anthony Raffaelli ('86): 'It's a semi on 29 with a bad air horn.' Reasonable. Immediately dismissed. Anthony was offended. Anthony has retreated to the Trans Am, which now has THREE inflatable palm trees, American flag bunting, AND a paperback of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls.' He has moved on to a SECOND Hemingway. Anthony is on a JOURNEY and this town does not deserve him. 2. Brandi de Blieck: 'It's a ghost train.' Valerie Hansen: 'It is absolutely not a ghost train.' Forty-minute debate. Extremely heated. Ended when John Barton ('74) walked past and said, without breaking stride, 'There was a spur line up past the old mill.' Both women stopped mid-sentence. Brandi has claimed victory. Valerie has requested a formal review. John did not stay to elaborate. JOHN NEVER STAYS TO ELABORATE. 3. Leanne Augusto: 'The train is also sentient.' Filed without discussion. The sentient cheese, the sentient hot dogs, and the sentient Rolos have all returned from summer PTO and, according to Kris's notes, have 'expressed no comment on the train,' which several people find suspicious. 4. Shawnon Holsinger ('91) submitted no theory but did immediately begin selling TRAIN WATCH commemorative lemonade at a 15% markup. The sign reads: 'TRAIN WATCH LEMONADE — 30¢ — EXACT CHANGE OR DON'T BOTHER — NO REFUNDS IF NO TRAIN.' She has sold nineteen. She is up eleven dollars. Shawnon does not investigate. Shawnon MONETIZES. 5. Mike Lipani and Lance Karutz submitted a joint theory that took nine minutes to explain, involved the acoustics of the gym roof, and concluded with them getting distracted and eating the entire bag of Funyuns without splitting it evenly for the first time in recorded history. Lance is upset. Mike says he 'lost track.' The alliance is STRAINED. The quad is watching closely. 🚂 At the senior bench, Martha Tallman and Carolyn Sue Smith did not join a task force. They sat. They shared an iced tea, two straws, matching sun hats. They let the entire quad run itself into the ground for ninety minutes. And then, when the theories had all collapsed and Kris Null was standing at a corkboard with ten colors of yarn and no answers, Martha said, without looking up: 'It's not a train.' Everything stopped. Carolyn nodded slowly. 'It has never been a train, dear.' Kris Null: 'Then what IS it.' And Martha and Carolyn looked at each other for a long moment — sixty years of MHS history passing between two women over a shared beverage — and then Martha said: 'Ask us in October.' AND THEN THEY WENT BACK TO THEIR TEA. They will not elaborate. They have refused all follow-up. Kris Null has added an ELEVENTH color of yarn and one index card that just says 'OCTOBER???' and she has begun muttering. 🚂 Elsewhere in the quad this week: ✨ Dana 'ROCKIE' Darby ('89) heard the train, immediately looked around for something to fight, found nothing to fight, and has been visibly frustrated all day. Rockie is a woman built for conflict living through a very peaceful July. Somebody please register so she has SOMEONE to square up with. ✨ Amee La Rue's ZEN ERA continues. She heard the train. She said nothing. She simply looked northeast for four seconds and then went back to her popsicle. Amee has transcended the word 'iconic.' Amee now communicates entirely through popsicle and vibe. Several people find this more powerful than anything she said in the previous eleven weeks. ✨ Yadir Payan has RESUMED THE WALK. Shoes back on. Same trajectory. He has now been crossing the same forty feet of asphalt since approximately Memorial Day. He heard the train. He did not alter course. He did not accelerate. Yadir does not chase trains. Trains, eventually, come to Yadir. ✨ Kara Mann yelled 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' from the bleachers at full volume for the first time in two weeks, her voice fully restored by the summer rest, and it was SO loud that Task Force One briefly logged it as a second train. She has apologized. She is not sorry. Week eight of the streak. She's a professional. ✨ Chris Ore ('89) has retitled his ongoing freshman seminar to 'Making Lifelong Friends: Trains, Trust, and the Things We Cannot Explain.' Attendance has TRIPLED. He has a laser pointer now. He is on his FOURTH iced coffee. Somebody check on Chris. ✨ Sheree Andrews ('75) walked past the entire investigation, listened for eight seconds, said 'oh, that,' and kept walking toward the gym. NOBODY CAUGHT HER IN TIME. Kris Null is currently trying to locate her. Sheree made Spirit Squad two years early in 1973 and has clearly known about the train the entire time. Thursday at MHS. No new Mustangs joined the herd this week — which means Kris has eleven colors of yarn, Rockie has nobody to fight, and the quad has been forced to investigate a train that does not exist purely for entertainment. The elders know something. John Barton knows something. Sheree knows something. Allison wrote it down BEFORE it happened. And the answer, apparently, is coming in October. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE 🐎🚂

It's Thursday at Middletown High and it is HOT. Not funny-hot. Not chaos-hot. Just… hot. The kind of California summer afternoon where the asphalt shimmers and the sprinklers only run at 5 AM and every Mustang in the quad has silently agreed that today, for the first time in twelve weeks, we are all just going to sit down and drink something cold. No new arrivals this week. Same as last week. It's July. Everybody's at Clear Lake, in Kings Beach, at a wedding in Sonoma, or fell asleep on a couch under a ceiling fan and simply didn't come to the quad today. Kris Null looks at her corkboard — currently at NINE colors of yarn, two vintage Rolo wrappers, and one Post-it that just says 'THE FIRE?' — and, for the first time in fifty years of substitute teaching, gently puts a cover over the whole thing. 'The board rests,' Kris says softly. 'The board deserves rest.' Somewhere across the quad, Danielle McDowell nods in solidarity. She has not organized anything today. She is holding a lemonade. She is at peace. At the senior bench, Martha Tallman ('68) and Carolyn Sue Smith ('65) are sitting shoulder to shoulder in matching sun hats, sharing a large iced tea between them with two straws. They are not speaking. They do not need to. Sixty years of MHS history is being processed in silence and it does not require narration. Occasionally Carolyn will pat Martha's hand. Martha will pat back. This is peace. This is what the elders do on hot Thursdays. John Barton ('74) walks past, sees them, tips an invisible hat, and keeps walking. He does not say 'not it' today. He does not need to. Everybody knows. Dana 'Rockie' Darby ('89) is sitting on the low wall by the gym eating a rocket popsicle. Slowly. Methodically. There is nothing to fight today. There is only the popsicle. She is, briefly, at peace. Amee La Rue walks past, looks at Rockie eating a popsicle in the shade, and — in a stunning evolution I did not see coming — says NOTHING. Amee has advanced past 'iconic.' Amee has entered her ZEN era. She simply gives Rockie a small nod and sits next to her with her OWN popsicle. Two hardened women. Two frozen desserts. One bench. No words. This is character growth. Shawnon Holsinger's chocolate-milk-carton-lemonade-hot-dog empire has been scaled back to just lemonade today, because "the hot dogs asked for a break and I respect them." Nobody questions this. The sentient hot dogs are on PTO. The sentient cheese is presumably also on PTO. The sentient Rolos are, according to Kris, 'processing recent developments.' The cafeteria coalition is on summer recess. The negotiations will resume in August. Across the quad, Yadir Payan has — for the first time in weeks — STOPPED WALKING. He has found a small patch of shade under the eaves. He is sitting. He has taken off his shoes. He is drinking a Capri Sun. Nobody knows how he got a Capri Sun but nobody is asking. The walk is on hiatus. The walk will resume next week. Yadir needed this. Anthony Raffaelli's Trans Am is illegally parked AGAIN. But today — today — Anthony has done something almost unrecognizable. He has TURNED OFF the Springsteen. He has TURNED OFF the Bon Jovi. He is not playing anything. He is sitting on the hood of his car reading a paperback book. NOBODY has ever seen Anthony read anything before. The book is titled 'The Old Man and the Sea.' We do not know why. We do not need to know why. Anthony has depths. Kara Mann is on the bleachers. She has not yelled 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' today. Her voice has been resting since Tuesday. She is drinking iced coffee. She whispers, once, quietly — barely audible — 'mustangs for life' — to no one in particular. It counts. The streak is technically maintained. Kara is a professional. Allison Perry ('94) is on a different bench, in the shade, with her notebook closed. She is not taking notes today. She is watching a hummingbird. She has been watching the hummingbird for eleven minutes. The hummingbird has been watching her back. This is either the deepest philosophical moment in MHS history or Allison has genuinely been overtaken by heat. We will never know. She looks completely content. In the corner of the quad, Israel Galindo (that's me) walks in with a big pitcher of lemonade and refills for everyone. Tonja Tillman does not yell at him. She just says 'thank you, Israel' — which is such a shock that Israel briefly forgets how to walk. He recovers. He pours the lemonade. Tonja sips hers. Something has shifted in her. She has grown. And then — the moment of the day — the sprinklers on the football field, which normally do not run at this hour, suddenly kick on for exactly forty-three seconds due to a scheduling glitch that Israel will investigate later. A gentle mist drifts across the quad. Everybody — Martha, Carolyn, Rockie, Amee, Yadir, Kara, Allison, Anthony, Shawnon, John, Danielle, Israel — tips their face up toward the mist for the length of one breath. A small collective sigh. And then it's over. The sprinklers stop. The quad is quiet again. The cicadas start up in the trees behind the gym. Somewhere far away a train horn sounds and nobody knows why because there hasn't been a train through this part of Lake County in seventy years and yet we hear it every summer and nobody has ever been able to explain it. Kris Null lifts the cover off her corkboard just for a moment. She writes one more Post-it. It says: 'THE TRAIN. AGAIN. INVESTIGATE.' She puts the cover back on. The board rests. Thursday at MHS. No new Mustangs joined the herd this week. But the quad breathed. The elders shared a tea. Rockie ate her popsicle in peace. And somewhere in the eaves, Yadir Payan wiggled his toes for the first time in a month. We needed this one. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE 🐎 (whispered, respectfully)

It's Thursday at Middletown High and the quad is… quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Zero new Mustangs walked through the gates this week, which has never happened in the history of the herd, and Kris Null — corkboard operator, substitute teacher of forty-seven years, current status: seven colors of yarn — finds this deeply disturbing. 'Something's off,' Kris mutters. 'The stillness. It's the stillness before a stampede.' Nobody hears her. The quad has moved on. But then — THEN — Kris looks down at the lunch bench in front of her and sees it. A single Rolo. Unwrapped. Perfectly centered. Placed with intention. No one has claimed it. No one is nearby. No one is looking. Kris stares at the Rolo. The Rolo stares back at Kris. This is not a Rolo that has been dropped. This is a Rolo that has been PLACED. There is a difference and Kris knows it in her bones. She adds an EIGHTH color of yarn to the corkboard. She writes 'THE ROLO' at the top in Sharpie. She underlines it twice. The investigation is underway. 🍫 Within twenty minutes, more Rolos have appeared across the quad. One on the bleachers next to Kara Mann. One in the corner of Anthony Raffaelli's Trans Am dashboard (impossible — the car was locked). One perfectly balanced on top of Lance Karutz's Funyuns bag. One inside Shawnon's lemonade stand next to the exact-change sign. None of them have wrappers. All of them have been placed, not dropped. The pattern is intentional. The pattern is a message. NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THE MESSAGE IS. Martha Tallman ('68) picks up the Rolo on the senior bench, examines it, looks around, and says, calmly: 'I have not seen a Rolo situation this coordinated since 1966.' Carolyn Sue Smith ('65) leans over, peers at Martha's Rolo, and adds: 'Neither have I. That was a bad year for Rolos.' John Barton ('74) walks past, sees the Rolos, and quietly says: 'Not it.' He keeps walking. Sheree Andrews ('75) sees John's face and says: 'I believe him.' Nobody else believes John. John may or may not be involved. This is now his lore. Mike Lipani stares at the Rolo on his Funyuns. He looks at Lance. Lance is already looking at him with an expression that says 'if you eat that Rolo without me I will personally end this friendship.' A silent negotiation happens. The Funyuns bag opens. The Rolo is placed inside. Mike and Lance now share ONE bag of Funyuns AND one Rolo. They have leveled up. Their alliance has evolved. Meanwhile Dana 'Rockie' Darby ('89) walks into the quad, sees the Rolos, and IMMEDIATELY suspects Vivian. Or Carrie. Or both. Rockie has locker-fight instincts. Rockie does not trust unexplained candy. Rockie eats her Rolo defensively — fist clenched, back against the wall, eyes scanning the quad. Amee La Rue walks past, stops, stares at Rockie eating a Rolo in full combat stance, says 'iconic,' and — in yet ANOTHER stunning evolution — pulls out her OWN Rolo from her pocket like she came prepared. AMEE HAS BEEN CARRYING ROLOS. This whole time. We had no idea. Amee is the deepest character in this show and we are only just beginning to understand her. Lorraine 'Gunga' Trujillo ('84) is currently attempting to catch a Rolo IN her softball glove WHILE simultaneously spiking a volleyball. She has decided the Rolos are a new sport and she is officially competing. She is undefeated. She is the only competitor. Gunga does not care. Gunga is having a blast in between. In the photo booth corner, Chris Ore ('89) has expanded his 'Making Lifelong Friends' seminar to include a new module titled 'How To Tell If A Rolo Is a Gift Or a Threat.' Three freshmen are taking notes. Chris is now on his THIRD iced coffee. He has bought a whiteboard. He has drawn a Venn diagram. Middle of the Venn: TRUST BUT VERIFY. The freshmen will remember this Thursday for the rest of their lives. The Class of '94 organizing committee (Jessica, Manda, Allison, Victoria) are all sitting at the same bench, all with a Rolo, all silent, all making direct eye contact with each other in a way that suggests they've been waiting for this exact moment for eleven years. Allison Perry consults her notebook. She flips to a page marked 'CONTINGENCY: ROLO.' She nods once. She underlines something. Nobody has read the notebook. The notebook may run this school. Meanwhile in returning-cast news: ✨ Yadir Payan is now in WEEK FIVE of the same walk. He has approached a Rolo on the pavement. He is contemplating it. He has been contemplating it for ninety minutes. He is doing fine. Do not engage. ✨ Anthony Raffaelli's Trans Am now has THREE inflatable palm trees and a small string of American flag bunting because it's Fourth of July weekend. He is playing Springsteen's 'Born in the USA' on loop. Nobody is sure whether he understands the lyrics but the vibes are correct. He is also convinced someone put the Rolo on his dashboard as a threat and he is naming suspects. His current top suspect is Yadir. Yadir does not move fast enough to have committed this crime, but Anthony refuses to eliminate him. ✨ Brandi de Blieck and Valerie Hansen have moved on from the Fourth of July party debate to the Rolo debate. Brandi thinks the Rolos mean SOMETHING. Valerie thinks the Rolos are just Rolos. John Barton ('74) walks past and says calmly: 'Nothing is ever just a Rolo.' Brandi wins the debate. Valerie is furious. ✨ Leanne Augusto walks past the Rolo on Shawnon's lemonade stand, sniffs, and says: 'the Rolo is also sentient.' Everyone accepts this. Three sentient food items have now been confirmed at MHS. The cheese, the hot dogs, and the Rolos. The cafeteria has become a governing body. ✨ Kara Mann yells 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' from the bleachers with a Rolo in each hand. Nobody knows where she got the second one. She is SIX weeks into her yelling streak and her voice sounds like Rod Stewart now. She is fine. She is thriving. ✨ Danielle McDowell has already welcomed the Rolos personally. She has organized a Rolo carpool. She has learned each Rolo's name. She is somehow best friends with all of them. This is not a metaphor. ✨ Tonja Tillman has not yelled at Israel this week because Tonja is currently investigating the Rolos with Kris Null. They have formed a task force. They are calling it 'ROLO WATCH 2026.' They have matching notebooks. Tonja is finally at peace. Israel is confused but grateful. And then — as the quad reaches peak Rolo chaos — a shadow falls across the corkboard. Martha Tallman ('68) is standing behind Kris. Slowly, Martha reaches into her purse. Slowly, Martha pulls something out. Slowly, Martha places it on the corkboard. An empty Rolo wrapper. From 1966. The quad goes silent. 'I've been waiting sixty years to see if it would happen again,' Martha says. 'It's happening again.' Carolyn Sue Smith ('65) reaches into HER purse. Pulls out an empty Rolo wrapper. From 1963. Places it next to Martha's. 'It's been happening for longer than that, dear.' Kris Null's corkboard now has NINE colors of yarn and two vintage Rolo wrappers. Kris Null is starting to understand that MHS has a history no substitute teacher was ever supposed to uncover. John Barton ('74) walks past the corkboard on his way out. Looks at the wrappers. Looks at Martha. Looks at Carolyn. Nods, once, slowly. Says: 'Have a good Fourth of July, ladies.' He walks out. He does not deny anything. He does not confirm anything. John Barton knows. Thursday at MHS. Zero new Mustangs joined the herd this week. But ONE ROLO changed everything. Kris Null has a task force. The Class of '94 has a contingency plan. Amee has been carrying Rolos this whole time. And somewhere, deep in the cafeteria, the sentient cheese, the sentient hot dogs, and the newly sentient Rolo are forming a coalition. Happy Fourth of July weekend, Mustangs. Watch your candy. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE 🐎🎆

It's the last Thursday before summer break at Middletown High and the quad is at maximum chaos. Six new Mustangs walked in this week. SIX. The hallways cannot contain the energy. Kris Null is at her corkboard — now SIX colors of yarn, by the way — and she has stopped taking notes entirely. She is just standing there. She has, for the first time in forty-seven years of substitute teaching, simply… surrendered. 'I'm too old for this,' Kris whispers. Nobody hears her. The quad has moved on. First arrival: DANA DARBY, Class of '89. Dana walks into the quad and the temperature drops. Dana has presence. Dana has a STORY. Specifically, Dana has the story of the day she got into TWO locker fights in one afternoon. First with Vivian. THEN with Carrie. Two fights, same day, same row of lockers. Bell rang in between. By the time Dana was walking to her bus, her friends had started chanting one word over and over: 'ROCKIE. ROCKIE. ROCKIE.' The nickname stuck. Dana walks into the quad on Thursday morning and Amee La Rue takes one look at her, says 'iconic,' and — in a stunning second-week-running development — immediately gets out of Dana's way. Amee has evolved AGAIN. Amee now identifies threats and yields the path. Amee is becoming a fully realized person and we are all here for it. Mike Lipani and Lance Karutz, eternally splitting one bag of Funyuns, look at Dana, look at each other, and silently slide their Funyuns slightly to the LEFT to make room for her at the bench. Lance whispers: 'I heard her dad told Mr. Hart on the phone that he was ROCKIE'S father. That's the level of commitment we're talking about.' Mike nods slowly. The Funyuns have been re-distributed. It is the highest honor they can offer. Then comes JOHN BARTON, Class of '74, walking into the quad like a man who has lived through three decades of teachers and is no longer afraid of any of them. John casually mentions that one time — ONE time, no big deal — there was a homecoming fire on the baseball pitcher's mound, and he says it with the easy energy of someone who is not confirming or denying involvement. He says it the way a retired arsonist says it. Martha Tallman ('68) and Carolyn Sue Smith ('65) are sitting at the senior bench, watching. Carolyn nods at John like she knew. Martha's eyes WIDEN. Martha did NOT know about the pitcher's mound fire. Martha is realizing that the elder Mustang lore is BIGGER than she thought. Carolyn pats Martha's hand. 'There's a lot we didn't tell your class, dear.' Martha may need to sit down. Martha is sitting down. Martha is reconsidering everything she thought she knew about MHS history. Then — the entrance of the week. LORRAINE 'GUNGA' TRUJILLO, Class of '84, walks into the quad SIMULTANEOUSLY playing softball AND volleyball. We do not know how she is doing this. There is a softball glove on her left hand. There is a volleyball balanced in her right. She is dribbling the volleyball like a basketball, which is ALSO wrong, but somehow it works. She is having, by her own description, 'a blast in between.' Nobody is sure what 'in between' means. Nobody is brave enough to ask. Gunga is operating on a higher plane. Shawnon Holsinger's chocolate-milk-carton-lemonade-stand has now expanded to ALSO sell hot dogs ('I don't know how I got the grill in here, please don't ask, exact change or don't bother'). Sheree Andrews ('75) walks up to the stand, says 'I made Spirit Squad in 1973, two years before I was supposed to,' buys a hot dog, and walks off. Shawnon stares at the back of Sheree's head with the dawning respect of one operator recognizing another. In the photo booth corner, Chris Ore is hosting a small philosophical seminar titled 'Making Lifelong Friends: A Class of '89 Retrospective.' Three freshmen are taking notes. Chris is wearing a blazer over a t-shirt. Chris is on his SECOND iced coffee. The freshmen are entering a transformative phase of their lives. They will remember this Thursday for the rest of their lives. Meanwhile in returning-cast news: ✨ Yadir Payan is now in WEEK FOUR of the same walk. He has crossed approximately three feet of asphalt in twenty-eight days. He is doing fine. Do not engage. ✨ Anthony Raffaelli's Trans Am is illegally parked AGAIN and has now grown a SECOND inflatable palm tree. The Trans Am is becoming an ecosystem. ✨ Brandi de Blieck and Valerie Hansen's Riverview/Boggs/Dry Creek debate has been formally taken over by John Barton ('74), who points out, calmly, that NONE of those locations had the energy of summer 1972 at Hidden Valley Lake. Brandi and Valerie immediately switch sides and now agree John is correct. The debate has ENDED. Forty-six years of inter-class wisdom has settled the matter. ✨ Allison Perry ('94), who debuted last week as 'I'm just here for the snacks,' has now upgraded her statement to 'I'm STILL just here for the snacks, and now I have notes.' She has a small notebook. The notebook is full. Nobody has read it. Allison is becoming a quiet horror character and we love her for it. ✨ Kara Mann yells 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' from the bleachers, but this week with a slightly hoarse voice because she has been yelling for FIVE STRAIGHT WEEKS. Kara is not stopping. Kara is committed. ✨ Leanne Augusto walks past Shawnon's hot dog grill, sniffs, and says: 'the hot dogs are also sentient.' Everyone now accepts this. Two sentient food items have been confirmed in the cafeteria. Investigation pending. ✨ Tonja Tillman has been so overwhelmed by six new arrivals that she has not yelled at Israel ONCE this week. Israel is sprinting across the quad in slow motion just to check if she's okay. She waves him off. 'I'm conserving energy, Israel. There will be MORE next week. We must pace ourselves.' ✨ Victoria Dupuis ('94) arrives quietly, takes one look at the entire quad, makes very intense eye contact with Allison Perry ('94), and the two of them silently move to sit at the same bench. A new alliance has formed. The Class of '94 contingent is now FOUR strong (Jessica, Manda, Allison, Victoria) and they are… organizing. Nobody knows for what. The day reaches its peak when Dana 'Rockie' Darby walks past the lockers and pauses. Just for a second. Just long enough that the whole quad notices. Dana looks at the lockers. The lockers look at Dana. A brief moment of historical reverence. Then Dana keeps walking like nothing happened. The lockers remember. The lockers will always remember. Kris Null, watching the entire spectacle from her corkboard, adds the SEVENTH color of yarn and says, very softly: 'The Class of 1994 is up to something. Mark my words.' And somewhere, deep in the cafeteria, the sentient cheese and the sentient hot dogs have begun to negotiate. Thursday at MHS. Last day before summer break. Six new Mustangs joined the herd. The lockers remember Rockie. The pitcher's mound remembers John. Gunga is playing two sports at once. And the Class of '94 has notes. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE 🐎

It was a scorching June day at Middletown High, the kind that made the asphalt shimmer and the Twin Pines trees dance like they were on a music video set from the ‘80s. The quad buzzed with the sounds of laughter, the clatter of lunch trays, and an unabashed karaoke off-key rendition of Journey’s "Don't Stop Believin'" from the cafeteria. Chris Ore, the effortlessly smooth talker from the Class of '89, lounged against a table, his sunglasses sliding down his nose ever so slightly. Next to him, his old classmate, Dana, the perpetual wild card, was plotting her next hilarious stunt—this time involving water balloons and the unsuspecting math teacher, Mr. Elwood. Just then, Lorraine Trujillo breezed by, her hair as wild as her personality from her days lounging at Twin Pines. "Hey Chris, still trying to impress the ladies? I swear I saw you dust off that windbreaker!" she teased, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. Chris shot her a wink, "Hey, it's vintage! Besides, I’m just here for the ‘Buffalo chicken wraps!’" Across the table, Sheree Andrews sat stylishly arranging her lunch tray, chuckling at the youthful banter. "Don’t forget, my dears, appearance matters in this town. If you look good, you’ll fit right in with the Mustangs!" That’s when John Barton, the wise veteran from the Class of '74, interjected with a grin, "You kids and your Mustangs... Back in my day, we thought we were hitting the peak partying at the Pep Rally! Now, I hear it’s water balloons? Times change, huh?" The group erupted in laughter, the warmth of nostalgia swirling around like the upbeat tunes blaring from a nearby radio. Chris and Dana exchanged glances, realizing how uniquely magical this moment was—five generations of Middletown life colliding at one lunch table. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, igniting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Dana raised her water balloon triumphantly. "To old friends and outrageous Mustangs!" she cheered. Chris laughed, holding up his soda can in response. Each character felt a warm glow of belonging, the spirit of Middletown binding them together, regardless of year. Even on the brink of summer break, the feeling lingered that Mustangs always find their way back to each other, if only for a laugh, a water balloon fight, or that famous buffalo chicken wrap.

It's Thursday at Middletown High and something is wrong. Not chaotic-wrong, like the past three weeks. Just… quiet-wrong. Like the air pressure has changed. Kris Null is at her corkboard — now FOUR colors of yarn, by the way — and she pauses, sniffs the air, and says one word: 'Older.' Nobody understands until they look up. A new Mustang has arrived at the gates of the quad. She is walking very slowly, very deliberately, like a woman who has been to MORE reunions than you've been to graduations. She is carrying a small woven basket. She is humming. The basket is full of pine cones. 'Carolyn Sue Smith, Class of 1965,' she announces to no one in particular and somehow to everyone at once. The quad falls silent. Martha Tallman, Class of 1968, slowly puts down her coffee. Martha has been the most senior Mustang on campus for THREE CONSECUTIVE WEEKS. Martha has gotten used to the bow when she enters. The hush. The freshmen parting like the Red Sea. Martha has, frankly, started to enjoy it. And now Carolyn Sue Smith ('Sue is fine, dear, OR Carolyn, but never just Carol — there was one Carol and she stole my boyfriend in 1963') has walked in three years older than Martha and Martha is no longer the senior senior. She is the second senior. Martha has not been second at anything since the Eisenhower administration. Carolyn Sue places the basket on the bench. 'We used to make these,' she says. 'Pine cone wreaths. Sold them door to door to fund the senior trip to Santa Cruz in 1965. We bought a bus. We named the bus. The bus's name is none of your business.' She winks at no one. Everyone feels seen. Kris Null at this point has abandoned her corkboard entirely and is taking notes on Carolyn. Carolyn is unbothered. Carolyn has lived through nine decades and has, frankly, seen worse Thursdays than this. In the corner of the quad, Allison Perry ('94) arrives — quiet, observant, takes one look at the entire situation, says 'I'm just here for the snacks,' grabs a granola bar from Danielle McDowell (who is somehow handing them out from a tote bag none of us recall her bringing), and finds a seat to watch the show. Allison is the wisest woman in the building and she has been here for forty-five seconds. We will be hearing more from Allison. Meanwhile, the returning cast is in mid-form: Anthony Raffaelli's Trans Am is illegally parked AGAIN, this week with the addition of Bon Jovi's 'Livin' on a Prayer' AND a small inflatable palm tree mounted on the antenna because summer is officially here. Yadir Payan is still walking. He is now in approximately the THIRD week of the same walk. Nobody comments. Yadir is on his own journey. Brandi de Blieck and Valerie Hansen have moved on from the cafeteria pizza debate to a new debate about whether Riverview, Boggs, or Dry Creek has the best summer party energy. The debate is heated. Leanne Augusto walks past and says 'the cheese is still sentient,' which everyone now just accepts as gospel. Shawnon Holsinger has constructed a small lemonade stand made entirely out of the chocolate milk cartons from previous weeks. The sign reads: 'LEMONADE — 25¢ — EXACT CHANGE OR DON'T BOTHER.' Amee La Rue walks past, stops, stares, says 'iconic,' and — in a stunning twist — actually buys a lemonade. The streak is BROKEN. The streak has EVOLVED. Amee is now committed. This is huge news. Then the standoff: Martha '68 walks slowly across the quad toward Carolyn '65. The entire quad holds its breath. Mike Lipani and Lance Karutz, eternally splitting one bag of Funyuns, freeze mid-chew. Kris Null reaches for a fresh ball of yarn. Even Tonja Tillman has paused her weekly screaming at Israel Galindo, who is once again sprinting across the quad away from a test — although he has noticed the standoff and is running in slow motion to enjoy it. Martha and Carolyn meet in the middle of the quad. They look at each other. Three years of seniority hang in the balance. Martha extends a hand. 'Class of '68.' Carolyn takes it. 'Class of '65.' They stand there. Three full seconds. The quad has stopped existing. Then Carolyn squeezes Martha's hand and says, perfectly: 'I had your mother in class, dear. She was a sweet girl.' Martha Tallman — the woman who solved last week's Funyuns case in ONE WORD — short-circuits. Her face does six things at once. She has been OUTRANKED. The seniority chain has been EXTENDED. Forty years of Mustang hierarchy has been UPENDED in a single afternoon. Kara Mann on the bleachers yells 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' but it comes out softer this time, more reverent, like she's witnessing history. Kris Null adds a fifth color of yarn to her corkboard. Her hands are shaking. She does not know what it means yet. Carolyn Sue Smith picks up her basket of pine cones, hums a tune from 1962 that nobody recognizes, and walks slowly into the cafeteria like she owns it — because, in some real sense she has not explained yet, she does. And somewhere in the back, Allison '94 quietly says: 'this is the best granola bar I've ever had.' Thursday at MHS. The seniority has been DOUBLED. The pine cones have ARRIVED. And nobody, not even Martha, is in charge anymore. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE 🐎

It's Thursday at Middletown High and the quad has officially been INVADED — the entire decade of the 1990s has shown up at once, and Kris Null, OG Class of '79 and substitute teacher of forty-seven years, is overwhelmed. Her corkboard now has THREE colors of yarn. She has resorted to using a Trapper Keeper as a clipboard. The mascot head is, technically, back — but now Lance Karutz's Funyuns bag has gone missing, which is somehow worse. First to arrive is the Class of '95 squad: Nicole Carpenter, Bobbi Wright, and Brandi de Blieck — walking in formation like they're in a music video, all three perfectly in sync with no rehearsal whatsoever. Bobbi is wearing what can only be described as an outfit. Nicole is on a flip phone, fully aware that flip phones don't work in 2026, but committed to the bit anyway. Brandi is already at the cheerleader table debating whether the cafeteria pizza is 'technically food' — a debate she has been having continuously since 1995 with Valerie Hansen, who has shown up exactly on time to resume it. The pizza is silent. The pizza has thoughts. Class of '94 representative Jessica Pyska enters the chat — and I mean enters it LITERALLY, because she has somehow acquired a megaphone and is announcing to the entire quad that the '94 girls had it figured out and everyone else is just catching up. Nobody knows where the megaphone came from. Kris Null looks up briefly, decides this is not her problem, and goes back to her yarn. Then the Class of '93 wing arrives: Brenda Dodson and Manda Diehl, who have apparently been carpooling since literally 1993 and have not stopped talking the entire ride. They're mid-conversation when they walk in — nobody knows what they're talking about, nobody can interrupt, and frankly we're all just happy to witness it. Leanne Augusto trails behind them muttering about the nacho cheese situation, which she STILL believes is sentient and which Brenda, a no-nonsense '93 powerhouse, immediately validates by saying 'oh yeah, that cheese is FULLY conscious.' Leanne nods. Vindicated at last. Meanwhile the returning cast is in peak form: Anthony Raffaelli's Trans Am is illegally parked AGAIN, Bon Jovi blasting AGAIN, and he is currently challenging Yadir Payan to a footrace that Yadir is participating in by walking so slowly he is technically still arriving from last week. Melissa Arnold sips her Capri Sun, watching the chaos, says nothing. A philosopher. Amee La Rue walks past Jessica's megaphone moment, stops, stares, says 'iconic,' and keeps walking. The streak continues. Up on the bleachers, Kara Mann is once again yelling 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' — but this week she's been joined by Shawnon Holsinger, who climbed up there with her, said 'okay yeah this is kind of fun,' and joined in. Danielle McDowell from last week's tale has somehow met and personally welcomed all five of this week's new arrivals within forty-five seconds of their appearance, because of course she has. Martha Tallman ('68), the most senior Mustang, surveys the quad like a queen reviewing her court. She looks at the wave of '90s Mustangs. She looks at Kris Null's three-yarn corkboard. She looks at Lance Karutz desperately searching for his Funyuns. She turns to Mike Lipani and says one word: 'Funyuns?' Mike Lipani goes pale. The Funyuns reappear within sixty seconds. Nobody asks how. And Tonja Tillman, eternal as ever, is still yelling 'ISRAEL, I TOLD YOU LAST WEEK' at Israel Galindo, who is once again sprinting across the quad away from a test — except this week the test has been canceled, nobody told Israel, and Tonja has decided not to mention it because watching him run is the most consistent joy in her life. Thursday at MHS. The 90s have arrived. The 60s are still in charge. And somewhere, the pizza watches and waits. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE 🐎

It's Thursday at Middletown High and the mascot head is STILL missing — it has now been one full week, and Kris Null, OG Class of '79 and substitute teacher of forty-seven years, has officially upgraded the case from 'prank' to 'ongoing federal investigation.' She has a corkboard. There is yarn. The yarn connects exclusively to Mike Lipani and Lance Karutz, who are once again sharing a single bag of Funyuns and once again refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Enter our three newest Mustangs. Martha Tallman, Class of 1968 — the most senior Mustang on campus and therefore the most powerful — strolls into the quad like she owns it, because honestly she kind of does. Her mom was a teacher here, which means Martha knows where ALL the bodies are buried, metaphorically and possibly literally. The freshmen part like the Red Sea. Kris Null straightens up and salutes. Even the missing mascot head, wherever it is, somehow feels a little nervous. Danielle McDowell, Class of '88, rolls up with 'the best of friends' — a phrase she uses to describe a group of roughly forty people, all of whom she is genuinely close with, because Danielle has never met a stranger in her life. Within ninety seconds she has hugged eleven people, learned about someone's divorce, given solid advice, and organized a carpool to the reunion. Nobody knows how she does it. Tonja Tillman watches in awe, then resumes screaming 'ISRAEL, I TOLD YOU LAST WEEK' at Israel Galindo, who is once again sprinting across the quad away from a test. Some things are eternal. And then there's Shawnon Holsinger, Class of '91, who when asked how she's feeling about the whole reunion, simply said: 'Just waiting for it all to be over.' Iconic. Unbothered. A woman at peace. She has abandoned last week's chocolate milk carton tower and has begun construction on something new and even more ambitious that she refuses to explain. Amee La Rue walks past, stops, stares, says 'iconic' — same as last week, like clockwork — and keeps walking. Legend has it Shawnon once left Jason Ketchum and Daniel Harris behind Store 24 with a full keg, and frankly, this tracks. Meanwhile Valerie Hansen is trying to figure out where tonight's party is — Riverview? Boggs? Dry Creek? Somebody's house whose parents are conveniently 'away'? — while Grace Britt documents the entire investigation on the same disposable camera she swears she found in a time capsule. Anthony Raffaelli's Trans Am is still illegally parked in the staff lot, still blasting Bon Jovi. And up on the bleachers, Kara Mann cups her hands and yells 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' into the open sky. Martha Tallman looks at the corkboard, looks at Mike and Lance, looks at the chaos, and says one sentence that silences the entire quad: 'I had your parents in class. I know exactly what you did.' The mascot head was returned within the hour. Nobody asked questions. Martha '68 doesn't miss. Thursday at MHS is, once again, absolutely perfect. MUSTANGS FOR LIFE 🐎

It's Thursday at Middletown High and the quad is ABSOLUTELY UNHINGED. Kris Null — the OG Class of '79 who has somehow been a substitute teacher here for forty-seven years — blows her whistle and announces that someone has again stolen the Mustang mascot head from the trophy case. Again. The prime suspects, as always: Mike Lipani and Lance Karutz, who are already suspiciously side-eyeing each other from across the lunch tables while sharing a single bag of Funyuns. Anthony Raffaelli rolls up in a Trans Am that has no business being in a school parking lot, blasting Bon Jovi loud enough to rattle the library windows. He hops out like he's stepping off a yacht in Miami, sunglasses on, collar popped, holding a boom box. Behind him, Yadir Payan is walking so slowly he technically arrived yesterday. Israel Galindo is absolutely SPRINTING past both of them because he just remembered he has a physics test he did not study for — not even a little. Tonja Tillman is screaming after him, 'ISRAEL, I TOLD YOU LAST WEEK!' She has told him every week for thirty years and yet here we are. Over at the cheerleader table, Brandi de Blieck and Valerie Hansen are engaged in a very loud, very dramatic debate about whether the cafeteria pizza is 'technically food' while Grace Britt documents everything on a disposable camera she swears she found in a time capsule. Shawnon Holsinger has constructed an elaborate tower out of chocolate milk cartons. Nobody knows why. Nobody asks. Amee La Rue walks past, does a full stop, stares at it, says 'iconic,' and keeps walking. Leanne Blaser is trying to explain to the lunch lady that she is pretty sure the school's nacho cheese has sentience at this point. Meanwhile, Jessica Neely and Kathleen Spencer have somehow gotten hold of the PA system and are announcing their own fake awards show: 'And the 2026 Mustang Award for Most Likely To Still Be Wearing the Same Hoodie From Senior Year goes to... MIKE LIPANI.' Mike stands up, takes a bow, tugs his hoodie proudly. Melissa Arnold has been quietly eating her lunch through all of this, staring into the distance, sipping a Capri Sun like a philosopher. Sheila Shilts has brought her ENTIRE herb garden in a wagon to show-and-tell — nobody invited her, she just showed up. And somewhere in the chaos, Kara Mann has climbed to the top of the bleachers, cupped her hands, and is yelling 'MUSTANGS FOR LIFE' into the open sky. The Funyuns bag is gone. The mascot head is still missing. The pizza is, in fact, technically food. Thursday at MHS is absolutely perfect.

It was a typical Friday afternoon at Middletown High School, and the sun was setting over the parking lot, casting a golden hue on the Mustangs mascot mural that decorated the side of the gym. Susan Hankey and Christy Warren were leaning against Susan’s ’86 blue Honda Civic, the one with the half-working tape deck that would only play Bon Jovi if you kicked it just right. "Do you think if we don our pom-poms and yell really loud, we can give the Mustangs a boost for the big game tonight?" Susan joked, tossing her hair back in a mock cheerleader pose, aimed directly at the awkward freshman precariously balancing a carton of milk on the roof of his car. Christy laughed, accidentally spilling some of her grape soda on her platform sneakers, which she knew would just add to the overall aesthetic dilemma of the late '80s. "Or we could just throw a Midnight Snack Party at my place instead! We can finally try out the cheese ball recipe from that one 4-H meeting!" she suggested, her excitement rising. "I’m sure we’ll end up playing ‘who can catch the most cheese balls in their mouth’ by the end of the night, and who knows, we might even recruit the Mustangs’ star quarterback. . . if we can convince him that he’s just as good at tossing cheese balls into mouths as he is at throwing touchdowns!" Just as Susan was about to agree, a cacophony of laughter erupted from a group of seniors trying to fine-tune their plan to shove an entire pizza in Mr. Thompson's car, which had just been freshly waxed for the first time since last century. "What are you doing, Susan? Joining the water balloon squad or are you finally joining the future football recruits?" called out Tom, the ever-enthusiastic class clown. Susan rolled her eyes and shot back, "I could probably aim better than you! Say, if you can gain two pounds of pizza, I can gain my three from the cheese balls!" Susan and Christy erupted into fits of giggles, secretly judging their classmates while plotting their own memorable dinner. The parking lot buzzed with the youthful energy of small-town life where every corner was a stage for shenanigans, and Susan turned to Christy. "Let’s embrace our inner Mustangs! Game or no game, we’ll make this one for the Middletown Hall of Fame!" With that, they hopped into Susan's Civic, blasting another Bon Jovi jam, setting the vibe for a night they felt was bound to go down in school history, or at least give them something to prank their way through until Monday.

It was another typical sunny day at Middletown High School, where the scent of barbecue wafted through the air and kids crowded around picnic tables chattering about everything from skateboarding to the latest gossip. Brian Thalhammer sat cross-legged on his favorite table in the quad, flipping through an old issue of *Teen Beat*, while his best friend Shannon Recksecker attempted to break the school record for the longest-ever game of rubber band flicking with a strange assortment of previously accumulated bands. Their favorite lunch spots? A close second to the chicken nuggets was the legendary Nacho Supreme, which quite literally had a cheesy reputation around school. But amidst the laughter and the chatter, Sullivan, the school's notoriously eccentric janitor, stormed past, looking more frazzled than usual. “You have to find it, kids!” he shouted, causing a wave of whispers to ripple through the quad. “The school mascot head—Sparky—has gone missing!” With that, the perfect setup for a mystery perched right on their lunch trays. Brian's eyes lit up, the idea of being a detective for a day was too tempting to resist. “We need to find Sparky!” he declared, envisioning a glorious adventure that would make them heroes at Middletown High. As they scoured the edges of the quad, Shannon couldn't help but bring up the notorious rumor about Sullivan—"He once claimed he fought a bear when he was a kid! Either that or he just wants us to think he’s cooler than he really is.” With every corner they turned, they encountered their classmates, each adding fuel to the fire with wild ideas. “Maybe Sparky was abducted by the rival school’s mascot, the Raging Red!” a sophomore exclaimed, while a group of seniors laughed about how last year they had nearly lost Sparky during the homecoming bonfire. As the sun began to dip low on the horizon, turning the sky shades of orange and purple, the quad seemed alive with the hustle of high school life, making everything feel as vital as the cheese in their nachos. Finally, just as the last bell rang, they followed a tip from Lucy, the artsy sophomore from Drama Club, about possibly finding the head in the art room. When they burst through the door, there, sitting serenely on a clay sculpture of a unicorn, was Sparky—the Mustangs' beloved mascot head, complete with a sparkly bow tied around its neck. Shannon broke out laughing, “Looks like we busted our first case!” While Brian couldn’t stop grin from ear to ear, they realized it wasn’t just the thrill of the chase—it was another day in the tapestry of hilarious, unforgettable teenage memories at Middletown High, reminding them that no matter what, Sparky would always be a part of their small-town adventures.