The October sun bathes Ella's backyard in a warm glow, the air filled with the scent of grilled burgers and freshly cut grass. Streamers flutter from the patio, and a folding table groans under chips, soda, and cupcakes. Ella's mom darts around, adjusting balloons, her face flushed with effort. "Mom, slow down," Ella says, trailing her with a stack of paper plates. "You're gonna collapse."

"I'm just getting everything set," her mom says, straightening a tablecloth. "Guests are coming, including that Navy lady." Ella rolls her eyes. "I know. But this isn't a Quinceañera or Sweet 16. We're only 14—not a huge deal." Her mom insists, pausing to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, "You girls *are* a big deal. You'd be surprised how many people in town love you. You're practically famous. I want this to be perfect."

Ella, half-teasing, half-serious, replies, "Perfect for you, you mean. Nobody cares if a napkin's crooked. And just as many people hate us as love us—trust me." Her mom sighs, deflating. "Fine, I'll calm down. Help me set out the food. We'll bring the cake later—I don't want the dogs knocking it over." Helana leans in, whispering, "Sisters, turn off your telepathy, like I showed you. Parties get loud in your head—people's thoughts turn mushy, and it can make you sick."

The party hums to life as guests arrive: neighbors, a few classmates, and family friends. Some linger, chatting over snacks; others drop off gifts and leave. A rental car pulls up, and a woman in her early sixties steps out, her silver hair catching the sunlight. She introduces herself as Melanie Crenshaw, her smile wide and warm. Melanie crosses the yard, enveloping the girls in hugs and kisses. "I've wanted to meet you in person!" she exclaims. "You're as gorgeous as I imagined."

Ella's mom frowns. "I thought you were their instructor?" Melanie responds smoothly, "I was, but only via video. This is my first time seeing their faces up close, giving them hugs." The doorbell rings, and Ella's mom hurries to answer it. She returns with a single red rose in a vase, her expression puzzled. Eileen asks, "Someone sent a flower? Just one?" Her mom holds up a note. "It's for Helana. From a Bobby—Bobby Miller, I think."

The girls freeze, their faces paling, eyes wide as if they've seen a ghost. Ella's mom asks, "Do you know him? He seems old for you." Ella urges, her voice tight, "Mom, read the note!" Her mom hesitates. "It's addressed to Helana. You should read it privately, in case it's personal." Helana, her English now flawless, says softly, "No, it's okay. Read it, please."

Ella's mom clears her throat and reads aloud:

Helana stares, her eyes welling with tears. Without a word, she bolts, sprinting upstairs and slamming her bedroom door. Eileen and Roxana follow, their footsteps quick. Ella's mom, stunned, says, "Wow. Is she happy or mad? I can't tell." Ella explains, her voice heavy, "Mom, Helana's not ready for romance. We've watched a million rom-coms, so it's no big deal for us. But this hit her like a truck. She's reacting on instinct, no filter."

Her mom winces. "You're right. I didn't think. I'll talk to her." After persistent knocking, the girls let Ella and her mom into the guest room. Helana sits on the bed, clutching Roxana's hand, her face streaked with tears. Ella's mom sits beside her. "Honey, I'm sorry this hit you so hard. Do you know this boy?" Eileen answers, "She doesn't. She's seen him, likes him. I think her heart's pierced too."

Helana’s voice breaks. "I don't know how to handle this. It hurts so much. I want to run to his house, hug him, kiss him, stop him from leaving. Liking him from afar was okay, but knowing he likes me back—it's too much. Does it always hurt like this?" Ella's mom says gently, "It's complicated. Matters of the heart are intense, often painful, especially at your age. First, if you love him, let him go. Don't block a man's path—you'll lose. Second, don't chase him. I've seen friends do that and end up struggling, their dreams lost."

Ella frowns. "Mom, don't diss those women." Her mom clarifies, "No disrespect. But getting involved too young can steal your future. My advice: don't wait for him. He won't wait for you. You'll meet others who make you feel this way. Someday, if you're married and see him, smile, say hi, and keep walking. Don't risk a good life for a high school crush."

She looks at all the girls, her voice firm. "Listen carefully—this is crucial. The most important decision you'll make is choosing your children's father. When a man takes your breath away, it's easy to forget that. Don't." Helana nods, still tearful. "Thank you, but it doesn't help." Eileen smirks. "Good thing I didn't get that rose. I'd be chasing him right now." Ella grins. "No, you wouldn't. I'd tackle you first."

Ella's mom says, "Let's get back to the party. Roxana's mom is handling guests alone. Helana, cheer up. Something magical happened today—cherish it, even if it hurts." Helana replies quietly, "I'll stay here. I'm not feeling festive."

As the party winds down, the girls, their parents, Commander Beaker, and Melanie gather in a small Navy office downtown, the room stark with fluorescent lights and metal chairs. The adults sip coffee, while the girls fidget, the day's emotions lingering. Mr. Danvers leans forward. "What's ONI?" Beaker explains, "Office of Naval Intelligence. ONI runs an intern program for college graduates in administration, computer science, engineering, IT, and intelligence. There's a high school extension, offering college credit. Melanie's an instructor and wants the girls in Saturday classes."

Eileen groans. "Saturday? No way." Mr. Danvers says, "Hold on. Let's hear them out." Mrs. Danvers, her voice sharp, says, "Those skills sound like spy training. I'm not comfortable with that." Melanie responds, "It may seem that way, but not for high schoolers. There's no military obligation. These skills benefit any career, serving the national interest. Your girls score off the charts on Navy assessments—intelligence, achievement. They're exceptional. We want to nurture that, invest in our country's future."

Roxana's mom, half-joking, says, "You make it sound like they'll save the world." Beaker replies, "They, and kids like them, might have to. Our generation's made a mess of things." Ella cuts in, skeptical. "You're overselling this. How many Saturdays? Morning, afternoon, or all day? Just us or other students? Where's it held? And is there pizza?"

Melanie laughs. "Six weeks, here at the high school, just you four for now. Two hours morning, two afternoon, pizza in between. We might finish early." Ella says, "I'm into engineering, IT. But my sisters aren't. What's for them?" Melanie explains, "No need to specialize yet. We teach fundamental skills—applicable to science, social studies, politics, even religion. There's something for everyone."

Roxana, wary, asks, "Fundamental skills? Like math? I hate math." Melanie clarifies, "Not algebra or geometry. New assessment methods, almost like math, but fun." Ella's mom says, "We'll discuss it with the girls." Ella jumps in, "I'm in. Saturday TV's boring, and movies don't start till seven. Free pizza's a win. But it's up to my sisters."

Helana says, "If Ella goes, I'm going." Eileen adds, "I'll go if my girls are. But I want wings with my pizza." Roxana pouts, "Now I'm feeling left out. I'll go, but I want fried zucchini, breadsticks, onion rings." Beaker chuckles, "Let's rent the pizza parlor's conference room instead."

Late that night, Ella sits at her desk, the house quiet, moonlight spilling through her window. She opens her diary, her heart heavy with worry for Helana.