Chapter Text
The morning air in Springfield, Oregon, is crisp and biting on February 28, 2019. The sun hasn't quite crested the horizon, but the line outside the Android’s Dungeon is already snaking around the block. For seventeen-year-old Lisa Simpson, the atmosphere is a jarring mix of high-fantasy whimsy and a heavy, unspoken trauma that feels like it’s vibrating beneath her skin.
It's currently Homer’s month with the girls, a routine established years ago during the divorce. He stands in the driveway of his bachelor-leaning home, struggling to pull a tight, scaly green cowl over his head. He is "Lord Evilton," a snake-like shapeshifter with a penchant for dramatic pauses and a distinct lack of a nose, a parody of the cinematic Voldemort that he insists on calling "The Wizard of No-No." Beside him, Lisa adjusts her crimson-trimmed sweater. She is dressed as Angelica Button, sporting a grey pleated skirt and a sharp, charcoal-toned cape. In her hand, she grips a plastic wand like a lifeline.
Her face is bare—no glasses for this heroine—but her eyes are weary; the image of Martin Prince tumbling over the cliff edge at the National Park just a week ago still flickers behind her eyelids every time she blinks.
"Lisa, quit moping!" Homer booms, his voice muffled by the latex mask as he leans against his car. "Today is the day! Angelica Button and the Dragon King’s Trundle Bed drops at 6:00 AM. T.R. Francis didn't write seven-hundred pages of magical exposition for you to stand there looking like you just saw a ghost."
"I'm trying, Dad," Lisa whispers, her voice thin.
At seventeen, the midnight release isn't something she feels she's outgrown; it’s a sacred rite. This series is her sanctuary, the one place where logic and justice eventually prevail—a stark contrast to the chaotic, jagged reality of the cliffside. She’d even texted Bart and his boyfriend, Bob, knowing they were casual fans of the series, hoping a group outing might ground her. Bart had sent back a "maybe next time" that felt like a door slamming shut. He’s nineteen now, living across town, trying to navigate his own silent version of the post-cliffside shellshock.
Elsewhere in town, in their own home, Marge and her wife, Ruth Powers, are likely already busy with their own morning. Ruth’s daughters, twenty-one-year-old Laura and seventeen-year-old Allison, usually have the kitchen in a social-media-fueled frenzy of brunch prep and Instagram scrolling. But here, in Homer’s driveway, it’s just the three of them.
Eleven-year-old Maggie is ready to go. She’s firmly in her "rebel phase," wearing a denim jacket and a scowl. She refuses the wizard hat Marge sent over in her weekend bag, but she grabs her satchel, signaling she’s tagging along—mostly to get out of the house and away from the suffocating tension that seems to follow Lisa and her father lately. True to her lifelong oral fixation, she has a cherry-red sucker tucked into the side of her mouth, the plastic stick protruding at a defiant angle as she rolls her eyes at Homer’s costume.
The bookstore is a frenzy of energy. After securing two pristine copies of the Trundle Bed—one for reading and one for the archival shelf—Homer checks his watch. "Alright, girls, I'm out. I’ve got a date with the Jerkytorium."
Lisa knows what that means. In a secret, soundproofed room in the basement of the local meat processing plant, Homer, Lenny, and Carl have a clandestine operation involving high-grade steamers and various cuts of flank—a place where Homer’s boyfriend, Chief Clancy Wiggum, pretends doesn't exist. Bart knows about it too, but since the incident, he doesn't even crack a smile at the absurdity. Homer peels off in his car, leaving the girls at the bookstore.
Lisa turns to Maggie, clutching her book to her chest. "Hey, Mags? Want to go find a quiet corner and read? I can read the first chapter out loud, like we used to. T.R. Francis says the world-building in this one is next level."
Maggie shifts her sucker from one side of her mouth to the other with a loud clack against her teeth. She looks at her sister, then at the door where a group of preteens—Hudson, Corduroy, and Gerald—are waving her over. "I have plans, Lise. Literal plans," Maggie says, her voice deepening with pre-teen autonomy.
She walks away without a second glance. Lisa watches her go, a cold lump forming in her throat. She realizes Maggie never even bought a copy of the book. The childhood she thought they shared is evaporating. Alone and feeling the weight of the week's trauma pressing in, Lisa ducks into the Springfield Rec Center. As a member, she has her own locker. She swipes her card, pulls out her street clothes—a simple orange dress and her signature pearls—and stuffs the Angelica Button costume into the dark corner of the locker.
As she closes the door, a flyer on the bulletin board catches her eye: Chazz Busby’s Ballet Academy – Auditions Today. She remembers a story Marge once told her, a bittersweet memory of pink tutus and lost dreams. Marge had to quit ballet because her balance shifted when her bosoms started to grow, one significantly faster than the other. Lisa, feeling a sudden, desperate need to be someone else—someone graceful, someone who doesn't watch people fall off cliffs—walks toward the dance studio.
The studio smells of rosin and sweat. Lisa stands on the sidelines, watching the seasoned dancers. Chazz Busby, a man who looks like he was sculpted out of caffeine and disappointment, paces the floor.
He stops, his eyes locking on Lisa. "You! The one with the geometric hair! Your posture... It’s not the usual slouch of the modern teen. It’s... acceptable. Step forward."
Lisa moves to the barre, feeling small under Busby's clinical gaze. She finds herself standing between two women who radiate experience. The younger one looks over, her eyes hidden behind dark shades. "I'm Aurora," she says, her voice like velvet. She’s twenty-four, ethereal, and terrifyingly thin in her lilac leotard. "Welcome to the meat grinder."
The older woman on Lisa's other side stretches a leg with effortless precision. "Nan," she grunts, her sharp bob swaying. She’s forty, dressed in sleek Malibu Stacy corporate-branded athletic gear, looking like she’d rather be running a boardroom than doing pliés. "And don't mind her. Aurora thinks we're in a tragedy. I'm just here to keep my core from collapsing."
"I'm Lisa," Lisa offers, her voice trembling slightly.
She looks at Nan again, tilting her head as a sense of déjà vu washes over her. "Nan... you look so familiar. Are you... Are you Buddhist? Do I know you from the temple?"
Nan snorts, stretching a hamstring. "Please. I don't have the patience for sitting still. My brother and his husband are the spiritual ones. Lenny and Carl Leonard-Carlson. They’re the ones into the whole Zen thing."
The pieces click into place in Lisa's brain. The family trees, the holiday cards. "I know! You married Herb Powell! My half-uncle Herb!"
Nan smiles, a genuine, crooked thing. "That I did. Small world, isn't it?"
Lisa's heart races at the connection, though the moment is cut short as the audition begins. Lisa is, predictably, a disaster. She is a girl of the mind, not the body. Her feet are heavy, her rhythm is off, and she feels the familiar "clunky" sensation that has plagued her since she was a toddler.
During the mid-audition break, she retreats to the back alley, shoulders slumped. Aurora is there, leaning against the brick wall, a slim white cigarette held between slender fingers. She looks at Lisa's trembling hands.
"You're tight, honey. You want to dance like the wind, or you want to keep dancing like a refrigerator?"
"I... I'm just stressed," Lisa says.
"Nicotine," Aurora says, exhaling a plume of grey smoke. "It’s how we stay thin. It’s how we stay fast. It centers the nerves. Want a drag?"
Lisa knows the risks. She knows the science. But she also knows the image of Martin Prince falling. She wants the world to stop shaking. She takes the cigarette. She inhales deeply, the acrid smoke burning her throat, before a sudden, sharp clarity washes over her. The world turns high-definition. Her heart rate settles into a steady, driving beat. Lisa takes another long drag, and Aurora finishes the rest of the cigarette once Lisa hands it back. Lisa then wanders into the backstage area, her head spinning with a strange, artificial confidence.
In the corner of the dressing room, she finds a large, comfortable crate. Inside sits a regal, thick-furred cat.
"That's Pyotr," Nan explains, appearing behind her. "Found him at the shelter last month. He’d been there a year. I like giving things a second shot at life when the world has given up on them."
"He's beautiful," Lisa says, her voice sounding different to her own ears—sharper, more focused.
The bell rings for the second half of the audition. Lisa steps back onto the hardwood floor. The music starts—a fast, demanding Tchaikovsky piece. This time, Lisa doesn't think. She moves. Her leaps are higher, her turns are crisp, and her balance is impeccable. As she spins, she realizes with a terrifying sort of joy that she’s found her secret weapon. It isn't magic, and it isn't the Dragon King’s Trundle Bed. It’s the nicotine. And for the first time in a week, she feels like she can actually fly.