AN: This will be a relatively short fic. Nothing too serious. Just a non-serious AU. This fic can also be found on AO3.

Chapter One: July

The sun is ruthless. If Laurie were to touch her head, she'd probably burn her hand, but she doesn't try it because her hands are occupied, cradling a paper bag. Beside her, a cheap paper fan beats against her mother's chest spotted with sweat. Mr. Myers treads behind his wife, attention fixed on the ground.

The family walks through a dirt path, overgrown with weeds that brush Laurie's ankles.

They are dressed in their finest Sunday clothes, but it isn't even a Sunday. In fact, it's a Friday. July the 4th. She promised Annie they'd buy sparklers this afternoon before they're sold out, but as she glances at her watch the short hand has just passed 2.

Laurie sighs, and her footsteps begin to scrape the ground, picking up rocks, kicking up dirt.

"Stop dragging your feet, missy," her mother chided, then turns her chin over her shoulder and asks, "Honey, how far away is it?"

"Almost there," her father replies. Still watching the ground his feet pass over. Still pretending he isn't actually where he is. These visits have been ongoing for the past thirteen years, but it agonizes her father to walk through here every time.

A hand grabs Laurie's shoulder. It's cool, and it squeezes. Laurie stops and looks at her mother, whose demure smile is forced. Tight.

"What do we do, Laurie?" she asks lightly, then tight eyes sweep down to the tombstone at their feet.

Wordlessly, she unravels the top of the paper bag and reaches inside. Silky petals kiss her fingertips. Her hands grabs the bouquet, holds it out. If Laurie's boyfriend displayed these to her a week before prom, she'd probably feel flattered. If Laurie had a boyfriend and if the circumstances were different. These are meant to be presented to someone who's alive.

Laurie bends down and lays them on the stone. Their colors do it no justice, but as she looks at her parents with their proud, sad smiles, they are fooled into thinking it has.

But, Laurie knows better.

Their colors do it no justice.

Certainly, not for someone who is dead.

Her hands trace the letters of the headstone.

"Happy fourth, Judy."