Chapter 15
The day had barely started when I got the news.
"Josh is spending the night," Dad said casually while buttering toast, like he was announcing we were out of orange juice.
"Josh?" I blinked. "Why?"
"He's your friend," he said. "His parents asked, I said yes. Figured it'd be good for you."
"Hey, I'm Jake, not Drake, you don't need to pair us" I murmured, so no one listened.
Friend was a generous word. Josh was... okay. We'd talked a few tis at school. He was one of those kids who always had cookie crumbs on his shirt and thought burping the alphabet was peak cody.
"Jake needs more friends," Alan chid in, clearly proud of his insight. "Real, in-person, age-appropriate friends."
That part I actually agreed with. I did need more people around , more friends. I just didn't think middle school kids were the answer.
Still, I nodded. No point in arguing—it was already settled.
Truth is, I'd long accepted that I didn't quite fit in. I had made a personal goal of transferring to high school by next sester. I never changed that plan because, frankly, sixth grade was comically easy. I finished assignnts in minutes and spent the rest of the ti reading while the teacher pretended not to notice. With all that free ti, I was learning to sing and practicing piano on the side.
But high school... that would require effort. I'd need to actually interact, engage, socialize. Otherwise, what's the point of skipping ahead if I'm just going to be the quiet, weird kid sitting in the back corner?
If I wasn't going to make real connections, I might as well stay put—where I could dominate the playground and outread everyone in class.
Still, Josh was coming over. Whether I liked it or not.
———
The next morning, after the "friends' night" we were sitting at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal and casually chatting. Josh was rambling about so ga he found—sothing about zombie villagers that could fly? I was mostly nodding along, half-listening.
That's when she walked in.
Cindy.
Wearing an oversized tee that hung slightly off one shoulder, she breezed into the kitchen like it was a runway. Josh instantly froze, his spoon mid-air, milk dripping onto the counter.
"H-Hey," he managed to croak.
"Morning, boys," she said with a casual smile, heading straight for the cabinets.
I kept it cool. "Looking for sothing?"
"Yeah," she said, crouching a bit to peer into the lower shelves. "Where does Charlie keep the paper towels?"
"Top cabinet," I replied, pointing.
She reached up, and as she did, her shirt lifted just enough to reveal the lower curve of her back—and the colorful butterfly tattoo inked on her right hip.
I smirked. "Not bad."
Josh, eyes wide and stunned, whispered, "Whoa."
And right on cue, Alan walked into the kitchen.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
"Whoa."
Cindy turned around, paper towel roll in hand, clearly oblivious to the small chaos she'd just caused.
"What?" she asked, confused.
I just sipped my orange juice like nothing happened.
"Nothing," I said smoothly. "Just appreciating the art of a well-tid entrance."
Josh still hadn't blinked.
Alan cleared his throat and put on his best parental tone. "Alright, Jake and Josh, it's ti to get dressed."
I raised a finger. "Wait a mont."
I turned to Cindy with a perfectly innocent expression.
"Cindy, I think I need a few of those plastic containers from that top cabinet," I said, pointing upward.
She gave a look, half amused, half curious. "Really?"
"Absolutely. Urgent cereal storage," I said, trying to look as serious as possible.
Cindy rolled her eyes with a smirk and reached up again, giving the room another display of her butterfly tattoo.
Josh nearly fell off his stool.
I leaned over and whispered, "Totally worth it."
Alan let out a long sigh. "Co on, let's go," he said, exasperated.
———
Later that day at school, our teacher gave us a simple assignnt.
"Draw sothing interesting you see around your house," she said, passing out paper and crayons.
I didn't even think twice—I sketched a piano. Clean lines, a little shading, nothing fancy.
Then I glanced at Josh.
He was hunched over his desk like he was working on the Sistine Chapel.
I leaned slightly, curious.
And there it was.
He was drawing a cartoonish rear end with a butterfly tattoo on the right cheek. Not subtle. Not abstract. A full-blown, no-holding-back Cindy-inspired masterpiece.
I should've stopped him. Warned him. Redirected him.
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I knew this was going to be hilarious.
And it was.
By the end of the school day, the drawing had made its way to the teacher, then to the principal, and finally... to Josh's parents.
That evening, they showed up at the house, stiff and awkward, holding the folded drawing like it was a biohazard.
Charlie greeted them at the door, still in a robe, hair tousled like he just woke up from a very enthusiastic nap.
"Hey, co on in," he said. "What's the—"
They didn't even wait. Josh's dad held up the drawing like it was evidence.
"Our son created this in class today."
Charlie looked at the drawing. Blinked. "The right cheek" murmured. Then turned slowly toward , one eyebrow raised.
He crouched slightly and murmured, "Why didn't you stop him?"
I shrugged with a perfectly straight face. "Because that would've ruined the fun."
Charlie stared at for a second... and then covered his mouth to hide a laugh.
Josh's mom did not find it funny.
The conversation that followed was a blur of awkward tension, disapproving looks, and Charlie trying to sound responsible while clearly biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Later that evening, after the chaos had finally settled, I returned from my vocal lesson feeling... energized. My voice coach had pushed harder than usual, and my throat was sore in a good way (only gods know what a bad way ans). Progress.
But the second I stepped onto the front porch, I paused.
There, sitting on one of the patio chairs, was Cindy.
And across from her, laughing and sipping wine—was my mom.
Cindy twirled her hair around her finger while leaning in close. My mom? She was blushing.
I blinked.
Well, that's new.
Charlie was inside on the couch, half-watching TV. I walked in slowly, tossed my backpack down, and leaned against the wall.
"Hey, Uncle Charlie," I said casually. "Isn't that the girl you're into... right there?" I nodded toward the porch. "And she's with my mom."
Charlie looked up, then craned his neck toward the window.
There was a long pause.
Then I added with a grin, "The day just keeps getting funnier and funnier."
This ti, Charlie didn't laugh.
He just gave a long, deadpan stare.
A very unimpressed, not-amused, completely-defeated stare.
And that, sohow, made it even better.
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