Thank you!!
Distortion
The handle was very, very cold beneath her gripping fingers, shaking as they opened the car door. She didn't lift her eyes off of the scene before her, leaving her 600 LT Mclaren running , the keys dangling form the ignition like the words of shock dangled in her throat. Every step she took toward her home was painful, and the breathing that accompanied them was labored. This couldn't be.
"Ma'am?" one of the many members of Emergency response asked, approaching her with caution. She turned to him, dark eyes moist. He recognized her emotion and swallowed. "Ma'am, are you-"
"-What happened to my home?" she interrupted, adjusting the collar of her blouse. The fireman blew out a long breath, releasing tension for both of them.
"There was a fire, Ma'am."
She looked to the firetrucks. The plumes of smoke billowing from the roof, the collapsed beams, the charred walls. "No kidding, Sherlock."
The fireman glowered but regained his resolve and looked to her car with an impressed nod. "Sweet ride."
"What does my car have to do with the fact that my house has burned to the ground?" she snapped, agitation increasing. She needed to keep her calm. Focus on the good. But this...this was too much. Her hand slid into her pocket instinctively, and she stroked the cool screen of her phone with her fingers, replicating the shortcut pattern. A small beep emanated, but nobody seemed aware of it besides her.
"You're Ms. Kadam?" someone called. She glanced to the side and saw another officer approaching-a sleek, professional woman maybe fifteen years her senior.
"I am," she answered, chewing her lip as the flames grew higher. Sirens sobbed in her ears, expressing anguish she herself had no current ability to express.
"I'm sorry about what happened, Ms. Kadam," the woman said, though her tone made it quite obvious this had no affect on her emotions and it was merely business as usual. She held her hand out curtly, her manicured fingernails glimmering in the light of the sirens. "I'm Teresa. Teresa Phillips. Lead cybercrime investigator at NYPD."
Kadam raised her eyebrows. "Cybercrime?"
Phillips nodded. "We have conclusive evidence that this was caused by a bomb, Ms. Kadam. A remote-detonated bomb."
Kadam swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. She tried to prevent the tears from falling. She had to remain composed, at least in this moment.
"So, cybercrime?" she muttered. "That's, what, crimes committed with computers. Right?"
Phillips nodded again, pressing an earpiece to her earlobe. "Exactly. I'm certain you're aware how concerning a bomb is. Do you have any idea why one would be planted in your home?"
Kadam shook her head, allowing a tear to fall when she could no longer contain it. "I'm not exactly a primary target."
Phillips pursed her lips and tucked a lock of her rich brown hair behind her ear as she lifted a briefcase and set it on the hood of Kadam's car. She seemed unconcerned about the damage it could cause to the vehicle's shine.
"I see from your papers you work at a grocery store?" Phillips queried, glancing back at the fireman who watched intently.
"Yes," Kadam replied in a broken voice. "That's my only job."
Phillips sighed and retrieved some papers from the case, smoothing them before handing them to Kadam. "I see you have no insurance?"
Kadam muffled a sob in her hand, wiping back a hair that stuck to her face, damp with tears. "No. None."
Phillips laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, looking into her eyes. She was still stern and direct in her gaze, but something twinged. "You're twenty-one, correct?"
Kadam sighed. "Yes."
"And you owned this home."
"Yes."
Phillips raised a neatly trimmed eyebrow. "That's an awful lot of money for your age and occupation. And this car-" she looked to the Mclaren and looked back to Kadam, her expression speaking for itself.
"My parents are wealthy," Kadam explained, shuddering at the thought of requesting funds from them.
This is your fault. Your money, your accomplishments. Fix it on your own.
She'd heard it before.
Phillip's walkie-talkie buzzed and she turned it down, whispering into her mouthpiece. She turned from Kadam for a few seconds before returning to the conversation. "Can they cover any of this damage?"
Kadam shook her head, more tears falling as her shoulders began to shudder, her eyes puffing. "No."
Phillips nodded, understanding. "Listen, hon, they're are ways to fix this. But right now we need you to come to NYPD. We have to investigate this."
"Do you think-" Kadam's irrational fear broke through as logic faded. "-could it be terrorists?"
Phillips smiled a little, which eased Kadam's fears. "I doubt it. We need to consider the area of town we're in. Bombings are unfortunately common here." Her voice deepened as her eyes did the same. "However, I can't say why your humble abode would be selected as the next victim. That I must admit."
Kadam let her eyes drift from the investigator and over to the turmoil that she'd been summoned home from work to witness. How many firetrucks? Two, or three? And officers everywhere.
"What kind of bomb was it?" She knew the question would be odd. But Phillips responded immediately. "A very basic dynamite bomb detonated by a not-so-basic detonator."
Kadam shoved away the emotions still assaulting her and inquired further. "So the detonator survived?"
Phillips smiled. "Smart girl. Yes, it's entirely intact." She pointed to a group of investigators packaging something in the yard, stepping around fallen wood beams and metal. "They're going to test it. Track it to its source."
Kadam nodded. That meant it must still be sending out a signal. She pressed her thumb against her phone screen and completed another shortcut. The device vibrated, and her Apple Watch beeped once. Phillips looked to it in alarm.
"It's time for me to take my medication. Luckily, those are in the car. Not the house. Or what was once the house."
Phillips began to answer, but her walkie yelled at her and she groaned.
"Coming over, Patterson. 10-4." She provided Kadam with a sympathetic look. "Good luck, hon. Officer Leroux can escort you to the station, if you need."
Kadam smiled with a weak lift to the sides of her mouth. "I would rather not go to the station."
Phillips pressed her mouthpice to her lips and cleared her throat. "Leroux, escort summoned for victim."
A muffled reply sounded and Phillips closed the briefcase, removing it from the lid of the car. Kadam searched for a scar or scratch but found none.
"You can get in and we'll head out." Phillips turned and began to walk away, her heels clicking against the pavement. Kadam grabbed her arm firmly, fingers damp with perspiration.
"I don't want to go to the station."
Phillips laughed. "You want us to investigate? You need to come and file a final report."
Kadam frowned. "Do I have to come tonight?"
Phillips rubbed her forehead. "That would certainly be proffered, but no."
Kadam nodded. "Then I'll come tomorrow."
Phillips chewed her lip, eyes narrowed. "Why so hesitant?"
Kadam sensed a red flag. What, was the officer suspicious of HER? What did she think she'd done, set off the bomb herself? It certainly wasn't insurance fraud.
"I'm tired and I don't see the point in pressing the matter further."
Phillips scoffed, defiant. "You don't want to criminal brought to justice?"
Kadam shuffled her feet and looked to the road. "I don't see the point."
Phillips backed away some, knowing she needed to return to her group. Her eyes were trained on Kadam, searching her. Kadam couldn't guess what for.
"Very well then," the investigator finally decided. "Your choice."
"I promise that if I change my mind, you'll see me at the station tomorrow," Kadam assured, her tone quiet. "Right now, I just need to get some sleep."
"And where do you intend to do that?" Phillips asked, glancing at the house.
"My parent's house."
Not wishing to answer anymore questions, Kadam stepped to her car and slid into the driver's seat, shaking uncontrollably. She let tears fall from her eyes, trickling off her chin and into her shirt, absorbed like rain from the clouds seeping into soil. She kept her dark eyes on the team outside her home-what was once a home-before buckling the seat belt in and shifting into drive. Her foot, still shaking, eventually found the pedal, and she gradually pulled away, locking eyes with Phillips before pulling off the dark street and onto the main road. Now the adrenaline kicked in, and her foot slammed onto the accelerator. The car lunged forward, roaring to life, houses with broken windows and stores with shady characters flying past her side windows. She paid them no mind, and swerved onto the road leading out of the neighborhood, not utilizing her brakes. She spotted the speed limit sign-a lousy twenty five- and exceeded it by forty miles per hour, the tears dried to her cheeks.
Only four minutes had passed when she spotted lights ahead-another vehicle? No. The freeway. The ramp leapt out of nowhere, and she ripped the wheel the opposite direction, shooting between two graffiti-ed brick buildings until she was snugly hidden in the dark alleyway. She did a brief scan of the area before nodding and pulling her phone from her pocket.
"Lockdown," she ordered.
"Lockdown initiated," the device replied in a voice identical to her own. The doors of the vehicle slid down and the windows flashed with a bright light, confirming they were dimmed on the outside but entirely transparent from the interior. Kadam cracked her neck and turned the radio knob all the way. A laptop slid out from the hidden compartment and she opened it instantly, logging in with the retina scanner.
Step one: Find the detonator. it was easy to do, its signal still incessantly resonating. Tracking officer Phillips via her phone, she quickly found the bomb. According to the screen it had been detonated an hour ago, mere minutes before the office called her home to witness everything go up in smoke-literally.
Anger flooded her mind and she tasted blood from biting her tongue so hard. Who would do this? Why?
Her fingers flying over the keyboard, she tracked the detonator to its control point. That was harder, since there was enough cover-up to take hours for the average programmer to locate. Lucky her. She wasn't average.
When she activated the map, the location shocked her. There, the bleeping red dot over the town identified her attacker's location. She knew this was the real place from where it had been controlled-she'd searched and found multiple off-trails attempting to distract her from the truth.
But the truth was here before her. And it hurt.
She pressed her finger against the dot, her lip trembling not from fear, but from anger. So apologies meant nothing, then? She worried she'd break the keyboard from the force of her typing as her face grew hot from fury. He thought he was something special. Someone who could play a game she couldn't win. Most likely because he'd beaten her before. She was determined to NEVER let HIM win anything against her. Or anything at all.
He said he was done with it. She almost believed him. Now, after what move he'd just made, she couldn't have been more thankful she promised to return.
Because she most definitely would.
"Alright, Rydell," she whispered, a smile that tasted delicious on her lips, making her eyes glitter like the code on the screen before her. "If it's a game you want, then by all means, let's play."
"Ma'am?" one of the many members of Emergency response asked, approaching her with caution. She turned to him, dark eyes moist. He recognized her emotion and swallowed. "Ma'am, are you-"
"-What happened to my home?" she interrupted, adjusting the collar of her blouse. The fireman blew out a long breath, releasing tension for both of them.
"There was a fire, Ma'am."
She looked to the firetrucks. The plumes of smoke billowing from the roof, the collapsed beams, the charred walls. "No kidding, Sherlock."
The fireman glowered but regained his resolve and looked to her car with an impressed nod. "Sweet ride."
"What does my car have to do with the fact that my house has burned to the ground?" she snapped, agitation increasing. She needed to keep her calm. Focus on the good. But this...this was too much. Her hand slid into her pocket instinctively, and she stroked the cool screen of her phone with her fingers, replicating the shortcut pattern. A small beep emanated, but nobody seemed aware of it besides her.
"You're Ms. Kadam?" someone called. She glanced to the side and saw another officer approaching-a sleek, professional woman maybe fifteen years her senior.
"I am," she answered, chewing her lip as the flames grew higher. Sirens sobbed in her ears, expressing anguish she herself had no current ability to express.
"I'm sorry about what happened, Ms. Kadam," the woman said, though her tone made it quite obvious this had no affect on her emotions and it was merely business as usual. She held her hand out curtly, her manicured fingernails glimmering in the light of the sirens. "I'm Teresa. Teresa Phillips. Lead cybercrime investigator at NYPD."
Kadam raised her eyebrows. "Cybercrime?"
Phillips nodded. "We have conclusive evidence that this was caused by a bomb, Ms. Kadam. A remote-detonated bomb."
Kadam swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. She tried to prevent the tears from falling. She had to remain composed, at least in this moment.
"So, cybercrime?" she muttered. "That's, what, crimes committed with computers. Right?"
Phillips nodded again, pressing an earpiece to her earlobe. "Exactly. I'm certain you're aware how concerning a bomb is. Do you have any idea why one would be planted in your home?"
Kadam shook her head, allowing a tear to fall when she could no longer contain it. "I'm not exactly a primary target."
Phillips pursed her lips and tucked a lock of her rich brown hair behind her ear as she lifted a briefcase and set it on the hood of Kadam's car. She seemed unconcerned about the damage it could cause to the vehicle's shine.
"I see from your papers you work at a grocery store?" Phillips queried, glancing back at the fireman who watched intently.
"Yes," Kadam replied in a broken voice. "That's my only job."
Phillips sighed and retrieved some papers from the case, smoothing them before handing them to Kadam. "I see you have no insurance?"
Kadam muffled a sob in her hand, wiping back a hair that stuck to her face, damp with tears. "No. None."
Phillips laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, looking into her eyes. She was still stern and direct in her gaze, but something twinged. "You're twenty-one, correct?"
Kadam sighed. "Yes."
"And you owned this home."
"Yes."
Phillips raised a neatly trimmed eyebrow. "That's an awful lot of money for your age and occupation. And this car-" she looked to the Mclaren and looked back to Kadam, her expression speaking for itself.
"My parents are wealthy," Kadam explained, shuddering at the thought of requesting funds from them.
This is your fault. Your money, your accomplishments. Fix it on your own.
She'd heard it before.
Phillip's walkie-talkie buzzed and she turned it down, whispering into her mouthpiece. She turned from Kadam for a few seconds before returning to the conversation. "Can they cover any of this damage?"
Kadam shook her head, more tears falling as her shoulders began to shudder, her eyes puffing. "No."
Phillips nodded, understanding. "Listen, hon, they're are ways to fix this. But right now we need you to come to NYPD. We have to investigate this."
"Do you think-" Kadam's irrational fear broke through as logic faded. "-could it be terrorists?"
Phillips smiled a little, which eased Kadam's fears. "I doubt it. We need to consider the area of town we're in. Bombings are unfortunately common here." Her voice deepened as her eyes did the same. "However, I can't say why your humble abode would be selected as the next victim. That I must admit."
Kadam let her eyes drift from the investigator and over to the turmoil that she'd been summoned home from work to witness. How many firetrucks? Two, or three? And officers everywhere.
"What kind of bomb was it?" She knew the question would be odd. But Phillips responded immediately. "A very basic dynamite bomb detonated by a not-so-basic detonator."
Kadam shoved away the emotions still assaulting her and inquired further. "So the detonator survived?"
Phillips smiled. "Smart girl. Yes, it's entirely intact." She pointed to a group of investigators packaging something in the yard, stepping around fallen wood beams and metal. "They're going to test it. Track it to its source."
Kadam nodded. That meant it must still be sending out a signal. She pressed her thumb against her phone screen and completed another shortcut. The device vibrated, and her Apple Watch beeped once. Phillips looked to it in alarm.
"It's time for me to take my medication. Luckily, those are in the car. Not the house. Or what was once the house."
Phillips began to answer, but her walkie yelled at her and she groaned.
"Coming over, Patterson. 10-4." She provided Kadam with a sympathetic look. "Good luck, hon. Officer Leroux can escort you to the station, if you need."
Kadam smiled with a weak lift to the sides of her mouth. "I would rather not go to the station."
Phillips pressed her mouthpice to her lips and cleared her throat. "Leroux, escort summoned for victim."
A muffled reply sounded and Phillips closed the briefcase, removing it from the lid of the car. Kadam searched for a scar or scratch but found none.
"You can get in and we'll head out." Phillips turned and began to walk away, her heels clicking against the pavement. Kadam grabbed her arm firmly, fingers damp with perspiration.
"I don't want to go to the station."
Phillips laughed. "You want us to investigate? You need to come and file a final report."
Kadam frowned. "Do I have to come tonight?"
Phillips rubbed her forehead. "That would certainly be proffered, but no."
Kadam nodded. "Then I'll come tomorrow."
Phillips chewed her lip, eyes narrowed. "Why so hesitant?"
Kadam sensed a red flag. What, was the officer suspicious of HER? What did she think she'd done, set off the bomb herself? It certainly wasn't insurance fraud.
"I'm tired and I don't see the point in pressing the matter further."
Phillips scoffed, defiant. "You don't want to criminal brought to justice?"
Kadam shuffled her feet and looked to the road. "I don't see the point."
Phillips backed away some, knowing she needed to return to her group. Her eyes were trained on Kadam, searching her. Kadam couldn't guess what for.
"Very well then," the investigator finally decided. "Your choice."
"I promise that if I change my mind, you'll see me at the station tomorrow," Kadam assured, her tone quiet. "Right now, I just need to get some sleep."
"And where do you intend to do that?" Phillips asked, glancing at the house.
"My parent's house."
Not wishing to answer anymore questions, Kadam stepped to her car and slid into the driver's seat, shaking uncontrollably. She let tears fall from her eyes, trickling off her chin and into her shirt, absorbed like rain from the clouds seeping into soil. She kept her dark eyes on the team outside her home-what was once a home-before buckling the seat belt in and shifting into drive. Her foot, still shaking, eventually found the pedal, and she gradually pulled away, locking eyes with Phillips before pulling off the dark street and onto the main road. Now the adrenaline kicked in, and her foot slammed onto the accelerator. The car lunged forward, roaring to life, houses with broken windows and stores with shady characters flying past her side windows. She paid them no mind, and swerved onto the road leading out of the neighborhood, not utilizing her brakes. She spotted the speed limit sign-a lousy twenty five- and exceeded it by forty miles per hour, the tears dried to her cheeks.
Only four minutes had passed when she spotted lights ahead-another vehicle? No. The freeway. The ramp leapt out of nowhere, and she ripped the wheel the opposite direction, shooting between two graffiti-ed brick buildings until she was snugly hidden in the dark alleyway. She did a brief scan of the area before nodding and pulling her phone from her pocket.
"Lockdown," she ordered.
"Lockdown initiated," the device replied in a voice identical to her own. The doors of the vehicle slid down and the windows flashed with a bright light, confirming they were dimmed on the outside but entirely transparent from the interior. Kadam cracked her neck and turned the radio knob all the way. A laptop slid out from the hidden compartment and she opened it instantly, logging in with the retina scanner.
Step one: Find the detonator. it was easy to do, its signal still incessantly resonating. Tracking officer Phillips via her phone, she quickly found the bomb. According to the screen it had been detonated an hour ago, mere minutes before the office called her home to witness everything go up in smoke-literally.
Anger flooded her mind and she tasted blood from biting her tongue so hard. Who would do this? Why?
Her fingers flying over the keyboard, she tracked the detonator to its control point. That was harder, since there was enough cover-up to take hours for the average programmer to locate. Lucky her. She wasn't average.
When she activated the map, the location shocked her. There, the bleeping red dot over the town identified her attacker's location. She knew this was the real place from where it had been controlled-she'd searched and found multiple off-trails attempting to distract her from the truth.
But the truth was here before her. And it hurt.
She pressed her finger against the dot, her lip trembling not from fear, but from anger. So apologies meant nothing, then? She worried she'd break the keyboard from the force of her typing as her face grew hot from fury. He thought he was something special. Someone who could play a game she couldn't win. Most likely because he'd beaten her before. She was determined to NEVER let HIM win anything against her. Or anything at all.
He said he was done with it. She almost believed him. Now, after what move he'd just made, she couldn't have been more thankful she promised to return.
Because she most definitely would.
"Alright, Rydell," she whispered, a smile that tasted delicious on her lips, making her eyes glitter like the code on the screen before her. "If it's a game you want, then by all means, let's play."
-- Thu Jul 31, 2025 11:15 pm --
Jay Smouse
Hello, everyone! This is the first chapter of my most popular fanfiction. It's called Jay Smouse. You can find it on Wattpad and Quotev. I hope you all like it. Please allow me to know what you think of it!Note to readers: This story begins in the behind the scenes of episodes that exist, then blends into what happens after. The beginning is based on the episodes A Friend in Need and Making Nice. If you haven't heard these yet, please read the story anyway. It will pull together eventually.
Let me know what you think!Chapter 1: Like a Record Spins
Click. The door locks behind me automatically, sealing the cold outside away from me. I lean against the secure entryway wall, blowing out a breath as I lift the baseball card in front of me, tilting it to see the face of the player. His name, his team. I know now that he's not just a guy holding a bat, on a team named after some kind of cat. Dad gave me a thirty minute lesson on this player at the baseball card convention, then showed me about four different baseball cards that supposedly were different from this one. They were clearly not the same when I saw them, but now I can't remember why. I don't care why. I really don't care about any of these baseball cards. Not that I'm telling him that. I assured him I was interested. At least, I assured him once he promised he wouldn't 'toast us like marshmallows' as Vincent had feared.
I shove the baseball card into my pocket and shuffle into the kitchen, hungry for something that isn't pizza or sugar. Unfortunately, that's all I see. Twelve pizza boxes litter the living room and two empty jelly bean jars sit on the sticky counter. Seeing it now, as tired as I am, I see why Zoe was so repulsed. I set my hand on the marble island and it's glued to the top by some sugary adhesive. I lose my appetite to eat anything with so much as a gram of sucrose and open the fridge, my tired eyes fighting to stay open. Great. The only thing to eat in here is more of mom's green poison: Spinach, broccoli, kale...I open the meat drawer. Empty. I close the door angrily and turn back to the living room, staring at the grease stains on the carpet. I should probably clean some of this up. Mom will be home soon and she's a neat freak. That's why I walked home-Dad's picking her up at the airport. She had one of her mad scientist meetings to attend in New York with Cooper's dad. I'm sure they found their seventeen-syllable diseases and gummy brain models fascinating. Unfortunately, I don't.
I shuffle through the cabinet, trying to find something to clean up the disaster Vincent and I left behind. When will he get home? He has one of his brainiac meeting to attend as well. I bet Zoe and Buck are going to some fancy lecture or something tonight while I'll sit back and watch mindless TV about spaceships and cosmos battles that defy practically every law of physics and nature. Dad is sure to point out every inconsistency in the shows I watch if he's around, explaining why they don't work and why this character would die and telling me equations. He's a real party animal-only if the party is a lecture on theoretical physics. His commentaries on TV don't bother me as much as some would expect, especially since it's not all ramble. I understand what he's saying. I get the equations and the explanations. It's not an ability to concur that is the issue-it's the ability to care, which I don't have. That's why my teachers at school hate me. I ignore everything they're saying if their lessons bore me. They think I'm stupid. I think they're stupid. It's a circle of logic.
I find the cleaning spray, grease cleaner, and a bundle of rags, and hurry to spray down every surface our putrid fingers could've touched in the past few days. I don't even want to consider the many, many diseases that could be living in the dining area right now, but the list rattles on anyway, courtesy of the warnings Mom has given me about my diet.
Wiping some of the sugary stickiness is harder than I thought, most likely residue from my jelly bean smoothie this morning, and I need to use a knife to get it to come off. That peels off some of the sealant on the countertop. I spray it with cleaner as if that'll fix the problem and move onto the floor. Getting on my knees, I squirt grease cleaner on the carpet, hoping it is made for that textile. The card falls from my pocket when I bend over and lands in the gooey substance, which begins to foam and swallow the card. I swat it away and pluck the card free as it starts to wilt. Darn it.
I hurry to the kitchen and rinse it off in the sink before I realize that will only make it worse. I give up and throw it on the countertop. Why did Dad tell me to take it home? He thought it'd be 'safer with me'. Saying anything would be safer with me is like saying A fly would be safer with a Venus fly trap. It's begging for doom.
And why did Buck even help me today? He doesn't exactly approve of my existence. Every time he sees me, his face scrunches up in the same way Zoe's does when I argue with her. But he seemed willing. Even though I accused him of stealing, broke into his car, interrupted his day at work...all of which was kinda rude.
The grease comes out of the carpet, and I move on to collecting the boxes and drink cups. Of which there are MANY. What would it look like if Zoe's cousin came over? They wouldn't make this mess, that's for sure. But they wouldn't eat pizza, either. They'd probably eat some of Mom's green poison, and no jelly bean smoothies, ever. Even if they did make a mess, they'd have someone who'd scold them. Tell them to clean it up.
Hopefully Dad and Mom have learned their lesson about leaving me and Vincent to our own devices. Sure, Dad was here at night, but as usual, he wasn't HERE. You can be in a room or in a house and be on another planet at the same time. Buddy is especially good at doing that.
I try to stuff the pizza boxes into the trash bin, but they don't fit and I realize I'll have to put them in the dumpster outside. I frown when I realize it's raining but throw them in anyway, getting wet enough in that short time you'd think I'd taken a shower.
Two bright lights pierce the darkness and I hurry inside when I see it's Dad. Bringing Mom home fro her brainiac convention. I shake the water from my head, go upstairs in two bounds, and run into my bedroom, cranking up Elvis and yanking a Marvel comic book off the shelf. I wonder if they picked up dinner on the way home.
I sure hope they brought meat.
Click. The door locks behind me automatically, sealing the cold outside away from me. I lean against the secure entryway wall, blowing out a breath as I lift the baseball card in front of me, tilting it to see the face of the player. His name, his team. I know now that he's not just a guy holding a bat, on a team named after some kind of cat. Dad gave me a thirty minute lesson on this player at the baseball card convention, then showed me about four different baseball cards that supposedly were different from this one. They were clearly not the same when I saw them, but now I can't remember why. I don't care why. I really don't care about any of these baseball cards. Not that I'm telling him that. I assured him I was interested. At least, I assured him once he promised he wouldn't 'toast us like marshmallows' as Vincent had feared.
I shove the baseball card into my pocket and shuffle into the kitchen, hungry for something that isn't pizza or sugar. Unfortunately, that's all I see. Twelve pizza boxes litter the living room and two empty jelly bean jars sit on the sticky counter. Seeing it now, as tired as I am, I see why Zoe was so repulsed. I set my hand on the marble island and it's glued to the top by some sugary adhesive. I lose my appetite to eat anything with so much as a gram of sucrose and open the fridge, my tired eyes fighting to stay open. Great. The only thing to eat in here is more of mom's green poison: Spinach, broccoli, kale...I open the meat drawer. Empty. I close the door angrily and turn back to the living room, staring at the grease stains on the carpet. I should probably clean some of this up. Mom will be home soon and she's a neat freak. That's why I walked home-Dad's picking her up at the airport. She had one of her mad scientist meetings to attend in New York with Cooper's dad. I'm sure they found their seventeen-syllable diseases and gummy brain models fascinating. Unfortunately, I don't.
I shuffle through the cabinet, trying to find something to clean up the disaster Vincent and I left behind. When will he get home? He has one of his brainiac meeting to attend as well. I bet Zoe and Buck are going to some fancy lecture or something tonight while I'll sit back and watch mindless TV about spaceships and cosmos battles that defy practically every law of physics and nature. Dad is sure to point out every inconsistency in the shows I watch if he's around, explaining why they don't work and why this character would die and telling me equations. He's a real party animal-only if the party is a lecture on theoretical physics. His commentaries on TV don't bother me as much as some would expect, especially since it's not all ramble. I understand what he's saying. I get the equations and the explanations. It's not an ability to concur that is the issue-it's the ability to care, which I don't have. That's why my teachers at school hate me. I ignore everything they're saying if their lessons bore me. They think I'm stupid. I think they're stupid. It's a circle of logic.
I find the cleaning spray, grease cleaner, and a bundle of rags, and hurry to spray down every surface our putrid fingers could've touched in the past few days. I don't even want to consider the many, many diseases that could be living in the dining area right now, but the list rattles on anyway, courtesy of the warnings Mom has given me about my diet.
Wiping some of the sugary stickiness is harder than I thought, most likely residue from my jelly bean smoothie this morning, and I need to use a knife to get it to come off. That peels off some of the sealant on the countertop. I spray it with cleaner as if that'll fix the problem and move onto the floor. Getting on my knees, I squirt grease cleaner on the carpet, hoping it is made for that textile. The card falls from my pocket when I bend over and lands in the gooey substance, which begins to foam and swallow the card. I swat it away and pluck the card free as it starts to wilt. Darn it.
I hurry to the kitchen and rinse it off in the sink before I realize that will only make it worse. I give up and throw it on the countertop. Why did Dad tell me to take it home? He thought it'd be 'safer with me'. Saying anything would be safer with me is like saying A fly would be safer with a Venus fly trap. It's begging for doom.
And why did Buck even help me today? He doesn't exactly approve of my existence. Every time he sees me, his face scrunches up in the same way Zoe's does when I argue with her. But he seemed willing. Even though I accused him of stealing, broke into his car, interrupted his day at work...all of which was kinda rude.
The grease comes out of the carpet, and I move on to collecting the boxes and drink cups. Of which there are MANY. What would it look like if Zoe's cousin came over? They wouldn't make this mess, that's for sure. But they wouldn't eat pizza, either. They'd probably eat some of Mom's green poison, and no jelly bean smoothies, ever. Even if they did make a mess, they'd have someone who'd scold them. Tell them to clean it up.
Hopefully Dad and Mom have learned their lesson about leaving me and Vincent to our own devices. Sure, Dad was here at night, but as usual, he wasn't HERE. You can be in a room or in a house and be on another planet at the same time. Buddy is especially good at doing that.
I try to stuff the pizza boxes into the trash bin, but they don't fit and I realize I'll have to put them in the dumpster outside. I frown when I realize it's raining but throw them in anyway, getting wet enough in that short time you'd think I'd taken a shower.
Two bright lights pierce the darkness and I hurry inside when I see it's Dad. Bringing Mom home fro her brainiac convention. I shake the water from my head, go upstairs in two bounds, and run into my bedroom, cranking up Elvis and yanking a Marvel comic book off the shelf. I wonder if they picked up dinner on the way home.
I sure hope they brought meat.
I especially liked the Jay Smouse story. Jay is one of my favorite characters and I always appreciate it when fans write in-depth fan fiction about him. 
I would enjoy seeing more!