Chum

The text from Jordan's phone is punctuated with about a dozen exclamation points.

"CPS AGENT COMING TO INTERVIEW US ASAP FOR CONNOR'S ADOPTION!!!!! NEED YOU HERE TO HELP CLEAN UP!!!"

I'm already halfway to the Music Hall by the time I finish reading the message. Jordan's barely literate textspeak is almost comically at odds with the urgency of the situation, but even their hyperbolic use of punctuation can't diminish the sinking feeling in my gut. We've been dreading this moment for weeks now, ever since I told Jordan what Crossroads told me and Jordan was like "of course I know that already, stupid, we're dating".

As I run the remaining few blocks, I start mentally reviewing all the hasty "de-superheroing" measures we've taken at the Music Hall in preparation for this visit. The map room with its sprawling schematics and corkboards tracking criminal activity across Tacony has been stripped bare, the walls newly painted in an innocuous beige that I'm pretty sure is just called "Eggshell" by the hardware store. The many digital stations for research have been shoved into a closet. Even the security system has been toned down a notch.

Then there's the Faraday cage room. How the hell are we supposed to explain that away to a Child Protective Services case worker? I can already hear Jordan's cover story about needing it for "cybersecurity testing purposes" ringing hollow in my mind.

As I bound up the Music Hall's front steps, I straighten my t-shirt and do a quick check to ensure my short hair isn't a total mess from the moisture in the air and the gentle snow. I've put on a fresh pair of jeans without rips or frays, hoping to at least superficially present a more respectable appearance for our visitor. Not that I'm dressing to impress, per se, but any little bit could potentially help reinforce the image of a couple responsible young teenagers looking after an adopted teenager.

Of course, the reality couldn't be further from that wholesome picture. We're a motley crew of untrained, unsupervised, and utterly unprepared teenage vigilantes barely keeping our dual lives from crashing down around us. But hopefully, with enough preparation and a convincing enough performance, the caseworker will get the impression we have our shit together. At least for one afternoon.

I push open the doors and step into the lobby, ears immediately catching the faint sounds of hasty tidying wafting from the main hall. As I follow the noises, I find Jordan vigorously sweeping the already spotless hardwood floors, while Derek is busy dusting the bannister leading upstairs. They look up as I enter, mirroring expressions of tense anxiety on their faces.

"She's going to be here any minute," Jordan hisses, confirming what I had already suspected. "We've done what we can, but I can't promise this place won't still raise some red flags."

Derek grunts in acknowledgment, continuing to buff the bannister with a dingy rag clutched in his calloused hand. "Well, nothing to be done about it now. We'll just have to pray she's satisfied with the cover story."

My brow furrows in concern as I sling my backpack off and set it aside. "Speaking of which, what exactly is our cover story again? I feel like it keeps changing every time we discuss it."

Jordan opens their mouth to respond, but the sudden buzzing of the intercom system cuts them off. The three of us instinctively freeze, sharing a series of panicked looks.

"Hello?" a crisp, no-nonsense voice crackles through the speaker. "This is Anna Katz from Child Protective Services. I'm here for the home visit regarding Connor Spinelli's adoption case."

Jordan jolts into action, nearly dropping their broom as they scramble to press the button and reply. "Y-yes, of course! Come on in!"

A tense silence falls over us as we wait for the sound of approaching footsteps in the five-square-foot lobby leading up to the stairwell. Derek shoots me a sidelong look, muttering under his breath.

"Well, here goes nothing..."

The footsteps soon reveal a middle-aged woman with graying auburn hair pulled into a tight bun atop her head. Even through the thick lenses of her glasses, her eyes are sharp and assessing, taking in every detail of the Music Hall's lobby as she steps inside. It's immediately clear this is a woman who misses nothing; the very embodiment of a tenacious social worker who won't be easily fooled.

She hasn't even opened her mouth yet, but I can already tell this is going to be an uphill battle.

Jordan puts on their best approximation of a welcoming smile, striding forward with an outstretched hand. "Ms. Katz, welcome! I'm Jordan, and this is my...uh, roommate, Sam. We're the ones looking after Connor. Right now. I mean. Like, we keep everyone's shit in order. We're not his legal guardians."

Ms. Katz firmly shakes Jordan's offered hand, her expression carefully neutral. "A pleasure. Now, shall we get started with the tour?"

I can't help tensing up as those steely eyes briefly flick over to me, feeling like I'm being evaluated on some invisible metric. For someone trained to assess living situations, how much could she already be picking up on just from these brief initial moments?

Pushing those concerns aside for now, I try to adopt a casual, easygoing demeanor as I usher her further into the building. "Of course, right this way! We've put a lot of work into making this place feel like a real home."

Those words already taste like lies on my tongue, but I plow forward with forced cheer. "We'll start in the common area just through those doors over there."

As I push open the set of double doors leading into the main hall, Ms. Katz's eyes immediately narrow with scrutiny. The spacious room stretches out before us, our makeshift recreational area centered around a cluster of worn but comfortable couches and armchairs arranged in a half-circle. An old TV sits opposite the seating arrangement, while shelves of dusty books, discarded games, and movie collections line the walls in a superficial facade of homeliness.

But it's obvious this space was never truly intended for such casual domestic purposes. The high, vaulted ceilings and polished hardwood floors practically scream "theater", not "living room". It's a carefully constructed illusion that already seems in danger of unraveling under Ms. Katz's piercing gaze. Although I doubt she doesn't know what the purpose of the building labeled TACONY MUSIC HALL is, so...

"I see..." she murmurs thoughtfully, already circling the space like a hawk eyeing its prey. "And do you often spend time together in this... common area?"

I falter for just a moment, but Jordan swiftly steps in to cover for me. "Oh absolutely! We're all really tight-knit around here. Movie nights, game tournaments, the whole nine yards. Just trying to create a real sense of community, you know?"

Their breezy deflection only seems to pique Ms. Katz's curiosity further as she drifts towards the nearest bookshelf, plucking a worn paperback from its place and flipping it over to examine the cover. "Are these the kinds of books you all read for leisure then? Hm... 'Espionage Tradecraft and Counterintelligence'. Riveting stuff, I'm sure."

An awkward silence hangs in the air as Jordan and I share a brief, panicked look. Derek clears his throat gruffly from the back of the group.

"That's...uh, that's for my craft. Writing. I'm an aspiring spy novelist..."

I have to resist the urge to facepalm at the half-baked lie. Ms. Katz merely arches an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced as she slips the book back into its spot on the shelf.

"I see. Well, why don't we move on then? I'd love to see the rest of the residence, if you don't mind."

Shooting a warning glare at Derek, I force a tight smile and wave a hand towards the exit. "Of course, right this way! We'll show you the upstairs living quarters next."

As I lead Ms. Katz out of the common area, she casts one final sweeping look over the room, her expression utterly inscrutable. Whatever initial assessment she's made, she's keeping it tightly guarded behind that professional mask.

This is going to be a long afternoon.

The upstairs corridors are much easier to dress up in an aura of domesticity; rows of closed doors lining either side suggest innocuous bedrooms and private spaces. Of course, the reality is many of those rooms conceal far more, uh, interesting purposes - gadget closets, telescopes and directional microphones, secured data servers. But as long as we keep those particular doors closed and locked, hopefully Ms. Katz won't feel the need to pry.

Jordan throws open one of the bedroom doors, revealing a space that has been carefully staged to resemble Connor's quarters. A twin bed stands pushed against one wall, surrounded by requisite teenage detritus - a cluttered desk, a hamper overflowing with laundry, even the odd stray pizza box or two. Artfully arranged amidst the chaos, a smattering of textbooks, sketchpads, and pencils suggest a space dedicated to academics and creative pursuits.

"This is Connor's room," Jordan explains, shooting me a sidelong look as Ms. Katz immediately begins her inspection. "We give him his space and privacy, but we've also tried to create an environment conducive to learning and personal growth."

I can tell Ms. Katz isn't entirely buying it as she sifts through the carefully curated clutter, her brow furrowing slightly as she picks up a sketchpad and flips through the pages. I tense, wondering if any of Connor's sketches give too much away about his true...extracurricular interests.

After a few agonizing moments, she simply sets the pad back down and moves towards the desk, examining the stack of textbooks resting atop it with detached scrutiny. I fight the urge to shift uncomfortably, well aware that some of those books are less focused on traditional academics and more on subjects like sleight of hand.

Seemingly satisfied for now, Ms. Katz straightens and turns to face Jordan once more. "You mentioned creating a nurturing environment for personal growth. How would you characterize your relationship with Connor?"

I have to hand it to Jordan, their poker face remains admirably impassive as they ponder the question. "Well, as I said, we try not to be overbearing. Give him his space while still providing guidance and mentor-"

Jordan's spiel is abruptly cut off as a sharp rapping sounds from the open doorway behind us. We all turn to find Derek leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest as he regards Ms. Katz with unveiled dislike.

"I'm gonna go ahead and cut the bullshit here," he says brusquely. "Connor ain't your typical teenager, lady. And we sure as hell ain't your typical foster parents. But the kid's been through enough already without getting bounced around the system again, you feel me?"

Ms. Katz frowns at the interruption, clearly displeased by Derek's bristling hostility. For a moment, it seems like she might rebuke him for his unvarnished manner. But then, to my surprise, she simply inclines her head with the barest hint of acknowledgment.

"Obviously, you aren't all foster parents. Not one of you looks a day over 18,"

"I'm twenty four!" Derek shouts, drawing a pained wince out of me.