Chum

I sit on the edge of my bed, the sunlight filtering through the curtains and casting a warm glow in my room. My heart beats a little faster with anticipation as I glance at the clock on my bedside table. Jordan will be here any minute now, and the thought of spending time with them fills me with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

Not because the idea of hanging out with Jordan is alien to me, but mostly from the much more practical matter of "I have no idea how my parents will interact with them". Jordan isn't exactly what I'd call academically gifted, or a 'good influence'.

My room is as much a reflection of me as any mirror, the same room I grew up in and probably the same room I'll be laid to rest in, assuming I don't move or anything like that. Posters of Sergio Barbosa and Leandro Costa and Allen Iverson and maybe a dozen other sports players loom at me while I sleep, like a circle of guardians that ward away evil dolls and monsters under my bed. Not that I still worry about that. I'm fourteen and I've been stabbed with a knife, so monsters under my bed are not much of my concern anymore, is what I will tell people when they ask.

Anyway.

The back half of my room, where my bed is, is a little low to the ceiling, angled down with the rooftop. My parents' bedroom, opposite of me down the upstairs hallway, has the opposite problem, where the roof gets angled over their bed. I've gotten good at not hitting my head, and my window lets me look out onto the street when I feel like opening it, but it still makes the room feel a little… tight, for lack of better word.

Stuffed into one corner is a small desk cluttered with school stuff—textbooks and dog-eared notebooks full of doodles in the margins—next to a shelf filled with books my mom has picked out for me over the years. Most are young adult fiction with a smattering of classics. I've read a few, skimmed some others, and ignored a couple completely. The chair in front of the desk squeaks if you swivel too fast, a minor annoyance when I'm doing homework or browsing the internet on my ancient laptop.

There's also a modest wooden dresser against one wall, its top a random assortment of trinkets: loose change, a couple of wristbands from concerts I've been to, and a few trophies from junior soccer leagues - not that those are really a thing I'll have to do anymore. Mental frown. The dresser's drawers are a mixture of organized chaos, shirts and shorts crammed wherever they fit after laundry day.

My bed itself is a twin, with dark blue sheets that probably hide a multitude of sins like food stains and ink smears. On my bedside table, there's a digital alarm clock perpetually set 15 minutes fast, on purpose. Next to it is a worn copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird,' a book I've read at least three times. I don't exactly like it, it's just sort of become a habit.

Under my bed, which is just high enough off the ground to be useful, are two plastic bins: one for sports equipment and the other for stuff I don't have any other place for. Old video games, art supplies from that one time I thought I'd be good at drawing, a jumble of charging cables. The kind of stuff that doesn't have a home but you can't quite bring yourself to throw away.

On the floor, a well-worn area rug covers up some of the scuffs and scratches in the hardwood. It's seen better days, but it's comfortable enough to lay down on when I need floor time, which is increasingly frequently these days. I think everyone should take some time to do floor time. If any psychics are listening in on my thoughts, they should also have some floor time. Give it a try. Five minutes. Just lie there.

Floor time.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, I can hear my parents bustling about. The clinking of plates and the faint hum of conversation waft up the stairs, amplifying my sense of anxious anticipation. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach, and make my way downstairs. The narrow staircase creaks slightly under my weight, a direct line from downstairs to the upstairs bathroom that sits between our two bedrooms - my home, where I sleep, and the Forbidden Zone, where my parents - never mind. As I step into the kitchen, the aroma of freshly baked cookies fills the air, mingling with the comforting scent of brewing coffee.

Ben is at the counter, his brow furrowed in concentration as he arranges an assortment of snacks on a platter. He's meticulous in everything he does, annoyingly so, given his tendency to make himself late for things by refusing to leave well enough alone. Just so I'm not misunderstood, though, I say this with all love. He glances up at me, his eyes shining with a mix of pride and affection.

"Hey, Sam," he says, his voice filled with warmth. "You're just in time. We've got quite the spread for our guest."

I give him a grateful smile, knowing how much effort he must have put into preparing everything. I know even if he's kind of awkward and uncomfortable sometimes that he's trying his best. I'm not that bratty.

Rachel, standing nearby, places a tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the table. Her light brown curls are tied back in a messy bun, and her eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint. She shoots me a quick wink before turning her attention back to the cookies, fussing over their arrangement as if they were works of art.

"Make sure you save some room for these, Sam," she says with a playful tone. "I've put a little extra chocolate in them, just for you."

"She's also put LSD in them," my dad says, matter-of-factly. My mom bumps him in the shoulder with the weakest punch I've seen in a while, and I've seen some real stinkers out on the mean streets of, uh, Tacony.

Just as the anticipation reaches its peak, there's a knock at the door. My heart skips a beat, and my pulse quickens as Ben moves towards the entrance. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as Jordan steps into the house.

Their dark hair is perfectly styled and clearly freshly cut, and their outfit exudes confidence that their demeanor doesn't seem to lack. I can't help but feel a twinge of admiration as I look at them. But as they exchange awkward pleasantries with my dad, I can sense their own nervousness beneath their cool exterior. Even a pair of boots with three inch platforms can't take the uncomfortable sixteen year old out of the goth kid. They have on an olive-green-and-black sweater on top of torn-up jeans, with a green skull over on the front. It seems like it's raising an eyebrow at me as I match its gaze.

"Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Small," Jordan says, their voice betraying a hint of nervousness. "Thanks for having me over."

My dad, clearly struggling to make eye contact, manages a polite smile and nose contact. "Welcome, Jordan. We're always happy to have Sam's friends over."

Rachel steps forward, her eyes warm with genuine interest. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Jordan. Sam speaks highly of you."

Jordan flashes a shy grin, looking every direction except towards my parents, who they manage to somehow tower over. Like, Jordan is already taller than me by a significant margin, and I'm the same height as my dad, so they just loom over both of them with all the threateningness of a particularly shy dog.

I notice that my parents have actually cleaned the place up a little, which strikes me as odd. Like, normally they don't clean up when Kate or Lilly are coming over, but also, I think this is the first 'new friend' I've had in a while, so… They probably just want to make a good impression. That makes sense. But it also strikes me as deeply funny, given, y'know… the whole situation.

Walking into my family's rowhouse in Mayfair is like stepping into a time machine that somehow stopped in the early 2000s. I can almost hear the dial-up sound the second I shut the door behind me. The hardwood floors are the kind of polished you get when you're keeping up appearances but not actually aiming for chic. The place smells like a mix of furniture polish, coffee, and a touch of mildew from the kitchen sink. It's narrow as hell—like maybe five or six people standing shoulder to shoulder could span the width of the place. Honestly, it's a squeeze.

Straight ahead, the living room has got this threadbare maroon carpet, worn down in places like a well-read book. The walls are painted in an eggshell color that my mom swears is calming, but it just makes me think of chicken eggs. There's a battered leather couch shoved against the wall, along with a flat-screen TV that's probably the newest thing in the house. A collection of family photos hangs slightly crookedly above the couch, and we've got one of those kitschy "Home is Where the Heart Is" signs. And like twenty other motivational poster-tier things that my mom… ACQUIRED from the library cast-off.

To the right, the kitchen is like…it's compact. I can touch both countertops if I spread my arms wide. Everything in there is functional, nothing more. The microwave and coffee maker are probably the most-used appliances, the coffeemaker usually filled to the brim because both of my parents drink it like water. Some pots and pans dangle from a makeshift rack above the sink, and there's always a dish towel hanging from the oven handle, stained with who-knows-what. The kitchen and the dining room are more or less the same, with the table situated in this like weird little notch in the walls that I think might've been stairs down back when this had a basement? Or something like that.

Between the kitchen and the living room, there's this awkward empty space, basically room for the stairwell that heads up to the bedrooms. I've tripped over that one weird step more times than I can count. The banister's painted white but chipped in places, showing the brown wood underneath. To the left of the living room, there's this tiny gap that leads to the stairs. It's nothing special — wooden steps covered in that carpet runner thing, the color long faded. They creak underfoot as you go up, no matter how stealthily you try to climb them.

And right by the door is the standard "drop zone" where we ditch our keys, shoes, and any hope of the place staying organized. My mom's purse usually hogs most of the space, and my dad's city planning books are stacked haphazardly on the small shelf next to it.

And all of it has been dusted for once, which is. Weird. Weird! I guess this means as much to my parents as it probably means to Jordan. I can tell from their stiff posture that they're probably as intimidated as my parents are, the way that animals are only scared of people, not aggressive.

It's not like my parents are out to interrogate Jordan or anything. But I still catch a flicker of tension in Jordan's eyes, you know, the kind of wariness you'd expect from a deer who's heard a twig snap. They're sitting on the slightly faded, mismatched chair that's been in our living room since, well, forever. A quick glance to the side, and I see Mom's gaze zeroing in on them, trying to gauge their vibes or whatever she calls it.

"Jordan, it's so good to finally meet you. Samantha talks a lot about you," Mom says, her voice threaded with warmth and maybe just a touch of excitement. "Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?"

"Uh, tea would be good, thanks," Jordan replies, their eyes flicking to the various knick-knacks and photos decorating our bookshelves.

Mom slips out to the kitchen, and Dad takes this as his cue to open up the conversation. "So, Jordan, what do you like to do for fun?" It's a fair question but the way he says it, you'd think he's reading it off a cue card. Actually, I think that's how he got Mom's attention when they started dating - he was picking his conversation topics off cue cards and she found it endearing.

"I like… anime? And drawing. A bit of coding here and there. I'm not very good at it."

"Oh, anime? Is that the one with the tentacles or the one with the robots?" Dad asks, and I almost want to facepalm.

"Uh, it can be both. Or neither. It's kind of a broad genre," Jordan explains, politely navigating around my dad's awkwardness.

I jump in, trying to smooth things over. "Dad, you remember, we watched Spirited Away that one time? That's anime."

"Ah, yes. The one with the dragons and the bathhouse," Dad recalls, nodding, as if he's just unlocked a complex math equation. He turns back to Jordan, "That was rather enjoyable."

I snap my head around to Jordan, settling into the one-person chair. "Wait, you code?"

They laugh. "Like, barely. I can get a computer to say 'hello world' in a dozen languages. I know how to open up a BASH shell, and I'm learning Tessel and Mason and Python."

From the kitchen, we hear a kettle whistle. Mom walks back in, carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. She places it on the coffee table and pours the tea, for the second time in my life using the tea kettle the way it's apparently supposed to be used. "I hope you like black tea. It's a favorite around here."

"That's is fine, thank you," Jordan says, accepting the cup Mom offers. "I mean, that's fine. Sorry,"

"What's Tessel?" My dad asks, leaning back on his chair while Jordan blows on their cup of tea. "I'm familiar with Python and Mason, but Tessel is new to me."

Jordan coughs twice, thumping their chest. "It's, uh, a statically-typed general-purpose programming language designed for continuous data. Like, Tessel, like tesselation, the mathematical concept. Most modern HIRC programs are built with Tessel backends."

I cup my chin in my hands, not understanding any words that just came out of Jordan's mouth. "Do you want to code for a living?" I ask, trying to pretend like we're not making our college funds off of st-- off of reclaiming loot from drug dealers and whatnot.

Jordan looks at me and shrugs. "Not sure yet."

Mom sits down, carefully cradling her own cup. "So, Samantha tells us you two have been doing a lot of… community service together?" The words community service have always been my parents' coded language for the superhero stuff, and it doesn't escape me how Jordan's eyes narrow just a fraction. My mom glances at me.

"Yeah, we, um, help out whenever we can," Jordan says, their voice carrying the sort of caution you'd have when tiptoeing through a minefield.

"Sam, does Jordan do community service with you? Or is it like… You don't do that sort of thing together with your school friends?" My mom turns to me. It's like trying to get away from suppressive fire, with one of my parents always looking at me, and the other always looking at Jordan, leaving very little room for coded signals between the two of us. But, what my mom is asking - does Jordan know you're a superhero? Does Jordan superhero (verb) with you?

I shake my head no. No, Jordan and I definitely don't go out and beat up gangsters and small-time criminals when I'm pretending to sleep over at their place. We have never slept in an abandoned building that we've turned into our hideout. What are you even asking about?

"Either way, it's lovely you're both so involved. Where do you usually volunteer?" Mom continues, her curiosity barely restrained.

"Uh, it varies," Jordan answers, rubbing the back of their neck with their hand. "Animal shelters, community gardens, food banks, stuff like that. Mostly dog shelters though. There's a lot of dogs coming in recently."

Dad nods, clearly interested. "So, Jordan, planning on pursuing higher education? Sam's aiming for environmental science, last I heard."

"Am not. I'm going to become a soccer superstar and kick balls through college. Or a nurse," I say back, slightly offended at the inaccuracy. Knowing my dad, I think he said the wrong thing on purpose to provoke me into replying. Which is extremely something he would do - playing dumb is his favorite 'bit', as he calls it.

"Maybe computer science? Not entirely sure yet," Jordan replies, looking at me for a brief second.

"Oh, wonderful! A field with lots of opportunities!" Mom exclaims, her enthusiasm sailing just this side of overwhelming.

"Rachel," Dad says, "perhaps we're grilling them a little too much?"

Jordan takes a sip of their tea, smiling faintly. "It's fine. I'm used to it."

I catch Jordan's eye, offering a small, apologetic smile.

"Where do you live, Jordan?" Mom asks, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the motherly concern in her voice. "If you don't mind me asking, I mean. I'm pretty sure Sam's said you live in Tacony?"

"Ah, near Magnolia Cemetery," Jordan replies, glancing at me, then quickly refocusing on their cup of tea as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.

"Is it quiet? I imagine it's quiet," Dad muses. "You know, except for the ghosts."

"Very. A peaceful place to focus on studies, you know? The ghosts aren't usually rowdy, but you know how they feel about Halloween," Jordan cracks, trying to bring out a parent-friendly smile to the situation.

"Sounds ideal," Mom replies, but I can tell she's not buying it. Nobody wants to live near a cemetery if they can help it.

"Rent's real cheap. Nobody wants to live near a cemetery if they can help it," Jordan replies, grinning, ripping the words right out of my head. My mom smiles a little half smile and stirs her tea absentmindedly with a tiny spoon, staring into it as the dark liquid begins to form whirlpools.

"And your family? Do they enjoy the peace and quiet as well?" Dad follows up.

"My mom does. She's, uh, not working currently. On disability. So, the quiet helps her rest," Jordan explains, choosing their words carefully. I know all about their situation - their mom is on disability and unemployment and all that stuff, welfare stuff, just sort of living off the state. And apparently they don't let you keep more than like a thousand dollars in your bank account if you're on that? Which, I mean, I know a thousand dollars is a lot to me, as a teenager, but like… rent's more than that? I don't know how they expect someone to catch up on a restriction like that.

Mom frowns ever so slightly, a subtle shift in expression that most wouldn't catch. But I do. "I hope she's doing okay. Disabilities can be tough to navigate."

Jordan nods, smiling but not meeting anyone's eyes. "She manages. And I try to help out as much as possible. I do odd jobs here and there - cleaning, babysitting, handyman work - to cover some of our expenses. Lot of kids near the cemetery, for some fu-… For some freaking reason."

Dad leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers, chuckling quietly. "Very resourceful of you. It's commendable that you're stepping up to support your family. And you can cuss here, you know, I don't care."

"That's not true, I care immensely," My mom replies, gently swatting the air next to my dad's head. "Please don't say fuck."

"Rachel," Dad sighs.

Mom cracks a wide, sympathetic grin, her voice tinged with something I can't quite put a finger on — pity, maybe? "That sounds like a lot for someone your age to handle."

"I manage," Jordan grins back.