Chum

My parents probably have no clue, but I know - I know that we make more than enough to pay Jordan's rent off our 'bounties', and I know that Jordan isn't exactly hurting for creature comforts. But, still, even knowing about Jordan's home situation, it doesn't exactly feel great to, like, y'know, talk about it in front of my parents. Or at all, really. With all the time we spend watching anime on Jordan's laptop in the old abandoned music hall, I forget sometimes that there's an actual bed they're supposed to be sleeping in.

I wonder if Jordan's mom visited them in the hospital, back when we got attacked by Mr. Nothing and Mr. Polygraph. And Mudslide.

"I'm glad to hear Sam has such a responsible friend," Dad says, giving me a pointed look. It's as if he's saying, 'See, you can learn something here.'

I roll my eyes, and I can see Jordan hiding a smirk behind their tea cup. My parents are very 'them,' but they mean well, and I know they're just trying to look out for me. And maybe for Jordan too.

"Must be hard, though," Mom starts cautiously, "to manage all that and also focus on your academics and your… community service."

"Like I said, you make do. Time management becomes second nature," Jordan answers.

"That's a skill that'll serve you well in college," Dad notes, apparently satisfied. "It's never too early to start planning, right Sam?"

"I told you, I'm going to be a soccer superstar," I retort. "But who knows? Maybe I'll save the world with environmental science on the side."

"That's my girl," Dad says, chuckling. "If you don't mind me asking, is there a… Mr. Jordan in the picture? Poppa Jordan?"

"I mind you asking, honey," Mom says, getting up, collecting empty plates. "Anyone for dessert? We have cheesecake."

Jordan waves a hand, and then stops, staring at their hand. Their face screws up like they're trying to figure out which emotions to express. "Cheesecake yes. Don't worry about the dad question, it's a normal question to ask. And it's Westwood, that's my mom's name. Dunno about Mr. Westwood, if there was one."

Dad raises an eyebrow. "I see. Westwood… you wouldn't happen to have family in Hoboken, would you?"

Jordan shrugs. "If I do, I don't know about them. Why?"

My dad smiles, tiny and quiet. "No particular reason. I just know of a 'Stephanie Westwood' that lives in Hoboken. We're not, like, friends or anything, I just know of her."

Jordan leans back in their seat. "Weird. I have no idea how common of a last name it is."

I pull my phone out and begin stumbling through the NetSphere. "It's… mostly British," I answer, reading off the info from the page. "Like, sixty-thousand people with the last name, and five thousand of them in the USA. Jordan, you never told me you were British," I tease, pursing my lips and putting my hands on my hips like I'm disappointed in them.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am, I'll go assassinate the queen immediately," Jordan replies, sitting up straight and saluting hard enough to hit themselves in the forehead. "Ow,"

Mom returns, balancing a tray with slices of cheesecake like it's an Olympic sport. "Watch out, world-class cheesecake coming through!"

Jordan's eyes widen as Mom places a slice in front of them. "Thank you, Mrs. Small."

"Please, call me Rachel," she insists.

"And you can call me Ben," Dad adds, not to be outdone.

"Ah, first-name basis, huh? Guess we're all getting serious now," I say, looking at the cheesecake like it holds the answers to life's toughest questions.

Dad grabs his fork and starts in on his slice. "It's only a matter of time before you kids start calling us by our first names, claiming it's more 'authentic' or 'equalizing' or whatever it is you say."

"I don't think it's a generational thing," Jordan quips, tasting the cheesecake with deliberation. "This is good, by the way."

"Thank you," Mom beams. "It's a secret family recipe. Would you believe the secret ingredient is love?"

"And cream cheese," I add, earning myself a playful glare from Mom.

"Hey, don't spoil the magic," she chides.

Dad pauses, fork in mid-air. "I was always told the secret ingredient was matzoh meal."

"That's the meatloaf, Ben," Mom corrects.

"It's hard to keep track of all the secrets," Dad mutters, finally tasting his cheesecake. "Dear, you bought this from the grocery store. Ow!"

My mom retracts her hand from its position having just flicked my dad in the side of the head. "No I didn't, and I'm also still thirty-five. Watch yourself, darling."

Jordan looks between my parents, visibly amused. "I never really had family recipes. My mom was more the 'order pizza' type."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," I say, defending an entire culinary lifestyle in a single breath. "Pizza is universal. Like… the peace treaty of foods."

"I don't know about that," Dad mumbles, thinking it over. "I've had some pizzas that could start wars."

"War over pineapple as a topping," Mom throws in.

"You would not believe the arguments Dad and I got into about who sells the best pizza in Queens. Which is still Belluci's. Just saying," My dad says, holding his hands up in pre-emptive defense. "Just saying!"

Jordan chuckles. "Well, in my universe, the one rule is that anything can go on a pizza if you're brave enough."

I can't help but smirk. "In that case, I dare you to put anchovies on your next one."

"Oh, you're on," Jordan grins, as if I've just issued a royal decree.

"So, community service," Dad tries to steer the conversation back, "is that something you two do together? It's great to be engaged in local issues."

I share a glance with Jordan. Oh, if only he knew. "Yeah, you could say we're pretty involved. Local and… broader issues."

"Global?" Mom asks, refilling her glass of water.

"Intergalactic, more like," Jordan chimes in, earning a laugh from everyone around the table. They look at me, their eyes twinkling with the joy of our inside joke, and I know that, despite the surface-level awkwardness, tonight is its own form of perfect to them.

"So, any big plans for the weekend?" Dad asks, likely hoping we're going to tackle climate change or something.

"Well, Sam and I were thinking of watching a movie marathon," Jordan offers.

"Which movies?" Mom is suddenly more attentive, as if the fate of our moral character hangs on this choice.

"Studio Ghibli," Jordan lies. They're going to finally show me what is the big deal about Demon Core, which, I am told, is extremely gory and hyperviolent.

Mom seems content, and Dad, clueless as ever, just nods. "As long as it's not a waste of time."

"No waste," I promise. "Only the best for your daughter and her 'responsible friend'."

Dad looks at Jordan, as if to double-check the 'responsible' claim, then shrugs. "Alright, you have my blessing."

"Great, it's a date," Jordan says, and the room falls into silence. I blink at Jordan a couple of times. They blink back at me. "Uh, a friend date. It's a phrase, right?"

Mom and Dad share a look, but if they suspect anything, they don't say. "Just be safe and have fun," Mom concludes, collecting the now-empty cheesecake plates.

"And use a condom! You know, if they have a--" My dad starts, and my mom claps her hand over his mouth.

"Please shut up, darling," Mom says, wrapping her fingers all the way around my dad's cheeks and squeezing it lightly like a vice. Jordan blinks at the scene in front of them a couple of times, and busts out laughing.

Jordan steps into my room, surveying the territory before flopping down onto my twin bed like a cat claiming a new domain. Their eyes dart from one corner to another, eventually settling on the array of sports posters on my walls.

"Hmm?" they mumble, chuckling as they point to the images of athletes frozen in triumphant poses. "How do you sleep with all these… sweaty dudes watching you?"

"Guarding me from existential crises, actually. They're somewhat effective," I reply, smirking back. "And nightmares. And Chucky."

Jordan snorts, visibly pleased with their next words. "If existential crises were a sport, you'd have a poster of Nietzsche up there. Chucky like the doll?"

"Yes, Chucky like the doll. My dad likes old horror movies," I say, flopping down on the bed. I scoot over to the edge of my bed to make room, gesturing at the plastic bin of sports gear peeking out from under it. "Speaking of sports, there lies the graveyard of my would-be athletic career. Or well, where it's stashed, anyway."

"Ah, the crypt of broken dreams and unused charging cables. A universal experience," Jordan quips, glancing down at their phone as they come to sit on the edge of the bed with me. "Wait, Chucky's not old. Child's Play came out in… 1988… Never mind." I laugh at Jordan's expense, and their eyes flick back t me. "Your parents totally think we're dating, you know."

I roll my eyes and retort, "Ah yes, 'responsible friends' who go on 'friend dates'. If you wanted to make it sound like we weren't dating I think you did, like, the worst possible job at it."

Jordan snickers. "I swear I could hear the quotation marks when your dad said 'responsible.'"

"The only responsible thing about us is how effectively we dodge responsibility," I joke, trying to draw more laughter out of them while I lay on my bed.

Jordan groans theatrically. "Please don't remind me. I've got a math test next week, and all I've done about it is forget it exists."

Feeling a sense of pride, I point at my perpetually-fast alarm clock on the bedside table. "Well, my strategy is to set the clock 15 minutes fast. Totally responsible, that's me."

Their eyes follow my gesture. "Ahh, so that's the method behind the madness?"

"Exactly. I'm never late; I'm just early in an alternate timeline."

Jordan grins cheekily. "Here I thought you were just bad at setting clocks."

"Who says I can't multitask?" I fire back, smirking. The two of us spend some time on the bed, catching our breath. Nothing we said individually was, like, ball-bustingly funny, but it stacks up over time, the death of a thousand cuts.

Eventually, Jordan looks at me with a mock-serious face. "You know we're going to get found out, lying about the movie marathon."

I play along, eyes widening in faux horror. "The great Studio Ghibli deception. My parents will disown me, for sure. My dad made me watch Child's Play when I was 8, they don't give a shit."

Jordan stretches their arms theatrically. "Good thing you've got an intergalactic friend. I could smuggle you off to another galaxy."

I nod solemnly. "Sounds like a solid backup plan. Anything's better than facing the wrath of Mom's disappointment."

"Wait, your dad made you watch Child's Play? That's kinda fucked up," Jordan replies to something I said a couple sentences back, making me need to scramble backwards in the tape-recorder in my head to reach it.

"Oh, no, like, he didn't force me force me. I was given plenty of opportunities to back out, I just felt like keeping… keeping going… Uh… I was being stubborn and wanted to show that I was a big grown up," I answer, folding my arms over my chest and mock harrumphing.

"Damn, you were masochistic even as a child. No wonder you like getting stabbed," Jordan jokes, punching me lightly in the ribs.

I squeeze my arms tighter. "I do not like it. It's just a thing that happens to me a lot because I'm the bruiser and you're the brains."

"Well, I'm glad we can recognize that, at least," Jordan cracks.

THUMP!

My eyes snap to the window, the sound vibrating through the glass. "What the hell was that?"

Jordan squints at the window. "I dunno, but we should probably check it out."

"I'm not so sure about that," I reply, eyebrows knotting together. "Whatever it is, it’s got bad timing. Why does weird stuff always happen when you're here?"

Jordan leans forward, ears perked like they're tuning into a frequency only they can hear. "You’re saying I'm bad luck?"

"Nah," I shrug. "Just saying you're a weirdness magnet. Something about you attracts the abnormal."

"Wow, thanks. Should I put that on my resume or save it for awkward family gatherings?"

Before I can reply, another THUMP! rattles the window.

"Okay, that’s just creepy," I mutter. "Stay here. I'm gonna check it out."

"Wow, look at you, being the brave one."

I raise an eyebrow. "Isn't that my job description? Minus the spandex?"

Rolling their eyes, Jordan gestures grandiosely towards the window. "After you, O fearless leader."

Taking careful steps, I approach the window. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

I yank the curtains back and—nothing. Just the dim view of the neighborhood, same as it ever was, but with a white smudge, a streak, across the glass. "Huh, must've been some pigeon or something."

"Yeah, or an eagle. That was loud, Sam," Jordan points out.

I let the curtain fall back into place. "Well, whatever it is, it's gone now. Crisis averted."

Jordan yawns, stretching their arms over their head. "Well, now that the excitement's over, we can get back to our very serious discussion about how you're a masochist."

"Hey! We were talking about movies," I remind them.

Jordan cackles. "No, we were talking about your propensity to attract knifes to your skin like how I apparently attract birds or some shit."

"No, I think we were talking about movies. You have to tell me your favorite movie now."

"Death Note theatrical movies, subtitled. Next," Jordan recites like they've had it prepared. I blink at them a couple of times.

"I don't know, I haven't thought that hard about it," I reply.

Jordan sits up, eyebrow raised at me, fascinated. "You're going to bug me about my favorite movie but not, like, have a favorite movie prepared? Come on, Sam, be serious."

I throw a pillow at them. With a squeeze of their hands, they vanish the pillow out of the air. "No fair!" I protest, swiping for their hair - the pillow re-appears, intersecting with me, which, thankfully, causes it to simply flop out on top of me like a hat. "Come on--"

TAKAKAKAKAKA--

Suddenly, a series of small tapping noises echo from the window, like someone's tossing pebbles at it. This time it’s not a THUMP!, but the incessant tapping is almost more unnerving.

Jordan turns to me. "Was that the bird again?"

"No bird taps on a window like that," I reply. "Maybe a hummingbird, but I don't think a hummingbird is really interested in my fake plastic flowers on my laptop."

We both exchange glances, then turn toward the window again.

"Okay, on three," I whisper, my fingers hovering over the curtain. "One, two—"

I pull the curtain away, revealing an empty window. But the tapping doesn't stop. It seems to be coming from… below?

"What is going on?" Jordan mutters.

My gaze moves to the air vent near the floor. The tapping intensifies, like something's trying to get our attention. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?" Jordan asks, eyes widening.

"The vent. Something's tapping on the other side of the vent."

Jordan arches an eyebrow. "Should we check it out?"

I shake my head. "No way. This is how people die in horror movies."

Jordan chuckles. "Well, you're the hero. Aren’t you supposed to investigate the creepy noises?"

As I'm about to reply, a tiny fucking hand grabs onto the air vent from the inside, followed by another tiny fucking hand, followed by another tiny fucking hand, followed by another fucking tiny hand. What appears to be the world's most fucked-up raccoon stares back at me with eight goddamn eyes, like someone took a raccoon and stretched it out over a tarantula. "Whaaaaaaaaat the fuck," I say, stumbling back from the air vent.

Then, the raccoon thing pushes out from the air vent, shoving it aside, and clambers into my bedroom. Jordan's turn to get freaked out, letting out a high-pitched screech as they scatter onto my bed.

Wait.

No, I know who this is.

Mad science rules.

"Fuck, Mrs. Xenograft--" I start, before another THUMP! startles me back towards the window, where what is undoubtedly a crow with the head of a basset hound headbutts the glass. I make eye contact with it, and instead of pleasant, cute basset hound eyes, its face carries only the really creepy beady black crow eyes, staring back at me like a doll. It slams its head into the window again, and the raccoon thing, having thoroughly freaked me out, turns around and skitters back down into the air vent.

For a moment, I catch a small collar on it, with some sort of electric thing attached to the back, like a shock collar for dogs. Another basset-crow joins its partner at the window, the two of them hammering on it like they can shove through it towards us.

Jordan and I glance at each other, our brains wrenching for action, when I hear a shriek from below.

My mom.