Claire Dunphy stood in the bustling kitchen, a whirlwind of nervous energy.
The scent of burnt toast wafted faintly from a forgotten corner, mingling with the sweeter aroma of fruit.
She held a half-empty container of granola, her eyes darting towards the staircase with an increasingly strained expression.
“Kids, breakfast!
Kids!” she called out, her voice rising in pitch with each unanswered syllable.
Her hand, clenching the plastic container, trembled slightly.
“Ugh, Phil, would you get them?”
Phil, oblivious, remained engrossed in his phone, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah.
Just a sec.”
Claire let out a frustrated sigh, her patience wearing thin.
“Kids!”
The granola container slipped from her grasp, clattering loudly against the tiled floor, scattering oats and dried fruit everywhere.
“Okay.”
The sudden noise finally startled Phil.
He looked up, his eyes widening.
“That is so…
Kids!
Get down here!” he boomed, his voice carrying surprising authority.
Hayley, ever the fashionista, sashayed into the kitchen, phone already in hand, a look of mild annoyance on her face.
“Why are you guys yelling at us when we’re way upstairs?
Just text me.”
Claire, hands on her hips, surveyed her eldest daughter’s outfit.
“Alright, that’s not gonna happen and wow, you’re not wearing that outfit.”
Hayley, genuinely confused, looked down at her attire.
“What’s wrong with it?”
Claire turned to her husband, a plea in her eyes.
“Honey, do you have anything to say to your daughter about her skirt?”
Phil, still in phone-mode, glanced up, barely registering the conversation.
“Sorry.
Oh yeah, it looks really cute, sweetheart.”
Hayley beamed, completely missing her mother’s silent exasperation.
“Thanks.”
“No!” Claire interjected, “It’s way too short.
People know you’re a girl; you don’t need to prove it to them.”
Alex, ever the harbinger of minor catastrophes, walked in, a book tucked under her arm.
“Luke got his head is stuck in the banister again.”
Phil, now fully engaged, sighed dramatically.
“I got it.
Where’s the baby oil?”
Claire pinched the bridge of her nose.
“It’s on our bedside tab-” she started, then cut herself off, muttering under her breath, “I dunno.
Find it.” She turned abruptly, walking straight into the open cupboard door with a soft thud.
“Come on!” she grumbled, rubbing her forehead.
“Where’s Ethan?” Claire asked, glancing around the now surprisingly crowded kitchen.
Ethan, Hayley’s older twin by ten minutes, was conspicuously absent from the morning chaos.
It was typical; he usually materialized only when the promise of food became too strong to ignore, or when the rest of the family’s drama reached a peak he could observe with detached amusement.
Letting out another sigh, Claire headed towards the attic stairs, a familiar dread settling in her stomach.
Ethan’s room, a realm unto itself, was a constant source of both frustration and a strange, maternal bewilderment.
He was a bright kid, really, a whiz with electronics, but he channeled all that potential into—well, into this.
As she ascended the final steps, the faint, lingering scent of pizza and the subtle metallic tang of electronic components grew stronger.
She pushed open the door, which, as usual, wasn’t quite closed, revealing the organized chaos within.
“Ethan?” she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the confined space.
The room, built into the sloped ceiling of the attic, was a testament to a very specific kind of creativity.
Clothes lay everywhere, not just strewn about, but in peculiar, organic formations.
A mountain of t-shirts threatened to engulf a battered drumstick case, while a pair of jeans dangled precariously from the corner of a meticulously rebuilt guitar amplifier.
Claire sighed, stepping over a stray hoodie that seemed to have spontaneously generated in the middle of the floor.
There was no food, thankfully, a small victory, but the sheer volume of fabric was overwhelming.
Against one wall, what looked like a discarded ‘Open’ sign from a convenience store lay on a workbench, its once flickering neon now replaced by a smooth, bright LED strip that glowed a steady blue.
Ethan had found it in a skip, brought it home, and spent weeks tinkering, rebuilding its circuitry, perfecting the display.
Claire shook her head.
He could do that, take a broken piece of junk and make it better than new, but couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of a laundry basket.
Next to the sign, various tools were neatly arranged: soldering irons, multimeters, wire strippers.
They were pristine, almost surgical in their order, a stark contrast to the rest of the room.
This was the ‘workshop’ corner, Ethan’s sacred space where he brought his mechanical magic to life.
Scattered around it were various components, circuit boards, resistors, capacitors, all neatly organized in small, labeled bins.
“Ethan!” she tried again, louder this time.
She spotted him eventually, tucked away in the far corner, headphones on, a t-shirt pulled up over his head, effectively cocooning himself from the outside world.
He was hunched over a battered bass guitar pedal, its internal workings exposed, wires snaking out like metallic vines.
A small, portable soldering iron glowed faintly in his hand.
He was completely absorbed, a look of intense concentration on his face.
This was his other world: the world of his band, ‘The Rusty Spoons.’
All his electronic prowess, all his innate understanding of how things worked, was dedicated to fixing their shoddy, second-hand equipment.
The rebuilt microphone stands that glowed faintly, the practice amp that hummed with a surprisingly clean tone for its age, even the homemade smoke machine that occasionally filled the attic with a benign, theatrical fog, all were Ethan’s handiwork.
Claire ran a hand through her hair.
He wasn’t doing bad in school, just average.
Always just enough effort to get by, never enough to truly excel.
He could ace a physics test if it involved circuits, but anything else was a toss-up.
Sometimes, she wished he would just do more.
Use that brilliant mind for something beyond ensuring ‘The Rusty Spoons’ sounded passable in their garage band struggles.
But no, it was always the amps, the pedals, the drum machine they’d salvaged from a school clear-out.
He was capable of so much, and yet, here he was, soldering a loose connection on a distortion pedal for a band that rarely played.
She loved him, of course, fiercely, but the future sometimes felt like a blurry, uncertain canvas when she thought about Ethan.
Claire sighed again, a sound heavy with resignation and unspoken worry.
She gently nudged his foot with her toe.
“Ethan.
Breakfast.
Now.”
Claire sat on the couch, fidgeting slightly, a pensive look on her face.
“I was…
out of control growing up.
There, you know, I said it.
I…
I just don’t want my kids to make the same bad mistakes that I made.
If Hayley never wakes up on a beach in Florida half-naked, I’ve done my job.”
She paused, her eyes drifting towards the attic door, a faint echo of rock music already starting to filter down.
“And if Ethan never becomes a forty-year-old drummer living in our basement or attic, then I’ve really done my job.”
Phil leaned in, a supportive smile on his face.
“…Our job.”
Claire nodded, a small, grateful smile touching her lips.
“Right.
I’ve done our job.”
Phil, armed with a bottle of baby oil, knelt beside the banister, Luke’s head still firmly wedged between the ornate wooden spindles.
“Buddy, why do you keep getting stuck like this?”
Luke squirmed, his voice muffled.
“I thought I could get out this time.”
Alex, ever the pragmatist, chimed in, “I’m just gonna say it: he needs to be checked by a specialist.”
Phil chuckled, finally freeing Luke with a gentle pop.
“There.
Be free, Excalibur.”
Hayley, who had been quietly tapping away on her phone, suddenly looked up, a hint of excitement in her voice.
“I’m having a friend over today.”
Claire, ever vigilant, immediately picked up on the emphasis.
“Who?”
Hayley shifted uncomfortably.
“Uh, you don’t know him.”
“Him,” Claire repeated, her eyebrows raising.
“Does Ethan know him?”
Hayley hesitated, then, with a sigh, admitted, “Yeah.”
Luke, now free and feeling mischievous, bounced on the balls of his feet.
“Oooh, a boy.
You’re gonna kiss-”
“Shut up!” Hayley snapped, her face flushing as the kids instantly erupted into bickering.
“Easy, easy…” Phil intervened, stepping between them.
“Luke, Alex, why don’t you take it outside, okay?” Claire suggested, her voice strained.
Alex looked incredulous.
“And do what?”
Phil winked.
“Fight in the sun; it’ll be a nice change.
I’m kidding.” He then turned serious, his gaze fixed on Hayley.
“Hayley.
Who’s the boy?”
Hayley, clearly mortified, threw her hands up.
“His name is Dylan.
You know, I might as well just tell him not to come because you guys are just going to embarrass me again.”
Claire softened, reaching out to gently touch her daughter’s arm.
“Sweety, hang on a second.
You’re fifteen and it’s the first time you’ve had a boy over.
I mean, I’m bound to be a little surprised, but…
not embarrass you.”
Phil, a mischievous glint in his eye, started to back away.
“I better go charge the camcorder.”
Hayley groaned, turning her back to him.
“I’m kidding!” Phil quickly added, seeing her reaction.
“Come on, who’re you talking to?”
Just then, the attic door creaked open, and Ethan emerged, clad in a faded band t-shirt and cargo shorts, hair perpetually in a state of carefully disheveled art.
He ambled into the kitchen, a family-sized box of Frosted Flakes tucked under one arm, a spoon already clutched in his hand.
He dug in, crunching loudly, completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere he was interrupting.
He swallowed a mouthful with an audible gulp, flakes clinging to his lip.
“You’ve got to end that relationship,” he declared, his voice flat, his eyes fixed on Hayley, though she was still facing away from the group.
Claire stared at him, then at the cereal box.
“Why would I do that?
And are you seriously eating directly from the box again?
That’s for everyone!”
Ethan, ignoring her second question entirely, swallowed another mouthful.
“Because…
reasons.”
Claire rolled her eyes.
“You’re just jealous she got a partner before you.”
“Just not true,” Ethan mumbled, crunching another spoonful.
Claire’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re in a relationship?
Why didn’t you say anything?”
Ethan paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.
He looked at the box, then at his mother, then back at the box.
“I can’t say I am or I am not.”
“Are you?” Claire pressed, arms crossing.
Ethan blinked slowly.
“It wouldn’t be inaccurate, to assume that I couldn’t exactly not say that it is or isn’t partially incorrect.”
Claire stared, then massaged her temples.
“It’s a yes or a no?”
“No.”
“Were you in a relationship?”
“No.”
“So what did you mean?”
Ethan just shrugged, taking another loud bite of cereal.
“No.”
Claire sighed in frustration, then tried another angle.
“What about Cassandra?
Are you two finally together?”
Ethan shook his head vehemently, his face twisting in disgust.
“Ew, that’s just my friend.”
Claire stared at him, then threw her hands up.
“Ethan, this is ridiculous!”
Ethan, however, had already moved on.
“I think you should be more concerned about Dylan.
He is in a band.”
Claire scoffed.
“I’m not going to end a relationship just because he is in a rival band.”
“Oh come on,” Ethan said, finally looking at his mother, a flicker of genuine annoyance in his eyes.
“He is here to steal my music.”
Claire snorted.
“I think it has more to do with your sister than it has to do with the loud banging you call music.”
Ethan winced.
“If you think mine is bad, he does slow, soppy music.” He shuddered dramatically.
“It’s not even the good white girl kind.”
His mom just walked away, shaking her head and muttering something about teenage boys and their priorities.
“So are you going to do it?!” Ethan called after her, a final, desperate plea.
Claire didn’t even turn around.
“No.”
Ethan was sprawled on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, the other still clutching the now mostly empty cereal box.
His band t-shirt was wrinkled, and he hadn’t moved since his mother walked away.
“Look, Dylan’s band,” he began, slowly sitting up and running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.
“Their whole deal is…
acoustic.
Like, ‘campfire feelings’ music.
All about emotions and, like, holding hands.”
He made a gagging noise.
“Meanwhile, ‘The Rusty Spoons’ are about raw power, shredding guitar solos, and lyrics that actually mean something, you know?”
He paused, a dark cloud crossing his face.
“But it’s not just the music.
It’s…
it’s Hayley.
I mean, this guy, Dylan, he’s probably already writing songs about her.
‘Oh, Hayley, your eyes are like the summer sky,’ or ‘My heart skips a beat when you say my name.'”
Ethan shuddered, visibly disgusted.
“And then those songs are going to be out there, forever, defining my sister’s entire existence through the lens of some ‘soppy folk-pop anthem.’ It’s just…
I can’t be comfortable with that.”
He stared off into space, a faraway look in his eyes.
“This is just like Scotty all over again.” He shook his head mournfully.
“Poor Scotty.” Ethan then leaned forward, a conspiratorial whisper in his voice.
“Somebody should really tell Scotty.”