The incessant ticking of his alarm clock felt like a judgment.
Ethan stared at the crumpled sheet of notebook paper on his desk, covered in crossed-out lyrics and half-formed ideas.
His drumsticks lay abandoned, a solemn testament to his current state of creative paralysis.
He was supposed to be writing a new song for ‘The Rusty Spoons’, something raw, something powerful, something that would properly convey the angst of being an almost adult stuck in a house full of maniacs.
But all he had was…
nothing.
He had tried everything.
He’d paced his attic room until the floorboards groaned in protest.
He’d played every chord progression he knew, hoping a melody would spark a lyrical epiphany.
He’d even resorted to watching documentaries about ancient civilizations, thinking perhaps the wisdom of the past would inspire a breakthrough.
All it had given him was a deeper appreciation for why he preferred the chaotic present.
The problem wasn’t a lack of emotion; he had plenty of that.
It was translating it into words, into something concrete that didn’t sound like a whiny teenager’s diary entry.
His bandmates were counting on him.
They had a gig coming up and their current repertoire, while solid, was starting to feel stale.
He needed a new anthem, a new declaration of independence.
But the well was dry.
His brain, usually a whirring engine of electronic repair and sarcastic comebacks, was currently a barren wasteland.
Writer’s block.
It was a cruel mistress.
With a frustrated groan, Ethan grabbed his electric guitar, plugged it into his rebuilt amp, and cranked the volume.
If he couldn’t create, he could at least destroy the silence.
He attacked the strings, launching into the opening riff of Linkin Park’s “Point of Authority.”
The heavy, distorted guitar chords reverberated through the attic, quickly followed by the driving beat he laid down on his practice pad, the snare sounding like a gunshot.
He closed his eyes, losing himself in the aggressive, cathartic energy of the music.
The pounding bass, the sharp, cutting guitar, the visceral vocals – it was all a release.
He imagined himself on stage, the crowd a faceless blur, the music the only thing that mattered.
Each power chord was a punch, each drum hit a scream.
He let the frustration, the annoyance, the sheer, bewildering chaos of his life fuel his playing.
The music was loud, raw, unapologetic, exactly what he needed to drown out the nagging voice of self-doubt.
He leaned into the mic, screaming along to Chester Bennington’s iconic lyrics, his own voice hoarse, but filled with a surprisingly potent energy.
The attic vibrated with the sound, a sanctuary of noise.
The sanctuary, however, was quickly breached.
The door to his room, which he’d clearly forgotten to close, swung open, revealing his mother, Claire, standing there with her hands on her hips, her mouth moving.
Ethan, deep in the throes of a guitar solo, didn’t notice.
He finished a particularly aggressive riff, his fingers still vibrating on the fretboard, and opened his eyes to see her.
He pulled off his headphones, letting them hang around his neck.
“Can you turn that down?” Claire yelled, her voice barely audible over the lingering feedback from the amp.
“What?!” Ethan shouted back, genuinely unable to hear her.
“Can you it turn down?!” she repeated, louder this time.
“I can’t hear you!” Ethan yelled, exasperated.
His mother, clearly fed up, marched over to his amp and, with a decisive yank, unplugged his electric guitar.
The sudden silence was deafening, a harsh shock to Ethan’s ears.
His mother, now in full volume, looked at him expectantly.
“Can you hear me now?”
Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“Unfortunately.
Is Dinner ready?”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not even ten o’clock, lunch isn’t even ready.”
“So why are you here?” Ethan asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
Claire’s gaze softened slightly, though her expression remained firm.
“Are you going out today?”
“No,” Ethan replied, already knowing where this was going.
“Your sister is going out with her boyfriend, why don’t you go out?”
“Where?” Ethan challenged.
His room was his haven; the outside world offered little allure, especially with his current creative block.
“I don’t know.
With your girlfriend?” Claire suggested, trying for a casual tone.
“What girlfriend?” Ethan deadpanned.
Claire pressed on.
“Brenda.”
Ethan winced, remembering the brief, fiery, and ultimately disastrous “relationship” he’d had with Brenda Feldman, the very girl Manny had accused him of stealing.
“Oh, we broke up.”
Claire looked genuinely surprised, a flash of disappointment in her eyes.
“We didn’t even get to meet her.”
Ethan scoffed.
“Like I would bring a girlfriend here.” The thought of bringing someone into the Dunphy chaos, especially after the humiliation of the Luke incident, was unthinkable.
His parents were a minefield of awkwardness, his sisters were constantly bickering, and Luke was…
Luke.
No sane person would willingly subject a new girlfriend to that.
Claire sat on the couch, a wistful look on her face.
“Ethan is my first baby, so of course I’m more worried about him, the problem is he gives me a lot of reason to be.”
She sighed, running a hand through her hair.
“You have to needle him to get things done, the worst part is he has so much potential, but he just seems content on skating by.”
Ethan, sprawled on his couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside him, offered his perspective to the unseen camera.
“She’s worried about me?”
He snorted, almost choking on a chip.
“Hayley is dumb as a bag of rocks and is track on to being a teen mom.
Alex is a nerd and I’m ninety-nine percent sure has no friends.
And Luke doesn’t even know how to put clothes on properly.”
He gestured vaguely towards the general direction of his siblings’ rooms.
“I can assure you, she’s got bigger problems than me.” He took another chip, munching thoughtfully.
Later that morning, Ethan, having begrudgingly made his way downstairs for some sustenance, was attempting to scavenge a leftover muffin when the doorbell rang.
He considered retreating back to his attic, but it was too late.
Gloria’s booming laugh and Manny’s polite greetings were already filling the entryway.
Gloria, radiant as always, entered the kitchen, Manny trailing behind her, clutching a board game box.
“Manny brought his favorite game to play with Luke,” Gloria announced, beaming.
They stood across the counter from Ethan and his mother, Gloria’s vivacious energy a stark contrast to Ethan’s sullen morning demeanor.
Manny held up the game box proudly.
“It’s called ‘Empire.’ You use strategy to expand territories and take over the world.”
Claire smiled warmly.
“Luke is gonna love that.”
Ethan snorted, reaching for the last muffin.
“What Luke are you talking about?”
Manny, undeterred, explained, “He’s out back playing.”
Ethan took a bite of his muffin.
“Oh, you’re talking about that Luke.
He’s got no chance.”
Claire turned to Ethan.
“Well, he can play with you, then, can’t he?”
Ethan shook his head, already anticipating the question.
“I got band practice.” It was a convenient excuse, even if he still had severe writer’s block.
Gloria, with her usual generosity, offered, “Do you need me to get you something while I’m out shopping?”
Claire, politely declining, said, “That’s such a nice offer, but I think we’re good.
Thanks.”
Just then, Alex walked into the kitchen, dressed in a light blue top and black formal pants, looking uncomfortable.
She completely bypassed Gloria and Manny, her focus entirely on her mother.
“Okay, what about this?”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t even say hello to Gloria and Manny?”
Alex sighed, a practiced, almost robotic politeness in her voice.
“Hi, Gloria and Manny.” She then immediately turned her attention back to their mother.
“Okay, Mom, what about this?”
Claire shook her head.
“No, you’re wearing a dress.”
Alex groaned, a sound of profound teenage exasperation.
“Mom, come on!”
“What?” Claire challenged.
“It’s gonna kill you to look like a girl for one afternoon?”
“But it’s a wedding for some friend of yours that I never even heard of,” Alex argued, her voice rising in pitch.
“Why can’t Ethan go?”
Ethan, seeing his opportunity, smoothly interjected, “Band practice.”
Claire, unwavering, held up a hand.
“It’s nonnegotiable.
You can borrow a dress of Hayley’s again.”
Alex shuddered visibly.
“No, that sends an ugly message — That I’m Hayley.” She then, with a stroke of genius, deflected the argument.
“You know, instead of trying to force me to wear a dress, why don’t you worry about getting Luke to wear some pants?”
Ethan looked pointedly at the camera, a smug, ‘I told you so’ shrug on his face.
Luke’s penchant for pants-free outdoor frolicking was a constant, low-level source of familial embarrassment.
Claire, momentarily stunned, turned to look out the back door.
Her eyes widened.
“What?” she exclaimed, then, seeing Luke in his natural, pantless state, sighed.
“Why does he do this?” She walked to the back door and knocked sharply.
“Luke!
Pants!
Come on!”
Gloria, ever the peacekeeper, stepped in.
“Alex, why don’t you come shopping with me?
Maybe I can help you find something that you like.”
Claire, surprisingly dismissive, said, “That’s a really nice offer, but it’s not really her thing.”
Alex, seizing the olive branch, countered, “Actually, I’d love to go.
See, you don’t know what my thing is.
You have no idea what my thing is.”
Claire, now thoroughly frustrated, threw her hands up.
“I know what your thing is!
Your thing is to provoke, just like your sister’s thing is to never come out of her room, Ethan’s thing is to make people’s ears bleed, and your brother’s thing –” She turned back to the back door to see Luke still making no progress with his pants.
“Oh, well, there’s your brother’s thing.
Luke!”
Ethan, back on the couch, looked at the camera with a bewildered expression.
“That was one time.” He shook his head.
“And it had nothing to do with the music.
Well, somewhat.”
He paused, a strange, distant look in his eyes.
“It all started with a crush.
Let’s just say ‘One Less Lonely Girl’ turned into ‘One More Angry Girl’.”
He chuckled.
“It’s why I had to rebuild most of my equipment.” He ran a hand over his amp, almost reverently.
“That girl was crazy.
Is it weird that I prefer them slightly crazy?”
He considered this for a moment, then shrugged.
“The thing is though, their attractiveness needs to outweigh there craziness.”
He nodded sagely.
“That is just basic math.”