The sun spilled over the palm trees like liquid gold, stretching warm fingers across the city of Los Angeles. The morning was already buzzing with car horns in the distance, joggers pounding the sidewalks, and birds squabbling on rooftops.
In a modest house nestled between two hibiscus-lined streets, a boy lay sprawled across his bed, tangled in sheets. Blond hair flopped over his eyes, mouth half-open, completely dead to the world.
Then the silence shattered.
"GAR, WAKE UP!"
The voice boomed up the stairs, slicing through Garfield Logan's dreams like a chainsaw through butter. He groaned.
"Five more minutes…" he mumbled, but his mom's voice had zero chill.
"NOW, Garfield Mark Logan! You're going to miss school again!"
With a sigh that sounded like the end of the world, Gar peeled himself out of bed. He rubbed his eyes, shuffled to the bathroom like a zombie, and reached for his phone. With a few taps, music blasted into his ears through his headphones.
"Well, good for you, I guess you moved on really easily…"
He sang along loudly and very, very badly as he stepped into the shower.
"Remember when you said that you wanted to give me the worrrrrllld?"
His voice cracked. If anyone had been within earshot, they might've called the police to report a howling dog in distress.
After finishing his shower and brushing his teeth (mostly), he threw on a black hoodie, ripped jeans, and classic checkerboard Vans. He stomped down the stairs two at a time.
In the kitchen stood his mom, Lisa Logan, a woman in her early forties with tired brown eyes and blonde hair tied up in a loose bun. She was flipping pancakes with one hand and texting with the other.
"Morning, Ma," Garfield said, sliding up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.
She leaned into the hug. "Morning, Gar. You smell like Axe body spray and teenage regret."
"Thanks. It's my signature scent," he grinned, plopping down at the kitchen table.
She set a plate of steaming pancakes in front of him. "Eat up. You've got a long day of pretending to pay attention in class ahead of you."
Gar chuckled as he drowned his pancakes in syrup and started wolfing them down. Halfway through, he glanced at the clock.
"Crap," he muttered through a mouthful. He scarfed the last bite, grabbed his skateboard by the door, and kissed his mom on the cheek. "Love you. See you later, Ma!"
"Be careful!" she called as the door slammed shut.
Outside, the city was alive with energy. Garfield kicked off on his board, weaving through pedestrians and skimming past traffic. He popped ollies over curbs, slid along rails, and even vaulted over the hood of a car stalled in the intersection.
"Yo, Gar!" someone yelled.
He glanced over and winked at a group of girls waiting at the bus stop. One of them giggled and waved.
"Damn, I'm good," he muttered with a smirk.
At school, Garfield moved through the hallways like he owned the place. High-fives, fist bumps, and shout-outs followed him from locker to locker. He wasn't the smartest kid in the building or the most athletic but he had charisma, and that went a long way.
Classes dragged. Math was a blur. History was nap-inducing. English was only tolerable because the teacher let him sit near the window. The only part of the day that felt real was lunch, when he could kick back with his crew and talk nonsense.
As the final bell rang and students flooded the halls, Garfield was unlocking his skateboard when someone called out.
"Yo, Gar! You hitting the skater rink?"
Gar looked over to see Ethan, his friend since sixth grade, tall and lanky with a mop of brown curls.
"You know it, bro," Garfield said with a grin. They bumped fists.
They skated down to the abandoned parking lot that had been unofficially turned into their favorite skate spot. It was full of ramps, rails, and graffiti-covered walls. A bunch of other kids were already there, music blasting from a speaker.
Garfield threw himself into the action. Kickflips, grinds, wall rides and he was in the zone. For a few hours, nothing else mattered.
But then something weird happened.
As he was skating down a long ramp, he felt a strange sensation rise in his chest like heat, spreading through his veins. It wasn't normal tiredness or adrenaline. It was like his skin was buzzing. Burning, even.
He slowed to a stop and stepped off his board, wiping sweat from his brow. The heat didn't go away.
"You good?" Ethan asked.
"Yeah," Garfield lied. "Just… gonna head home."
He grabbed his board and headed out, ignoring the rolling nausea in his stomach and the way his hands felt like they were vibrating.
When Garfield got home, the house was quiet.
"Ma?" he called out, kicking off his shoes. No answer.
He walked into the kitchen and found a note stuck to the fridge.
"Had to work late. Cash on the counter for pizza. Love you. –Mom."
Next to the note was a crumpled twenty.
Garfield shrugged. "Pizza it is."
He ordered a large pepperoni and went upstairs to his room, where he spent the next hour alternating between video games, texting, and trying to ignore the growing discomfort in his body. His skin still felt warm—too warm—but he figured it was probably just from skating too hard in the sun.
The pizza arrived. He devoured it while mashing buttons on his controller and blasting music from his speaker.
Time passed.
When he finally looked at the clock, it was 12:42 a.m.
Just then, the front door opened downstairs.
"Gar?" his mom's voice called out.
He paused his game and rushed down. Lisa stood in the doorway, bags under her eyes, her work uniform wrinkled. As soon as she saw him, she wrapped her arms around him.
But then she pulled back. "Garfield, your skin feels hot like, really hot. Are you okay?"
Garfield wiped sweat off his forehead. "Yeah… I'm just tired. Think I pushed myself too hard skating today."
She looked at him for a second too long, clearly unsure.
"I'll be fine, Ma. Promise," he added with a soft smile.
Lisa nodded reluctantly. "Alright. Get some rest. Goodnight, sweetie."
"Night, Ma."
He headed back upstairs, pulled off his clothes, tossed on some loose shorts, and collapsed into bed.
Sleep came fast.
The Next Morning
Sunlight pierced through his blinds like daggers. Garfield groaned and yanked the covers over his head.
BZZZT. BZZZT.
His alarm clock blared.
"Ugh…" he reached out groggily to smash it.
But something was off.
His hand ….his hand was green.
CRASH!
The alarm clock exploded into pieces under his fist.
Garfield blinked. He sat up in bed slowly, heart pounding. He stared at his hand, then at his arm.
Green.
He shot out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the light. The mirror stared back.
Green skin. Bright green eyes. His face… his entire body looked like someone had dunked him in radioactive paint.
His pulse skyrocketed. He grabbed his face, pulling at his cheeks like it would come off, like it was a mask.
"No no no no no—what the actual—"
Then, he screamed.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?! WHY AM I GREEN?!"
He grabbed the sink to steady himself, gasping. His skin was slick with sweat. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. Nothing changed.
His reflection still looked like some kind of mutant alien.
He stumbled backward, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon.
This wasn't a joke. It wasn't a prank.
Something had changed.
And Garfield Logan's life was never going to be normal again.