So, it's been two full days of me avoiding Theresa like she's the human version of a pop quiz. And before you ask, yes, I had every reason to keep dodging her like my dignity depended on it. My official excuse? "I'm grounded, sis. House arrest. Sorry, can't chat."
But the actual reason?
I had no clue what to say to her. Zero. Nada. Zilch.
Like, what do you even say to the sibling who's basically a real-life Hermione Granger while you're out here being expelled from your third school like it's a freaking sport?
Anyway, I think I finally pieced together my parents' master plan: Operation Fix Tom Without Sending Him to Military School. Mom had been talking to her old work friend, Mrs. Margaret—this librarian who used to teach little kids how to sound out "cat" and now probably has alphabet-shaped bookmarks in her purse.
Apparently, she was gonna pull strings and get me a job as a library assistant. Which is... honestly kinda weirdly genius?
Like, sure, I'd have to alphabetize crusty books and dodge screaming toddlers with jam hands, but it's still books. And I love books. Books don't yell at you. Books don't ground you. Books don't compare you to your sister.
Books are chill.
Books are safe.
But right now? Right now, I was not feeling safe.
I was feeling hungry.
It was 2:07 a.m.
I know because I'd been lying in bed, staring at the blinking red numbers on my digital clock like they owed me rent. My stomach had been growling so loudly it probably woke up the neighbor's dog.
(Also, fun fact: I'd counted the number of times the people across the street turned their lights on and off today. Final score? Twelve. That's twelve switches, three suspiciously long blackouts, and one time I'm pretty sure someone screamed. Suburbia's weird.)
Anyway, Mom had been my personal room-service queen these past two days, bless her tired soul. She brought me food, knocked gently like I was some kind of sad prince locked in a tower, and left trays outside my door like I was contagious.
But I hadn't eaten dinner. Not really. I picked at it. Stared at it. Thought about it.
And now I was starving enough to eat my own regret—which, let me tell you, is not very filling.
I flopped onto my back dramatically, like I was auditioning for a tragic stage play called "The Starvation of Thomas Edison Junior." My real name's just Tom, but trust me, Dad loves a dramatic name.
Theresa got "Mother Theresa." I got the light bulb guy.
You can already see how this family dynamic works.
My room smelled like paper and dust and maybe a little like old boy. I hadn't changed my shirt in two days. I hadn't left my room in two days. I was basically evolving into some kind of book-reading house goblin.
But even goblins need snacks.
*********
Alright. Desperate times. Desperate snacks.
At exactly 2:36 a.m.—because yes, I checked the cracked screen of my digital clock like five times—I finally caved. I decided to do what every grounded teen eventually does when guilt, boredom, and the very real sound of their own stomach doing jazz solos becomes unbearable: I went on a kitchen heist.
Target: chips.
Bonus objective: maybe juice.
Optional side quest: see if I could sneak a few minutes on the family desktop without setting off the Parental Security Alarms™.
I flung the covers off with the dramatic flair of someone who'd just survived a medieval plague. The air outside my blanket cocoon hit me like betrayal. My room smelled like old paper, cheap body spray, and... defeat.
I grabbed my trusty black Batman tee (because nothing screams stealth like a vigilante billionaire) and paired it with my striped pajama pants. I looked like a fashion disaster from a comic con sleepover, but whatever, the fridge wasn't going to judge me.
Creeping out of my room felt like trying to escape a dungeon. My door creaked (because of course it did) and I froze mid-step, holding my breath like I was defusing a bomb. When no one shouted "THOMAS EDISON GET BACK TO BED," I tiptoed to the staircase.
Peeked over the railing.
Dark. Quiet. Eerily quiet. Like the house was holding its breath too. The kind of silence that made your ears buzz and your brain whisper, "This is how horror movies start."
I crept downstairs, skipping the third step because it squeaks louder than my conscience on test day. In the kitchen, I flicked on the light, and it buzzed like an old fly zapper before flooding the place in that sterile fridge-white glow that makes everything look like a crime scene.
The fridge door moaned when I opened it (because again, horror movie rules). I grabbed a bag of semi-stale sour cream and onion chips that had been hiding behind a bottle of expired salad dressing like it was in witness protection. Then I reached for the orange juice—because hydration, right?
I opened the fridge again, grabbed the bottle, turned to find a glass, and that's when it happened.
Theresa's voice sliced through the air like a knife through all my dignity.
"Dad checks the juice every morning."
I screamed internally. Like, full-body, soul-deep, slow-motion Hollywood scream. On the outside, though, I just froze mid-pour like a deer caught in a fridge-light. The bottle of orange juice trembled in my hand like it knew its fate.
Theresa was sitting on the counter like some kind of juice-drinking gremlin, one leg crossed over the other, wearing a hoodie and sipping tea like she was in a coffee shop at the end of the world. Her hair was in a messy bun, and she looked way too smug for 2:37 a.m.
"How long have you been there?" I hissed, clutching the bottle like it was evidence.
"Long enough to know you were gonna ruin Dad's morning and blame me," she said, sipping her tea like she was royalty and I was just a kitchen peasant.
I glanced at the juice again. Put it back slowly, like I was disarming a bomb. I grabbed the water bottle instead. Safe. Neutral. Boring as hell, but safe.
"You know you could've just said 'hi,' right?" I muttered, twisting the cap and pretending I wasn't dying inside.
"You know, Tom... avoiding me isn't going to make this less awkward."
"Well I didn't know what to say" I replied.
"You could have just said anything tom, I missed you" Theresa replied me smiling.
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out of my head. "Missed me? I've been in my room. Not, like, on a NASA mission."
"Well, with how dramatic you've been, I figured you were exiled or something."
I didn't reply. Just opened the chips, shoved a few in my mouth, and crunched angrily. The salt stung the inside of my cheek. Worth it.
Theresa hopped off the counter and came closer. "You know… it's okay to talk to me. You don't have to act like you're the only one who's ever gotten into trouble."
I shrugged. "Easy to say when you're literally everyone's favorite."
"That's not true," she said. "Mom likes me. Dad just… likes comparing you to me."
"Ouch. Thanks. That makes me feel so much better," I said, voice dripping with enough sarcasm to power a small town.
She didn't even flinch. Just stood there by the kitchen doorway, arms folded like she was judging my entire existence. Honestly, maybe she was.
"Sorry," she said, with a smirk that was not sorry at all. "I know you get snacks every midnight. You've been avoiding me, so I figured I'd wait."
Of course she did.
Shame washed over me like hot soup in summer. I rubbed the back of my neck, which suddenly felt like it was sweating guilt. I stared at the ground like it held the secrets to surviving this moment without melting into a puddle of cringe.
"I just… I don't know what to say," I muttered again lower this time, voice soft like I hoped the fridge would eat the words before they got to her.
She rolled her eyes in that big sister way that says, "You dramatic lump, I literally covered your shit more than once."
"You could start with: 'Hey Tess, it's been a while.' You know," she said, and walked toward me like it wasn't the middle of the night and we weren't both emotionally constipated disasters.
"Tess."
God. That name hit like a memory bat to the face.
I used to call her that. Way back. Before we grew awkward. Before I messed everything up and got grounded and broke Dad's 'Don't-Be-An-Idiot' policy for the fifteenth time. Before we turned into roommates in a sitcom with too much tension and not enough commercials.
She took the orange juice from the fridge like it belonged to her (which, to be fair, she did warn me about earlier), poured it into a glass like a bartender at a Very Sad Bar, and passed it back to me with a tiny smile. Not a smug one. Just… soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
I took the glass and blinked at her like she might vanish if I moved too fast. My fingers brushed hers and—ugh, emotions. Get a grip, Tom.
"I'll tell Dad I had a drink and I was thirsty," she said, totally casual, like we weren't both awake at stupid o'clock having a secret sibling truce over orange juice and emotional damage.
I stared at the glass like it might start talking back or judge me for needing my sister to lie for me. My fingers curled tighter around the rim. Cold condensation dripped onto my palm, which—gross—but also helpful because my face was already heating up like I'd accidentally confessed something deeper than snack theft.
I gave her a slow nod. You know, one of those nods where you're pretending to be chill but your brain is playing a sad trombone on loop. Then I grabbed the chips—salt and onions, because I have taste—and made for the stairs.
I was halfway up when I stopped. Like, full dramatic movie pause. I turned, and there she was, wiping down the sink with a paper towel like some domestic ninja. It hit me weirdly hard. That ordinary little thing she was doing.
"Thank you," I said. Quiet. Like I was afraid if I said it louder it'd undo whatever spell had just settled between us.
She didn't turn around. Just kind of froze mid-wipe like her processor was catching up.
"Tom," she said. And man, the way she said it? It wasn't like Tom the idiot, or Tom the grounded menace, or Tom why are you always like this. It was soft. Real. Tired maybe, but honest. "Please don't avoid me."
I swallowed. Nodded again. Couldn't look her in the eye. Could barely even breathe right. My chest felt too full and too empty at the same time, like someone had shoved a bunch of feelings into a Coke bottle and shaken it up.
Then I turned and took the stairs two at a time like I was running from a monster made of guilt and awkward emotions.
Back in my room, I closed the door softly—because slamming felt too dramatic even for me—and dropped onto my bed like my bones had given up on holding my personality together. The bag of chips crinkled beside me, forgotten. I stared at the ceiling, counting cracks like maybe they spelled out a way to fix stuff.
My heart wouldn't slow down. Not in a bad way, not exactly. Just fast. Fast with everything I didn't say. Fast with all the dumb stuff I'd done. Fast with maybe finally realizing I didn't have to be the Worst Son of the Year forever.
I curled up, hoodie over my head, blanket tangled around my feet, and whispered it to no one but myself:
"Tomorrow, I'm gonna be better."
I didn't know how yet. But it was a start.
And weirdly enough, that kinda mattered.