The rest of my day at high school was as uneventful as it could be. This was the end of the first week of orientation. I had started as a sophomore. They hadn't even had the decency to start me as a freshman. And so, not only was I the youngest kid in school, but I was by far the smallest sophomore in the whole school. And that included Emilio Rodriguez, who was only three inches taller than I was, but he had a good 50 pounds on me.

Having already been here for a week, the day that I got landed in detention being Friday, I was used to the passing jibes that the bored children threw at me.

It helped to think of them as children.

I know they were older than I was, but shouldn't we judge by behavior instead of by actual time spent on this planet? I figured they would grow bored of poking at me, with passing comments like, "Who let the baby in here?" and, "Oh my gosh, my kid brother followed me to school."

Honestly, I figured they could be more creative. If I was going to take the time to drop an insult on a stranger, I would at least put some creativity into it. No, the eventful part of my day was the last class when I realized that if I was going to forge my mother's signature, I was going to have to come up with a plausible reason why I was going to be staying after school every day for the next three weeks.

She wouldn't believe that I had signed up for sports. There was not a sport that I could be competitive in. Size isn't everything, but tell you what, it sure counts for a lot. I could volunteer that I was in some sort of study group, but I don't think she would believe that either. I was going to have to discuss this with Cece when I got back to the house.

I hadn't intended to make a friend of the babysitter, but she was the only person I could talk to.

***

“Hey Freak," Cece said as I came in the front door of the house.

"Hey, Creeper," I shot back.

Mom and I had moved for work recently, although saying mom and I had moved for work makes it sound like I have work. I don't. I'm 12. I have school. I have problems. I have the only working theory as to where dad went. Never mind that.

The move had been recent, and mom was convinced that 12 was not yet old enough to be left alone in the house. I tried to convince her otherwise, but she began citing state law, child abuse, and the foster care system, which was fair enough. I had to relent. A former alcoholic having custody of her only child was a remarkable thing in and of itself, and so mother had called around, and several days after us moving in, Cece had responded to the babysitter ad.

She was in college, taking some online classes, and was able to work on her online stuff using our Wi-Fi. In our first interaction, I had helped her out with a paper that she was writing, and ever since that— and her discovering my interest in paranormal research— she decided that my nickname was Freak.

Needing an equal nickname, I decided that her strangely inappropriate conversational references, made her deserve the nickname Creeper.

"So," Cece said, "how was the first week of high school? Do you have a girlfriend yet?"

I shook my head. "I'm 12," I said, figuring the statement should stand for itself.

Cece shrugged, "Never stopped me."

I decided to leave that alone. "I need your help," I said.

She looked up from her phone for the first time. "Really? Alright, it's gonna be hard, but I can teach you how to get a girl."

In spite of myself, I blushed. "No," I said, "that's not what I want help with."

"Well, it's clearly what you need help with," Cece shot back.

"It is not," I yelled.

She began laughing at me.

"Look, I'm serious, I need your help."

"And I told you I would help you."

I sighed and handed her the slip of paper that my mom was supposed to sign. She looked it over and then gave me a once-over for the first time.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Uh-huh," she said, looking the paper over. "Fighting? Ok, we can definitely get you a girlfriend."

I sputtered and yelled at her. "I don't—you know what, never mind. I have to forge Mom's signature."

She quirked an eyebrow at me. "Really? You have to?"

"Yes," I said emphatically. Why was she not getting this? "You know what she'll do if she finds out I'm in detention?"

Cece shrugged. "Spank you?"

I shook my head at her. "Would you stop that?"

"What? It's a logical conclusion."

"Not the way you said it," I shot back.

She grinned. "I can't help it."

I shook my head. "Listen, I'm serious. If she finds out I got detention and near expulsion in my first week of classes, she's gonna flip."

“So what? My mom flips on me all the time.”

"Your mom's not a recovering alcoholic who receives monthly visits from a social worker to check up and see if she has relapsed," I said. “I’m one relapse away from getting thrown into the system!”

“Point to you.” Cece said, “but do you really think one little detention would push her to drink?”

“C’mere,” I said, and walked over to the computer.

Cece stretched and rolled off the couch. “Gonna show me your browser history so I know your type when I set you up?” She waggled her eyebrows at me.

I gave her my best flat stare. “Just get over here Creeper.”

“All right, show me what you got Freak.”

I logged into webarchive.org and then accessed Find-My-Phone for the previous Tuesday.

I looked up at Cece. "Do you remember how on Tuesday Mom was an hour late and she said that she had an especially stressful day at work?"

Cece nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Check it out," I said. I showed her on Find-My-Phone. "She parked here in front of Happy Liquor for an hour before driving home.”

Cece let out a low whistle and then a curse. “Wow.”

“You see?”

“You are massively underutilizing your skill set. I’m gonna put the word out for contract work at my school. We’re gonna make money-money.” She began furiously typing on her phone.

“Would you please take this seriously?”

“Hey Freak, I am.” She said without slowing her typing. “If you have the foster system after you, we can work something out if we’re making money. Money is the solution to any problem.”

“Can money keep my mom sober?”

She stopped what she was doing and looked at me. “This conversation just got way more intense than I was prepared for. Fine, I get it. You’re worried. Let’s go forge that signature.”

“I can do that. Not my first time. What I need help with, is explaining where I am until 5 or 5:30 every day. I’ve been wracking my brains, trying to think of something to tell mom.”

“Psh, that’s easy. Just say you’re at a girl’s house. Wait, you’re an experienced forgery artist?” She began to type again. “Why did you wait until now to tell me? How much do you charge per job?”

“Can we focus on something other than romance and crime? I need something mom will believe. My first dentition is Monday. I’ve got two days to figure something out.”

“Excuse me? Romance and crime make the world go round.” She finished whatever she was doing on her phone held it before her, looking satisfied. “There are no better plausible solutions to anything.”

I laughed at that. “Not even money?”

“Romance and crime both depend on money, so that’s besides the point.”

“How does romance depend on money?”

“Really? Tell me who has a better shot with a woman, a homeless man, or a millionaire.”

“Point to you. Now give me an idea for an excuse.”

“Nuh uh, I already gave a perfectly good one, it’s your turn.”

“Fine, chess club.”

"Do you even know how to play chess?" Cece asked.

"Well, no," I say, "but I could learn. How hard can it be?"

Cece shook her head. "No way. It's too lame. Plus, chess is so 2000s. My college hardly even has a chess club. Does your high school even have one?"

"Does it matter?" I ask. "I don't think my mom's gonna check."

"Yeah, but she might," Cece points at me. "That's sort of the point. Any excuse you have has to stand up under scrutiny, even if scrutiny is assumed to be non-existent."

"Okay, your turn," I say.

"Hey, that's not fair. You shoot a lame one and now it's my turn again. I already gave you one good one.”

“It needs to be believable. Plus, don't you think that my mom would want to meet the girl if I'm spending two hours at her house after school every day?"

Cece shook her head. "Maybe, but I bet she'd want to meet her dad even more.”

"Ew," I say. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine," she says. "How about this? We tell her you're at my house."

"What?"

"Yeah," she says. "This is great. That way, I still get paid for the time, and you have a plausible cover story."

"Why would I go to your house?"

"Psh, why wouldn't you?"

"No, seriously. What about that whole scrutiny thing?"

"Okay, fine. I could say ... that I have to be doing daily quizzes at my house, and they won't let me log in over your IP address so... Can Freak please get off at the bus stop near my place, and then I'll drive him over after."

I tap my chin. "That could actually work."

"See? I told you telling her you were at a girl's house is the solution."

I wrinkle my nose at her. "What? You're hardly a girl, Creeper."

"Excuse me," she says, putting her hand on her hip. "I'm more girl than you could handle."

"Can we change the subject, please?"

Her phone chimed, and she typed like a maniac for a moment then grinned.

“Whatever Freak, I hope you’re as good as you boast at forgery.” She held up her phone. “I got us our first gig.”

“What?” I peer at the screen. She had a subreddit page open. “You posted on reddit and now someone wants you to come meet them? I’m twelve, and even I know that’s a bad idea.”

“Huh?” She looked at her phone. “No, dummy, I’m not meeting a stranger I met on reddit. That’s just how I use the dark clipboard for campus. I’m already a frequent poster, so I get to post without mod-checks. The clipboard runs mirror through reddit and uses bots for returns when you’re not on a secure device.”

I quirked an eyebrow at her, “Did you just make up a bunch of garbage so I didn’t learn how to get to the site?”

She stuck her tongue out at me. "Yep," she said. "I'm not giving you the keys to the Rolls."

"Keys to the what?" I sputtered, not understanding what she was talking about.

She waggled her finger at me. "I'm making sure that you don't cut out the middleman."

"The middle… What are you talking about? You're not making any sense."

"Well, we gotta go."

"Go? Where?"

"I just told you. I got us a gig! We've got to hustle if we're gonna make it there."

"Make it where? Mom's gonna be home at 6," I said.

"Yeah, it's 3:36 now. We've got plenty of time. Come on, there's money to be made."

"Money to be… what?" My brain sputtered to a stop. "You mean that you actually signed us up to go do a job for somebody?"

"Yeah, duh," she said.

"I can't believe you. I can't go anywhere; I've got homework."

She quirked an eyebrow at me. "You? Homework?"

Alright, she knew me too well. I had already done my homework for the day on the bus.

"Yeah, paranormal homework," I said, folding my arms.

"Paranormal homework?" she said. "Alright, Freak, what's your paranormal homework?"

"I've got to practice telekinesis," I said.

"Telle—wait, I knew you were smart, but you can move stuff with your mind?"

"Well," I said, hesitating. "Not yet, I can't. But how am I supposed to be able to if I don't practice, huh?"

"Well, you're about to have plenty of time in detention to practice, so let's go. Otherwise," she dangled her car keys in front of my face, “I might just forget where you’re supposed to be for your alibi, and let slip something about your detention.”

“Hey! That’s extortion!”

“Big word for a twelve-year-old. It’s not extortion, it’s the price for my silence, now get in the car.”

***