I once again resist the urge to re-open my carton of hickory peach ice cream, my unwillingness to eat in someone else's car only just beating out its cold, savory allure.

“Thanks again for giving me a ride home,” I say, looking behind me. “My house isn’t exactly on the way, and you’ve got so far to drive regardless.”

A small tear in existence opens up—one that somehow keeps pace with the car—and I watch as Menagerie slips a stick of lipstick inside before closing it.

“We could hardly allow you to walk home the day of your debut; you’d be positively mobbed. As-is, we’ll be dropping you off a little ways from your house anyway. Paparazzi are a terror.”

Oh. Yeah. That was today.

I hug my ice cream a little closer to myself; it’s cold packaging cooling my midsection nicely.

She speaks again, pulling me from my introspection. “Have you decided how you’ll address the things you said?”

“The things... I said?”

Possibly the first smirk I’ve ever seen on her face curls upward. “The bit onstage where you stared longingly at that friend of yours and informed the waking world of your preferences?”

“Pbb—tha—I did not! None of that happened! You know full well what I intended there!” I sputter, the event replaying in my mind obnoxiously.

“Oh, good. I was somewhat concerned as to how you’d deal with her being at your home after that, but it seems I misunderstood.” She deadpans, her eyes meeting Revisions through the rear-view mirror.

Is she? That’s bad. She’s totally going to think I implied something. Is she even into women? Why would that matter? I’m not—she’s—

“This is where we’re dropping you off.” Revision says, a tired grin on his face. “You’re only about a half-block away; just try to stay out of sight.”

My motor functions return just long enough for me to thank them and grab my stuff, hopping out onto the side of the road.

Then they cease once again.

I can’t just act like nothing happened, but what if she wants me to?

I look around carefully, having at least enough awareness to make sure no one’s watching me as I leap first into a tree and then down into the Donnahue family’s backyard.

Assuming that would be callous, though, so I’m screwed either way.

I give Malarky—their basset hound—a quick scratch as I pass her doghouse on my way to the next fence. She’s something like fourteen at this point, though I only know that since I was there when the Vanguard shipment delivered her as a puppy.

Maybe I should get a dog. No—not what I need to be focusing on. General Tso would have a fit regardless, regardless of his apparent eldritch nature.

My feet land gracefully on the top of a fencepost, and I feel a bit of awe at how dextrous I’ve become since my ascension. Or, more specifically, since earlier today. The weird cult power Vanguard use to get stronger has been churning in my gut like a bad dose of food poisoning.

A new, different churn enters my stomach as my house comes into view, the sliding glass door outside of our living room shining brightly. Several shadows dance on the veranda outside of it, their owners excitedly moving about within.

Not just Sydney; I haven't talked to my mom since I ran out on her yesterday. How did I act around her before? Now that it's become something conscious, I have no idea how to be me.

Even the way I’m walking starts to feel wrong as I land silently in the grass of my backyard, running out of time to figure myself out. My ascendant form drops as I release it, wisps of black evaporating off of me like a breath I’d been holding for so long

A pair of intelligent green eyes meet mine, startling me as I sneak up to the doorway.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

His gray form settled into a loaf-like shape, General Tso stares up at me with a look I can only describe as bothered. Is he upset to have his secret revealed? Is he annoyed that I’m arriving so late? Answers to that and more, tonight, on: “My cat is sapient and has been hiding things from me.”

I crouch down, getting more on level with him. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Buster. Don’t think you’ll be getting off scot-free after everything you’ve seen.”

A brief ear flick is all I get in return, but I feel as if I’ve gotten my message across. Probably.

“Brooke? Is that you, honey?”

My shoulders tense up; not nearly as ready as I’d like to be for this. Standing in the opening between our dining and living room stands my mother, the oven mitts on her hands empty but held up like they still think there’s something to hold. She must have stopped in the middle of what she was doing and rushed here.

The cat definitely snitched to Dad.

“Yeah, sorry I’m so late. Is there any dinner left?” I ask, earnestly trying to sound normal but unsure what normal sounds like anymore.

I snake one of my hairs through a gap in the doorway, manually lifting the little hook that locks it so I can slide the glass door aside and slip in. Before I can close it back behind me, though, a pair of oven-mitt-covered arms wrap around me, filling my nose with the scent of brownies.

“Of course there’s dinner left, dear. Are you okay? You must be starved, being forced to stay there all day. They at least fed you lunch, right?” She rambles, finally noticing the carton of ice cream in the crook of my elbow. “Something with more substance than Benny’s, I hope.”

Warmth spreads in my chest at the nervous pitch in her voice, giving away her own anxiety at interacting with me again. I shouldn’t be surprised; our fights always end with us acting like this. There’s no reason this one would be any different.

I lean my head against one of the arms holding me, enjoying the sensation and smell for a moment. “We ate some other stuff, yeah. I’m really just glad to be home, though. It’s been a hard few weeks for me.”

Her hug tightens, though she doesn't say anything. We both know she couldn’t understand what I’ve been through, but she doesn’t need to. Just having her in my corner again relieves so much of the weight on my shoulders.

A fuzzy sensation slides along my calf, and I open my eyes to watch our “cat" saunter past me and towards the kitchen where Vic and Dad are peering in from. Only their heads and hands are visible past the entryway, giving off the comical image of a totem pole made up of dorks.

“I don't think she’s seen us yet; we’re still in the clear,” My dad whispers loudly, lowering a pair of binoculars that I’m quite certain he didn’t have a moment ago.

My eyes roll involuntarily, but I beckon them both over to join the hug with a wave regardless. Dad hops on the opportunity, letting his binoculars clatter to the floor and dissipate into angular blue shapes, running up and wrapping Mom and me in his arms.

I guess he’s abandoned all semblance of secrecy now that the cat’s out of the bag.

Victor hesitates, his eyes gazing past me for a moment before locking with mine as awkwardly as possible. He does shuffle over and join the hug, though I can’t see what sort of expression he’s making anymore past our parent's smothering forms. His reaction hurts a bit, but it doesn’t get to me nearly as much as it would have yesterday.

I try to glance around subtly, posing a question now that my final hurdle of tonight hasn’t shown herself. “So, I’ve got a question without any particular meaning or intent behind it—”

“She left about an hour ago,” Vic’s distant voice responds from behind his parent-fort. “You’re pretty lucky you don't need to be subtle to be a Vanguard; you’re about as open as a book can get.”

His comment is followed by a muffled thud, most likely born from the collision of oven mitt and brother-skull.

“Give your sister a break; she’s relatively new to this sort of thing,” she chides, her hopefully well-intentioned comment hitting much harder than my brothers.

The group hug feels stuffy at this point, so I slip under the tapestry of arms to get out, ignoring the unpleasant hotness on my cheeks. They’re all clearly smug about the whole ordeal, but the less I react, the less they get from it.

“Did she tell you guys anything she wanted you to pass on? It’s been really hectic, but there’s something we were supposed to talk about.” I ask, fast-walking into the kitchen to put my ice cream away and make some distance.

The brownies mom was making are still on the stovetop, the heat wafting off of them as I pass by emphasizing just how recently they were taken out. A familiar, dented white box also rests nearby; my now-two-day-old cake thankfully hidden inside its packaging.

“We talked about a variety of things... Including the mission you’re going on.” She states, trying and failing to keep her voice even.

I freeze with my hands still extended into the freezer, panic rising in my throat as I try to find the words to explain myself.

I wasn’t sure how to tell you.

It all happened too fast.

Yesterday would have been the only real time to do it, but that went… poorly.

Half a dozen excuses rush to my lips, but none of them reach the open air. Partly because excuses aren’t worth anything when faced with the fact that you’ve hurt someone you love, but also because the expected pain doesn’t seem to be on any of their faces.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. You’re taking it better than I expected, though.” I say, shutting the freezer without breaking eye contact.

Mom and Dad share a look that feels long, but really only takes a second or so. It’s my dad who finally answers, seriousness taking over his normally jubilant tone. “The Director came and had a talk with us yesterday, after we’d found out you’d gone with Revision and Menagerie to their estate..”

My mind twirls around the web of communication that must have happened that night, everyone but me in the know as my emotional state sat spiraling. It doesn’t sit super well with me, but I’m cognizant enough to know they did it for my benefit and to avoid overwhelming me.

I shift my eyes over the collection of dishes on the table, stopping at the half-eaten green bean casserole as I formulate a response. “I wish it had come from me, but I’m glad you were told. Did they tell you everything?”

Dad lets out a snort as he sits down in his chair, scooping up several deviled eggs and putting them on his plate—probably so I wouldn’t have to eat alone. “If I know anything about the Vanguard, it’s that they wouldn’t tell the whole truth if it killed every fathom on the planet. ”

I furrow my eyes at that, feeling defensive for the organization I just joined, despite his much longer stay within it and likely far better grasp on its inner workings. Maybe this is worth reflecting on…

“That said, I’m confident she made sure we knew what we needed—and deserved—to know. Anything more than that would have to come from you.” He continues, amending his words once he realizes how they might sound. “Not that we want you to say anything more; we’re just here to listen if you do.”

I’m aware my smile is a lame one, but it’s more than I thought I’d manage, all things considered.

“Honestly, we probably know around the same amount at this point, so that conversation would be a moot point,” I state, savoring the smell of what’s likely to be my last home-cooked meal for the foreseeable future. “But I can't think of any better way to unravel the rest of this knot in my stomach, so yeah, talking might be nice.”