Charlie splashed water onto his face, muttering under his breath. Gretchin had made him do it, of course, acting like she was in charge just because she was older. He wiped at the last bit of sleep clinging to his eyes, glanced at his reflection, and sighed. He wasn't exactly awake yet, but at least he wouldn't hear her nagging about looking like he'd just rolled out of bed.
The kitchen was practically empty now, most of the dishes already packed into boxes. His job was to move them, and Amber, naturally, had taken it upon herself to play supervisor.
"Careful with that one, Charlie!" she called from the living room.
"I am being careful," he muttered back, rolling his eyes. Still, he slowed down as he grabbed the box labeled GLASS PLATES. He could almost see the look on Mom's face if he dropped them—definitely not worth the risk. His stumble earlier had been close enough.
Charlie didn't hate chores. Sure, he'd groan and drag his feet like any other kid, but he knew the rules: do what you're supposed to, and you get to do what you want. His parents had been clear about that. His allowance came with strings attached, and sometimes—if he cut corners or tried to rush through things—those strings snapped. He'd learned that the hard way more than once.
"Charlie!" Amber's shout jolted him back to reality. "Hurry up, or we're going to be late!"
"Hold your horses, I'm coming!" he yelled, grabbing his backpack from the counter. The last week of school before summer break—he wasn't about to miss that!
He sprinted out to the alley, where Gretchin was already in the driver's seat of their old Ford Escape. Amber was in the back on the driver's side, her nose buried in some book. Charlie climbed into the back on the passenger side but made sure to lean just far enough over to invade Amber's space.
"Move over, you little monster," Amber growled, shoving him back to his side.
Charlie grinned, going limp and flopping dramatically. "But I love you, big sister! I'm scared of Gretchin's driving!"
Amber gave one last push, forcing him back into his corner, while Gretchin shot them both a look through the rearview mirror. "Buckle up, Charlie."
"Yes, ma'am," Charlie said, still smirking as he clicked his seatbelt into place.
The car pulled onto the road, the familiar edge of town rolling past. It wasn't a long drive to school, maybe ten minutes, but Charlie leaned against the window, watching the fields blur by. He sighed, glancing at the front seat where Gretchin sat.
His parents never let him sit up there. Ever. "It's too dangerous," they'd say, their voices serious and final. Even Amber wasn't allowed yet, and she was twelve. Meanwhile, half of his friends rode shotgun like it was no big deal. Charlie rolled his eyes at the thought. Sheriff Green and his endless rules.
Sometimes he wished his dad wasn't so serious about everything. But then again, that was just Dad—always making sure Charlie understood the lessons, even the ones he didn't want to learn.