School dragged on, as uneventful as ever. Charlie sat near the window in his last class, sunlight pouring through the glass and warming his desk. Outside, spring was in full bloom—the grass a vibrant green, the trees dotted with fresh leaves. A few birds flitted by, carefree and oblivious to the boredom inside.
Charlie tried to focus, but his thoughts wandered. The work wasn't hard; he always finished it before anyone else. His teachers praised his grades but were quick to point out his inability to stay on task. "Charlie would do so much better if he could only focus," they'd write in their comments.
His dad didn't seem to mind. "Boys are meant to be active," he'd say, shrugging off the complaints, which earned him pointed glares from Charlie's mom. As long as Charlie did his homework and kept his grades up, they mostly left him alone.
When the final bell rang, Charlie shot out of his seat, grabbing his backpack. School was done, and that meant one thing: aftercare. Gretchin and Amber's school days ran longer because of their extracurriculars—Gretchin had track practice, and Amber was busy with Honor Society meetings—so Charlie had a couple of hours to kill.
The aftercare program was run out of the school's gym and the field behind it. The gym smelled faintly of sweat and rubber mats, and the chatter of kids echoed off the high ceilings. Outside, the warm spring air and the occasional breeze made it perfect for running around.
That afternoon, Charlie and his friends started with a game of tag football, which quickly turned into tackle.
"Keep it clean, boys!" the monitor, Ms. Owl, barked from the sidelines. She stood tall and thin, her sharp features framed by glasses that seemed to magnify her eyes, giving her an almost predatory look.
"We are!" Charlie called back, grinning as he dove for Ryan, sending both of them tumbling into the grass.
"That's tackle, not tag!" Ms. Owl scolded, striding over with her arms crossed.
Charlie brushed dirt off his knees, exchanging mischievous looks with his friends. "Guess I didn't get the memo," he muttered, loud enough for them to hear. They all burst into laughter, even as Ms. Owl shook her head in exasperation.
"You're all going to get yourselves banned," she muttered, walking away to break up another group of rowdy kids.
By the time Gretchin pulled into the parking lot, Ms. Owl had cornered Charlie and was midway through one of her famous lectures.
"Charlie, if I have to warn you one more time—"
"Sorry, Ms. Owl, gotta go!" Charlie cut her off with a grin, pointing toward the car as he backed away.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Dismissed," she said, waving him off like a lost cause.
Charlie jogged across the parking lot and climbed into the back seat of their old Ford Escape. Amber was already there, sitting on the driver's side, her nose buried in a thick book. Gretchin sat in the front, still in her track gear, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.
"What'd you do this time, Charlie?" Gretchin asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror as she adjusted the radio.
"Me? Oh, just having fun. Apparently, tackling in football is frowned upon. Who knew?" Charlie said, dripping with sarcasm as he slung his backpack onto the seat beside him.
Gretchin rolled her eyes. "You're going to get yourself kicked out of aftercare."
Amber didn't even glance up from her book, though she flipped a page with deliberate precision, clearly uninterested.
The drive home was peaceful, except for Gretchin's music playing over the car's slightly fuzzy speakers. The scent of spring wafted through the windows, open just a crack to let the breeze in. Charlie stared out at the fields rushing past, the wildflowers dotting the roadside in bursts of color.
Taylor Swift's voice filled the car, cheerful and relentless.
"Do we have to listen to this?" Charlie groaned, sinking further into his seat. "Can't we play something else? Like, literally anything?"
"Nope," Gretchin said with a smirk, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.
Charlie sighed, slumping dramatically. Personally, he preferred cinematic scores—the kind of music that made you feel like you were marching into battle or saving the world. Taylor Swift made him feel like leaping from the car.
Amber flipped another page in her book, utterly unfazed by the drama in the backseat.