Inversion

Chapter XI

The porch light was a verdict. A single, unblinking eye that saw right through your pathetic plan. It painted the whole yard in a guilty, yellow glow.

"Shit." The word was a dry crack in the quiet. You looked at the girl beside you. Eleven was frozen, a rabbit caught in a sudden spotlight. Her wide eyes were fixed on that lit doorway like it led straight back to the lab.

"Stay here," you hissed, the command sharp and low. "I'll distract her."

You didn't say wait for my signal or count to a hundred. You just turned your back on her, on the cold, and stepped into the suffocating warmth of the house, pulling the door shut behind you with a soft, final click.

The air inside was thick with the smell of lemon polish and meatloaf. A special kind of torture.

Your mom stood in the living room archway, a silhouette against the lamplight. "[Name]? You're back late." Her voice was a gentle probe, designed to pry.

No kidding. You kicked your shoes off, the thud satisfyingly loud. "Yeah. Got stuck." You didn't look at her, beelining for the kitchen like it was a sanctuary. The fridge door opened with a sigh.

"Stuck where? I tried calling the Wheeler's household and guess what? They said you weren't there." Her tone was mocking, but the words were barbed.

Shit. You might be a little cooked. Your mind raced, a frantic scramble for a lie that would hold. "We were at the library. The one downtown. Lost track of time." You grabbed the milk carton, your hands feeling clumsy.

"The library? On a school night?" She took a step into the kitchen, her arms crossed. "That's a first. You hate the library."

Yeah, well, I hate a lot of things. You took a swig of milk straight from the carton, a deliberate act of rebellion. The milk was cold and chalky. "Barbara's a slave driver. What can I say."

She made a soft, disapproving sound. "Use a glass. And I don't appreciate that tone. I was worried sick."

"Worried about what?" you shot back— you didn't mean to— finally turning to face her. The guilt over the girl outside was curdling into something sharper, more defensive. "I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'm just tired." You put the milk away a little too hard, making the bottles inside rattle.

"Tired doesn't usually look like this," she said, her voice softening into that concerned-mom cadence that felt more like an interrogation. "You're pale. Did something happen? You can talk to me."

Talk to you? And say what? That my life is a TV show and I just helped Mike have a mental breakdown by a quarry? That the girl you're so worried about is currently shivering on our porch because her superpowers didn't work?

The words were a screaming static in your head.

"Nothing happened," you said, your voice flat, building a wall with each syllable. "It's just... school. And people. It's all just... a lot. I just need to go to bed."

You saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes, quickly masked. She wanted a connection, a piece of the real you, and all you could give her was this hollowed-out shell. Find one person. The memory of her own advice was a sick joke.

"Alright," she said, the word heavy with surrender. "Get some rest."

You didn't answer. Just walked past her, your footsteps heavy on the stairs, each one a drumbeat counting down the seconds until you could get back to the girl you'd left in the dark.

You stood at the top of the stairs, holding your breath until you heard the soft click of your mother's bedroom door down the hall. The house fell into a deeper silence, the kind that felt fragile, like one wrong move would shatter it.