We Still Belong: Chapters 1–12

He stares at me, one ear flicking irritably, waiting to be acknowledged.
I set my pencil aside and stroke the top of his head.

Mom even wept a little bit—she’s sentimental like that.

“And I’ll play anything, as long as it’s fun; I’m just here for a good time. I like a lot of sports games—I play baseball and skateboard in real life. I also like stuff that scares me. That might sound weird, but whatever.” He gave a rueful grin, and a few of us around the circle—myself included—smiled back at him, nodding.

"...I think I like doing the side quests even more than the main storyline sometimes, because they can be so quick and satisfying, and you tend to meet interesting characters or travel to cool corners of the map.” I peeked around the circle, afraid that I was rambling too much, and Ryan caught my eye with an encouraging smile.

From his spot across the circle, Ryan gave me a discreet thumbs-up.

Some boys my age drench themselves with gross and overwhelming colognes, but Ryan’s scent was fresh and light and warm.

His voice turned solemn as he said, “The only problem is that you’ll have to sit next to that little princess of terrors. And I can’t be held accountable if she somehow manages to fling glitter all over you.”

And at last, the sun has risen, the world outside slowly brightening through shades of gray. Everything is shrouded in a fog so dense I can’t even see the street beyond our front yard.

Spacefaring Wanderers is a video game set in an open galaxy. As your Wanderer avatar, you travel around in your spaceship to explore exciting, colorful planets.

There are also occasional battles with aliens. And rogue asteroids to avoid.

Some planets are red
Some nebulas are blue
I could spend hours
Wandering the galaxy with you

His green eyes are slits; he looks like he’s on the cusp of a nap.

His purrs reverberate in his throat.

Then I sprawl onto the couch, fluff the pillow behind my neck, and wait.

When Mom comes downstairs, she looks sleepy and disheveled—her eye mask pushed crookedly up onto her forehead, locks of hair slipping free from the braid that tumbles to her waist.

Her skin is smooth and tan, with a smattering of brown freckles over her nose and temples.

The audio blasts in a rush of sword clangs. I flinch and squeeze the mute button, grimacing sheepishly.

Vader tucks low and darts across the room to his scratching post, clobbering it with his claws, apparently inspired by the violence.

This current game—which seems to be a gory battle royale, with gladiator avatars in a coliseum of sun-bleached stone and gritty sand—is unusual for her channel.

Then Vader would inevitably squat in his litter box, which led to the worst scent in the world.

But I notice the way other adults glance at her sometimes, their gazes cutting and judgmental. I’ve heard their rude assumptions when they speak to her.

We marveled at limited edition figurines and geeky art prints and displays of rare, pristine comic books sheathed in plastic wrap.

Then he leaps to the floor and saunters over to his scratching post, digging his claws into its frayed, carpeted ledge.

“I wonder if they all have the kitty ears,” Uncle Kenji muses.

She guffaws in response, nearly choking on her first sip of orange juice.

Grandpa Mac Wilder is the Elder, the patriarch, the original owner of the house we all live in.

He tells stories about her baking, singing along to the radio, and voting and canvassing in every single election.

He gives an ominous chuckle. “Well, guess I can’t argue with that, Jess. But there might be some harm in this, hmm?”

“Okay. Just make sure you put it on the charger when you’re done. I want to have enough battery for the powwow at Coastline tonight.”

My stomach feels all funny and queasy again, because this is it—I’m going to school. I’m going to ask Ryan to be my date to the Tolo. I’m going to see my poem in the newspaper.

I’m right where our cul-de-sac ends and the woods begin.

When the neighbors put their house on the market last year, the real estate flyers excitedly advertised the “greenbelt” that surrounded our neighborhood, offering “privacy and serenity” to the local residents.

I can only see the closest branches; some are drooping and heavy with dark-green needles; others are angular and golden leafed and lichen spotted.

My only other options include: a pair of rain boots that pinch my pinkie toes, a sturdy set of hiking boots that would look odd at school, some seasonally impractical sandals, and a delicate pair of pastel-purple ballet flats.

My stomach lurches. I feel suddenly insecure in my own ordinariness.

Their voices rise like the crest of an approaching wave.

“I’m s-sorry, what?”
“Bandits or Raiders,” he says again, sounding exasperated. “I’m asking you to settle an argument for me.”

As soon as I board the bus, my best friend, Hanan, pops up in our seat and motions for me to come quickly, her hazel eyes wide to convey urgency.

I try to ignore another burst of shouts and snickering from the eighth-grade boys as they settle into the coveted back rows of the bus.

We sat at the dining table with her, and she brought out a pot of tea steeped with fresh mint leaves and did her best to persuade us that her game was a million times better than ours.