The second morning in the new house dawned with a familiar, frantic energy. The gentle hum of nascent power from Jake's room had gone unnoticed, overshadowed by the very real, very loud thud of Katy's feet stomping down the hallway. "Jake! Are you even awake? We're going to be late!" her voice, already sharp with morning urgency, pierced through his half-sleep, tearing him from the lingering tendrils of a dream where his oversized bed was a cloud floating through a sky of candy floss.
He groaned, rolling over. The bed, still impossibly spacious, felt even more comfortable now, making the act of leaving it a Herculean task. He'd woken up feeling refreshed, the previous night's oddity about the bed's expansion already pushed to the back of his mind, filed under "Parental Shenanigans." It was the only logical explanation his dork-brain could conjure: his parents, in their infinite wisdom and secret organizational prowess, must have swapped out his bed while he slept. A new house, new furniture, right? It made a weird kind of sense. He stumbled out, pulling on the same jeans from yesterday, hoping no one would notice or care.
His first thought, even before heading to the kitchen, was his math class. First period. He needed his calculator. He'd sworn he'd put it in his backpack last night after using it for some practice problems for Mr. Henderson's class. He grabbed his bag from the floor beside his now-oversized bed and unzipped the main compartment. He reached inside, his fingers searching for the familiar cool plastic of his black TI-84. His brow furrowed. His fingers brushed against notebooks, textbooks, a stray pencil, and a forgotten candy wrapper. But no calculator.
A wave of panic began to build, a cold dread rising from his stomach. "No, no, no," he muttered, pulling out everything from his bag, scattering its contents across his desk. "Where is it? I know I put it in here!" He checked the smaller front pocket. Empty. He emptied the side mesh pockets. Nothing. He even looked under his desk, his eyes scanning every inch of the worn carpet. He lifted his pillow, peered under his bed. His black TI-84, a lifeline for math and a shield against Mr. Henderson's disapproving glares, was nowhere to be found. He imagined the stern look on Mr. Henderson's face, the inevitable deduction of participation points. His first full day at Northwood, and he was already failing.
He ran a hand through his already messy hair, frustration mounting, his breathing quickening. "This is ridiculous! I just need it to be here!" He slammed his hand lightly on his desk, a desperate sigh escaping him. "I just wish it would appear!" The words were barely out of his mouth, a desperate, childish plea born of sheer morning panic, when a faint clink sound echoed from the corner of his desk. It was so soft, almost imperceptible amidst his heavy breathing and the distant thrum of Katy's music.
Jake froze. He looked down at the pile of books and papers he'd just haphazardly dumped from his backpack. And there it was. His black TI-84 calculator. It wasn't buried under a textbook, or tucked away in a notebook. It was sitting on top of his crumpled history notes, perfectly centered, almost as if it had been placed there with deliberate care. It hadn't been there a second ago. He was sure of it. He had just emptied the desk. He had pulled everything out of his bag and scattered it. He had seen the bare wood of the desk.
He stared at it, his jaw slightly agape. His heart gave a strange, little lurch, a sensation he couldn't quite place. It was the same feeling he'd had last night with the bed, a fleeting sense of impossible rightness, a puzzle piece fitting where no puzzle piece should exist.
"Whoa," he breathed, reaching out a hesitant finger to touch it. It felt solid, real, undeniably his.
His mind raced, desperately searching for a logical explanation. Had his parents… come into his room while he was in the bathroom? Unlikely, they were already downstairs. Had he just completely missed it? He was clumsy, after all. And a dork. Dorks made these kinds of mistakes. Perhaps it had fallen out of his bag in a strange way and landed perfectly on the pile, and he just didn't see it until he wished for it. Yes, that had to be it. A lucky coincidence, nothing more. His brain, ever the protector of the mundane, quickly found a rationalization, however flimsy.
He quickly stuffed the calculator into the designated side pocket of his backpack, zipping it securely. A flush of relief washed over him that the crisis was averted. He hurried downstairs, where the kitchen was a whirlwind of morning activity. Their mom was packing lunches with assembly-line precision, her movements a blur of sandwich bags and fruit containers, while their dad wrestled with a new, complicated-looking coffee maker that seemed to be actively resisting his efforts, gurgling ominously. Katy was already at the counter, scarfing down a piece of toast, her backpack slung over one shoulder, looking annoyingly put-together and ready for school, despite the early hour.
"Morning, sleepyhead," their mom chirped, not looking up from her sandwich-making. "Grab some toast. We need to leave in fifteen."
"Found my calculator!" Jake announced, trying to sound casual as he grabbed a piece of toast, already feeling the warmth of the toasted bread a comforting presence in his still-buzzing mind.
Katy, mid-chew, paused, looking at him with a smirk. "Oh, good. You're such a mess, Jake. You probably just overlooked it in your room. Or maybe it jumped into your bag when you weren't looking." Her tone was teasing, but also dismissive, quickly moving past his minor crisis.
Jake managed a nod, grateful for her easy dismissal. "Yeah, must've." The strange, fleeting sensation of impossibility from the previous night and just moments ago quickly dissipated, replaced by a familiar sense of self-deprecation. He was just being dramatic. It was a coincidence. A lucky break. Nothing more. His dork logic had reasserted its dominance.
As they walked towards school, the morning sun glinting off the dew-kissed leaves, Jake felt a lingering, almost imperceptible hum beneath the surface of his everyday thoughts. First the bed, now the calculator. Two odd occurrences in two days. But he quickly dismissed them. It was a new house, a new routine. Things were bound to feel a little off. He was just Jake, the dork. And dorks didn't have magic. They just had a knack for losing things and then, occasionally, finding them in the most inconveniently convenient places. The thought provided a strange kind of comfort, pushing the unsettling truth back into the shadows of his mind as he focused on the very real challenge of navigating the bustling school campus.