(AN: First I want to say thank you to those who have taken the time to read my story.
I will be releasing 10 chapters today and then 10 again next week to make up for the week of Christmas and New Years I will be preoccupied.
Ok thanks again more at the end but for now lets get to it. First of 10)
Age 12
Saturday mornings in the Cooper house always sounded like a radio trying to tune itself, everyone on a different station.
The smell of bacon drifted through the air, the A/C hummed like it was fighting for its life, and somewhere down the hall Sheldon's voice carried like an academic alarm clock.
"Mother! If I had a modem, I could interface directly with university databases and exchange papers with my colleagues. Dr. Sturgis said technology is the future of academia!"
Dad grunted from the table, nursing his coffee.
"Son, you tied up the line last week callin' Radio Shack. I ain't dealin' with that again."
"That was data collection!" Sheldon shot back.
"That was long-distance," Dad muttered.
I sat at the table, half-listening, half working through a notebook of prime number patterns, still pushing at the Riemann Hypothesis. I came back to it whenever I had free time.
Missy sat cross-legged on the living-room floor, watching MTV and singing along to lyrics she didn't understand. Georgie yelled from his room, "Turn it up!" while Mom yelled from the kitchen, "Turn it down!"
Sheldon, still in full debate mode, marched into the living room and planted himself in front of the TV, remote in hand.
"Ten minutes of educational programming will elevate this household's average IQ by at least twenty points."
Missy rolled her eyes. "Then you can have your twenty points and leave me my MTV."
That was when Meemaw showed up, sunglasses, lipstick, and perfume that smelled faintly like mischief. She was humming when she walked in.
"Mornin', y'all," she said, dropping her purse by the door.
"You're in a good mood," Dad said suspiciously.
"A lady's allowed to look nice on a Saturday."
I looked up from my notes. "For Dr. Sturgis, right?"
Her sunglasses came down slowly. The room went quiet except for the bacon sizzling. Then she smirked. "Well, damn, Eli, how'd you know?"
Mom froze mid-spatula. "You've been dating Dr. Sturgis?"
"Two months now," Meemaw said easily. "It's goin' fine. He's polite, he's smart, and he don't snore."
"He's my mentor!" Sheldon cried, scandalized. "This is an academic disaster!"
"It's called romance, Shelly," she said, patting his head. "You'll learn about it in… oh, a few decades."
Dad chuckled into his coffee. "Good for him."
Missy whispered, "Called it."
And me? I just smiled and went back to my notebook.
The Riemann Hypothesis could wait, you didn't see this kind of family equation every day.
By midday, the Texas heat had hit that unbearable stage where even time sweated.
The living room turned into the Cooper family's social experiment: one television, five personalities, zero compromise.
Missy had claimed the couch first, remote in hand, tuned to MTV, feet tapping against the coffee table. Georgie was sprawled across the recliner, pretending to hate the music but tapping his foot anyway.
"You call this music?" he muttered.
"You call that a haircut?" Missy shot back.
Before the argument could evolve, Sheldon entered the room with scientific purpose.
"Statistically speaking, this family consumes an alarming ratio of noise to knowledge. I propose a controlled variable, one hour of PBS per day."
Missy frowned. "You're not controllin' the TV, Shelly."
"It's an experiment!" he insisted.
"It's torture," she countered.
Mary poked her head in from the kitchen. "Y'all can take turns. And no fightin'."
That started negotiations. Sheldon argued for Professor Proton, Missy lobbied for MTV, Georgie wanted sports, and Dad just wanted quiet.
Eventually, the compromise became I Love Lucy.
Sheldon tolerated it because it was black and white ("historically significant"), Missy tolerated it because Lucy made her laugh, and Georgie tolerated it because Lucille Ball was "still pretty for an old lady."
The famous candy-factory episode came on. Lucy panicked as the conveyor belt sped up. Chocolates flew. Sheldon lectured about "inefficient workflow systems." Missy laughed until she cried. Georgie grabbed popcorn.
And me? I sat with my family, enjoying the bits of controlled chaos I'd come to love.
By late afternoon, Dad had taken control of the TV. He was watching sports, and we fell into our usual orbits: Sheldon reading, Missy humming along to music in her room, Georgie throwing the football in the backyard, and Mom cleaning while muttering about divine patience.
I decided to escape.
Meemaw's house always smelled like warmth and rebellion, part cigarette, part perfume, and part something frying in butter.
She was standing at the counter when I walked in, spatula in hand, radio humming some old country tune.
"Well, if it ain't my little Einstein," she said. "Grab an apron. We're makin' chicken-fried steak."
I smiled. "You sure you want me near an open flame again?"
"Sugar, last time you nearly set my potholder on fire, on purpose."
"It was an experiment."
"Well, today it's dinner."
She handed me a bowl of flour and egg wash. I watched how she moved, no recipe, just rhythm. She measured by feel, flipped by sound.
It was precise in its own way. Like math, but with better smells.
"You know," she said, watching me dredge the meat, "brains like yours don't usually take to cookin'. Too many rules you can't see."
"Maybe," I said, "but math has flavor too. You just have to know the right ratios."
That made her laugh, a sound warm enough to beat the Texas heat.
"You keep talkin' like that, you'll make a lady swoon."
The oil hissed, the smell filled the room, and for a moment, it felt peaceful. Tangible. Predictable.
When we finished, she slid a piece onto a plate and nodded toward the fork.
"Go on. Taste the hypothesis."
I did. Crunchy, salty, perfect.
"Conclusion?" she asked.
"You're right," I said. "Some equations you solve with heart, not numbers."
She winked. "Took you long enough to figure that one out."
That night, the house settled into the soft hum of post-chaos peace. The TV was off, the dishes were done, and the air smelled faintly of leftover barbecue sauce and detergent.
I stepped out onto the porch with my notebook. The air was still warm, crickets pulsing in steady rhythm, the stars just beginning to show.
Across the street, Meemaw's laughter drifted faintly through the night, Dr. Sturgis must have stayed late.
I smiled as I leaned back against the railing and listened to the house hum behind me: mismatched, noisy, alive.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.
I have two other stories I am currently working on and I want to assure that it will not effect this story I have every thing planed out story wise.
The first story is called Naruto: Crimson Reaper
The story of a soul reincarnated into the naruto universe half Uzamaki half Chinoike
The second story has a work in progress name but it is a story a sould reincarnated as Cain (Bible) in the world of TVD/Originals.