The morning of Luke's "Celebration of Life" party began at the Pritchett-Delgado household with what I could only describe as an impending weapons-grade disaster. My Total Recall was flashing bright neon red, like a faulty scoreboard at a rivalry game. In the original timeline, this was the day Luke ended up in the hospital with a broken arm, Phil's ego took a bruising that would last for seasons, and a bouncy house nearly became a vinyl tomb. But I wasn't about to let that happen. Not on my watch. I was the wild card in this script, the tactical observer with the physique to back up the play.
It started in the garage. I found Jay hovering over a long, rectangular box with the kind of nostalgic glint in his eye that usually preceded someone getting a tetanus shot or an unwanted lecture on the Korean War.
"Jay, tell me that isn't what I think it is," I said, leaning against the doorframe. My Peak Athlete Physique felt coiled, ready for the manual labor I knew today would require. I could practically hear the individual gears in Jay's brain grinding as he tried to justify what was clearly a medieval siege weapon.
"It's a crossbow, Mason. A real one. None of that plastic crap they sell at the mall that breaks the first time you try to defend your fort," Jay said, patting the box with a pride that was genuinely terrifying. "A boy needs to learn discipline. Aim. The steady hand of a hunter. He's ten, Mason. In some cultures, he'd already be leading a raiding party."
"In this culture, he's a kid who once got his head stuck in a banister because he was trying to see if he could hear the ocean through the mahogany," I countered, stepping into the garage. "Giving Luke a projectile weapon is like giving a toddler a hand grenade and telling him to enjoy the pin. He doesn't have a steady hand; he has a hand that is constantly covered in jam and curiosity."
Jay grunted, but I saw the flicker of doubt. I knew Jay—he wanted to be the 'cool' grandfather, the one who gave the gritty gifts, but he also didn't want to explain to Gloria why their grandson was pinned to a fence. "I survived my first crossbow at nine," he muttered.
"And you have the scars to prove it, half of which you claim are from 'the war' whenever a pretty nurse is nearby. Look, if you're dead set on this, we're making a compromise. I'm dulling the tips of every bolt right now. We're using rubber stoppers, and the tension is getting dialed down so it can't pierce anything tougher than a soggy piece of cardboard. And you have to promise me—no target practice near the bouncy house. I don't feel like performing an emergency patch-job with duct tape and prayers."
Jay sighed, handing me the file. "Fine. Safety-first Delgado. You're becoming a real buzzkill, kid. You're like a human HR department."
"I prefer 'un-injured Delgado,'" I muttered, already working on the bolts. My enhanced reflexes made the work quick, but I made sure Jay saw the effort. I needed him to stay in his lane today.
My next stop was the living room, where the second disaster was brewing. Manny was standing in front of the mirror, wearing a velvet vest that looked like it had been stolen from the set of a Victorian period drama and a look of existential dread.
"She likes 'funny,' Mason. Bianca told me she appreciates a man who can make her laugh," Manny lamented, adjusting his cravat with trembling fingers. "But my humor is sophisticated! It's observational! It's dry! I'm like a fine Chardonnay served in a library, but she wants a Whoopee Cushion! She wants a man who can find the comedy in a fart! I can't be that man, Mason! My soul is too heavy with the weight of unwritten sonnets!"
Jay walked in, still grumbling about his neutered crossbow. "Manny, listen to me. Girls don't want a lecture on the French Revolution or the symbolism of a wilted lily. They want a guy who can take a joke. Be the funny guy. Wear a lampshade. Do a silly voice. Just don't be... you. Being you is a long-game strategy. Today is about the sprint."
I winced. Jay's advice was well-meaning but lacked any nuance. "Actually, Manny, maybe just find a middle ground? Don't force the 'funny.' Just be present. If you try to be a clown, you'll just end up looking like... well, like Cam."
But Manny was already nodding at Jay's advice with a dangerous intensity. I knew then I'd have to keep an eye on him too. He was going to try and 'slapstick' his way into Bianca's heart, and with his lack of coordination, it was going to be a bloodbath.
Finally we arrived at the dunphy household, there was Phil. I found him in the Dunphy kitchen, staring at a bag of flour like it had insulted his mother. He was wearing his 'Dad' apron, but he looked like a soldier about to go over the top of a trench.
"Mason, status report," Phil whispered, leaning in so close I could smell the nervous peppermint on his breath. "I told Cameron about Luke's 'Clown-Induced Night Terrors.' I was very specific. I used the word 'paralyzing.' I even drew a little diagram of a brain on fire. Do you think he heard me? Or do you think his artistic ego is currently overriding his sense of familial duty?"
"Phil, why don't you just admit you're the one afraid of clowns?" I asked, watching his eye twitch. "You're thirty-something years old. It's okay to be scared of a man in oversized shoes and a wig."
"Because I'm a man, Mason! A man of action! A man who performs magic! I am the Master of Illusions!" Phil hissed, his voice cracking. "I can't be afraid of a clown. That's like a doctor being afraid of a stethoscope. It's a professional embarrassment. But the greasepaint... the squeaky shoes... the way they smile even when they're sad... it's not natural, Mason! It's a violation of the social contract!"
He jumped three feet in the air as a car horn honked outside. "Oh god, is that a slide whistle in the driveway? Tell me that isn't a slide whistle. Please tell me it's just a very melodic bird."
I patted Phil's shoulder, feeling the genuine terror radiating off him. He was a 'Cool Dad' trying to survive his own nightmare. "Go help Claire with the 'Comb-making' tables, Phil. I'll handle the perimeter. If I see a rainbow-colored wig, I'll initiate Protocol Alpha."
"You're a good boy, Mason," Phil whispered, retreating into the pantry to breathe into a paper bag.
I let a sigh out as i think party only starting
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