Page 142 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

Three weeks later, after waking up in a hospital, my stepfather was officially charged with faking his own death, psychological endangerment, and a string of other crimes that spanned both his personal life and his career as a math professor. The trial was short—almost cold. The evidence was overwhelming, the betrayal sharper than anything I had prepared myself for. He was sentenced to over thirty years in a maximum-security prison, far from home, in a country whose name barely mattered anymore.

And just like that, the weight of the trauma my mom and I once shared began to lift. It didn’t vanish overnight, but something changed.

Ethan’s big game came—and with one eye on me and the other on the ball, how could they possibly lose? They didn’t. They won. The crowd exploded, jerseys flew, teammates swarmed him—but even in the pandemonium, his gaze cut through like a spotlight, landing right on me. And in that moment, I wasn’t just the boy on the sidelines. I was his. And God, that terrified me more than any final score.

The documentary competition results came in.

Not first place. But runners-up. Silver medalists. Champions of organized chaos. With the best edits.

And most importantly?

We beat Boulder High.

They came third.

Third.

Joy said their documentary was a beautifully edited, drone-shot spectacle about butterfly migration and the fragility of ecosystems. Ours? Max screaming about missing chips, Mia nearly falling off a log for the perfect shot, Joy conducting an off-key forest choir, and me accidentally stepping on a snake.

Twice.

The judges called it: “An unfiltered look at teenage vulnerability, growth, and unscripted hilarity. Somehow poetic. Also, why was that bird so aggressive?”

Principal Catherine summoned us with her usual no-nonsense look—the kind that made your soul want to apologize for existing. We braced for expulsion.

But instead?

She smiled.

“While I cannot, in good conscience, condone unauthorized submissions using school credentials,” she said in her perfectly enunciated centaur-queen tone, “I must admit… it was a rather remarkable piece.”

Joy nearly fainted.

“And in light of the outcome,” she continued, “your detention schedule has been—adjusted. Clark” She paused dramatically. “From one month to three days.”

“Wait, that’s legal?” Ethan whispered to me.

“She’s a centaur with tenure. She can probably rewrite federal law,” I whispered back.

The prize money wasn’t huge (in comparison to the winning school) but it was enough.

Enough for a summer trip.

A real one this time.

No school supervision. No competition pressure. Just us, a rented bus, questionable planning, and a cooler full of whatever Max considers “high-protein survival snacks.”

We brought Mia’s new camera—this one waterproof, birdproof, and Max-proof.

Joy brought her playlist (unskippable, apparently). Shun brought memes (downloaded, categorized, and backed up). Ethan brought his ridiculous charm and his annoyingly perfect hair.

And me?

I brought a journal—the mini book Shun gifted me. Because someone had to write it all down. You know, just in case we got attacked by raccoons or found ourselves stranded in a haunted rest stop off Route Who-Knows.

The bus ride was long and loud and perfect.

Somewhere near sunset, when the sky was painting itself in cotton-candy streaks, Ethan pulled me up to the roof of the bus. The wind tangled my hair, the air smelled like pine and road dust, and down below, Joy and Max were arguing over who ate the last granola bar like it was a national crisis.

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