Dave gazes outside.

"Am I forgetting things or this is a new house?" he asks.

"It's new. And a lot smaller than our former house."

A bitter smile forms on his face.

"I didn't even know that my best friend changed houses. I really don't know how to make it with you."

I suddenly feel chills trailing on my spine. Ugh.

"Stop acting so cheesy. W-we're only friends, remember that. I won't cross the line."

I open the gate. "And we really need to change house because father and mother came to divorce. Father took me in his custody while mother insisted that she takes over the old house."

"I... I didn't know. I'm sorry for being too nosy."

"It's ok. 4 years have passed already."

No one greets us inside. The corner where a familiar car is supposed to be parked is empty, and so is the space beside it. Anne must be at work. Or maybe she's shopping.

"We don't have a garden here because he's not very fond of flowers, unlike mother. There are only, like, 3 bonsais over there and a cover of bermudagrass."

"I see."

I open the door.

"Wow. It's really different from your former house." his eyes are showing a certain shine. "I don't know why, but I already feel at ease."

"Probably because of the modern design? The former looks very classic and traditional."

"Are you sure it's fine?"

"Yeah. There's no one here except for us, we don't have any helpers. And don't worry about anyone getting angry. Mother's not here anymore, alright?"

He nods.

He roams his head around the living room as if scanning every detail of things.

"Let's go. I'll show you my room."

"Fine by me."

The Peru shade of the wooden ornaments shines against the Parchment paint of the steps.

"Careful. The floor's slippery." I say.

"It's very polished. Is this marble?"

"No. It's actually travertine. But yeah, it's polished."

"Travertine?"

"You know, made of limestones... But I won't explain it further. I'll start to sound some kind of geek to you."

From the corner of my eye, I notice a colorful piece of garment on the floor. I lean closer.

"Aren't you an art geek though? Look at yourself right now. You're observing the pattern of that floor mat."

I raise my head. "It's just that it's not familiar to me. Anne must've replaced it earlier."

"Anne? I thought you don't have any helpers here?"

"Anne is my father's current partner, so she's technically my stepmom." saying this, I open the door of my room. "Come in."

A smile immediately appears on his features.

"This is your room? It fits so well with the rest of the house, and it also gives a different vibe from the one before."

"What are you expecting? That old wooden furniture? Half tester bed and velvet red carpet?"

The smile he has becomes blinding. I peer my eyes to see properly. But I guess I should be happy that he's feeling better now.

I gesture to him to sit on my bed, but he walks to me instead. Then, he sits on the floor.

"Do you want to sit here? It's pretty comfortable," he says, inviting me.

"Ok."

Falling in an Indian sit, I scoot closer. On the other hand, he brings his knees to his chest and hugs them tightly. He rests his face atop.

"So what are we going to do now?" I ask.

"I don't know. Maybe we can play your console or something?"

"We left all of my video games at the old house."

He looks to the right.

"Ah. I have an idea!" he springs from his position. "I'll just help you prepare for the field trip since I'm here. Then, then, we'll sit beside each other tomorrow."

Oh my. He's turning to a child again. "Ok. If you say so."

I get my bag beside me.

My hand lands on the cold surface floor. Huh? There's nothing beside me. My bag is not here.

I stand from my position. I look at my study table, I look behind the shelf, and I look the bed. But it's nowhere to be found.

"Hey, have you seen my bag?"

"No."

"Where's it?"

"I don't remember seeing it with you."

"But I brought it with me." yeah, I placed the paper bag in there.

Hmm...

Maybe I left it downstairs?

"Dave, I'll just go find it. I'll also fetch us something to eat. Do you want something in particular?"

"Nothing."

"Oh. While you're waiting, you can poke on anything you like. Just... don't touch the PC okay?"

"Sure. I don't want to see something R-18, anyway. Hehehe."

I run outside the room. Suddenly, I hear a sound.

Thud... thud...

From the top of the staircase, a bright hue that seems to be from downstairs illuminates. I can hear my heartbeat ringing inside my throat. Did somebody trespass on the house? I brave the steps as my eyes are glued to my feet.

Through the banisters, I can see a wide figure near the couch. Wait, what?

"F-father, you're home..."

Father looks at me. His straightforward eyes are vacant. He raises his hand, and my sketchbook is there.

"What's this?" he asks.

My heart beats faster. Crap. I had left my bag there.

"T-that's my sketchbook for art class. For M.A.P.E.H."

"Ah. So that's why it doesn't have your name on the front?" he's narrowed his eyes.

I avert mine to the floor. Not again. Not this situation again.

"Don't dare to lie to me. All of the drawings here, so far, have your initials, I.M. Cruz. Now, tell me this isn't yours."

"I'm sorry, father."

"Where did you get this? Don't tell me you're wasting your allowance just for this nonsense."

"N-no. That's my old sketch—"

"And this," he waves the pencil set in the air, "you abuse your wallet just for this thing! Don't you know I'm working very hard for you to be a proper man in the future, and yet, your time is invested in all of this nonsense?" shouting, he slams the materials to the ground.

The tin cases of the graphite and watercolor turn open, and the pieces inside break free to the ground.

Father scowls. "I'm such a fool for thinking that I had disposed of all of your garbage when you still have your stash. Unfortunately, this has to go down too."

He grips the sketchbook in both of his hands. In a passing beat, the sharp rustling of the papers is the only sound I can hear. My heart seems to stop beating. I messed up again.

"Uncle, please stop!"

That voice.

Behind me, Dave stands. He walks toward father.

Father directs his finger at him. "Who are you?" then, he gazes at me. "You're letting whoever people you find on the street to enter our house? Just how shallow have you become, Isaiah?"

"Father... he's Dave. My childhood friend."

He widens his eyes. Shortly, his expression becomes rigid.

He shakes his head. "I don't know who you are, but this is a private matter. Don't dare to intervene."

"But uncle, I mean sir, I think you're being harsh on Matt. Though I don't really understand the whole story, I think he's just doing his interest. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Are you hearing yourself?" a nerve pops on Father's forehead. "Of course! There are many wrong things about it, but above all, I can't let my son have such a low profile trying to live his art. He has a messed up mindset and it's my role to correct it."

Dave levels his head. "I'm very sorry but the one who has a messed up mindset here is you, sir!"

W-what the?

"What did you say?"

Father trembles, and in a moment, his figure appears charging toward Dave.

I feel my body move on its own. The next thing I know is a numbing sensation in my arm.

Knitted eyebrows, clenched fist, and gritting teeth. All are visible on father's face.

I lower my head. "I'm very sorry, Father. Your son has a really messed up mindset," I say. "I'm responsible for all of my actions so please, don't involve other people in this. I'll do everything you want, so if you would."

"But—" Dave objects.

"Just go home. I don't want to cause you and your parents trouble. We'll meet tomorrow. And don't worry, I'll show up," I say, lowering the tone of my voice.

"No, I can't—"

I thrust him out and close the door immediately.

Returning to the living room, I see Father, making his enraged expression again.

"Clean the mess you've made. I don't want to see any more of that, and if I ever see it, I'll stop supporting you in every way I can."

"Yes father. I understand."

He grabs the coat that he had settled on the rattan chair and leaves from the obvious scene of misconduct.

I check the art supplies. The graphite pencils aren't broken and neither is the watercolor. For the sketchbook, only 4 leaves are intact. My heart feels heavy.

I know that this day will come, eventually.

Why did I force it in the first place?