“FINNIGAN!” FROM THE STREET, Owen hears Nora as clearly as if she’s yelling through a microphone. “Come over here, you little goblin.”

He hears thumping, squealing and the upstairs door banging open before seeing Finnigan run downstairs in his soccer uniform getup, eyes darting behind him at Nora at the top of the stairs.

Arms reaching out, Owen stops Finnigan with a hand on his shoulder. “Slow down, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“The dragon is at it again,” his little brother whispers, out of breath, “Take caution.”

Owen laughs but stops when he locks eyes with a fuming Nora. Gaining his composure, he ruffles Finnigan’s hair and sends him on his merry way.

“Am I safe to come up?”

Nora eyes him and walks away, appearing seconds later with Finnigan’s soccer bag and jogs down the stairs.

“The little shite forgot his bag,” she grumbles as she walks past him to the bakery. 

Following her, Owen swings the door open, bowing mockingly as he gestures in, ending with a, “My dragon,” and trying not to laugh as she toss him a look so full of venom.

“You two are the bane of my annoyance, especially you,” she points at Finnigan sitting on a chair, leaning forward and swinging his leg.

Closing the door behind him, Owen stands akimbo as he looks around the bakery, at the decor his Ma updated a few years back to give off a homely vibe.

It is more cabin than homely: the plain wooden floors that has seen better days but is kept spotless, someone can make the mistake of thinking picking up food from the floor won’t be unhygienic. The seating arrangement is single chairs framing circular tables, the dated cherry wooden tables a story of nicked surface, mysterious stains, purposely graffiti-ed by children/teens (crayon or pen) turned aesthetic.

Strategically placed around the bakery are shelves of different kind of bread in cute ribboned baskets.

The counter is two part glass compartment for muffins, cupcakes, pies, scones and cookies and one part wooden surface for the arrangement of the standard cash register, a jar of home-made free butterscotch sweets that twinkles rainbow in the light (the jar, not the sweets), a tipping jar and a small suggestion box for custom orders. 

Behind the counter is a large chalkboard menu with tiny drawings in front of the items. Off to the wayside is a vending ‘snack bar’ of various drinks like the vanilla iced coffee (a common favourite) to the weird ones like carrot juice (for nutjobs)

“Red 1, red 2, red 3,” Ma’s shopping assistant Brooke greets from behind the counter, her pink dyed hair in a loose ponytail under a cap. “But my favourite red is in the kitchen.”

“You can stop sucking up, Brooke. Your boss isn’t here.”

The bakery is almost empty save for a couple whispering in front of the snack bar, the woman shaking her head, a young man typing furiously on his laptop, an uneaten sandwich roll and drained coffee mug in front of him and a pair of friends giggling over a two plates of muffin, identical brown heads bowing over a phone.

Brooke ignores him. “How many goals will you make today, Finn?”

“Ten!” Finnigan shouts from where he sits before dissolving in laughter at Nora’s pointed glare. He’s frequently warned about the volume of his voice but the family thinks Nora is a hypocrite because her’s is always over the top too.

“The three of you together are like red lights,” Brooke mimics a camera shot, “If I snapped you three with the flash, it’ll become a horror show.”

Ah, yes. The vampire joke. The pale redheads who have never seen the sun.

“You’re just jealous we’re prettier.”

“Don’t you have studying to do?” she says, putting him on the spot.

Owen flicks her the bird, tells Nora not to kill Finnigan before practice and out he goes jogging upstairs. 

Entering the house, something soft and light curl around his leg, he drops to his hunkers and opens up his palm, a gentle smile on his face when Cotton Candy —CeeCee— hop into it, looking up at him with big, golden eyes.

Gently, he pets along her spindly spine, vividly recalling the day he found her under the bench at the neighborhood’s basketball court. A raggedly bundle of orange fur tucked inside a dirty shoe, mewling pitifully. 

Taking her in, Owen took her to the vet —he and his friends pitched in— fed her, sheltered and nursed her back to health until she’s the healthy chunk of fur he’s cradling under his chin. This was three months ago. Past the time he’s supposed to hand her over to the pet shelter around the block but he’s hesitating. He always does. 

Finding pets like CeeCee tugs on his heartstrings. What if giving them over to be at the mercy of strangers who might abandon them again isn’t the right thing to do? Kicking his shoes off, Owen beelines to the kitchen, snags himself a banana and peels one-handedly, giving CeeCee a taste.

“You have a new name now, did you know? It’s CeeCee.” 

She doesn’t answer him, busy licking his palm as she is. 

Lifting her to meet his eyes, he tells her sternly, “If Parkinson calls you CeeCee, you respond, got it?” she does the cat equivalent of an eye roll and licks his lips.

“We’re not paying cable this month,” Nora says as she enters, “It’ll go to Finnigan’s club fees.”

Owen gives her a non-committal hmm and dunks the banana skin in the trash; it sails in smoothly. For as long as he can remember, his family has always financially struggled. It’s the reason they don’t see Pa as they’d like, it’s why Ma rarely have off days from the bakery, why Nora’s taking online classes and why he can’t afford to lose out in either scholarships. 

It’s also why he’d adamantly refused the car his parents gifted him on his birthday —gas expenses pile up— and only accepted it because he saw how his refusal hurt their feelings and ego. 

“Has Cotton Candy be fed?” he pads out of the kitchen, half of his attention snags to the walls of hanged family pictures, candid shots the preferred type. 

Owen is drawn to the large photo, the center focus of the pieces. They’re of his parents crouched on the pavement whispering to each other, big smiles in their faces. The picture was taken by his Granda as his parents wedding gift. A boisterous, talented man who died a few months before Owen was born. It’s no brainer Owen is named after him.

“What has Ma said about naming the strays?”

He pretends not to hear, gazing too long at the wall leading up to the rooms taken up by medals, achievement plaques and nicknacks they made in school.

“Owen.”

“If I name them, I get attached,” he recites, a rule that doesn’t exactly apply because he becomes attached as soon as he finds them. 

‘Hardwork beats talent when talent fails to work hard’, the quote greets him when he enters his room, as it has done for the past four years. Hung up on the wall of his bed is a large poster of various headshots of basketball champions, men and women alike. Knowing not to knock into the keyboard stool, Owen turns to his right at the first medal he ever got, then the third… 

As he got older, the medals and awards harder to win, expectations heavier but his resolve hasn’t weakened, only strengthened. Owen is his family’s pride and joy; there’s no room to falter. Like the greats before him, like his competitors wouldn’t. 

‘The moment he gives is the moment he lets someone else win’, Kobe Bryant had said. College basketball isn’t his end. It’s one of the destination. Which is why him failing his classes isn’t a joke. Owen is mad at himself for this. Duke won’t admit a low average student, WJP won’t keep one either. 

Flopping on his bed, Owen spreads his arms and stares at the ceiling. Up there are snapshots of his role models bent over, drenched in sweat, a constant reminder that comfort and greatness do not co-exist. 

Though it is the second week of tutoring, Owen doesn’t believe he’s getting better. He thinks he’s stagnant. He should try to convince Parkinson to take a chance on him, give him more days. As charming as he is, Owen doubts he can convince his tutor. From the stories he has heard of Parkinson’s inflexibility, he’s surprised he agreed to tutor him.

A smile spreads on his face. He is most surprised at himself. At how cool and calm he is around Parkinson. As if he has never fervently prayed for a chance like this. While he wished it hadn’t come at the risk of his expulsion, fate isn’t known to be perfect. It is delivers in surprising ways.

Owen really needs a better synonym besides surprising. He bet Parkinson will know. He brings his phone out of his pocket to text his tutor only to realize he doesn’t have Parkinson’s number. How can he not have his tutor’s number? 

Blasphemy. First thing tomorrow, Owen is asking for it.