Lewis's Profile

Non-playable

Blurb:

What happens when a non-playable game character gains sentience?

Excerpt:

Junior came in through the back door and into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. He shrugged his backpack off one shoulder and dropped it onto the worn oak table with a dull thud. The familiar smell of laundry detergent and last night's casserole still lingered in the air. The house was quiet except for the distant hum of the washing machine. "Honey, is that you?" his mother called from somewhere upstairs. Junior rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "No, Mom. It's me, Junior." There was a brief pause before he heard footsteps crossing the hallway overhead, followed by the creak of the staircase. Great, he thought. Now she'll want to talk. His mother appeared in the doorway, still holding a basket of folded towels against her hip. She looked tired, though she always seemed tired these days. "How was school?" "I dunno." Her eyebrows knit together. "What do you mean, you don't know?" The question didn't sound curious. It sounded like she was already disappointed with his answer. Junior shrugged. "I don't know. It was just... school. Nothing really happened." He hesitated, staring at a loose thread on his sleeve. "Well... I guess something did." His mother shifted the laundry basket to her other arm. "What?" "They lined us up by homeroom in the hallway and gave everybody shots." "Shots?" "Yeah." He rubbed the sore spot on his upper arm through his T-shirt. "They said everybody had to get them or we couldn't come back to school." His mother gave a short laugh. "I bet you liked the sound of that." Junior managed the faintest smile. She wasn't wrong. He hated school. He hated the crowded hallways, the endless homework, the teachers who called on him when he hadn't been paying attention, and the kids who barely noticed he existed. Still... School wasn't home. At school there were people his own age. There were conversations, laughter, basketball games during gym, and the possibility—however small—that tomorrow might be different from today. Home was just quiet. "A girl fainted," he said. His mother's expression barely changed. "Some people are squeamish about needles." "They called an ambulance." That got her attention, if only for a second. "Really?" "Yeah. She passed out right there in the hallway. They took her away, and she never came back to class." Junior kept his voice as casual as he could. He didn't mention that the girl was Zoe Matthews. He'd had a crush on Zoe since fourth grade, though he'd never told anyone. She had freckles across her nose, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and always answered questions in science class before anyone else had a chance. He'd imagined talking to her a hundred times. In every version, the conversation went perfectly. In real life, he'd never managed more than "excuse me" when she was blocking his locker. He wondered if she was all right. Maybe she'd hit her head when she fell. Maybe she was still at the hospital. Maybe— "Well," his mother interrupted, balancing the basket against one hip again, "I'm sure she's fine." The words came automatically, as if she'd said them without thinking. "Now go do your homework." That was the end of the conversation. Junior opened his mouth, considering whether to ask if they should check the news or maybe call someone from school to see if the girl was okay. But he already knew better. His mother had moved on. She turned and disappeared down the hallway toward the laundry room before he could say another word. Junior watched her go for a moment, then picked up his backpack. Instead of heading to his bedroom, he walked downstairs to the basement. The concrete steps were cool beneath his sneakers, and the familiar smell of dust and old cardboard greeted him as he flicked on the light. His room wasn't much more than a finished corner separated from the rest of the basement by a pair of old bookcases, but at least it was his. He tossed his backpack beside the desk without opening it. Homework could wait. He sank onto the edge of his bed and stared at the opposite wall. His thoughts kept drifting back to Zoe. He pictured the moment she'd collapsed, her knees buckling without warning. The hallway had erupted into shouting, teachers rushing forward while everyone else stood frozen. He remembered the fear on the faces of the students nearest to her. He wished he'd done something. Anything. Even if all he could have done was tell her it was going to be okay. Mostly, though, he wished he'd found the courage to talk to her before today. If she didn't come back tomorrow, he'd never forgive himself for spending two years silently admiring someone whose voice he barely knew. Upstairs, he heard his mother moving around the house, humming softly as she put away laundry. The ordinary sounds felt strangely distant. Irene Parker had ended the conversation as abruptly as she'd begun it, cutting Junior off the way she always did whenever he tried to talk about something that actually mattered. It wasn't that she hadn't heard him. She always heard him. She simply didn't seem interested in hearing about his life once it strayed beyond homework, chores, or whether he'd remembered to take out the trash. After a while, Junior had stopped expecting otherwise.

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