Fractured

5: Almost Normal

MARCO

History class drags on like molasses. Mr. Linus is up front, droning about ancient civilizations in that monotone voice that could lull a caffeinated squirrel to sleep. I'm only half listening, my pen doodling spirals and stick-figure battles in the margin of my notebook.

"And for this project, you'll be working in pairs," Mr. Linus says, as if this is the highlight of our week. "Marco, you'll be with Rachel."

My head snaps up, and I glance across the room. Rachel's already looking at me, and this time, she smiles—a real one, not the fake kind. I can tell she's glad.

Honestly? Same. If I have to sit through hours of ancient history, I'd rather do it with someone who actually makes it bearable. Besides, after everything we've been through, spending time with Rachel without the usual life-or-death stakes feels like a win.

When the bell rings, I gather my stuff and sling my backpack over one shoulder. Rachel falls into step beside me as we head into the hall. She's got that focused look, the one that says she's already planning out the entire project. I try not to laugh.

"Looks like it's you and me," I say, nudging her lightly. "Think you can handle the pressure?"

She raises an eyebrow. "The real question is if you can keep up with me."

"Oh, please." I smirk. "I'm a history expert. Spartans, battles, heroic speeches—I've got this."

Rachel snorts. "Alright, then. You take the Spartans. I'll handle the early battles. Deal?"

"Deal. Just don't be too intimidated by my brilliance."

She rolls her eyes but smiles. "I'll try my best."

<><><><><><>

After school, I drag myself home, dreading the usual scene. Sure enough, the living room is a disaster. Empty takeout containers, a stray sock, and a stack of unopened mail litter the couch. My dad's door is shut, as always. He's probably napping or staring at the ceiling. Either way, I know better than to expect any help around here.

I toss my bag onto the floor and start clearing plates from the coffee table. My hands move on autopilot as I scrub at the sink, but my brain is miles away. This house feels heavier every day, like the walls are closing in.

Rachel's place pops into my mind. It's not perfect, but it's tidy, warm. It feels... stable. Right now, I could use a little stability.

Dropping the dishes into the drying rack, I grab my backpack again and head for the door. "Going out, Dad!" I call. No response. No surprise.

I'm at Rachel's house in moments—one of the perks of being next-door neighbors. When she opens the door, her eyebrows lift in surprise, but there's a warm smile right behind it. "Marco? What's up?"

I shrug. "Figured we could get started on the project. And, you know, escape my disaster of a house for a while."

Rachel doesn't press for details—she never does, and I appreciate that more than I can say. She steps aside, letting me in.

Her house smells like lemon cleaner and something faintly sweet. It's quiet, organized. It's the kind of place where you can breathe.

We spread our notes and textbooks across the kitchen table. Rachel dives in immediately, flipping through pages, making neat bullet points in her notebook. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember why I'm supposed to care about ancient Greece.

After a few minutes, Rachel glances up. "You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You just seem... distracted."

I shrug, forcing a grin. "I'm fine. Just tired. Long day."

She watches me for a moment, like she's deciding whether to push. Then, she slides a stack of papers my way. "Here. I printed some stuff on the Spartans. You can add whatever you think we need."

"Thanks." I skim the pages, but my mind keeps wandering—to my dad, to my mom, to how different my life feels compared to Rachel's. Her place isn't perfect, but it works. Meanwhile, mine feels like it's held together with duct tape and denial.

For a while, we work in silence, the scratch of pens the only sound. It's almost calming, in a weird way. Then my stomach growls, loud enough to echo.

Rachel looks up, amused. "Hungry?"

"Starving. Skipped lunch."

She gives me a look. "Do you always skip lunch?"

"Nah, just today." I lie. "What about you? You hungry?"

Rachel checks the clock, blinking in surprise. "I guess I lost track of time."

She heads to the fridge, pulling it open. "We've got leftovers, or we could order something."

"Pizza," I say immediately, leaning back in my chair. "I could eat a whole one. Don't worry, I'll leave you a slice."

She smirks. "Hawaiian?"

"You know me too well," I say, grinning. "It's like you're reading my mind. Or maybe you're just trying to win me over with my favorite pizza."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "It's not that hard to guess. You've been preaching about pineapple on pizza since middle school."

"And yet, some people still don't understand the genius," I reply, placing a hand dramatically over my heart. "Truly, I'm ahead of my time."

Rachel places the order, and we settle back into our seats. I glance around the kitchen again, taking in the clean counters, the stack of neatly folded dishtowels.

"So," I say, breaking the quiet. "You do this a lot? Handle dinner and schoolwork on your own?"

Rachel hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. My mom works late most nights, and Jordan and Sara have their after-school activities. We kind of have a routine."

I get it. More than I want to admit.

"What about you?" she asks, catching me off guard. "Do you cook at home?"

"Sometimes." I shift, trying to sound casual. "My dad's... he's not around much lately. So, you know, someone's gotta take care of things."

Rachel nods. "That sucks."

"Yeah." I pause, then add, "He used to be different, you know? Before my mom..." I trail off. I never talk about her. But with Rachel, the words just slip out.

Rachel doesn't ask for details. She just nods again, her face soft with understanding. "It's hard," she says quietly, "when you have to handle everything on your own."

"Yeah," I say. "It is."

The doorbell rings, breaking the moment. Rachel hands me some cash. "You can get the pizza."

I raise an eyebrow. "Wow, trusting me with this? Big step, Rach."

She rolls her eyes. "Just don't drop it."

I grab the money and head for the door. The pizza guy looks as bored as I feel most days, but I thank him anyway and return to the kitchen, setting the box on the table like it's a treasure chest.

"Dinner is served."

Rachel grabs plates, and we dig in. For a while, it's just us and the pizza, no war, no stress. Just two kids sharing a meal.

At one point, Rachel catches me looking at her.

"What?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"Nothing." I smirk. "Just appreciating the pizza. It might be the highlight of my day."

She snorts. "Sure, Marco."

Leaning back in my chair, I gesture around. "You know, I could get used to this."

"To what? Eating pizza?"

"No. Just... this." I wave a hand vaguely. "Not having to deal with the craziness for a bit."

Rachel sighs, her gaze dropping to her plate. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

For a few moments, we sit in silence. The war is still there, hanging in the background, but for now, we're just two teenagers, pretending things are normal. And honestly? It feels pretty good.