You're a Masterpiece (BOOK 1)

Chapter 15

So.

Art couldn't recall who invited who for dinner. They had a sneaking suspicion Chase did because he loved food, but also Shade sounded nonchalant.

Nevertheless, that was unimportant right now because the adrenaline rush made Art hungry and craving. They were squished in the back seat of the mint green minivan next to Shade and Chase on the way to Max's because Art wanted fried chicken and it was still their fucking night right now. (The roses were in the back. Art made sure to avoid Mom because they didn't want to have that conversation, well, ever.)

Also.

It was pandemonium.

Art was caught in the crossfire of what happened when kanto boy basketball jock met older and more insufferable jock. They were caught in the war zone what happened when cool, masculine motherfuckers met under the same roof and were permitted to be as messy as they wished to fucking be.

In public.

At night.

Shamelessly.

Art didn't understand a word of Mama and Chase's sharp-tongued jargon. They didn't understand the rotation of the NBA teams, the significance of rookies, and whoever the fuck Kevin Durant was. Or whatever the paint of a basketball court was.

Mama liked Chase.

A lot.

Art expected her to be, you know, hostile. They expected her to flex and expect Chase to cower at her feet—which he did at first—but right now they were riffing jokes off each other like they've known each other their whole lives.

Mama was welcoming Chase into their family, no thoughts or questions asked. It was a pretty... unceremonious initiation... but one Art recognized. Mama wanted to see if Chase could take her verbal punches. And see how he'd react to them—because you weren't apart of the family if you were pikon. ((sensitive to jokes.))

But Chase was graced with all the wit and humor in the world—so of course, he fucking could! And, shit, soon enough he was throwing the same level of unabashed trash talk right back at Mama.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the dinner table became a warzone and a playhouse.

Art felt like they were surrounded by overgrown toddlers. Or, you know, more accurately they were with two cool kids from high school who were determined to burn the world to the ground.

Chase was yelling and slapping his hands on the table as he cried out jokes Art didn't understand.

Mom tried to control their mess. She interjected every minute, reminding them to keep their voices low. And then when that wasn't enough Mom dug her nails into Mama's skin and scolded her, to which Mama batted her away but finally spoke in a tone that was... moderately... acceptable.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Art exclaimed as the table shuddered. "Calm down!"

"Gago ka!" Mama cried out, gripping her diaphragm desperately. "Napakagago mo, Angelito!" (("Fuck you, Angelito!"))

"Lyra," Mom scolded. But it was evident that she was trying not to laugh, too, as her shoulders shook. "Shhh. 'Wag mo naman siya murahin." (("Shhhh. Don't curse at him."))