You’re procrastinating. Again. Peter berated himself even as he continued to work on his perfectly handwritten list of subjects that he needed to know for next week. He deleted the last two lines and rewrote them when the almost perfect penmanship didn’t match up with expectation. Get on with it, you’ll never learn anything like this!

Huffing a sigh he threw the stylus at the wall. Not too hard, Peter knew there was a special place in hell reserved for people who abuse peripherals and talk in the theater, but enough to express his exasperation. What’s the point? Bully’s just going to take my test anyway. Or his pet hacker, anyway. Peter kicked away from the desk and spun on his chair. Five bucks says I know who that’s going to be too. Bloody Pham. Stab me in the back in the Age, stab me in the back at school. Tilting his head back and watching the rotating ceiling, Peter let his thoughts just flow. There’s no way Bully’s going to get good enough marks to let me pass, so I’m super screwed. Mum’s going to be pissed and ground me until the end of the century. He stuck out his leg to stop the chair turning, but as his momentum was arrested by the leg of the desk he pushed back and reversed the spin. And Dad’s going to lose his mind too. Then they’re going to blame each other and it’s all going to blow up. Again.

Picking up his stylus and placing it gently beside his tablet, Peter swept his useless not-notes into a virtual folder with a sweep of his arm and stood up unsteadily. Dizziness gripped him as he wandered down the hall to the kitchen, using the walls to keep his balance.

Raiding the cupboard for anything remotely edible was an exercise in frustration. His mother had already scoured the kitchen of any food that could be considered ‘junk’ weeks ago and there were no leftovers remaining in the fridge. Dang it, Peter pulled out the jug of milk and set it on the bench. Tea it is.

So it was that his mother came home to find Peter sitting at the kitchen table, spaced out and sipping a very large but rather cold cup of tea. “Oi, space cadet. Earth to Peter?”

“Oh, sorry mum, I didn’t hear you come in. How was your meeting?” Peter gently placed his mug on the table. He was feeling comfortably numb, calm and at peace with the world and couldn’t for the life of him say why.

His mother hung up her bag and dropped her keys in the bowl. “It could have gone better. We’re negotiating a complex deal and when your son’s school calls right in the middle, certain concessions have to be made, ones that take forever to convince your boss are worthwhile to make.” She began making herself a cup of tea too. “Lucky for you, I’m awesome and that’s exactly what I did. Now,” she placed her cup on the table to steep, “show me what you did to yourself this time.”

Turning his arm over, Peter pointed out where he had reopened his wound and how it had been glued shut. “Did you know that the original use for superglue was to keep soldiers alive on the battlefield?” he misquoted Nurse Happily.

Examining the work critically, his mother grimaced. “No, and I could have gone my entire life not knowing that and never felt the lack.” She poked at where the glue held the skin together. “Still, that nurse knows her job. Try not to wreck it again. How about the shirt? The one you tore falling into a garden? How bad is it?”

Despite the calm he had been feeling, Peter had distantly been dreading that question. “It’s… well, it’s pretty messed up. It was a very spiky bush I fell into.”

Taking a sip of her tea before answering, the dismay in her voice chilled Peter to the bone. “Come on Peter, you can’t be doing this. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Things are tight right now, honey. You know this. Why were you playing roughhouse games near a spiky garden? Where’s your common sense?”

Instead of shaking Peter’s calm, the sadness in his mother’s tone amplified it. He felt completely detached from the world. “I’m sorry Mum. It was an accident. I wasn’t even playing, just rushing between classes.” Even the enormity of the lie didn’t disturb Peter’s bubble. “I tripped and fell over a rail, bumped my arm and ribs on the way,” he saw the disbelief in his mother’s expression and modified the story on the fly, “not a high rail, the knee high one near the library. I tried to save myself by grabbing the pole, that’s when I whacked my arm and ribs. I went backwards into the bush, which is why the back of the shirt is ripped,” he finished somewhat lamely.

“Oh honey, so when the school called and said you’d been in another fight they were lying? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Peter wrapped the calm around himself like an armour. It felt almost exactly the same as in the Age. “Not lying, Mum, just wrong.” Peter knew there would be no witnesses to correct him, for once Bully’s tactics were working for Peter instead of against him. “I’m sure it looked like I’d been roughed up, and since the bully at school had done it once they just assumed.”

His mother put down her cup and came around the table to give Peter a gentle hug. “I’m sorry baby, I guess I freaked out when I got the call. It’s a really stressful time at the moment and I really didn’t need this on top of everything else.”

Peter knew, deep down, that there was something in that, something his mother wasn’t telling him. He also knew that until she was ready to say something, she wouldn’t. On the other hand, once she was ready, EVERYONE was going to find out. People in the next state over would find out. That’s a bear better left unprodded. “I’m finished my homework for tonight, Mum. Can I read until dinner?”

Giving Peter one last squeeze, his mother let go and began to busy herself in the kitchen. “Sure you can honey. As long as you are sure you’re done, just keep an ear out, your Dad is bringing dinner home so we’ll eat when he gets here. I’m just going to fix myself a snack since I missed lunch. Did you want something?”

“No thanks, Mum,” Peter shrugged. “I’m good for now. You enjoy your… snack?” From somewhere a bag of chips and a chocolate bar had appeared. I’m sure I searched the whole kitchen, what the heck?

In his room, Peter flopped on the bed but didn’t log into the game. Instead he took some time to just lie there and examine this feeling. The calmness that let him lie without batting an eyelash. The detachment that let his mother’s sadness just pass by without effecting him. What is this feeling? Why does it feel like what happens in the game? The most important question though: How can I use this to not be so screwed?

Eventually the sensation faded, leaving Peter just tired and bored. To alleviate the boredom he pulled up the book he had been reading and flipped through it looking for inspiration. Verne’s works were classics, and a great introduction into the Steampunk genre. The theme intrigued Peter, so he closed the book and started searching the internet for more. More everything, he found images of people in steampunk cosplay, downloaded samples of steampunk books, listened to steampunk music. He even left the playlist running in the background as he browsed, the music providing the perfect accompaniment to the search.

The grumbling of his stomach reminded Peter of the real world, sending him down the hall in search of sustenance. “Hey Mum, is Dad home yet? I didn’t hear him come in?”

A snort from the lounge made Peter’s head snap around. His mother was reclining in one of the comfy seats, the bag of chips discarded down the side and a small bottle of cola in the drink holder on the arm. She quickly tucked something silvery down the side of the cushions and sat up. “What was that honey?”

“When’s Dad getting home? I’m hungry,” Peter whined.

Struggling up out of the chair, his mother shook away the cobwebs in her head. “I don’t know, honey. He should have been here,” she paused for a moment, “an hour and a half ago. How hungry are you?”

“Staaaarving. Can we eat without him?” Peter flopped into the lounge chair opposite the one his mother had just vacated.

Peter’s mother spent a long second considering the options. “Sure. Okay. Um,” she cast about looking for something, patting her pockets. “Your Dad was supposed to be bringing home sushi. Do you still want that?”

In the silence that followed, Peter’s stomach rumbled loudly again. He shook his head, “Can we have Indian, please? I’m craving vindaloo and naan bread.”

Still looking around uncertainty and patting various parts of her body, his mother shrugged. “Fine,” she conceded. “But don’t come crying to me tomorrow. You know what curry does to you.” Remembering what it was she was looking for and where it was, his mother reached over the far side of the chair and pulled out her handbag, leaning heavily on the arm of the chair for balance. “I’ll place the order in a sec, dinner will probably be about half an hour. Go have your shower while you wait, just because dinner is late doesn’t mean you’re staying up ‘til midnight.”

Peter followed the instructions and was soon standing under the warm deluge, letting the water wash over his back. It’s Friday night, why can’t I stay up? It’s not like I have school tomorrow, he groused. Over the gentle hiss of the shower head he heard a bang from the front door hitting the stop and voices in the kitchen. That was quick, Peter thought as he began scrubbing vigorously and rinsing off, Mum only just ordered. He hurriedly dried off and tied the towel around his waist in preparation for the dash to his room.

Opening the door, however, revealed that the voices in the kitchen belonged to his parents and not a delivery person. “Have you been drinking?” His Dad’s voice carried down the hall in a stage whisper.

“Have you been drinking? Don’t answer, I can smell it on you. And that harlot’s cheap perfume again,” his mother countered in a similar volume and intensity.

His father was having none of it this time. “Don’t dodge the question. You were home with our son and you reek of cheap vodka. Did you even feed him?”

His mother wound up a slap and struck his father across the face. “I damn well was home with Peter, where you were supposed to be and you were the one who was supposed to be bringing dinner home. Like you promised when you called at four?”

Going bright red, his Dad put one hand to his cheek and raised the other to point at his mother. “No, I asked if you wanted me to and you avoided the question like you always do. I just assumed the answer was no, as I have been for months every time you avoid a direct question. You need to learn to give a definitive answer.”

His mother pointed too, past his father and out the door. “Here’s a definitive answer for you: get out. I don’t want to see you tonight.”

There was more, but Peter couldn’t stand it anymore. He pulled back into the bathroom and turned off the light. In the dark, he pulled all the towels off the towel racks and made a nest in the corner of the room. He crawled into the warm pile and covered his head and cried himself to sleep.