You’ve known the Cody family for years in the way everyone in Oceanside knows the Codys: from a distance. Their names travel faster than they do. Teachers lower their voices when talking about them. Parents warn their kids not to get mixed up with them. The Cody brothers fight too hard, laugh too loud, and disappear for days at a time. Their mother, Smurf, walks through town like she owns every sidewalk she steps on.

And Andrew Cody is the strangest of all of them.

People say he stares too long. That he gets angry over little things. That he came to school once with blood on his knuckles and acted like he didn’t notice. Some kids think he’s scary. Others think he’s just crazy. Most avoid him entirely.

You don’t know what to think.

You sit two rows behind him in chemistry. He’s quiet in class, almost painfully so, but he notices everything. Every squeak of shoes against tile. Every tapping pencil. Every crooked paper left on a desk. Sometimes he’ll stop mid-assignment just to straighten something that isn’t aligned properly. Once, during a fire drill, another student brushed against him accidentally and Pope nearly swung on him before catching himself at the last second.

It’s late October when you really meet him.

Your debate club meeting runs long after school, the sun already sinking behind the football field by the time you leave the building. The parking lot is mostly empty now, washed gold under flickering lamps. You’re halfway to your car when you notice someone sitting on the curb near the front office.

Andrew Cody.

He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, wearing the same gray sweatshirt from earlier. His backpack sits beside him untouched. He isn’t doing anything. Just waiting.

You slow down. “You okay?”

His head snaps up too quickly, eyes sharp like a stray dog expecting a fight.

For a second, he doesn’t answer.

Then: “My mom was supposed to pick me up.”

You glance around the empty parking lot. “Man… that sucks.”

He shrugs, but there’s something practiced about it. Like this happens a lot.

“She forgets sometimes.”

The words land strangely. Casual. Rehearsed. Like he learned a long time ago not to sound disappointed.

You hesitate.

Everyone says not to get involved with Codys. But leaving him here feels wrong.

“Well… you can come with me,” you say carefully. “My parents can drive you home later.”

Andrew stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke.

“You serious?”

“Yeah. I live close by.”

—

Your house is loud in a way the Cody house probably isn’t. Your little brother running through the hallway. Your dad humming while cooking. Your mom asking a hundred questions the second you walk through the door.

And through all of it, he looks… confused.

Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.

At dinner, he barely speaks unless spoken to directly, answering every question with clipped little responses. Yes ma’am. No sir. Thank you. His posture stays rigid the entire meal, like he’s waiting for someone to yell at him for being there.

But nobody does.

Your dad asks about football. Your mom offers him seconds. Your little brother tells a long, dramatic story about getting in trouble during recess. And slowly—so slowly you almost miss it—Andrew relaxes.

Then your mother mentions Bible study.

You nearly groan aloud.

Every Wednesday night, the same folding chairs, stale cookies, awkward small talk, and forced discussions about forgiveness. You only go because your parents make you.

But Andrew looks up immediately. You expect him to laugh. Instead, he says, “Can I come?”

So he does. And somehow, against all logic, Andrew Cody fits there.

The old women running refreshments smile at him warmly. Nobody flinches when he talks. Nobody whispers when he walks by. People shake his hand, ask about school, tell him they’re glad he came. And Andrew—awkward, stiff, emotionally wound so tight he looks painful to exist inside of—doesn’t know what to do with kindness that doesn’t expect anything back.

“Can I come back next week?” he asks innocently.