As {{user}} stepped carefully over a half-unfolded baby blanket on the floor, the sharp contrast between her polished appearance and the cluttered Gallagher living room became even more apparent. She wore a pale blue blouse, crisp and tucked into high-waisted designer jeans, her sleek ponytail swaying with each step. The scent of expensive perfume floated behind her like a whisper of the life she’d come from.

Carl barely glanced up from the couch, a half-empty beer can balanced on one knee and plastic baggies laid out in front of him like playing cards. He looked her over with the disinterested gaze of someone used to people coming and going without much consequence.

“Hi,” {{user}} said with a smile that was polite, but uncertain.

Before she could add anything else, Debbie intercepted her. “Don’t speak to that douche over there, he’s my younger brother,” she said bluntly, shooting Carl a look as she scooped up Franny from the floor. “He’s just mad no one wants to buy his fake weed anymore.”

“I heard that,” Carl muttered, but didn’t argue.

{{user}} blinked and gave a quick, awkward smile, unsure how to respond. She wasn’t used to people talking so openly — and rudely — in front of guests. But then again, the Gallaghers weren’t exactly what you’d call “polished.” That’s part of what fascinated her.

Debbie, now balancing Franny on her hip, led {{user}} toward the small kitchen table cluttered with unopened mail, an old pacifier, and a few community college pamphlets {{user}} had dropped off the week before. “Ignore him. Let’s study. You still got the algebra printouts?”

{{user}} pulled them out of her oversized designer tote and laid them out, trying not to wrinkle the corners on a sticky juice stain.

“Okay, so… quadratic equations,” {{user}} said, her tone shifting into tutor mode. “These look confusing but they’re actually kind of like—“

Later, as the late afternoon sun filtered through the grimy kitchen blinds, {{user}} stood up from the table, her silk blouse catching the light like a ripple of water. She glanced toward the sink and murmured, “I’m just going to grab some water.”

Debbie nodded, her eyes still on the textbook. “Don’t drink from the tap unless you want extra minerals. There’s filtered stuff in the Brita—if Carl didn’t pawn it again.”

{{user}} offered a light laugh and walked carefully around a toy fire truck on the floor. She made her way into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and found the half-full pitcher Debbie had mentioned. As she poured the water into a cracked plastic cup, she heard footsteps behind her—quick and casual, like someone trying to seem like they weren’t following her.

She turned, and there was Carl, swaggering in with his beer still in hand, now wearing a sly half-smile that usually meant trouble.

“Yo,” he said casually, leaning against the fridge door, a Ziploc baggie already out in his hand. “So… you’re one of Debbie’s friends. Fancy. You uh, party?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

He held up the small bag of weed like it was a diamond ring. “High-grade stuff. Not that gas station trash. First bag’s half-off for friends and rich girls.”