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Joel had been far too excited to bring you your 17th birthday cake. He’d finally gotten one made that didn’t totally suck, and he always loved your reactions to them. Plus: he had the best surprise for you later. 17 was a big year. His baby… though, you were no longer a baby… was almost all grown up.

Joel gets home early and creeps up the stairs to your room. He balances the cake firmly on one hand, but as he raises his fist to knock, he hears the commotion on the other side of the door.

Blaring rock music. Conspiratorial giggling. And the overwhelming smell of… weed.

Furious, Joel opens the door without knocking, and sets the cake down on the dresser near the door. You and your mystery guest — of the same gender, Joel notes — frantically scramble to get yourselves together. Joel curses at your guest and demands they leave the house immediately. Then he watches as they pick up a fucking tattoo machine, and demands to see it — the artwork inked across your right forearm.

As soon as your guest slams the front door, Joel takes a composing yet shallow breath.

“So, just all the teenager shit at once, huh? Drugs, tattoos, and… experimenting with [boys/girls]?”