Author's Note: This was originally meant to be a oneshot, but inspriration struck, and well...you know.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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I still don't understand how she did it exactly. Granted, Mom can be quite persuasive, but after thirteen years, you'd think I'd be able to hold my own against her. Yeah, well, I guess not.

The whole car ride is still a blur. I think it was last Monday—no, Tuesday, maybe—yes, it was Tuesday because that's when I have my yoga lessons. I suppose that the exact day bears no relevance, as the fateful events that unfolded would've happened regardless, but bear with me, for my own peace of mind, you understand.

So, last Tuesday, Mom picked me up from school. I really hate it when Mom picks me up. Don't get me wrong; I love my Mom, but there's just something about our conversations these days that really irks me. Call it rebellion, or that inevitable need to be distanced from parental figures during adolescence...sometimes she just tries too hard to relate. Admittedly, Mom's cooler than most forty-something-year-old moms, but I've heard that spiel about making the right choices one too many times for my liking.

Of course, Mom's incessant babbling is no match for the radio, and that Tuesday was no different: I turned up the volume two notches too loud, and viola, Mom's voice was just a distant buzzing in the background. But it's not as easy as it sounds. You have to nod your head periodically and murmur something like: "Yeah, sure," or, "Whatever, Mom," just so she thinks you're heeding her every word.

Sadly, not every plan is foolproof.

Sometime amidst the ride, she must've mentioned my failure to invite friends over to our estate. I'd call it our home, but quite truthfully, it's just not. Homes have three floors tops, maybe a lawn gnome or two, and perhaps a white picket fence if you're lucky. Estates, on the other hand, have eight floors, complete with an indoor pool, some tennis courts, and several Italian sports cars sitting in a few garages. Oh, and how could I forget: a bodyguard named Knuckles and an English butler named Rupert.

I was already wading—knee-high, no less—in troubled waters. Of course, I was oblivious to my precarious predicament. Unfortunately, the radio was proving to be quite effective. As aforementioned, I'm a bit hazy on the details. One minute I'm nodding my head and tapping my feet to the staccato beats of the music, and the next, Chrissie's coming to spend Friday night at my house.

Mom tried (and failed) to play innocent. "But I distinctly heard you say that it was fine, Lissie. Remember? When we were on the way to yoga? And Chrissie's mother has already agreed to it. You wouldn't want to disappoint her, now, would you?" Yeah, save it, Mom. "C'mon, it'll be fun. You know, girl talk, chick flicks, soda and popcorn, drooling over hot guys...You'll have a good time, Alyssa."

So here I am, on Saturday night, tapping my fingers against the window sill, trying to figure out a graceful way of telling Dad to stay invisible without hurting his feelings. And, just in case you're wondering, so far all I've come up with consists of: "Dad, you're weird. Now, go away."

Alas, Chrissie's car is snaking up the driveway. Ick. Now I have to be ladylike and whatnot. I repeat: ick.

That's when I notice Chrissie's mother turning left. Uh-oh. Didn't Dad tell her that the main house was to the right of the main gate?...Oh, boy. I knew that I shouldn't've left Dad in charge of the directions. Men are so incompetent.

I run down the stairs rather unceremoniously (I never liked that vase anyway), praying to God that she doesn't get lost somewhere between the botanical gardens and the tennis courts.

And that's when Knuckles stops me, his voice something akin to a criminal telling a nursery rhyme. "Why's Miss Lissie all in a tizzy?" He grunts and gestures to the fallen shards of glass scattering the carpet.

Knuckles must weigh a good two hundred and fifty pounds, the majority of it being muscle, and he only eats brussel sprouts and medium rare hamburger. I'm not entirely certain why that is, and quite frankly, I really don't want to know. Every evening at eight o'clock, he settles himself in the kitchen, a heaping dish of brussel sprouts and a generous hunk of hamburger cooked to medium rare placed before him. He doesn't even eat the meat on a bun. People, particularly Knuckles, are just weird.

"I...I...have t-to...go get...Chr...Chrissie...before she...gets lost...in the gardens..." Wow. I couldn't even understand that.

"Simmer down, little lady," he orders gruffly, taking me by the shoulders. "You let Knuckles take of this."

I try to regulate my breathing as I watch Knuckles slip out the room, his steps echoing rather loudly behind him. Yeap, this is crazy. My bodyguard, Knuckles, is running to find Chrissie, my best friend, in an effort to prevent her from getting lost somewhere between my tennis courts and botanical garden. God Almighty, could my life get any weirder?

I slump my shoulders and drag my feet into the dining room. Mom's gonna get it.

"Oh, hi, Rupert." I pull out my usual chair and plant my elbows on the table, propping my chin in my hands.

Rupert's an interesting fellow, to say the least. For as long as I can remember, Rupert has insisted upon wearing a hideous brown toupee that bears a striking resemblance to a bird's nest. I warrant he's bald underneath. Poor man. Regardless of his hair loss issues, he's always chipper and giddy, and his British accent just makes him all the more likeable.

One day, I plan on taking him to a tailor. His suits tend to sag a bit, and I imagine that he could benefit greatly from a well-fitted tux or two.

"Good evening, Mistress Lissie. I hear Cook's preparing a turkey for tonight's rendezvous." Nothing's sounds cooler than hearing a British man use a French word. "And then a few apple pies for dessert." He punctuates the sentence with an awkward wink. Rupert has never been good at talking to teenagers...namely, me.

Cook is our cook. I suspect that she and Rupert have a bit of a love affair, but Mom says that it's none of my business. I argue that it is; Cook is my cook, and Rupert is my butler, ergo, that's my business. I try to not dwell on it too much.

And then in walks a bewildered Chrissie, Knuckles not far behind. "Hey, Lissie. I guess I got a little lost," she murmurs, still keeping a good foot away from Knuckles. I don't blame her; he can be quite intimidating.

"Hi, Chrissie. Sorry 'bout the mix up." I offer her a seat beside my own and nod a silent thank you to Knuckles. "You want something to drink?"

"Um...soda's fine. Coke, if you have it."

"Rupert will get it." I square my shoulders and try to form my next few words carefully. This is more difficult than I had anticipated. "Look, Chris, I just want to warn you in advance."

Chrissie takes a sip of her Coke and refocuses her attention on me. "You already told me about the house. I understand that your father—"

"No, it's not that. I just want you to know that my family is a little...weird. Unconventional, if you will. And that's an understatement. 'Kay?"

She nods, but God help me...I'm not sure how much more of this I can handle.

First, in waltzes Mom. Save the embarrassing small talk, Mom isn't too insufferable. You know, typical Mom stuff. "Why, hello, Chrissie. It's good to see you again," and, "Lissie's been looking forward to this all week." Too bad it's not her that I'm worried about.

Cook and Rupert busy themselves carving the turkey and scooping mounds of mashed potatoes and seasoned vegetables on some fancy fine china. Chrissie's eyes widen a bit, but she refrains from commenting on our upscale dinnerware. Thank God.

Halfway through dinner, and still no Dad or Zach. I perk up a bit and begin to relax. Maybe they'll just work through dinner tonight...better yet, perhaps they're stuck at the lab, and they won't be home all night. That would be one less thing to worry about.

Whoops. Spoke too soon.

"Hey, there, Lissie. How's Daddy's Little Bug doing this fine evening?" Oh God...my worst fear becomes reality when he plants a slobbery, wet kiss on my cheek. "Good?"

A tilt my head away from his lips, hoping—no, praying—that he'll get the message. Through my clenched teeth, I manage to mutter something to the effect of: "Yeah, Dad. Just super duper."

Oblivious to my blatant disgust, he pats my back a few times, and that's when I notice the smell: dead fish. Yeap, that's dead fish, alright. Not even live fish. Dead. And that's when I notice the sopping wet jumpsuit Dad's wearing. And the muddy footprints following Dad's path. And his sodden boots, patched with hunks of moss or mold or something else green.

But wait: it gets better. Not far behind, Zach trails in behind Dad, equally as wet and gross. In his hands, Zach's carrying a rubbery, deceased fish between two fingers. A few murky droplets of water drain from the tips of the fish's fins, and the hook used to capture said fish is still clamped in the poor guy's mouth.

Mom shakes her head ruefully. "What in God's name have you two been up to now?"

"Fishing in the pond," Zach says matter-of-factly, dangling the fish as if to offer proof of their excursion.

I cradle my head in my hand and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that by some miracle, when I open them again, they'll have disappeared. I slowly crack one eye open...no such luck.

Zach hands the fish to Dad, who then hands it to Rupert. "Put this little dude down in our lab for safe keeping."

Just when I think things couldn't get any worse, instead of going to shower or at least change their clothes, my numbskull Dad and his even denser friend decide to sit down to dinner, geeky jumpsuits and all.

"So, how was you day, Lissie? Did ya do anything interesting?" Dad asks casually, as if he doesn't reek of dead fish. He forks a piece of turkey in his mouth.

I grimace. "Good. No." Perhaps if I'm dismissive, he'll get the message.

"Oh, c'mon, you must've done something. Maybe paint?"

Again, no such luck. "No. Didn't feel like it."

"I watched a fascinating documentary today on the History channel." I look up to see Zach stuffing spoonfuls of potatoes and vegetables in his mouth, completely unaware that some gravy is dribbling down his chin.

Mom smiles weakly. "Oh, that's nice, Zach. What about?" Leave it to Mom to egg on the freaky genius boy. I love Zach dearly, but more times than not, the documentaries he finds on the History channel are somewhat gory and graphic, and he's sure not to overlook a single detail.

"The ancient Aztecs...apparently..."

And that's when I drown Zach out. He has the tendency to ramble on...and on...and on. He's the epitome geekiness.

I mouth a silent, "Sorry," at Chrissie. Much to my dismay, she seems tickled pink by the whole situation. She's listening to Zach intently, soaking up his every word like a sponge. I suppose it's better that she's amused rather than mortified—I'd never forgive myself if she was thoroughly disgusted by my family. I know I am.

"And in regards to sexual positions, the male—"

"Zach!" I yell, probably a bit louder than necessary.

Oh, no, he didn't. He did not just—Oh my, God, he did.

"That was totally uncalled for! I have a guest! A guest!" I gesture wildly at a smirking Chrissie.

"Oh," Zach says, letting his gaze fall on Chrissie the first time tonight. He shrugs, completely oblivious to his error. "I'll just skip that part, I suppose."

So...let's recap, shall we?

Dad's stuffing his mouth and dripping fish guts on the tablecloth.

Zach's rambling about Aztecs and documentaries and sexual positions.

Mom's trying to appear interested in Zach's lecture.

Chrissie's giggling.

Rupert and Cook are probably making out in the storage closet.

And Knuckles is eating his brussel sprouts and medium rare hamburger.

Will somebody just shoot me now?

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Author's Note #2: I've come to the conclusion that I would love to be Hodgins and Angela's daughter...I don't know what Lissie's thinking; how cool would it be to have a bodyguard named Knuckles?

Now, there are some things you should know regarding updates. This story isn't going to have a continuous plot. Basically, I'm going to write a collection of one shots following Lissie's life with our dearest squints. That way, I won't leave you hanging. The school year's starting up in just two days, so updates will be a bit irregular. I'll make time for this story, but it's not going to be top priority.

I love feedback! ;)