Happy Easter! He is Risen!

And now that it's Easter, I can update! And since it's Easter, I decided not to crush you with angst. Maybe. Maybe I'll crush you with angst if I update something else today…but it's Easter so I should probably be nice…

While I decide whether or not to crush you with angst because I'm addicted to it, please enjoy this mostly angst-free, happy Cargan chapter!

Happy reading! Enjoy!

Logan cannot go back to camp. He just can't, even if his mother drags him out of his bed, which he doubts she'll do, she has work.

She doesn't want to deal with him, which is fine,

He can stay home alone, he would've done the same yesterday. All he plans to do is lay in bed.

Except, he has a feeling that today will turn out like yesterday, because instead of seeing, he hears his mother's professional real estate agent shoes click on the floor as she walks into his bedroom.

He buries himself deeper into the blankets, pressing his face further into the pillow. He consoles himself with the reminder that there's no way Camp Wonky Donkey will let him into camp, probably.

"Logan."

No, he's not going to do it. He's not going to move, he's not going to do anything.

"Logan, I have to leave. You have to go to camp."

He's just not going to respond. That was the initial issue yesterday. She can't make him do anything if he doesn't talk.

There's no burnt toast smell in the kitchen like yesterday. She didn't make breakfast.

"Come on, it won't be as terrible as you think. Didn't you like it yesterday?"

It will be just as terrible, if not worse than yesterday. Which he hated, he hated yesterday.

Of course, she doesn't know this because she was working. So he had secluded himself, locking himself into his bedroom, safely surrounded by blankets and textbooks and darkness.

The summer sun peaks through his window. He can feel the brutal heat on his face. He turns.

"Logan, I'm not going to have a repeat of yesterday."

He won't either.

"Logan Mitchell, you have three seconds to get out of that bed."

He doesn't remember how these threats are supposed to go.

"Or else—"

Or else he'll just end up going to camp anyway and it will be awful, and that's the worst punishment she could possibly inflict upon him. She doesn't know this. She doesn't know anything at all.

The doorbell rings, just like yesterday.

He can hear his mother sigh.

Her shoes click as she exits the room, shutting the door behind her.

It worked.

He doesn't have to go to camp.

—

This is likely the reason why he has found himself gaping dumbfoundedly at Sylvia Garcia's doorstep. He can hear fast Latin music playing from inside, over a vacuum.

It's automatically too loud there. He can already feel the uncomfortable sensation of the music pulsing like it's in his body, pumping his heart for him.

If he just stands outside, maybe he can go home after a few minutes. Maybe Sylvia Garcia will become too absorbed in her Latin music, too preoccupied with vacuuming, to notice that he's standing outside the door.

The music shuts off. The vacuum shuts off.

And the door opens.

Sylvia Garcia is smiling at him. "Hi, Logan."

"Hi, Mrs. Garcia."

"Come inside, come inside. Take off your shoes. Take off your socks. I'm cleaning the floors."

He steps inside the house with his shoes on. Take them off?

But the floor must be at least moderately dusty. Dusty and cold and not appropriate to step on fully barefoot like Sylvia wants him to be. Sylvia's not even barefoot, she has slippers on.

"You have slippers on?"

"These are my house cleaning shoes."

"Slippers. The floor is dirty."

Sylvia smiled again. "I'm cleaning the floors now. Everything is clean."

Logan looked up at her for just a moment. She wouldn't lie, he didn't think so.

He slipped off his left shoe first. Then his right.

And he watched her as she watched him peel off his socks, sticking them neatly back into his shoes.

"And now, I'm going to show you how to clean the windows!"

He did not want to clean Sylvia Garcia's windows.

—

There were several reasons for this, but the first and foremost, most important reason had to be the Windex. The Windex bottle itself was sticky with spray. And the paper towels he used were flimsy and thin.

The Windex soaked into the towels, onto his fingers.

He couldn't touch it.

He dropped the Windex soaked paper towel onto the ground. It slapped the hardwood floor, squelching.

He could not wash these windows.

Logan was careful to avoid the paper towel as he walked, reluctantly barefoot, towards the kitchen, towards Sylvia. She was busy with a mop and a bucket. He could see from there, the mop was dripping, sopping wet as it—

Squelched, squeaking as it slid across the floor.

God.

"Mrs. Garcia," he said, taking a small step forward. "I don't—"

And he did, too. He slid across the floor, colliding with the bucket. The contents inside, some watery mixture of what looked like oil and water, splashed over the hardwood floor.

"Sorry, sorry, really, I didn't mean to do that."

Sylvia shook her head. "That's fine, that's fine."

She threw down rags, kneeling down on the ground, wiping up the spill.

"What did you need, Logan?"

He stared at her, on her knees. Her leggings were soaked now too. It must be uncomfortable. "Um, I can't wash the windows."

"Did you run out of Windex?"

Logan pressed his hands together. The pressure didn't hurt, he wasn't pressing hard enough for that. Just something different to focus on. Not conversation.

But Sylvia looked up from the spill, waiting,

"No, I just—I can't touch the paper towels. They're all—moist, and I think I got Windex on my hands."

"Wash your hands, then."

He advanced towards the sink, turning the faucet knob to the left, the hottest setting. He could feel the Windex on his fingers, and he could smell it, he needed to get rid of it. It wasn't even a problem that the water might be too hot, that for a second, the water was so hot it felt cold.

"I still can't wash the windows. The Windex bottle—"

Sylvia joined him at the sink, the spill cleaned. She had some odd number of wet rags in her hands. She set those on the edge of the sink, wringing them out as she talked. "You're here, and I need my windows washed."

The water from the rags trickled into the sink, other times running down Sylvia's arms. Logan watched the water.

"I can't touch the paper towels," he insisted, tensing as Sylvia roughly twisted one of the rags. Hardly any water was expelled. It all just squelched.

Sylvia sighed, setting the rags back down. She knelt down, opening the cabinets underneath the sink. The cabinets were old, nearly falling off the hinges as they banged shut. Sylvia pulled them open again, rummaging around. She re-emerged, holding yellow latex gloves out in front of her.

"Do you want to try with gloves?"

Logan hesitated. He nodded, looking back at the Windex bottle and paper towel roll he had abandoned. "Okay."

She helped him pull on the gloves, smiled, and resumed mopping.

Logan ripped off a paper towel sheet, spraying it with the Windex. Time to start again.

—

The gloves made the whole process easier, way quicker.

Which is how Logan ended up sitting on the floor, staring at the wall. Bored out of his mind. He debated grabbing his shoes and socks back from the hall closet. He could see it, it was tempting.

He was cold. His feet were freezing, and he didn't think he could stand or sit or exist with bare feet any longer.

He glances at Sylvia in the kitchen, she's standing over a pot, stirring. He can smell whatever it is she's making, he doesn't know what it is.

It's certainly not toast, that's obvious.

"Logan?" Sylvia calls. She's walking to the table with the pot in her hands. She sets it down, turning in his direction.

"Logan, I made some lunch."

He nods to himself. He can eat this non-toast food item, it's not like it will kill him.

So, he joins Sylvia at the table, immediately inspecting the bowl she has placed before him.

It's rice, but it's red. There's some quantity of meat between the rice, all mixed together. He stirs the contents of the bowl around with his fork, watching the red rice stick to the sides.

It's silent, until it isn't, because Sylvia's talking to him about camp. He doesn't want to talk. He's not listening, he's still staring into the red rice, wondering how she made it red.

He stirs his rice twice more.

"I thought your house would be messier."

He's still staring into his bowl, it's highly unlikely he's actually going to put this red rice into his mouth.

'What? Why did you think that?"

He shrugs. "Carlos. And your other kids."

"I don't have any other kids."

This doesn't make sense. She could've had more kids if she wanted, his mom would have. It didn't make sense.

"You would've been young enough to have more children than just Carlos."

Logan is not sure how old Sylvia is, but surely she can't be any older than Mrs. Knight.

"We have Carlos, because that's what God gave us."

Logan looks up at her, and she doesn't look like she's kidding. She looks like that's the truthful real answer that she believes.

"But that doesn't make sense! Because if you wanted more children you could've had more children. I don't think God could control—-"

Sylvia points at his plate with her fork. "Eat your lunch."

Logan stops. He takes a very small, tentative bite because she's watching. If an adult is watching you, it means you're doing something wrong, or they want you to do something, they're watching for a reason. He lifts the fork to his lips, a second bite, just to be safe.

Then he continues because he cannot accept that Sylvia did not give him an answer.

"Did you have a miscarriage? Miscarriages aren't uncommon, about—"

Sylvia sighs, resting her chin on her palm. She watches as Logan rambles, obviously knowing what he's talking about. Logan has always wanted to be a doctor. He's incredibly intelligent. He''ll be a fantastic doctor, if he could only listen.

LIstening has always been challenging for Carlos too, listening and following directions.

Carlos and Logan are so similar, Sylvia muses. It must be so easy for them to upset the other, with both of them not listening.

Though, Logan talks like he can't hear anyone else. Carlos talks like he doesn't care if someone interrupts.

She sighs, pointing to Logan's plate with her fork. He looks up at her briefly, stopping, pausing, taking the bite. Then, he just rewinds from where he was.

He's so smart, he'll do amazing things, she's absolutely sure of it. But he's only little, only twelve.

He wouldn't understand.

"Did you have a stillbirth? That can be caused by a variety of complications—"

She takes a bite of her own meal. Carlos doesn't care about answers. Logan only cares about getting answers.

He's twelve, he doesn't understand these types of things. Maybe just the science behind it.

Sylvia sighs again. "No, pero—"

"I don't understand Spanish. I'm not good at it in school."

Sylvia removes her hand from underneath her chin. She places her arms on the table in front of her, hands clasped together, eyebrows knit in confusion. She knows Logan does well at every subject in school. How could he be struggling, and none of them know it?

The chime ringtone of her cell phone interrupts her thought process. It's her third or fourth conference of the day.

She sends an apologetic look to Logan across the table, who is back to staring into his rice, biting down on his lip.

She stands to take the call. She stares as Logan remains at the table, stirring his lunch around with a fork. He eats it as he waits for her.

He's intently watching her, she realizes, as she reads over her pitch, in Spanish, to a new technical developer. His eyes are wide, permanently attentive to the phone pressed to her ear.

"What's your job?" he asks when she hangs up.

He's interested, of course, she can tell. The way his eyes stayed on her. He wants help, and she could help him.

"Yo soy—"

"I don't know what you're saying."

She repeats herself, slower. It's simpler than she would've explained it, but Carlos has shown her the work he receives from his sixth-grade Spanish classes. It's not difficult.

"Yo soy una analista de sistemas informáticos."

"I don't! I really don't!"

"Yo soy," she points to herself, but Logan interrupts yet again.

"I don't understand you, I can't understand English or Spanish, they're both so—"

She advances towards the table, clearing the dishes as she talks to him. "I don't think Spanish is so hard."

"That's only because you speak Spanish."

"And I am going to speak Spanish to you too. It helps to hear the language."

"Languages are stupid."

"How would you talk then, if you didn't have language?"

This is an easy question for Logan. He doesn't notice yet that Sylvia has grabbed something from the cabinet and set it on the table.

"Numbers," he says. "Or Latin. Binomial nomenclature."

"Latin is a language, too."

"But it's for science."

"Spanish and Latin are similar."

She starts unpacking what she set on the table. It's Scrabble that was a gift at a church Christmas party.

"Do you want to play a game or clean more windows?"

"You don't have any more windows."

"Then we'll play this game!"

Logan sighs, just like she had done.

He's not even good at English Scrabble. His mom beat him both times they had ever played.

—

Logan knew from the beginning that he was going to lose, so it bothered him marginally less than it would have, had he believed he had a chance at winning.

But it still bothered him, because he failed.

And Sylvia set him up for failure, because she knew he wouldn't do well!

He's not as smart as everyone thinks he is, he should be smart enough to understand roughly two words in Spanish, and even that is too much to ask.

He watches through tired eyes as Sylvia packs the game back up. When she returns, he can feel a warm hand on his shoulder. Logically, it's hers.

He does his best not to flinch away.

"¿Cómo estás, mijo?"

"No!" he protests. "I don't want to—"

She's rubbing his shoulder. "Shh, shh. Español, remember? Yo soy…"

He grumbles, because this is stupid, he doesn't even know how he's feeling in English. "Yo soy…malo."

She nods. "You're learning fast."

"No."

She gives his shoulders one final squeeze, before returning to a boiling pot on the stove.

She glances back behind her, Logan still has his head down on the table. Frustrated. English it was, then. "Are you staying for dinner?"

She smiles when he says no, but doesn't get up.

The door flies open, banging to a close.

It's Carlos. She can already tell from the fast footsteps. Fast, sneaker-clad footsteps.

"Mama! Guess what happened at camp?"

"Zapatos!" she hollered back simply. Carlos knew about her floor rules.

She heard Carlos's shoes hit the wall as he threw them off, still racing towards her.

He halts abruptly. "Logan?"

Logan lifts his head up. "Carlos?"

Sylvia grabbed her son's arm, pulling him close to her side. "Carlos, discúlpate con él. Apologize."

"But, Mama!" he protested, whispering loudly. "He doesn't know, he doesn't need to."

"Know what?" Logan asked. "Carlos, what did you do?"

Carlos's eyes went wide. He pulled away from his mother, holding his hands up. "I didn't do anything!"

"Carlos," Sylvia warned.

"Mama," he complained again. She raised the spoon she used to stir the pot. His eyes only got wider, bulging out of his head.

"Fine," he accused. "Fine. Logan?"

"What?"

"I was the one that taped that sign to your back, but I didn't mean to, I thought it would make—"

Logan slammed his hands down on the table, pushing himself up. "Oh, what?"

Carlos's hand immediately flung to his helmet strap. He gripped it tightly for a minute, looking to his mother for help.

"Logan," Sylvia said, resting the spoon above the pot. She turned the stove off, only briefly.

She could see his distress clearly, as he struggled to un-wedge himself from between his chair and the wall. He kicked at the chair, shoving his back against the thing until it tipped back. He muttered something, giving up. His head was back on the table.

"I didn't mean to," Carlos tried to say, but Sylvia held up a hand as she approached Logan.

"Logan," she whispered, pushing the table forward to create another path out. "It's okay."

"No, it isn't," he murmured. "No, it isn't."

He nearly shouted the last isn't.

Carlos was holding tighter to his helmet.

"Shh," Sylvia said quietly. "Yo soy…"

Logan shook his head. But he spoke. "Yo soy—yo soy naranja."

Sylvia tried to ignore Carlos laughing in the corner. Logan had said orange, but she knew he didn't mean it. The word he had been looking for has been enojado.

"Mama," he whispered, loudly as usual. "He said—"

"Carlos," she reprimanded. "I know what he said. Enojado."

"He didn't say—"

"Carlos."

And he quieted down, backing up towards the wall.

"Yo soy enojado," Logan echoed. "Enojado."

And for the first and only time in his life, Logan glared at Carlos.

Carlos gulped. With a sharp, forceful tug on the strap, his helmet clattered to the ground.

It split, right there, in the middle of the kitchen floor. In two halves.

"Mama."

Sylvia watched Carlos kneel to the floor, trying to fit the two pieces together.

"Mama, I didn't mean to break it! It's broken, it just fell off."

"We can fix it," she said quietly, unsure.

In two halves.

"Mama," Carlos repeated. "We need tape."

"Tape won't—"

And Sylvia watched just as quickly, Logan got up from his chair.

And knelt down on the floor across from Carlos.

"I'm still mad at you," Logan decided, taking the two helmet halves in his hands. He inspected the sides, and the effect of the split. "We're going to need athletic tape."

"I don't think I have that."

Logan nodded to himself. "Kendall does."

With that, he gathered up the broken helmet in his hands, walking out the door.

He forgot his shoes.

—

When Logan showed up at Sylvia's doorstep the next day, he presented the healed helmet to Carlos.

"I'm still mad at you," Logan reminded him as he fit the helmet on his friend's head.

"But—this could be a peace offering!"

Logan paused, considering this.

Carlos waited, clicking in the helmet buckle.

"Fine."

Carlos grinned, his eyes alight with mischief. "Hey, Logan?"

"What?"

"Before I leave for camp—I think you should do something."

"What?"

"Chum hug!"

Logan shook his head, backing away. But Carlos was too fast.

"Chum hug," Logan lamented,

It was a peace offering, anyway.

They had made peace.

And now, Logan had to make peace with Sylvia over his terrible Scrabble score.

He didn't, but at least now he could call her stupid in both Latin and Spanish.

Though, he had gotten hit in the head twice for those comments….

No wonder Carlos wore the helmet.

The peace offering helmet.

Yes, yes, Cargan, I updated, it was great.

Happy Easter!