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The late afternoon sun of February 19, 2011, hangs low over Springfield, Oregon, casting long, jagged shadows across the vinyl dashboard of Superintendent Gary Chalmers’ beige sedan. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere is thick with a familiar, suffocating tension. Shauna Chalmers, currently fourteen and three-quarters and making sure everyone knows the "three-quarters" part, is leaning against the passenger door. Her dark hair is a calculated mess, and her expression is one of permanent, high-definition boredom.
Tap. Tap-tap. Taaaaap. She isn't using drumsticks—not yet. She’s using two yellow No. 2 pencils, salvaged from the depths of her backpack, to strike the plastic molding of the glove box. The sound is sharp, rhythmic, and intentionally abrasive.
"Shauna, for the love of—please stop that," Gary mutters, his hands gripping the steering wheel at a perfect ten-and-two. His neck is turning a shade of red that rivals the taillights of the car in front of them.
"Like, it’s a free country, Dad," Shauna drawls, her voice dripping with a thick coating of teenage sarcasm. "I’m practicing. Since you won't let me get a real hobby, I have to make do with office supplies. It’s actually tragic if you think about it."
"I told you, we are going to get you a hobby today," Gary says, his voice straining for composure.
Shauna rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Yeah, I know. The zoo. Whoop-de-damn-do. I’m sure the monkeys are dying to see me. Only reason you’re taking me is 'cause it's, like, across the street from your boring superintendent office. It’s a convenience trip."
But as Gary takes a sharp left, steering away from the industrial sector and toward the winding, tree-lined streets of the residential area, Shauna’s rhythmic tapping falters. She sits up, her eyes narrowing behind a fringe of dark lashes. They aren't going toward the zoo. They are heading deeper into the suburbs, past the neatly manicured lawns and the flickering blue light of television sets visible through living room windows.
"Wait," Shauna says, her tone losing a bit of its snark and gaining a sharp edge of suspicion. "Where are we going? Is this one of those 'scared straight' things? If there's a priest or a social worker at the end of this driveway, I’m tucking and rolling, I swear to God."
"Relax, Shauna," Gary sighs. "We’re going to 'Suicide Notes'."
Shauna pauses, a pencil poised in mid-air. "What the hell is that? Some kind of goth support group? I’m not depressed, Dad, I’m just better than everyone."
"It’s a music and poster shop," Gary explains, glancing at her. "They specialize in alternative music. I did some research. Apparently, they carry high-end percussion equipment. We’re going to get you a real drum set. And music sheets. If you’re going to make noise, you might as well learn how to make it properly."
Shauna makes a noncommittal noise—a sort of "pfft" that masks the genuine spark of interest in her chest. She is a proud juvenile delinquent, a girl who finds joy in the chaos of a shoplifting thrill or a well-timed insult, but the drums are her one true outlet. She likes the power of it. The way she can drown out the world with a well-placed kick-drum. They pull up to the corner of Mt. Auburn Street and Spaulding Avenue. The shop, "Suicide Notes," is a jagged little building with black-painted windows and neon purple signs. It sits awkwardly wedged between a grease-stained family pizza joint and the sprawling, beige monotony of the Springfield Retirement Castle. The air smells like pepperoni and industrial-grade floor wax.
"Stay close," Gary warns as they step out of the car.
Shauna ignores him, shoving her hands into the pockets of her overly short denim skirt. Inside, the shop is a labyrinth of vinyl crates and band posters. It’s dark and smells faintly of incense and old paper. Gary is immediately out of his element, squinting at a wall of Nine Inch Nails posters as if trying to decipher a foreign language.
"This... Reznor fellow seems very angry," Gary mutters, stepping closer to an industrial-metal display.
Shauna sees her opening. She doesn't want to spend an hour watching her dad "connect" with her interests. She wants out. "Dad, I gotta go. Like, now," she says, shifting her weight.
"The bathroom? Fine. Just... don't touch anything," Gary says, waving her off without looking away from a Trent Reznor shirt.
Shauna grabs the heavy brass key from the counter clerk—a guy with more piercings than skin—and heads toward the back. She enters the cramped, single-stall restroom, but she doesn't use it. Instead, she eyes the small, rectangular window high on the wall. It’s dusty and looks stuck, but Shauna is practiced in the art of the escape. She pulls herself up, her boots scraping against the tile, and shimmies through the narrow gap. She's agile, dropping into the damp alleyway behind the shop with a soft thud. The alley runs along the back of the Springfield Community Center. She brushes the soot off her skirt and prepares to vanish into the afternoon, but a voice stops her cold.
"Seymour! Stop dawdling! The knitting circle starts in five minutes, and I will not be the last one to arrive!"
Shauna freezes. It’s Agnes Skinner. "Old Lady Skinner." And if Agnes is here, it means her son, the ever-anxious Principal Skinner, is nearby. Getting caught by her dad's subordinate would be a level of humiliation she couldn't recover from. She turns and bolts in the opposite direction, her boots clicking rapidly on the pavement of D Street. She passes the local businesses—a dry cleaner, a dusty hardware store—hardly looking at them. She covers nearly two blocks, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, before she reaches the edge of Veterans’ Park.
"SHAUNA! SHAUNA CHALMERS!"
The voice booms across the park. It’s Gary. He’s out of the shop, standing on the sidewalk, looking like a very tall, very angry lighthouse. Crap. Shauna doesn't think. She turns toward the nearest residential street: Evergreen Terrace. It’s a quiet, suburban loop. She needs a place to hide, and she needs it now. She looks for a house with no cars, a house where the lights are off. She reaches 732 Evergreen Terrace. She tries the door; it’s unlocked. She slips inside, her heart hammering against her ribs. She takes two steps into the foyer, ready to dive behind a sofa, when she stops dead. On the wall is a framed, glossy photo of Chief Wiggum, grinning broadly in his blue uniform.
"Nope. Not today," she whispers, backing out immediately. She isn't hiding in a cop's house.
She skips 734 and 736, not wanting to be anywhere within a three-house radius of the police. She reaches 740 Evergreen. The house looks different—less "lived-in" than the others. She tries the handle. It turns easily. She slips inside and closes the door behind her. The interior is a mess of cardboard boxes. Stacked high in the living room, piled in the hallway—whoever lives here is either arriving or leaving. The air is stale, smelling of packing tape and dust. Shauna moves deeper into the house, looking for a closet or a basement door. She rounds the corner into the dining room, her eyes darting around, when she slams directly into something solid—or rather, someone.
"Oof!" Shauna stumbles back, nearly tripping over a box marked 'KITCHEN - FRAGILE'.
Standing before her is a girl her age. She’s wearing an oversized olive-green trenchcoat over a simple dress, her hair dark, falling in sharp layers around a face designed for smirking. She has a rebellious, cool energy that Shauna recognizes instantly—it’s the look of someone who has seen too much and cares too little.
"Whoa," the girl says, steadying herself. Her voice is lower than Shauna’s, calm and laced with a dry, cultured wit. "I didn't think we hired any attractive movers. Did my mom upgrade the service?"
Shauna recovers her poise, crossing her arms and popping a hip. "Like, do I look like a mover to you? I’m wearing a skirt, genius."
The girl in the trenchcoat—Laura Powers—tilts her head, a slow, amused smile spreading across her lips. "I was giving you an out, stranger. Usually, when people break into my new house, they have a better excuse than 'I didn't see you there'."
"I didn't break in," Shauna lies easily, her sarcasm returning like a shield. "The door was, like, practically begging me to come in. I’m Shauna. And you are?"
"Laura," the girl replies. She leans against a stack of boxes, looking entirely unfazed by the intruder. "We just moved in. Or we’re trying to. My mom’s in the other room trying to figure out why the previous owners left a box of 'lucky' rocks in the attic."
"Thrilling," Shauna rolls her eyes. "Look, I’m just... dodging a situation. My dad is currently doing his 'angry superintendent' impression out on the street."
Laura’s eyes spark with interest. "An angry superintendent? Sounds like a riot. I like a good authority figure meltdown. My dad was an Army Corporal. He gave me this coat," she says, patting the green fabric. "Best thing he ever did for the family before he bailed."
"Ouch," Shauna says, though there’s a flicker of genuine respect in her eyes. "My dad just gives me lectures and music gift certificates."
The two girls begin to chat, the conversation flowing with a strange, effortless rhythm. Laura talks about growing up on military bases, mentioning casually that she knows eight languages—a fact that makes Shauna’s eyebrows shoot up. Shauna, in turn, brags about her drumming and her status as the school’s premier "Alpha Bitch."
"So you're the reliable 'Omega Nice Girl' then?" Shauna mocks playfully.
"I’m whatever I need to be to keep things interesting," Laura counters, her eyes fixed on Shauna’s. "But I have a feeling you and I are going to get along just fine."
The sound of heavy footsteps breaks the moment. A woman with a tired but sharp expression enters the room. Ruth Powers looks at Shauna, then at the open front door. "Laura, who's your friend?" Ruth asks, then pauses. She points a thumb toward the street. "And would she happen to be related to the ape in the blue suit currently shouting for his daughter at the top of his lungs?"
Shauna winces as the "APE" roar of “SHAAAAAAU-NAAAAAAA!” echoes through the neighborhood.
"Damn," Shauna sighs, dropping her shoulders. "He caught me. His 'dad-dar' is unfortunately well-calibrated."
Ruth and Laura lead Shauna out the front door. On the sidewalk, Gary Chalmers is standing next to a very confused-looking neighbor. When he sees Shauna emerge from the Powers' house, his face turns a shade of purple that matches the neon sign of the music shop. Shauna notices something immediately: his car is nowhere in sight.
"Get enough exercise, Dad?" Shauna smirks, her confidence returning as she walks down the driveway. "That’s easily ten blocks from the shop. You look like you’re about to have a coronary."
"It was four blocks, Shauna!" Gary roars, pointing back toward the main road. "Four blocks! Now, get in... well, start walking! We are going back to that shop, we are getting that drum set, and you are going to practice until your fingers bleed!"
Shauna rolls her eyes, but as she turns to follow him, she catches Laura’s gaze. Laura stands on her porch, hands in her trenchcoat pockets, watching the spectacle with a look of pure, unadulterated amusement.
Shauna leans in close to Laura, her voice a sharp, mischievous whisper. "Quick, kiss me. I wanna make him mad. Like, really mad."
Laura doesn't hesitate. A smirk plays on her lips as she nods. "My pleasure."
In one swift motion, the two teenagers lean in. It isn't a chaste peck; it’s a defiant, lingering kiss that stands in stark contrast to the suburban boredom of Evergreen Terrace.
Gary’s jaw literally drops, his face transitioning from purple to a ghostly white. "SHAUNA! WHAT IN THE—GOOD LORD!"
Ruth, however, doesn't flinch. She doesn't even stop leaning against the doorframe. She simply watches with a knowing, somewhat nostalgic look in her eyes. Being openly bisexual herself, this isn't exactly uncharted territory in the Powers household. She watches Gary’s meltdown with a tired smirk.
"Relax," Ruth calls out, her voice dry and bored. "It’s not the end of the world. She’s got good taste, at least. My daughter doesn't bring home just anyone."
Shauna and Laura separate, both wearing identical expressions of smug satisfaction. It’s a shared victory against the world of adults and expectations. Shauna reaches out and snatches a loose piece of notebook paper flapping out of a nearby 'OFFICE' box. She fumbles for one of the pencils in her pocket, jots down ten digits, and punches Laura lightly on the arm.
"Call me," Shauna says, her voice regaining its classic, bratty edge.
"Count on it," Laura replies.
As Shauna trudges off after her sputtering father, she doesn't look back. She doesn't need to. She knows exactly where to find the only interesting person in Springfield.