Just Marc
The Night of the Eleven-Sibling Staredown
The Smith dining room was usually a battlefield of flying mashed potatoes and Stan’s paranoid delusions, but tonight it felt like a pressurized chamber. Marc sat at the table, his 1.82-meter frame making the chair look like dollhouse furniture. He had his long, pale fingers wrapped around a glass of Francine’s "special" punch, which he had secretly spiked with a heavy pour from his silver flask when Stan was busy yelling at a suspiciously shaped cloud outside the window.
"So, Marc," Francine said, beaming as she placed a platter of shimmering, gray-brown meatloaf in the center of the table. "Steve tells us you have a very large family. Eleven siblings! My goodness, your mother must have a uterus made of industrial-grade Kevlar."
Marc poked the meatloaf with a fork. It hissed. "Yeah, it’s a lot. My house is basically a riot with a mortgage. Six older brothers, five younger. You learn to eat fast or you don't eat at all. Also, you learn to sleep with one eye open because my brother Kevin likes to test his homemade tasers on 'stationary targets.'"
"Fascinating," Stan muttered, squinting at Marc through a magnifying glass he’d pulled from his suit pocket. "A high-density domestic environment. Perfect breeding ground for urban insurgents or very efficient Costco shoppers. Tell me, boy, does your father use a whistle to maintain order? Or a high-frequency sonic deterrent?"
"He mostly just drinks and stares at the wall until we stop screaming, Mr. Smith," Marc replied, his voice deadpan.
Roger, currently disguised as "Genevieve, the Disgruntled Flight Attendant," leaned over Marc’s shoulder to refill his water. He was wearing a tight navy skirt, a silk scarf, and a wig that looked like it had been styled during a Category 5 hurricane.
"Oh, you poor, towering drink of water," Roger cooed, his hand lingering just a second too long on Marc’s bicep. "So many siblings. So little individual attention. You’re like a beautiful, emo skyscraper lost in a forest of screaming toddlers. If you ever need a place to... decompress... Genevieve has a layover in the attic tonight. I have a miniature bottle of gin and a very thorough understanding of the 'Mile High' club's bylaws."
"Roger, get away from him!" Steve hissed, his face turning the color of a ripe tomato.
"I don't know, Steve," Marc said, actually cracking a small, mischievous smile. "Genevieve seems like she’s seen some things. I bet she knows where to get the good cigarettes."
Roger gasped, clutching his tray to his chest. "Oh, Marc! You have no idea. I once traded a bag of honey-roasted peanuts for a pack of unfiltered cloves and a lock of David Bowie’s hair. It was a very productive flight to Berlin."
The front door suddenly burst open with a violence that made the plates rattle. A group of teenagers—all tall, all pale, and all looking varying degrees of "done with life"—marched into the foyer. Leading the pack was Zack, the albino boy in the blue beret, and Abby, looking like she’d just stepped out of a Victorian funeral.
"Marc!" Zack shouted, his voice echoing through the house. "Your brother Leo found your stash of imported cider, and the twins are currently trying to use your bed as a trampoline for the cat. We’re leaving. Now."
Marc sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to vibrate his entire ribcage. He stood up, his head nearly brushing the chandelier. "Duty calls. Sorry, Mrs. Smith. The meatloaf looks... sentient. I’m sure it would have been delicious."
"Wait!" Roger cried, throwing off his flight attendant hat. "Don't leave me with these people! Take me with you! I can be a sibling! I can be the weird aunt who lives in the basement and smells like mothballs and regret!"
"Not tonight, Genevieve," Marc said, patting Roger on the head.
As the group headed for the door, Stan stood up, his hand hovering over his service weapon. "Hold on a minute! Who are these pale creatures? Is this a localized vampire outbreak? Steve, get the garlic! Francine, get the silver-plated salad tongs!"
"Dad, they’re just Marc’s friends!" Steve yelled, rushing to intercept his father. "Zack and Abby! They’re in my grade!"
Zack looked at Stan, his red-tinted eyes blinking behind his glasses. "Is this the CIA guy? He looks like a thumb with a haircut."
Abby nodded, her heavy eyeliner making her look perpetually bored. "A very aggressive thumb. Let’s go, Marc. The vibes in here are dangerously suburban."
Marc looked back at Steve, who was currently being tackled by Stan in an attempt to "protect his essence" from the newcomers. "See you at school, Steve. Thanks for the... whatever this was."
The door slammed shut, leaving the Smith house in a rare moment of silence.
"Well," Klaus said, bubbling up to the surface of his bowl. "He’s definitely the coolest person to ever step foot in this dump. And his friends are even weirder. I think I’m in love with the albino kid. He looks like he’d appreciate a good techno remix."
Roger was already at the window, pressing his gray face against the glass as he watched Marc’s group disappear down the street. "Eleven siblings," he whispered, his breath fogging the pane. "Imagine the costumes. The roleplay possibilities. I could be the long-lost twelfth Aidan child, 'Skyler,' who was raised by wolves and has a penchant for stealing jewelry."
"You are not going near that house, Roger!" Stan shouted, finally letting go of Steve. "That boy is a security risk! He’s too tall! He can see over fences! He knows what the neighbors are grilling! He’s a natural-born recon specialist!"
Steve just sat back down at the table, staring at the empty chair where his friend had been. For the first time, he didn't feel like the weirdest kid in Langley Falls. He had a friend who was taller, richer, and significantly more haunted by his own family.
"He’ll be back," Steve said, a small smirk playing on his lips. "He likes the meatloaf."
"No he didn't, Steven," Francine said, picking up Marc’s plate. "He dumped it into the potted plant when Stan was looking for spies in the gravy boat. But he’s a lovely boy. Very polite for someone who smells like a distillery."
In the attic, Roger was already frantically sewing a blue streak into a black wig. "Watch out, Aidan family," he cackled, his voice echoing through the vents. "There’s a new sibling coming home for dinner, and she’s bringing her own flask!"