SMARTY PANTS
2251 Words
JUNE'S POV:
Everyone underestimates me because I’m ten.
Which is great.
Because while they’re busy thinking I’m just a “smart little kid” with jelly stains on my hoodie, I’m collecting data like a spy.
Seriously. I see everything.
---
Matt, for example.
My big brother. Also known as: The Walking Hoodie. Master of Avoiding Emotions. King of Honor Roll and Holding Stuff In.
He thinks I don’t notice when he zones out at dinner. Or when he stares at his phone like it just insulted him. Or when he reads the same sentence in his Greek mythology book five times without turning the page.
He thinks I don’t know that something’s up.
But I do.
I don’t know what exactly. But it smells like feelings. And I hate it.
---
Home is... fine. I guess.
Uncle Ron works nights, drinks too much coffee, and pretends he doesn’t like cats. He totally likes cats.
Matt’s basically my parent, my brother, and my built-in therapist. He’s the reason I remember to bring my permission slips and pack extra socks for field trips.
He’s also the reason I eat breakfast most days. Even though his eggs are always slightly burnt. Love him anyway.
---
School? Also fine. I’m smarter than 80% of my class, but I pretend I’m not.
People like you more when you laugh at their jokes and don’t correct their grammar every five seconds.
My best friend, Camila, says I should run for student council. I told her I’d only do it if the cafeteria agrees to replace the weird “fruit punch” with actual juice. She said I had the heart of a dictator. I thanked her.
---
After school on Tuesday, I walk home instead of taking the bus.
It’s one of those perfect early-spring afternoons—sunny, breezy, smells like the sidewalk just showered.
When I get home, Matt’s already there.
He’s on the couch, reading. Shocker.
“Yo,” I say, dropping my backpack by the door.
“Hey,” he mumbles, eyes still on his book.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Toast.”
“That’s not food. That’s disappointment on bread.”
He snorts. Points at the kitchen. “Help yourself, Gordon Ramsay.”
I microwave leftover lasagna, sit next to him, and start scrolling through my iPad.
We don’t talk much. We never have to. That’s the best thing about Matt.
But after a few minutes, I ask, “Do you ever feel like something’s about to happen, but no one’s telling you what?”
He looks up, surprised. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like... something’s brewing. Like in those shows where everyone’s lying to each other, but the kid’s the only one who notices.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t turn this around on me, Sherlock. I’m just saying—I see stuff.”
He smiles, soft. “I know you do.”
That’s the other best thing about Matt. He never talks down to me.
---
Later that night, I write in my notebook. Not a diary. A field journal. Diaries are for people who cry over boys. I’m not there yet.
> JUNE’S OBSERVATIONS:
– Matt is distracted. Possibly emotional constipation.
– Uncle Ron left sticky note on fridge that says “Buy coffee or perish.”
– Raven is acting weirder than usual. Like she’s hiding a whole novel in her head.
– The house is too quiet at night lately.
– Someone is definitely lying to me.
I doodle a cartoon of Matt frowning while holding a cat named “Anxiety.”
It’s not even that good. But it makes me laugh.
---
One day, they’re all going to look back and say, “Wow, June really was paying attention.”
---
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about being a kid:
You see everything.
You’re just not allowed to say it.
---
They think I don’t notice that Matt’s stopped singing along to music in the mornings. That he’s drinking coffee now, like a real adult with deadlines and emotional baggage. That he forgot our cereal day last Thursday.
Matt never forgets cereal day.
He says he’s “fine,” which is Scott Family Code for “I’m crumbling slowly but with impressive dignity.”
Uncle Ron hasn’t looked up from the bills in three days.
And Raven—the tall, artistic, always-half-sad girl who lets me watch Ginny & Georgia on her couch—hasn’t been smiling with her eyes lately.
It’s not my job to fix them.
But I still kind of want to.
---
At school, I’m the kid teachers say has “potential” and other kids say is “weird, but funny.”
I’ll take it.
Today, I sit next to Camila, who’s my best friend by default and because we both agree that square pizza is a war crime.
She’s showing me a video of a cat sneezing into a trumpet when I say, “Do you ever feel like adults are slowly falling apart but pretending everything’s chill?”
Camila blinks. “I mean… I guess?”
“My brother’s turning into a hoodie ghost,” I say. “And my house feels like it’s waiting for bad news that hasn’t arrived yet.”
“You good?” she asks, mid-bite of a fruit roll-up.
“Honestly? I’m ten. I shouldn’t have to be good.”
She nods solemnly. “Facts.”
---
After math, Mr. Gray—the guidance guy, stops me in the hallway.
He’s got this permanent worried-dad face.
“How you holding up, June?”
“I’m thriving, Mr. Gray. As always.”
He chuckles. “That dry wit of yours should be studied.”
“It already is,” I say. “In international diplomacy.”
But then he goes all soft-eyed. “You know, if you ever need to talk about things... or just be heard, you can come by my office.”
I nod. But I don’t say yes.
Because talking about it makes it real.
And real? Real is messy.
---
After school, I walk to Bean & Barrel.
Raven’s working again—second shift this week. She looks tired. Her ponytail’s lopsided, and there’s ink smudged on her wrist.
I sit at the corner stool and wait until she notices me.
When she does, she gives me the tiniest smile. The kind that says I needed to see you.
“You here for drama or snacks?” she asks.
“Both. Duh.”
She slides me a brownie and a chocolate milk. “You’re too cool for juice now?”
“Juice is for people with unresolved issues.”
We sit in a mostly comfortable silence.
Then I say, “You okay?”
She shrugs. “I’m just... dealing with a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too. But mine’s mostly multiplication.”
She laughs, soft and tired. “You’re something else, June Scott.”
“You should tell Matt that. He forgets sometimes.”
Her smile fades. Just a little.
I see the weight come back into her shoulders.
Even when no one tells me what’s going on—I know something is.
---
That night, I’m supposed to be doing homework. But instead, I’m in bed, flashlight on, notebook open.
Not a diary. I’m not that girl.
This is The Book of Observations, Vol. 3.
> Entry #112:
Raven is dimming. Matt is too quiet.
Uncle Ron’s bills are stacking up.
Everyone thinks I’m too young to notice, but I do.
I see the sadness in Raven’s drawings.
I see the tightness in Matt’s jaw when he smiles.
I see the way our house holds its breath like something’s coming.
I draw a tiny cartoon of me holding up a collapsing ceiling with a spoon.
Underneath it, I write: Too young to fix it, but too smart to ignore it.
---
The next morning, I wake up to find Matt already dressed, keys in hand, bag slung over one shoulder.
He looks like he hasn’t slept.
“You’re leaving early?” I ask.
He nods. “Got a lab review before first period.”
I grab a granola bar and toss it at him. “Don’t collapse. You’re still my ride.”
He catches it, half-smiling.
Then, as he opens the door, I say, “You know I’m here, right? Like, if you ever wanna… not be okay?”
He pauses. Looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m still a kid.
Then says, “Yeah. I know.”
And he leaves.
---
I finish my cereal slowly.
One Cheerio at a time.
Because I don’t know how to fix them.
But I can watch.
And I can wait.
And when the moment comes—when the cracks finally show—I'll be there.
Maybe not to fix it.
But to remind them they’re not alone.
And I’ll smile. Sip my juice.
And pretend I didn’t know that all along.
---
Weekends are supposed to be for cartoons, cereal, and sleeping in.
Mine usually start with anxiety and waffles.
Matt doesn’t know that I can hear him pacing through the hallway at 6:15 a.m. even on Saturdays. Or how I can tell whether he’s stressed based on how aggressively he shuts the fridge door.
It’s a gift. Like bat-hearing, but specifically tuned for brooding older brothers.
---
This Saturday, he’s unusually quiet. Like... extra quiet. No music. No running water. No creaking floorboards. Just... stillness.
I get up and peek into the kitchen.
Empty.
Then the living room.
Nope.
I check the front door. His sneakers are gone.
Which means Matt left. Early. On a Saturday. With no note.
I stare at the door for a few seconds.
Then I sigh, head back to the kitchen, and make exactly three waffles. One for me. One for him. One to offer as tribute to the gods of teen emotional trauma.
I eat mine alone.
---
At noon, I text Raven:
> wanna watch something dumb later? I’ll bring snacks and biting commentary.
She doesn’t answer for twenty-three minutes, which is weird. She usually replies faster.
Then she sends:
> okay. but just for a bit. I have work.
Work. Always work.
I try not to be disappointed.
---
I get to Raven’s house by 2:30 with a backpack full of popcorn, M&Ms, and two cans of that weird imported soda we both pretend to like.
She answers the door wearing an oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks. Hair down. No makeup.
She looks tired in a way that sleep can’t fix.
“Hey,” she says, soft as ever.
“Hey,” I reply, pushing past her into the living room like I live there.
We settle in. Gilmore Girls is our background noise. We've seen every episode twice, but we rewatch it like it’s sacred text.
Halfway through season 2, I glance over. She’s chewing on her hoodie string, eyes far away.
“You’ve been weird lately,” I say.
She blinks. “Wow. Subtle.”
“I’m ten. Subtlety is for taxes and middle-aged people in denial.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
I nudge her with my socked foot. “Is it Matt?”
She freezes.
“Because if he broke your heart or something, I’ll throw a waffle at his face.”
She laughs. Like, really laughs.
It makes me feel like I won a prize.
“No,” she says. “It’s not like that.”
I pause. Then ask, “So... what is it like?”
She shrugs. “It’s a lot of things. I don’t know how to explain.”
That’s the thing about Raven. She’s not dramatic. She’s not loud. When she says she doesn’t know, she means it.
So I let it go.
Sort of.
---
We switch to a dumb baking show where people set their ovens on fire and pretend it’s “part of the process.”
Raven gets up halfway through to grab water.
I watch her go, and I can’t shake the feeling that she’s slowly fading from her own life.
Like someone dimmed her and forgot to turn her back up.
Later, when I’m packing my bag to leave, I ask:
“You ever think about running away?”
Raven turns around, confused. “What?”
“Not like, dramatic running away. Just... disappearing for a bit. Turning into someone else. Trying out a different life for a day.”
She stares at me for a second too long.
Then says, “All the time.”
That’s when I know:
Something’s coming.
Something big.
And none of us are ready for it.
---
That night, I write in my notebook.
> Book of Observations, Vol. 3
Entry #122:
Raven laughs less now. Her smiles don’t stick.
Matt is either sleeping too little or thinking too much. Possibly both.
No one says what they mean anymore.
I’m ten, but sometimes it feels like I’m older than everyone.
That’s not a flex. It just sucks.
Underneath, I doodle a picture of me in a lifeguard chair watching over a pool full of drowning adults.
Caption: Still haven’t learned how to swim myself.
---
In the morning, I wake up early. Make breakfast for Matt. He doesn’t say anything when he sees it.
But he squeezes my shoulder on his way out.
And that’s something.
That’s enough.
For now.
- Writer
