J Cooper

Chapter ten: Quiet Moves and Brighter Days

                 The next few days passed like a quiet ripple—nothing too loud, but just enough to let you know the water was shifting. Jordan started staying after school a little more often. Not long. Just enough to hang out, eat a sandwich, and let me tutor him before we’d sit on the porch steps while the sun softened everything it touched. He wasn’t loud like he used to be, and he wasn’t exactly cheerful, but something in his eyes looked… less guarded. He was changing—his eyes were slowly opening to more and more of the world.

                I wished I could be a better friend to him, but living 45 years in my previous life made playing with toys feel weird sometimes. Don’t get me wrong—I was a geek back then, always into old shows and retro collectibles. And honestly, it was kind of cool living through Turtle Mania again. Only this time, I wasn’t going to end up selling most of my toys like I did the first time around. I knew how valuable some of them would become. So I just collected what I genuinely liked—and kept them in their packaging.

                My parents thought it was a weird little quirk. Grandma knew the truth, though. She even gave me the idea to buy two of everything—one to keep, and one to sell when the time was right.

                I do think Jordan enjoyed just having someone to do stuff with. In my previous life, I wasn’t as active as I would’ve liked. This time, I was staying in good shape for a kid. I started doing calisthenics to work my muscles, and I was always down for a game that was physically demanding. Sometimes we’d watch cartoons, and I’d pretend I hadn’t seen that “never-before-seen” episode—just so I could experience it again through Jordan’s eyes. Pretend I wasn’t reliving my life. Pretend I wasn’t from the future—or whatever the hell I was.

                One afternoon, Jordan and I were drawing silly cartoons at the kitchen table—his ninja turtle had three arms and mine looked like it had lost a bar fight with a crayon—when he said it.

                “My dad got real mad the other night. Yelled at me for spilling milk. Told me I disappointed him.” He didn’t look up from his drawing. “But I remembered what you said. That I was safe here. That I mattered. So I didn’t cry. Just told myself I’d come here tomorrow. And that helped.”

I didn’t say anything at first. Just reached over and bumped my shoulder against his. “That’s brave,” I said. “And you know what else?”

                “What?”

                “You and I are brothers. Not by blood or anything, but because I choose you as my brother. Who says family has to be related?” I asked, dipping into the found family motif I’d always identified with in my first life.

                He shrugged. But I saw the small smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. That night, I walked past the kitchen and paused when I heard Grandma’s voice. She was on the phone—her tone low but firm. The kind of voice that didn’t ask for permission. It just expected things to be handled.

                “I’m not telling you how to do your job,” she said. “But there’s a boy who needs someone watching out for him. He’s got bruises and told my grandson that his dad hits him. That’s all I’ll say. You will? Thank goodness.”

                She hung up gently, without slamming the receiver like my mother used to do. Then she turned and saw me.

                “You heard that?” she asked—not surprised.

                I nodded.

                “Good,” she said. “Sometimes help doesn’t look like sirens and paperwork. Sometimes it’s just someone finally paying attention. But I guess you already know that, don’t you?” she added, before pulling me into a warm hug.

                “I don’t understand this miracle either,” she whispered. “But I’m proud of you. And I believe this may be God’s purpose for you.”

                God? I thought.

                Yeah, I had grown up in the church—kind of. My family didn’t go every Sunday, but every now and then my mom or dad would feel the need to take us for a few weeks. It was never a consistent thing. After my parents divorced, my dad started going more often. I’d usually go with him, but as I grew into adulthood, I gradually drifted away from the church.

                I didn’t walk away from the church because I stopped believing in God—I walked away because I felt like the heart of the gospel had been forgotten by so many who claimed to follow it.

                Growing up, I was taught that God loves everyone. I was taught to love my neighbor, to hate the sin but love the person, to avoid judging others, to welcome the stranger, care for the poor, and live with compassion and humility. The Bible is full of these messages—especially in the teachings of Jesus.

                But over time, I began to notice something that really hurt: many people who call themselves Christians seemed to drift away from those values. Not all, of course—but too many. I saw people speak harshly about immigrants, the poor, and the LGBTQ+ community. I saw gossip disguised as righteousness, pride masquerading as faith, and a lot of focus on appearances instead of love.

                It started to feel like being “Christian” was more about a label than about living like Christ. And that broke something in me.

                I haven’t lost my faith—but I’ve lost trust in how it’s often represented. I still believe in the core of the gospel. I just struggle with how far some people have strayed from it.

                Which led me to become more spiritual than religious. But still, what Grandma said stuck with me. Maybe I wanted to believe there was a purpose to all this. Maybe I needed to.

                That evening, Patrick came home with a smudge of graphite on his cheek and his hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up. He looked better. Like someone who’d spent the day with a pencil in hand instead of the weight of the world on his back.

                He flopped onto the living room floor beside me, holding up his sketchpad like a trophy.

                “Look at this one,” he said. “It’s this mech-dog I made up. Kind of dumb, but—”

                “It’s awesome,” I said, already smiling. “You gave it personality.”

                “Yeah?” He looked almost startled.

                “Yeah. You always were good at that. Giving stuff a soul.”

                He blinked. “Huh.”

                After a minute, I scooted closer and opened one of the library books I’d borrowed for him. It was about basic art anatomy.

                “Hey, not trying to be a teacher or anything,” I said, “but if you ever want some tips—this section shows how to make proportions more balanced. Still your style, just… tighter.”

                He looked at the page, then back at me. “You… studying this stuff?”

                I nodded. “Yeah. Last time—I mean, let’s just say I’ve seen some really good artists. And I always thought you had that spark. Just needed a push.”

                He didn’t say anything for a while. Just traced the edge of the book with his finger, then muttered, “No one’s ever talked to me like I was going somewhere.”

                “Well,” I said, “maybe they were too busy staring at your past to see your future.”

                Patrick looked at me with a weird expression. Somewhere between curiosity and confusion. Then he said, “You’re a weird little philosopher, you know that?”

                “I get that a lot.”

                But he didn’t toss a sock at me this time. He didn’t change the subject. He just kept flipping through the pages slowly.

                By the end of the week, Jordan was laughing more. Patrick had started his second sketchpad. And for once, the house felt more like a home than a minefield.

                My mission—to help and change things for the better—seemed to be contagious.

                My dad and I had been talking more. I even spent time with my mother, gently nudging her in a different direction than in my first life. I wasn’t trying to keep my parents together. I just wanted to show my mother genuine kindness, mostly by surprising her.

                I’d ask to help her set the table. Cook. Clean up—without complaint. Did my best to show my appreciation for anything she did for me or Patrick, and she started to change. She smiled more. Laughed more easily. She even started asking to hang out with my brother, my dad, and me. When he’d offer to take us to the park, or swimming, which… she never did the first time around.

                I know that no one is perfect. But maybe perfect isn’t the point. Sometimes, survival doesn’t come with a victory march. Sometimes, it’s just a grilled cheese sandwich, a sketchbook, and a friend who remembers your favorite Ninja Turtle. And maybe—just maybe—that’s how new lives begin.

                In the days that followed, Child Services visited Jordan’s family, and he got to stay with us until his aunt and uncle could take full custody. That meant Jordan could stay at the same school—which I was grateful for—because it meant I could keep an eye on him. Watch him grow into the kind of person he should’ve always had the chance to be.

                Life was changing. I didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified Maybe both.

                That night, I found Patrick sprawled on the floor again, his sketchpad open, a pencil tucked behind his ear.

                “You know,” he said without looking up, “you talk weird.”

                I blinked. “Thanks?”

                “No, I mean… like a little shrink. Or a fortune cookie. Half the time I’m not even sure if you’re making fun of me or trying to change my life.”

                I smirked. “Why not both?”

                He finally glanced up, his eyes narrow but not hostile. Just curious. Thoughtful.

                “Seriously though,” he said. “How do you know so much stuff? Art techniques, psychology stuff, even what Mom’s gonna do before she does it. It’s kinda freaky.”

                I felt a flicker of panic, just under my ribs. “I read a lot,” I said carefully.

                Patrick nodded, but I could tell he didn’t fully buy it. Not that he thought I was lying—just… leaving something out.

                But instead of pushing, he just stared down at his sketchpad and started shading the edge of a mech’s tail.

                “You don’t have to tell me,” he said finally. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to explain it. You’ve just been… different lately. But not in a bad way.”

                I swallowed the knot in my throat.

                “You’re different too,” I said.

                “Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

                He didn’t say anything else, but I saw it—he was filing it away. Not ignoring it, just… storing it. Saving it for later, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit yet.

                And I was okay with that. Because Patrick wasn’t pushing me away. He was choosing to stay and that, maybe more than anything, told me we were getting somewhere.