Cable Confidential

I'm not weird. I'm just thorough. That's what I tell myself anyway as I jimmy another paperclip into the coaxial **cable** connection behind the TV stand, trying to get a signal on my dad's ancient camcorder. It's senior year, and I'm still stuck in that awkward phase where I'd rather decode old home movies than face another group project with people I've known since kindergarten.

The footage flickers to life—me at eight, **running** through the backyard with fake-jubilant energy, my hair a chaotic frizz halo. God, I was trying so hard even then. But then the camera pans, and I see it. My brother. He's filming, but he's also glancing toward the neighbor's house like he's about to commit a felony. That's when I notice something I'd missed a thousand times before: the neighbor's daughter, Maya, blowing a kiss toward the lens.

I pause it. Heart hammering. Because my brother swore until graduation that he'd never had a crush, that he was too focused on his "future," but here's evidence he'd been basically **spy**-ing on Maya for months. And suddenly I'm piecing together all those times he "accidentally" left his window open, all those "neighborhood watch" walks he took at sunset.

I text him: "Found the camcorder footage. You're welcome for not forwarding this to Maya."

Three dots bounce. Then: "Delete it. Please."

"Nah. But I will trade for your AP Chem notes."

"Deal."

I lean back against my bed frame, smiling at my suddenly powerful position. Growing up feels like this—discovering everyone was faking it too, but instead of disillusionment, you get leverage. And maybe that's not cynical. Maybe that's just what being seventeen actually is. I hit delete on the embarrassing part, keep the running shot, and feel suddenly light. We're all just figuring it out. Even the cool ones who pretended they had it together the whole time.