Saturday morning in the Dunphy house came in loud and hot, like someone had turned the volume up on reality.
Ethan was already awake when the sun angled through the blinds, casting uneven stripes across his bed. 7:03 a.m. Again. Always 7:03. Three and seven. At least that was consistent.
Today was different, though.
He didn't go straight to the piano.
Instead, he stood in front of his mirror, clutching a sheet of music in one hand and his phone in the other, hesitating. He'd written Pompeii—the piano composition—last week. But something had been building in his chest since. A voice. A feeling. Something unsaid that begged to be sung.
He cleared his throat. Stared into the mirror.
Then he pressed record.
"Okay," he muttered under his breath. "Don't crack. Don't choke. Don't sound like Luke pretending to be an opera singer in the shower."
He tapped the piano app on his phone with his thumb, let it play the intro chords.
And then… he started singing.
"How am I gonna be an optimist about this?"
The first note came out shakier than he wanted. His pitch warbled slightly, but not in a way that would embarrass him—just enough to remind him he wasn't a professional. Yet.
He kept going, letting his voice carry across the room. Not loud, not showy—just honest.
His tone was soft but textured. There was a quiet strength in it, a certain rawness. His range wasn't wide, but it had color, something emotional, especially when he hit the chorus. He'd always been told he had a "musical ear," but this was the first time he felt like maybe—just maybe—his voice had something real in it too.
"But if you close your eyes…"
He let the note stretch, held it with a control that surprised even him.
Then—
Knock knock knock.
"Ethan? Are you okay?" Claire's voice floated in. "I heard... singing?"
He turned bright red, immediately pressing stop on the phone. "Uh—yeah. I was just—warming up."
"Okay," she replied, the tone suspicious but accepting. "Well, breakfast in ten. And Phil's already asking where the syrup is, so… maybe come soon. Before he uses the peanut butter again."
He muttered a soft "okay" and turned back to his reflection.
His voice wasn't perfect. But it was his. And he could feel it—after puberty, after more practice—there was something there. Something worth pursuing.
He saved the recording and scribbled a note beside the lyrics.
Version 1: A little flat on verse 2. Breath support shaky. But it's a start.
---
Downstairs, breakfast was its usual disorganized circus. Claire flipped waffles with militant precision. Luke was attempting to eat cereal and bounce a tennis ball on his forehead. Phil was reading syrup labels like a wine connoisseur.
Haley scrolled through her phone. "If I ever get famous," she muttered, "I'm hiring someone to cook for me. And someone else to filter my comments section."
"You'd need a third person just for the waffles," Luke added, spraying milk.
Ethan didn't speak much. He ate his three waffles in silence—until Luke pointed out that he was using three different types of syrup.
"It's not random," Ethan said. "Each syrup represents a harmonic key."
"Okay, Beethoven," Haley said. "Don't get syrup on your sheet music."
After breakfast, Ethan found himself dragged into helping organize the garage. Again.
"I thought we did this three weeks ago," he said as Phil handed him a stack of old DVDs and tangled jump ropes.
"Organizing is like love, son," Phil said, hoisting a box labeled DO NOT OPEN – 1998. "It needs constant maintenance."
Ethan rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile on his face. It was exhausting, yes—but weirdly grounding. Like his family's chaos kept him tethered to the real world, even as his mind wandered back to melodies and lyrics.
---
That afternoon, Ethan was back in his room, reviewing the Pompeii recording.
He scribbled new lyrics. Scratched some out. Hummed harmonies into his phone.
Then a new message buzzed across his phone screen.
Maya: You still good for mall meetup with everyone? Arcade, 4 PM. Bring that song! :)
He hesitated. The idea of singing in front of the group? Nerve-wracking.
But then another text followed, this time from Gus.
Gus: Shawn's bringing a ukulele. If he's allowed to make music in public, you definitely are.
Fair point.
---
Later that day, the group gathered again at the same food court table. Shawn had already unzipped his hoodie to reveal a shirt that read "Trust Me, I'm Spontaneous." Gus wore a more understated expression, sipping an iced coffee and organizing the napkins.
Maya waved Ethan over as soon as she saw him. "Hey! You look... contemplative."
"That's because I've been contemplating," he replied dryly.
"Contemplating what?"
"Whether singing in public counts as bravery or a minor act of self-sabotage."
Maya grinned. "Well, if it helps—I think you're brave."
That made his stomach flip. Or maybe it was just the slushie he drank too fast.
Cher arrived shortly after, holding two bags and a smoothie. "Apologies, I had to rescue a pair of boots from being discounted to death. What did I miss?"
"Ethan might sing for us," Maya said with a smile.
"Ooooh, a live performance?" Cher said, perking up. "That's so High School Musical. I call dibs on being the supportive friend who cries softly in the background."
Shawn clapped. "Yes! Music to my ears—and not just because I forgot my headphones again."
They found a quiet corner near the edge of the arcade's party room. Shawn lightly strummed the ukulele, which was wildly out of tune. Ethan gave him a look.
"I'll tune it, I'll tune it," Shawn promised.
Ethan pulled out his phone and played the instrumental version of Pompeii he'd recorded earlier. It echoed quietly against the painted brick walls.
Then he took a breath.
And sang.
"I was left to my own devices…"
The group fell into a hush. Even the flashing arcade lights seemed to pulse more slowly.
His voice wasn't flawless. There were dips in control, a slight crack on the second chorus. But there was something in it—something real. Maya watched with quiet admiration, Gus tapped along on the table, and even Cher looked uncharacteristically still.
When he finished the last note, letting it fade into the noise of pinball machines and laughter, no one spoke for a moment.
Then Shawn whispered, "Dude. That was... kind of amazing."
"You've got real tone," Gus added. "Like... grit, but clean. With training, you'd be dangerous."
"Dangerous in a good way," Cher said. "Like Norah Jones meets the SATs."
Ethan sat down slowly. He was shaking a little—but it was the good kind. Like he'd jumped and hadn't landed yet.
Maya leaned in. "Told you you were brave."
"Brave, maybe. Good, though?"
"Good with the potential to be great," she said. "Especially when you're not overthinking every breath."
Ethan exhaled.
For once, he hadn't.
And it felt like the start of something.