Pyrra, his mother, stood in the doorway with her hands firmly on her hips, her long auburn hair flowing behind her like fire, and her golden brown eyes narrowing dangerously. "Then what," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "were you doing rolling around on the floor like a turtle stranded on its shell?"
Drake sat cross-legged right where he was, still on the floor, his cheeks puffing out. "Well, you see, I was sooo tired, Mom! I wanted to sleep on the bed, but somehow—hehehehe—my body rolled on the floor instead!" He gave a big fake laugh, scratching the back of his head.
"Oh?" Pyrra raised one brow, her eyes narrowing even further.
Drake froze. Wrong answer. Very wrong answer.
Desperate to change the subject, he blurted out quickly, "Ahhh Mom! By the way, I'm invited to my friend's birthday tomorrow, so I might be a little late, okay? Okay??"
Pyrra's eyes widened. "Friend's birthday? And since when do you keep secrets from your own mother?"
