Playing Couch-Detective

(My parents bought a new couch for our downstairs family room. Considering that’s where the game consoles are, whenever I have friends over we usually sit on the couch. After a year of having it, my parents call me downstairs. They seem angry.)

Stepdad: “You and your friends broke our couch.”

Me: “How?”

Mom: “Can you not see it?”

Me: “I honestly can’t see anything wrong with it.”

(They point at a small blemish on one of the cushions. It looks like a burn mark from a cigarette. Being that I’m twelve, I definitely don’t smoke cigarettes.)

Me: “That’s not from me.”

Stepdad: “Why do you think that?”

Me: “That’s a burn mark. I don’t even know where to find a lighter.”

Stepdad: “Well, now it’s ruined! We’ll have to throw it out now!”

Me: “It doesn’t look that bad; I didn’t notice it until you pointed it out. But it is definitely not from anything I’ve been doing.”

Mom: “That doesn’t explain where it came from, though.”

Me: “Maybe it was [Brother] or [Brother’s Girlfriend]. Their room is down here. I’m not the only one who uses the couch.”

(They denied it. At that point, though, they just gave up and dropped it. We still have the couch, although it’s in the garage because my stepdad wanted to convert the garage into a man cave but never did. They’ve offered to let me take it whenever I decide to move out. I’m not complaining, either; who doesn’t want a free couch?)