“Well,” Dad says, “up till yesterday, you were a junior. But you’ll be moved back to sophomore year. That’s how we started doing it in Loop Two. Just easier that way.”
“Since you won’t remember anything you learned as a junior,” Mom adds.
“I see.” I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and toss it into theair. I mean to catch it, but I miss—Mom gasps—and it hits the tiles with a thud.
“It’s fine,” Dad says, not so convincingly. “It’ll still be good.”
I pick it up and take a bite, accidentally getting some of the mushy bruised part. I pretend it’s not gross. “So if this has been going on for six years, I’ve been going to Ridgedale High School for, like, a long time.”
Mom and Dad nod sheepishly.
“That’s kind of embarrassing.”
“It’s really not,” Mom says, a little too emphatically. “Everyone knows about your condition. They’re all very understanding.”
I put my face into my hand and press on my closed eyeballs. “This is a nightmare. This is a terrible nightmare. I need to wake up. I need to wake up.”
“We know, Carter,” Mom says. “We—”
“Where’s my phone?” My eyes are open again. “It wasn’t in my room.”
“Yeah, we have it for you.” Mom gestures to Dad.
“Oh, right,” he says. He goes into his office and comes out with a large black rectangle. “It’s here.”
“That’s not my phone.”
“Well, it’s not the one you remember, no,” Dad says carefully, as if he’s ready for me to explode. “Phones are bigger now. Bigger screen, you’ll like it.”
“I don’t care about a bigger screen, I wantmyphone. With all my photos and texts and everything on it.”
“We don’t have that phone anymore,” Mom says. “It broke.”
“Itbroke? What happened? Did it fall in the toilet or something?”
“It just broke, Cart,” Dad says. “It was old.”
“Okay, fine, fine, so what’s on this new one?”
“Nothing,” Dad says.
“Nothing?”
“It’s a fresh start,” Mom says.
“What if I don’t want that?”
Mom and Dad exchange another look. “It’s not really a choice,” Dad says. “Your therapist, Soren, says it’s too distressing and disorienting for you to see memories that you never experienced.”
“It’s worked out well this way so far,” Mom says.
“Fine!” I snatch the phone from Dad’s hand. “I’ll take this stupid oversized garbage phone.”
“The camera is pretty amazing,” Dad says.
“Oh, very cool,” I say, the flood of internally building sarcasm bursting whatever dam there was. “I guess today is actually pretty great after all. What with this camera and everything. Can’t wait to snap some pics!”
Dad just calmly nods, as if he’s expecting this. “Do you want some chocolate chip pancakes?”
