“What?” I ask.
“For breakfast. A birthday treat. I already started putting together the batter.”
“Youdid? Not Mom?”
“Your father has, uh, learned to cook in the past few years. And bake. He’s actually quite good at it.”
Dad gives a little grin, clearly so proud, and it’s endearing, but I also want to smack it right off his face. Then a third feeling arrives and replaces the first two:
I am very hungry.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Sure.”
Dad nods and gets to work at the stove, and six minutes later, the three of us are sitting at the table eating together.
A fucked-up birthday breakfast feast for a fucked-up sixteen-year-old who will never turn seventeen.
The pancakes are excellent.
Carter
I decide to go to school.
Because the idea of being home with my parents right now—as this itchy, restless fire burns through every cell of my body—sounds like torture. They both look different. Dad cooks now. It’s disturbing on all the levels.
Turns out the Toyota Corolla I was ready to inherit from Dad was mine until I got into a fender bender during Loop Three, which effectively ended poor Rex’s life, may he rest in peace. So now my car is a beat-up silver Honda Accord that my parents got used. They said I named it Toro. Well done, me. Sick name.
But that’s not relevant at this moment since Mom wants to drive me to school in her white Prius. Probably a good idea—even though I technically have my license, I don’t actually have any memory of driving on my own. Add to that how wigged out I feel, and I’d probably crash into a stop sign or something.
During the seven-minute journey from home to Ridgedale High, I continue to play my spot-the-differences game. Stop& Shop has been replaced by Whole Foods. Bed Bath& Beyond is closed. Best Bagels is now called Bagel Bagel. Chilling.
It’s like overnight, everything has changed.
Also, I’m used to blustery winter weather on my birthday, but instead it’s almost sixty degrees out. In December. Climate change has been evolving too, I guess.
At least my high school looks exactly the same.
Mom pulls into the parking lot and turns off the already silent engine.
“You ready for this?” she asks.
I’m glad she drove, but it’s freaky looking at her all old and stuff.
I shrug. “Probably not.”
We buzz into the lobby, and everything is so similar to what I expect that I can almost convince myself that maybe this reallyisa prank. A very involved and elaborate one.
Mom guides us toward the main office, where a Black woman in a pantsuit is waiting for us. “Hi there, Carter,” she says, extending a hand, which I shake. “I’m Ms. Jones, the principal.”
“Hi,” I say.
Mom and I follow her into a separate office, even as my suspicion deepens. This woman could be an actor. I mean, Ms.Jones? That’s like the most classic fake last name in the book. Other than Ms. Smith.
“Where’s Mr. Nguyen?”
“He retired three years ago,” Ms. Jones says, taking a seat behind her desk and gesturing for us to sit across from her. “Then I took over.”
“Oh.”
