Carter
My eyes are barely open, and already I AM PSYCHED.
The day’s soundtrack kicks on in my brain, an upbeat song I am writing in real time entitled “Everything Changes Today Because
Today Is Gonna Be the Best Day That Has Ever Been.” Title probably needs work. But I don’t care.
Because today is going to be the best day that has ever been.
It’s my sixteenth birthday, baby.
Sweet sixteen!
Within hours, I will be acing my driver’s test, finally getting my license—a junior license, sure, but I’ll take it—and hitting those bad streets like a bolt of lightning in Dad’s old Toyota Corolla.
I’m going to name it Rex.
I grab at the nightstand for my phone, ready for the requisite slew of celebratory texts, GIFs, and DMs. Or at the very least
a message from my best friend, Manny.
But the phone’s not there. I peek under my bed, on my dresser, under the pair of jeans I left on the floor. It’s nowhere.
Probably left it on the couch last night.
I press onward, bounding out of bed and tripping over the very pair of jeans I just looked under. I somewhat gracefully recover,
barely saving myself from face planting. “Noice!” I shout as I glide into the bathroom.
Unlike every other day that has ever been, my younger brother, Lincoln, and his gigantic mop of curly hair don’t appear in the hall to engage in a pointless argument about who gets to shower first. I appreciate this birthday gesture.
He may be annoying in at least a dozen ways, but he has a good heart.
Hot water pulses on my back as I belt out lyrics to my new hit single. “‘Everything changes today! Because today is gonna
be the best . . . day . . . that has ever . . . BEEEEEN!’” People have called me tone-deaf on many an occasion, but I think
I make up for it with confidence and gusto. You don’t have to sing well when you’re trying to be funny. Plus, it’s impossible
to get the tune wrong when you’re the one writing it.
I move into the bridge (“‘There have been . . . so many days in history . . . but none of those days . . . can compare . . .
to the day . . . that is happening . . . NOOOOOOW!’”) giving myself the birthday gift of a long-ass shower, no matter how
much it might make Lincoln squirm. Kind of weird that he hasn’t engaged in his usual progression of passive-aggressive knocking
to active-aggressive knocking to straight-up screaming through the door for me to finish up. Should probably check on the
kid, make sure he didn’t die in his sleep.
But first: five more minutes of deliciously hot water.
Oh, how good it feels to be sixteen!
When I sense my bathroom time has crossed over from annoying to cruel, I flip the shower off, wrap a towel around myself,
and deodorize before popping my head into Lincoln’s bedroom to smugly give him the green light.
“Yo, bro, it’s all yours. Thanks for—”
Lincoln’s not in there.
And his bed is perfectly made. The entire room looks weirdly untouched, like he did a thorough clean after he woke up.
Which would be . . . odd.
But also hilarious.
Could this be some kind of prank?
I mean, that’s more my thing, but maybe that’s the whole idea. Turning the tables on the b-day boy, giving him some of his
own medicine.
And I have to give Lincoln credit for his commitment. Skipping a shower in the name of a prank is hard-core.
I choose my clothes with a little more thought than usual because this is going to be my birthday suit. Heh heh. I’m obviously not going to my driver’s test—and school after that—naked. Too many people would pass out from excitement.
I grab my favorite new purple plaid button-down from the closet. The fabric feels kind of worn-down, which is funny because
I just got it. There are also a few shirts in the closet I don’t recognize at all. Maybe hand-me-downs from my cousin Ben
that Mom snuck in there.
Once I’m dressed, I pop back into the miraculously still-empty bathroom to throw a little wax in my hair and spike it up in
different directions. Then it’s downstairs to the kitchen, where Mom is at the table with her mug of coffee and Dad is standing
by the counter staring into the toaster and Lincoln is . . . nowhere.
“Good day to you!” I say, and it’s almost like my parents flinch.
“Happy birthday, sweetie!” Mom says, her smile somewhat forced.
“Yeah!” Dad says at the same time that the toaster dings. “Happy day, bud.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, confused by their lukewarm vibes and the absence of one family member. “Where’s Lincoln?”
Mom’s smile crumples, and she lets out a sob. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Carter, don’t— I said I wasn’t going to. . . . But every
time it’s—”
“I know,” Dad says. He walks over and wraps an arm around her.
“Every time it’s what?” I ask, alarmed by the insanity unfolding before me. “What happened to Lincoln? Did he go out last
night? Where is he?”
Mom and Dad look at each other for a moment. Dad gives her a little nod and tells me to take a seat at the table with them.
“Just tell me what’s going on.” I stand firm near the kitchen entrance, my body going haywire, unsure whether to react with
fight, flight, or vomit. “Did something happen to Lincoln? Is he dead or something?”
“No,” Dad says with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard. “Lincoln is fine. He’s totally fine. It’s . . .
more you.”
“I’m dead?”
“No, no, you’re— Could you please just sit down, Carter? It’ll be easier to talk about this if we’re sitting.”
“I don’t wanna sit!” I shout. “Where the hell is Lincoln?”
“He’s . . .” Dad squeezes the edge of the round table as he stares at it, like he’s expecting juice to come out.
“How old are you today?” Mom asks, rising to join Dad and me in the Land of the Standing.
“What?”
“How old are you turning today?”
“Mom, what the . . . ? Is this a prank?”
“I wish it was,” she says. “I’m genuinely asking.”
“Sixteen, right?” Dad says.
“Yes,” I say, not enjoying this at all. “And if you need to ask that, I’d say you’re failing at this whole parenting thing.”
Mom puts a hand over her mouth to stifle another sob.
“Unfortunately,” Dad says, “your answer is, uh, technically incorrect. Even though you believe it’s your sixteenth birthday . . .
you’re twenty-two today.”