Carter
“Hey there, sexy,” the me on Mom’s phone says, filming himself in my bedroom, wearing the same purple plaid shirt as me. “If
you’re watching this, it means you’re back to the beginning of sixteen. Damn. That sucks. And, unfortunately, this is not
a prank.
“I know. You’re staring at me saying these words, probably at the kitchen table with Mom and Dad, and thinking, I can’t ever remember filming this!
And that’s not because I’m some, like, AI deepfake version of you.
It’s because you literally can’t remember.
The memories are gone. And you are sixteen again. ”
Mom rubs my back.
“Again? you’re thinking. I’ve never been sixteen! Alas, you have. We have. I’m sixteen as I’m filming this! But every time we’re about to turn seventeen, we wake up the next
morning a couple inches shorter, several pounds lighter, the growing stubble on our face a little less . . . existent. And,
of course, with no memories beyond the last night of being fifteen.”
I feel the seed of a headache blossoming above my right eye.
“So now,” the me on-screen continues, “the billion-dollar question is: WHY? Why is this happening to you? To me? To us?” He throws a hand into the air and shrugs, falling backward onto the bed.
“Dude, I wish I knew! We all wish we knew. Because being stuck forever at age sixteen is . . . not ideal! We’ve gone to all kinds of doctors—neurologists, oncologists, blood specialists, aging experts—who’ve tried to figure out what’s happening, how to get us to seventeen.
Also healers and psychiatrists. Even a couple rabbis.
No one understands it. Though some of them pretend to.
“And we’ve been seeing this therapist guy, Soren, since the second or third loop. He doesn’t know why it’s happening either,
but he’s good to talk to. Kind of a dweeb, but a helpful one who occasionally says wise shit. I’m sure there are some other
experts we’ve seen that I’m forgetting to mention. I’m the Loop-Four Carter, so some of this happened before my time. And
that makes you . . . the Loop-Five Carter.”
“Loop Six, actually,” Dad says. “You didn’t want to make a new video this time around. You were hoping it wouldn’t be necessary.”
“So, yeah,” Loop-Four Carter says, sitting back up in bed. “I know it’s gonna take a lot longer than the length of this video
for you to process all this. But, if you take away nothing else from what I’m saying, at least know this: It’s real. Not a
prank. I repeat: NOT. A. PRANK. The sooner you accept that, the better this year is going to be. Oh, also in the Good News
Department: You already have your driver’s license! You’ve had it for five years, so it’s not even a junior license anymore.
It’s the real thing. Drive at all hours. With as many people as you want in the car.”
“Well, within reason,” Mom interjects.
“And you don’t need to waste time taking a stupid driver’s test on your birthday!
Cheers to that !” Loop-Four Me takes a long exhale, taps his fingers over his mouth.
“And that’s basically the deal. This won’t be as bad as it feels right now.
It really won’t. I’d tell you to reach out whenever you need me, but I’m you!
So unfortunately that’s not possible. You should lean on Lincoln, though.
And Mom and Dad, obviously. We’re gonna figure this out.
We’re gonna get to seventeen. And till then: Just know you’re the same cool-as-hell Carter you’ve always been.
We got this, baby!” On-screen Carter gives a peace sign.
“That’s kind of a stupid way to end this video. Ah, whatever.”
The image of me on-screen freezes, a smirk on my face.
I’m numb.
And the headache has spiderwebbed out to the side of my skull.
“You okay, hon?” Mom asks, rubbing my back again. “We know it’s a lot.”
“Yeah, what’re you thinking about all this, Carter?” Dad asks.
I’m thinking I’ve been hit by a metaphysical Mack Truck.
“I don’t know what to think,” I say.
Dad puts his hand on mine. “Well, like you said in the video, we’re here for you.”
“Always,” Mom says, giving me a hug. Dad joins in too.
I awkwardly pat their arms.
“And, bud,” Dad says, “we’re still doing everything we can to find a cure. So that we won’t have to do this all over again
next year.”
“Pete,” Mom says.
“What?” he says. “We are.”
“I know, of course we are, but we should also be prepared to just . . .”
“To just what?”
“To accept!” They’re still hugging me as they have this argument.
“Sure, we can accept the situation,” Dad says, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t keep . . .”
“Keep what?”
Dad has noticed the horrified look on my face.
“Let’s . . . talk about this later. Sorry, Carter.” He pats my shoulder and looks away.
“Yeah, sorry, sweets,” Mom agrees, giving me one last squeeze before releasing the hug. “It’s easy for us to . . . get caught
up in our frustration. That this happened to you. But like you said in the video, this always feels the worst on the first
day. It will get better.”
“It does feel really bad right now,” I say.
“That’s normal,” Dad says. “I mean. In its abnormal way.”
I peer around at the kitchen, trying to spot differences from yesterday as if it’s a puzzle in a kids’ magazine.
“So what happens now?” I finally ask.
“That’s up to you,” Mom says. “You can stay home and adjust to this situation—Dad and I both took off work to be here with
you—or . . . you can go to school.”
“Can we go to the movies? What’s even playing? Do movie theaters still exist?”
Mom and Dad look at each other. “We could go to the movies, in theory,” Mom says, looking back to me. “They still exist. But maybe, for today, let’s keep the options
to either home or school.”
I feel an overwhelming urge to move around, so I stand up and start pacing the kitchen.
“What grade am I even in?” I open the fridge. Mostly the same old stuff. There’s a brand of oat milk I don’t recognize.
“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 the air. 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 want my phone. With all my photos and texts and everything on it.”
“We don’t have that phone anymore,” Mom says. “It broke.”
“It broke? 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?”
“What?” I ask.
“For breakfast. A birthday treat. I already started putting together the batter.”
“You did? 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.