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has been replaced by Whole Foods.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 really
is a 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.”
“You and I have known each other since then. We get along well.” She gives me a wink. I know it’s supposed to be comforting,
but instead it’s like I’m on the outside of my own inside joke.
“It’s okay if this feels overwhelming,” Mom says, eyes on me, like I might shatter at any moment.
“Yeah, there’s no way for it not to be,” Ms. Jones says, clasping her fingers together. “But I got your back. All of Ridgedale
does, really.”
I wonder if a school-wide email went out this morning.
Dear students, teachers, and parents,
Longtime tenth grader Carter Cohen once again failed to turn seventeen. His shitty-ass condition continues. Proceed accordingly.
With great Ridgedale cheer, Ms. Jones
“And if you decide you want to stay home today,” Mom says, “ease back into school tomorrow, or even wait until after winter
break, that’s perfectly fine too.”
It’s a tempting proposition. I would also be open to move to foreign country and assume new identity.
“Absolutely,” Ms. Jones says. “Yours is a unique situation, which means it often requires a unique approach. But it might
bring you some comfort to know that, as you shift back to a sophomore schedule, your homeroom and English teacher will be
Mrs. Destin, same as when you last remember being in school.” She slides a stack of textbooks toward me. “In fact, we’ve kept
your day as close to what you remember as possible. Unfortunately, some of your teachers are no longer with us.”
“They’re dead?” I ask. “Which ones died?”
“Oh, no, no. I mean they’ve retired. Or moved to different schools.”
“Oh, good. I thought you meant they were dead.”
“I understand how it sounded like that. Thankfully, they’re all alive.”
We sit in a brief awkward silence.
“Okay, I’ll stay,” I say. “Mrs. Destin is cool and, well, fuck it, you know? Why not? Might as well lean into this shit show.”
“Carter!” Mom says.
“Sorry, I know. Pardon my language.”
“It’s really fine,” Ms. Jones says, shaking her head as if she totally gets it. “You’re processing a lot right now. Just try
to keep things cleaner during class.”
“Fuck yeah,” I say, giving her a wink.
Once I’ve hugged Mom goodbye and am walking down the hall to my locker—#357, according to the Post-it Ms. Jones handed me—I’m immediately rethinking my decision. I wanted to end the conversation and get the hell out of that office, which may have led me to choose poorly.
Too late now, though. I’m in this.
I put my thick green hoodie away in the locker along with the books I won’t need till later.
I could be wrong, but it feels like kids are staring at me.
Does literally everyone know about my situation?
Maybe Ms. Jones really did send out an email.
I generally hate being stared at. Unless it’s because I just said something funny.
Even more unsettling than the staring, though, is that I don’t recognize a single one of these kids. The entire school is
populated by kids I don’t know. Or kids I don’t know that I know.
There is officially no way in hell this could be a prank.
I slam locker 357 shut and head toward homeroom. Head down, eyes forward.
Two girls walk by, both obviously trying not to stare at me, but then I feel the taller one glance my way for a moment. I
glance back at her, then look away and keep walking.
I hear what sounds like a sob. When I look behind me, the tall girl is being comforted by her friend.
Was that my fault?
I hate this.
I walk into Mrs. Destin’s classroom.