Carter
“Should I even go back tomorrow?” I ask before taking a bite of the curry salmon Dad made. Oh god, it’s so delicious. As far
as I can remember, he always sucked at cooking. Like, couldn’t-even-scramble-an-egg sucked. But now suddenly he’s Bobby Flay.
It’s Sunday night before school picks back up after winter break, and I’m sitting at the dinner table with Mom, Dad, and Lincoln,
feeling the Sunday-night scaries on steroids.
“Well, if you didn’t go,” Dad says, gesturing with his fork, “what would you do instead?”
“I dunno.” I look to Lincoln. “More of what I’ve been doing the past week, I guess?”
That’s mostly been playing Nintendo Switch with Lincoln—so many new games have come out, including a few we just got for Hanukkah—and
pretending everything is normal.
“Right, but Lincoln will head back to school in two weeks, and then what?” Dad asks.
“You can still play the games with one player, Dad,” I explain.
“You know what he means, Carter,” Mom says.
“Here’s the thing,” I say, laying out my case like a TV lawyer.
“That first week of school after my birthday was awful. Like, it really blew. And, I mean, I’ll probably be right back here in a year, with no memory of any of this.
So I can do school then. ’Cause what’s the point of going right now?
Maybe this can be a pass year. A gap year! Isn’t that what they call it?”
Mom and Dad look at each other, squirming in their seats because they know there’s merit to what I’m saying. Lincoln chugs
from his water glass.
“Look, Carter,” Mom says. “You know I’d be the first to say you and Lincoln should both just stay here and never leave. I
love this. I love being home with you boys. But it’s not realistic.”
“Right,” Dad says, employing his stricter tone.
“Did you talk about any of this with Soren?” Mom asks.
“Kinda.” I had my first appointment with my therapist a few days ago. He’s a white guy with glasses and a mustache, younger
than my parents but not by that much. Talking with him was fine but also annoying. Soren knew a ton about me even though,
from my perspective, he’s some random dude I just met. After I vented for a while about everything, how I wish this wasn’t
happening, how I want to find a way back to a life where I remember stuff and age like everyone else and people don’t feel
bad for me all the time, he said, “Thank you for that. Would you like to hear my take on all this?”
I wanted to say, Not really, but I nodded.
“So much of this is about acceptance,” he said. “You shouldn’t worry about trying to solve this or unstick yourself. You’re
only going to make yourself miserable, adding a layer of extra suffering onto an already-difficult situation. Instead, you
can be present and look for the opportunities inherent in each day. Does that make sense?”
It did and it didn’t. I was relieved when our time was up.
“Well, you should,” Mom says. “Soren has been very helpful to you over the years. We understand that this can all feel pointless, Carter, but . . . in past years, once you’ve gone to school for around a month, it starts to get better. You make friends, you find your people.”
“And even though you’ve never been into doing extracurriculars—” Dad says.
“Got that right,” I interrupt. “Not my thing.”
“You joined yearbook this year,” Dad continues, “and you were really into it. You take incredible photographs. Like, professional-level
stuff. Did you know that?”
My brain flips around in that way I’m starting to get used to. “Of course I didn’t know that,” I say. “How would I? And what
am I supposed to do with that information?”
“It’s . . .” Dad is a little flustered. “You’re supposed to . . . feel confident knowing there is a place for you at this
school, even though it might not feel like that in this moment.”
Mom looks at Dad, like, Well said, honey, and I’m tempted to overturn the table, watch with glee as all its contents smash against the floor.
“Okay,” I say instead. “So I have a place. I make some friends. Then what? Because I don’t remember those friends now! Who
are they? Where are they? And being on yearbook—I mean, all right, I see the value of documenting experiences so I can at least show my future
self and be like, Bruh, look! You once watched a school football game! But I’m not convinced that’s enough to justify me going to school instead of playing video games with my brother who I really
love and who has gotten much better at gaming since he was thirteen two weeks ago. The games are very competitive now, and
that’s really good for me because it pushes me to be better and—”
“It has been super fun,” Lincoln agrees.
“Yes! See? It’s been super fun, and I am a boy with a messed-up mystery disorder, and I deserve this!”
Mom and Dad have no response to this, so the next minute is filled with nothing but chewing and the gentle clatter of forks
and knives on plates.
“We’ll make you a deal,” Mom says finally.
A spark of hope lights within me. A deal is good. A deal is promising.
“Yeah?”
“If you go to school for ten days straight—”
“Aw man!”
“Listen! If you go for ten days—two weeks—and you go with an open mind, and you still feel this way after that, you can take
off the following two weeks for, you know, doing whatever it is you’re dreaming of. All Nintendo Switch, all day. A couple
of gap weeks. If you will.”
“Gap weeks? That’s not a thing.”
“It could be,” Mom says.
I don’t like this deal. This is a bad deal.
“But,” I stammer, “Lincoln won’t even be here two weeks from now!”
“You can still play the games with one player, Carter,” Mom says.
“Damn, Mom,” Lincoln says, laughing. “Touché.”
Even as I have to give Mom props for that one, I don’t appreciate it right now, so I don’t respond, instead taking another
bite of Dad’s salmon.
He really has become a sick cook.
I haven’t officially taken Mom’s deal yet.
Because for real: If I’m trapped in an endless loop, what is the goddamn point of going to school?
I bang around my bedroom like a maniac, opening drawers and slamming them shut until I find the one I need. As I wildly fumble
for a pair of pajama pants, my hand collides with an object that’s paper, not fabric.
I pull it out of the drawer and unfold it.
It’s a note. In my handwriting.
Hey Carter,
Glad you found this! I’m not supposed to be writing to myself, but I am anyway. Don’t tell anyone. Here’s some extra stuff
you should know:
If you haven’t already, find Bodhi Chang. He’s a junior. Close friend.
It’s a list. I wrote myself a list. Soren was just saying at our appointment that I should have minimal exposure to past memories,
which kinda makes me love this cheat sheet even more. Fuck you, Soren!
I read onward:
Lean on Lincoln. It’s weird af that he’s older than you, but he’s actually really helpful.
But also: It sucks that he doesn’t live here anymore. You probably already figured that out, or will soon, but it’s like the
balance is all messed up without him. Mom and Dad are weirder than usual.
We’re pretty good at photography now. Dope, right? You’ll have to relearn, but just, like, push through even when it feels hard. I did. And you’re me. So. You can do this.
Not gonna sugarcoat it like I did in that video. This situation is very fucked. But it’s not all bad. There’s been a lot of
good stuff in my life this year. And I bet it’ll be the same for you.
The last item is in blue pen instead of black. The handwriting is messier too.
Layla Banerjee could be the key.
What?
Layla Banerjee? Who I’ve known since elementary school? What is she the key to? What does that even mean?
I lie back on my bed and read the list again.
And again.
Layla Banerjee. I can still picture her when we were six, sitting on the orange carpet at circle time. Wearing a blue dress
with stars on it.
I pull out my phone and go to Instagram, signing on to the new profile I started on my new phone—part of the Soren starting-fresh
protocol.
There are more Layla Banerjees in the world than I would’ve thought, but eventually I find her, the adult version of the girl
I remember from just a month ago, when she was a fellow junior.
This will never stop being freaky.
I stare at her profile pic and scan her grid, and here’s what I learn:
Layla works for a tech company in California.
She has a best friend named Nellie who she takes a lot of selfies with.
She likes to run.
She is passionate about helping dogs with no homes find homes.
Hm. Okay.
Not sure what to do with all that.
But the first item on my list feels highly achievable.
I can find this Bodhi Chang kid.
Though, if he’s such a close friend, why hasn’t he already found me?
Whatever. At least I have a reason to go to school tomorrow.
I’ll take my mom’s stupid deal.