“Listen, son.” I can’t see Dad anymore, but I can picture him trying to put on his stern face. Despite his best efforts, it’s not even a little bit intimidating. “I need you to promise that you will not, under any circumstances, mess with your sister’s notes.”
“Dad, I wouldn’t— God.” Daniel slumps in his chair, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, and it takes everything in me not to throw my cereal bowl at his head. “Can everyone please get over that? It was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t think she’d actually read the damn thing.”
“That’s not a promise,” Dad says. “This is a big night for your mother. And you know how much you upset your sister last time.”
If they keep talking about this, I really will throw up. “Dad, it’s fine,” I say tightly. “It was just a stupid prank. I’m over it.”
“You don’t sound over it,” Dad points out. Correctly.
I turn my laptop back toward me and paste on a smile. “I am, really. It’s old news.”
Based on my father’s dubious expression, he doesn’t believe me. And he shouldn’t. Compared to yesterday’s fresh humiliation, sure—what happened last spring is old news. But I am not, in any way, shape, or form, over it.
The irony is, it wasn’t even a particularly important speech. I was supposed to make closing remarks at the junior class’s spring talent show, and I knew everyone’s attention would be wandering. Still, I had the whole thing written down, like I always do, because public speaking makes me nervous and I didn’t want to forget anything.
What I didn’t realize, until I was standing onstage in front of the entire class, was that Daniel had stolen my notes and replaced them with something else: a page from Aunt Helen’s latest erotic firefighter novel, The Fire Within. And I just—went into some sort of panicked fugue state where I actually read it. Out loud. First to confused silence as people thought I was part of the show, and then to hysterical laughter when they realized I wasn’t. A teacher finally had to rush the stage and stop me, right around the time I was describing the hero in full anatomical detail.
I still don’t understand how it happened. How my brain could have frozen while my mouth kept running. But it did, and it was mortifying. Especially since there’s no doubt in my mind that it represents the exact moment when the entire school started thinking of me as a joke.
Boney Mahoney just made it official.
Dad is still lecturing my brother, even though he can’t see him anymore. “Your aunt is a brilliant creative force, Daniel. If you have half the professional success that she does someday, you’ll be a lucky man.”
“I know,” Daniel mutters.
“Speaking of which, I noticed before we left that she sent an advance copy of You Can’t Take the Heat. I’d better not hear a word of that tonight, or I’ll—”
“Dad. Stop,” I interrupt. “Nothing is going to go wrong. Tonight will be perfect.” I force certainty into my voice as I meet my mother’s eyes, which are wide and worried—like they’re reflecting all of my recent failures. I need to get back on track, and erase that look once and for all. “It’ll be everything you deserve, Mom. I promise.”
MATEO
Here’s the thing about powerhouse people: you have no idea how much they take on until they can’t do it all anymore.
I used to think I did plenty to help around the house. More than my friends, anyway. But now that my mother is at maybe half her usual capacity, facts have to be faced: Former Mateo did jack shit. I’m trying to step up, but most of the time I don’t even think about what needs to be done until it’s too late. Like now, when I’m staring into an empty refrigerator. Thinking about how I worked five hours at the grocery store last night and never considered, even once, that maybe I should bring home some food.
“Oh baby, I’m sorry, we’re out of almost everything,” Ma calls. She’s in the living room doing her physical therapy exercises, but the whole first floor of our house is open concept, and anyway, I’m pretty sure she has eyes in the back of her head. “I haven’t made it to the store this week. Can you grab breakfast at school?”
Carlton High cafeteria food is crap, but pointing that out would be a Former Mateo move. “Yeah, no problem,” I say, shutting the refrigerator door as my stomach growls.
“Here.” I turn as my cousin Autumn, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-zipped backpack in front of her, tosses me a PowerBar. I catch it in one hand, peel back the wrapper, and bite off half.