“How was lunch with Jack yesterday?”

“Nice,” I admitted, rolling my peas around in my plate. “He didn’t give me a gift, the jerk.”

“You came home with a new stain on your sleeve,” my mother offered.

“We’ll blame that on him,” I agreed, snorting. “Some gift.”

“You’re not eating.”

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, dropping any pretenses that I was as enamored with my food as I wanted her to believe. “What would you do if you woke up one morning and had a growth?” I asked her.

My mother blinked at me, obviously startled. “What?”

“Like, a bump that hadn’t been there before.”

“I’d see a doctor,” she replied, giving me a look. “Wouldn’t you?”

I nodded, placing my fork in my mouth just for something to do with my hands. She continued watching me closely.

“Char, honey, if you’re worried about something-”

“I’m not,” I assured.

“Just remember that you’re still growing. Hormones and puberty wreak all sorts of havoc in your body. You should look into it before seeing a doctor,” she suggested anyway.

I nodded, just to placate her. If I kept pretending everything was fine, the more she’d pry, but she seemed willing to leave me to myself if I at least acknowledged her.

“Good,” she said, nodding to herself. “Now, eat your food. I haven’t spent the past four hours slaving away for you to get picky, mister. And, you’re too thin! You should-”

“Ma,” I groaned, “not again.”

“Your father’s not here to entertain me, so I have to entertain myself,” she explained, as though that excused her nagging.

“How come I can’t entertain you?” I argued.

She smiled. “You do, honey. Now eat.”

“Do I need to call Dad?” I warned her, poking at my salmon.

“Do it, you won’t,” she said, and I actually felt my brain shrink two sizes.

My mom worked around kids. She was a bus-driver in the mornings, and she worked in a cafeteria at some rich-kid college in the afternoons. Needless to say, she was picking up on their vernacular and it was literally going to be the death of me.

I remembered my wrist and felt my chest squeeze.

Breathe, I reminded myself.

“Mom,” I said, and she looked up at me while cutting her sweet potato. “How do you feel about tattoos?”

She looked like nothing less than a christmas light, the way her face lit up—with bright, red fury. “Chartreuse,” she warned.

I already had my phone to my ear. “Yeah, Dad?”

“Greenie,” my father sighed, “I work until seven. It’s only six thirty. You guys can’t keep calling me home early just to have dinner. It takes fifteen minutes to drive home, anyway, so it will practically BE seven.”

“See, I have this growth,” I told him.

He sighed again. “I’ll be home in ten.”

— — —

I was still laughing a bit when I sat at my computer, and I could hear my mother cackling uproariously at something she’d said through the walls. My dad’s low voice didn’t sound nearly as amused, and I found myself sniggering again, even though I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

We didn’t have family dinners every night, but we tried on Sundays. It was hard with my dad’s unpredictable schedule, but he mostly did his work on the computer anyway. He could get away with punching out early if he finished his work at home, it’s just that he wouldn’t be paid for that last half hour.

I shook my mouse until I heard the fans in my computer spin to life. The whirring was kind of calming, as sad as that sounds.

I checked my email when the screen finally flared to life, and browsed YouTube for a bit before I had to admit to myself that I needed to cry, or scream, or something.

I’d felt this weight in my stomach ever since seeing Jack’s wrist, and as much as I could pretend everything was normal, it wasn’t. My skull was branching out. My skin randomly decided to pigment itself with wings on my back and a date on my wrist. I did want to see a doctor, at least to have someone else agree that this wasn’t normal, but something inside of me wanted to wait. At least until the sixteenth, just to see what would happen.

What if he dies, I thought. I’d had this thought at least fifteen times since seeing the date. I didn’t know why it automatically made me think of death, but what else could it be? The day he falls in love? The day he and I have a big falling out, and aren’t friends anymore?

I didn’t suddenly think I had superpowers or anything, it wasn’t like that. It was just. If the sixteenth came and nothing happened, it would confirm I was hallucinating. All of this was in my head. I was just crazy.

No big deal.

If the sixteenth came and something did happen...

Something was wrong.

It all had to be in my head, right? Part of me felt like I was doing something wrong by waiting, like I was an accessory to Jack’s untimely fucking demise because I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t warning him. I wasn’t doing anything but sitting back and waiting, watching, hoping otherwise.

Another part of me was trying to crush the previous part the fuck down, because what if I did tell Jack? Told him I thought he was going to die on Tuesday, that I had horns and I could see odd markings on people, and nothing happened? Nothing happened, and he looked at me with those incredulous, accusing eyes. “Is this some sort of joke?” he’d ask. “You think this is funny? Telling me I’m going to die?”

I searched “I have horns” into YouTube. A couple songs came up, and also that movie with Daniel Radcliffe in it. I’d watched it years ago—I could barely even remember what it was about, except I’d liked it. A little hysterically, I thought; if Daniel Radcliffe can look hot with horns, maybe I don’t have anything to worry about.

I scrolled down a bit and found one of those 10-people-you-won’t-believe-exist videos. My eyes prickled, and I wondered if I was actually going to cry. Was I really doing this? Resorted to this?

I watched it. It was stupid. I went to google and found out about a “cutaneous horn,” (don’t look up pictures, Christ) which was basically a keratinous skin tumor that looked like a horn. I knew keratin was in nails and hair and stuff, so it sounded... believable. Hooves were like nails, right? And were similar to horns, kind of. Just on the opposite side of the animal.

I was a fucking giraffe.

The article didn’t cover whether the condition was deadly, but, well, it was a tumor. Weren’t those extremely dangerous on principal? But, most of the cases in the video had their horns for years before getting treatment, and they turned out fine.

I sat back in my chair and reminded myself to breathe. I didn’t want another panic attack, and regulating my breathing definitely helped with that.

I didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t know what I could do.

I scooted my chair out from my desk, running a hand through my hair. Fuck. Fuck.

“I need some water,” I mumbled, just to get myself going. I walked quietly down the hall and into the kitchen. I could see the back of the couch from where I stood at the fridge, filling my cup. I could see my parents’ silhouettes from the bright blue of the television. My mom’s head was on my dad’s shoulder.

I looked at the date on my wrist.

03.11.19.

What if I was going to die next year?

“Greenie, sweetie, can you get me some water while you’re there?” my mother asked, rolling her head so she could see me. Immediately, she sat up. “Are you okay?”

I stared at her. “What?” I asked.

My father turned around, supposedly to see what my mom was talking about, and he, too, got a look on his face. “Everything okay, sport?”

My dad didn’t resort to endearments like sport, or champ unless I was bawling my eyes out. Obviously, it had been a while since he’d called me those things—not since baseball in middle school when some asshat accidentally hit me in the knee with his bat.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, a bit defensive, a bit confused. How could they tell, just from the look on my face, that I wanted to bawl my eyes out?

“Want to watch some American Idol with us?” my mother asked. Just like that.

“Katy Perry’s a judge this year,” my dad added, as though that sweetened the deal. “She’s kind of hot, right?” Apparently, he thought it did.

My mom slapped his leg, scandalized. “Jerry!”

“What?” my dad asked, grinning at her. “I can be happily married and appreciate another woman’s beauty. Especially if there’s none here.”

My mom raised her eyebrow. “You want to sleep outside?”

My dad opened his mouth, obviously ready to goad her even more—Were they children?—but I butt in, “He thinks he’s funny.”

My mom rolled her eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

“You know you’re the most beautiful thing in the world to me,” my dad told her, smiling that dopey, so-in-love smile he did in every single one of their anniversary photos. “Too bad Greenie over there looks like me.”

“A toad?” I offered, cackling to myself. “Wait.”

My dad threw his head back and laughed.

My mom patted the seat beside her. “Come sit,” she said. “You can yell at the TV with us.”

I got a glimpse of her wrist, of the black numbers there. I couldn’t really see the date, not without grabbing her arm, but the year. I saw the year.

52.

2052.

She would be, what, around eighty? She was forty-eight this year, so she’d be... Eighty-two?

I couldn’t see the screen, my eyes were too blurry.

“These guys can’t even judge,” my dad agreed. “These contestants can’t even sing!”

“And you can?” I asked, wiping my eyes and sitting beside my mother like she’d asked.

She wriggled her arm behind me and tugged me closer, so we were all kind of squished together on the couch.

“Ew,” I told her, wrinkling my nose while she smiled at me, all with my dad belting out lyrics in the background.

I did think Katy Perry was kind of hot. I liked the short hair.