Page 2 of 16 Forever

“Yeah!” Dad says at the same time that the toaster dings. “Happy day, bud.”

“Um, thanks,” I say, confused by their lukewarm vibes and theabsence of one family member. “Where’s Lincoln?”

Mom’s smile crumples, and she lets out a sob. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Carter, don’t—I said I wasn’t going to.... But every time it’s—”

“I know,” Dad says. He walks over and wraps an arm around her.

“Every time it’s what?” I ask, alarmed by the insanity unfolding before me. “What happened to Lincoln? Did he go out last night? Where is he?”

Mom and Dad look at each other for a moment. Dad gives her a little nod and tells me to take a seat at the table with them.

“Just tell me what’s going on.” I stand firm near the kitchen entrance, my body going haywire, unsure whether to react with fight, flight, or vomit. “Did something happen to Lincoln? Is he dead or something?”

“No,” Dad says with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard. “Lincoln is fine. He’s totally fine. It’s... more you.”

“I’mdead?”

“No, no, you’re—Could you please just sit down, Carter? It’ll be easier to talk about this if we’re sitting.”

“I don’t wanna sit!” I shout. “Where the hell is Lincoln?”

“He’s...” Dad squeezes the edge of the round table as he stares at it, like he’s expecting juice to come out.

“How old are you today?” Mom asks, rising to join Dad and me in the Land of the Standing.

“What?”

“How old are you turning today?”

“Mom, what the...? Is this a prank?”

“I wish it was,” she says. “I’m genuinely asking.”

“Sixteen, right?” Dad says.

“Yes,” I say, not enjoying this at all. “And if you need to ask that, I’d say you’re failing at this whole parenting thing.”

Mom puts a hand over her mouth to stifle another sob.

“Unfortunately,” Dad says, “your answer is, uh, technically incorrect. Even though you believe it’s your sixteenth birthday... you’re twenty-two today.”

Carter

Have you ever had your parents say something to you that not only feels heinous and inaccurate but also like they might be losing their minds?

“Um,” I say. “If this is a prank, it’s a very bad one. It’s confusing and not funny and seriously WHERE IS LINCOLN? Dude, if you’re hiding behind the couch or something, you can come out!”

“He’s not here, Carter,” Mom says. “He’s at college. His first semester.”

“Ohmigod,” I say, and, though I don’t sit down, I do lean on the table and bury my face in my arms for a moment before resurfacing. “Guys. This is a noble try, very noble indeed, but you are absolutely terrible at pranking.”

My family has always been this way. I keep waiting for them to evolve, to get better at it, but it’s just not their thing. “There’s an art to it, you know? And though I appreciate—”

“It’s not a prank, Carter,” Dad says. “We don’t do pranks. You’re the prank guy. And every year, you think this is us attempting a prank, and every year, we feel horrible that we have to explain it to you all over again.”

“‘Every year’?What does that mean: ‘every year’?”

“It’s been five years, sweetie,” Mom says. A phone rings on the kitchen counter. I’m thinking maybe that’s where I left mine, but Mom grabs it. “Here he is.” She answers the call and stares at the screen. “Hi, Link.”