My mom found us still sitting on the floor when she called us to dinner. We were studiously ignoring the ringing phone. She reached out to answer it, but Dylan stopped her, took her aside, and explained the situation. The whole thing was so ridiculous, so impossible, that if I hadn’t still looked like I had both feet in the grave she wouldn’t have believed it. I was still having trouble mentally processing. Apparently, I’d become famous. I didn’t want to move. Ever. I didn’t want to eat, or sleep, or breathe. But I knew that I couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever—certainly not without freaking out my mom, and she had enough to deal with already. So I joined Dylan and my mom for dinner, choked down some noodles, and pretended to be fine. Then I trudged up to my room, kicked off my shoes, and climbed under the covers fully clothed. I didn’t scream the next morning when it all came crashing back. I decided to pretend like nothing had happened.
