Night Children

03

Like most people, I preferred my mornings to be peaceful. You know, the squinting sun out of your eyes, laying in bed for a little while longer than you should, listening to the birds sing their flawless notes outside aesthetic. So when a pillow slammed into my face, brutally tearing me to consciousness, you can imagine why I screamed like a little girl.

My mother, the wielder of said pillow, glared at me and said a lot of mean things in Portuguese before saying, "You've slept long enough, Theodore. Get up."

I grimaced, sitting up. She'd harshly tugged my curtains aside, so the sunlight assaulted me more than anything else. There was no gentle squinting. "What time is it?"

"Doesn't matter!" shouted my mother. She was still in her favorite Winnie the Pooh pajama pants and one of Dad's old shirts, the curls she'd passed on to Alfie in a messy knot on top of her head. The dark circles underneath her eyes told me just how tired she was. "Look. Alfie's downstairs and he has been calling for you for an hour. He seems oddly excited about something—so just go down there and shut him up, please?"

"You wake me up just because Alfie said so? Since when did you start answering to him?"

This earned me another hit with the pillow. With another "Get up, Theo," she left the room without a care. For all I know, my nose could have now been broken, and she would not have given a crap.

My ears still ringing and my face sore, I forced myself out of bed, sluggishly making my way to the hall bathroom. This was entirely unfair. For at least another month—less, I suppose, considering it was late August—it was still summer. I had at least three weeks or so remaining of getting up when I wanted to, and thanks to Alfie, some of that had just been taken away.

Every day was precious.

I ended up shuffling into the kitchen in a ketchup-stained white T-shirt and my flannel pajama pants, my hair not combed, brushed, or gelled, none of the above. In summer, I really didn't try. There were the guys that went out in muscle tanks that said things like sun's out, guns out, with their chrome aviator shades and what not. There were the Tumblr girls who planned out a different artistic outfit for each day of the week, each one perfect for a picture of some sort to go on their blog. Then there was me. Ketchup stains and pajama pants were my aesthetic.

Nell and Alfie were already at our little round table, Alfie looking oddly energized, Nell half-asleep. Mom was down the hall running her morning load of laundry; I could hear her punching buttons and pouring detergent even from here.

Our kitchen was not particularly large. The floors were beige-colored tiles with some sort of ornate design on them, something like a circle with a bunch of flowers and dots to make it look cooler. The cabinets were a boring chestnut brown against the gray walls. In fact, the only pop of the color in the entirety of the space was probably the magnets stuck to the refrigerator, remnants of every dumb pre-K and kindergarten project we ever completed, embarrassing baby pictures, and mini souvenir license plates with each of our names on them: Eleanor, Alfred, Theodore.

I had no idea why we had those souvenir license plates. Likely just to prove that we were lucky enough to have the sort of names you could always find on souvenir license plates.

As soon as I'd sat down, Alfie shoved a bowl, spoon, and a box of corn flakes in my direction. Nell sleepily handed off the milk. As I assembled my meal, I said, "Mom said you seemed excited about something. May I ask what?"

"Oh! Yeah. I found you a date."

I froze. It took me a second to realize the cereal was still pouring; I jerked it upright to avoid further disaster. "You found me a—already? When?"