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I’m Dimitri.” His voice was quiet, but confident.
    And then I awoke …
    I try to coax myself back to sleep, but the dream runs over and over in my mind on a maniacal, sleep-depriving loop. I look at the clock again. 5:12am. The effort is officially futile. I can’t lie here any longer. It’s become abundantly clear I’m not going to get any more rest.
    I shower and return to my room to pick out something to wear. This isn’t an easy decision considering the many choices I have. My mom’s always claimed to hate shopping, but she’s clearly in denial. She doesn’t like it. She loves it. She gets very few chances to really apply herself to her craft, but school shopping is where she really shines. She has good taste though, and since I, myself, despise the sport at which my mother excels, I can’t complain.
    My family’s not rich by any means, but the fact that I have enough outfits that I can go a week straight without doing laundry or wearing the same outfit twice lumps me in with a very small percentage of my classmates. The fact that I have a car, especially a decent car, lumps me in with even fewer. I would consider my family middle class; our neighborhood is what sociologists or politicians might refer to as “disadvantaged,” but more accurately it’s poor. It’s not that I, or any of my friends, put much emphasis on what we do or don’t have, but I do feel guilty sometimes about some of the non-necessities, and frankly some of the necessities, my parents can afford that my friends’ parents can’t.
    It’s supposed to be warm again today, so I decide on a dark pink tank top, jeans, and flip flops. I take extra time putting on my make-up and trying something different with my hair. In the end I decide to just pull it back in a ponytail.
    I run upstairs to grab some breakfast and pack my lunch. My mom is in the kitchen cleaning up. She’s always cleaning up. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then my mother is a saint. “Bonjour, Mom.”
    “Right back at ya, Ronnie,” she says cheerfully. My mom, like me, is a morning person.
    “So, did you talk to Dad last night?” This question is kind of a ritual we go through every morning that my dad is on the road. He drives a semi for a living and is gone about four or five days every week. He loves it. He says it gives him a lot of time to think. Personally, I think maybe it gives him
too much
time to think.
    “He called late. He was just leaving Chicago. He said they gave him an extra stop on the way home, but he should be home Saturday.” She never sounds sad when he’s gone, but you can see something’s missing when you look in her eyes. You can feel it. She’s completely in love with him and him with her. They’re like two halves of one person. They’ve been together since they were teenagers and married when they were just eighteen (much to my grandmother’s dismay). I can’t imagine one without the other. They’ve been married for 21 years and still act like newlyweds.
    “Great, maybe he can help me change my oil this weekend. Don’t tell him but I think I’m about 200 miles past due.” My dad is a car fanatic. It isn’t his hobby—it’s his religion. His cars are like his children. The siblings I’ll never have.
    “Scandalous.” My mom does not share my father’s religion.
    Widening my eyes, I tease her back. “I know, right?”
    “It’s our secret.” She smiles and winks at me. “So, how’s school going? Do you like calculus? Have you made any new friends? How’s John’s mom doing, you know I heard she was in the hospital a few weeks ago?”
    “Mom, one question at a time. John’s mom had Cholelothiasis.”
    “Cholelo-what’s-sis?”
    “
Exactly
. Gallstones. She’s fine.”
    “And school?” she presses.
    “School’s good … interesting but good.” She can hear that I’ve struggled for the right word.
    “Interesting. What does interesting mean? Is it a boy?” She’s standing next to me and prods me