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get into the parking lot, my lungs fill with the fresh November air. I lean my head against the car door, welcoming the cold metal on my burning cheeks. I heave my breakfast burrito; it drips down the side of the car into an acidic puddle on the asphalt. My mouth has the slight aftertaste of vanilla gel. The only thing I have to wipe up the door of the car is a flyer for the Haunted Stairway Society. I crumple that up and try to wipe off the side of Mom’s car and end up spreading the egg chunks.
    Mera and the man stare at me from inside the store. My chest shudders. I haven’t thought about that night for a long time and hate that my mind woke up the dead memory.
    Memories should be like dead relatives—buried.
    Just get it together. Nothing happened.
    But I don’t know what I did. Or said.
    It’s just Mera.
    7:21
    The numbers on my watch pop out at me, and I massage the face, watching the second hand tick around 360 degrees until time begins again.
    7:22
    Tick-tock, tick-tock.
    Seven twenty-two. Seven plus two is nine plus two is eleven. OK.

Seventeen Keeping Order
    Thursday, 7:31 a.m.
    Seven thirty-one. Seven plus three is ten plus one is eleven. OK.
    When I pull into the driveway, Luc is standing outside, talking to Mom, holding a school lunch the size of a grocery sack.
    Mom’s there, picking on her hangnails, eyes darting between Luc, the sandwiches, and the house. She looks relieved when I drive up.
    “Mom, we’ll never get to class on time if you don’t put the meat away. Can you? Please?” I’m out of breath and feel a dull pressure behind my eyeballs. I wonder if they’re bulging.
    “Of course, honey,” she says.
    “Really, Mom. You’ve got to put the meat away. Like now.”
    “I will.” She pushes her hair behind her ears and strains to smile.
    The pink flamingo’s beak peeks from behind Mom. And I want to touch it, just rub it. But I can’t because then I’d have to go in and start over.
    Start over.
    That might make everything better.
    I shouldn’t have left before dawn. It’s not how things go. Always wait for the sun, but with early practice, I had no choice. I shove my hands into my pants pockets, balling my fists so I can’t get them out of the jeans.
    There’s no time.
    Just one day, it’ll be okay. Just once.
    “Nice talking to you, Mrs. Martin,” Luc says, bowing out and heading to the car.
    “Luc’s got your lunch, honey,” she says. “I didn’t know what you’d want—ham, tuna, turkey—so I made all three. Did you eat your breakfast?”
    “Sure, Mom. It was great.” Both times.
    Luc and I jump into the car. He drums his fingers on the dashboard to 3 Pesos—his get-pumped-for-a-game music. Before we pull out, he cranks up the volume and says, “Your mom tripping again?” He waves the sack bulging with sandwiches at me—one of those telltale signs that Mom’s spiraling into the black zone. Dad gets pissed, saying he spends half his paycheck feeding the team when Mom’s having a spell.
    “Yeah. She’s sick.” That’s what Dad calls it when Mom gets freaked about things: sick, like she’s got the flu. It’s gotta be hard for him to keep a lid on the House of the Weird. But everybody seems to like to play along.
    Mera and I did with Luc’s bruises. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.
    He pulls out the ham and cheese and rips into it. “Nice.” He swallows and grabs my coffee to wash it down. Crumbs of bread float in the rim of the lid.
    He hands it back to me and I shake my head. “It’s all yours.”
    “What took you so long at the meat house?”
    “You don’t want to know,” I say, and look at my watch.
    7:32
    Seven thirty-two. Seven plus three is ten plus two is twelve minus seven is five. OK.
    Luc puts the car into gear and pulls away from the house. I can see Mom’s silhouette in the kitchen window.
    Luc’s talking about something—something about the game on Saturday. But I feel like I’m floating away from his words, his voice, so I hold my breath