I fall into a pool of self-pity for a bit.

“I want my hair to be like that!” I look up to find a little girl being dragged along by the hand toward the exit. She’s pointing unabashedly at me and staring. What is it with people and long hair? Calm down.

I roll out my neck, trying to clear my head.

Logically, this Freaky Friday dust can be used to execute a best-case revenge-y Parent Confrontation Trap scenario. I mean, logically this is the best twist a mischievous bitch could ask for. Maybe the universe wants me to—

Siri’s phone buzzes.

Mom: Pulling up outside door 6

It takes me a full thirty seconds to write back coming without typos.

My heart’s beating in my mouth as I stand. Like at the front of my esophagus. I pull up my hood as the exit doors slide open.

The air bites with the chill of East Coast fall. I hug my arms across my chest.

The expansive sidewalk out here is thick with the foot traffic of travelers, calling out to their friends and loved ones. I navigate through them and step up to the curb. Siri said Mom drives a black Toyota RAV4 Hybrid. Unfortunately, it’s dark and a black Toyota RAV4 Hybrid looks like every other car that’s ever existed.

A horn blares. I jump three feet to my left as said black Toyota RAV4 pulls up right next to me. Frig. I clutch at my chest.

The passenger side window rolls down and there’s my mother in the driver’s seat. My father’s arch nemesis, Mara.

“What was that?” she says anxiously. “You’re not supposed to be jumping! I didn’t mean to startle you; you don’t usually get startled. Are you okay? I’m sorry, Siri.”

I exhale a frenzied breath. Get it together. Be Siri.

I put my hand on the door and serve her an angry look.

She frowns. “Please don’t do the silent staring thing. I said I was sorry.”

I literally haven’t seen this woman’s face in over a decade. Her long brown hair is swept up in a perfect bun. Her eyes are heavier than I remember. She’s thinner. Bonier, like all the youthful softness to her skin has been tightened and yanked hard across her frame. Her cheekbones are more pronounced. She’s sharp like her personality.

I’ve been thinking that Siri and I have Mara’s hair and eyes, but our father’s sharp cheek bones and chiseled features. And we do, I think, but she’s not soft anymore like I remember either. It’s jarring.

“Are you going to get in the car? Are you in pain?” Mara enunciates every word like the female voice on a GPS.

I load in, hoist Siri’s carry-on into the back, and buckle my seat belt silently. You can usually count on Siri to be silent.