I puttered. I ate. I watched TV. I texted Dad, who was apparently on location in San Francisco. He responded: I would have told you I was leaving if you were ever home. It’s like living with a stranger. Anger. Well, back at you, Dad. I took a shower to calm myself and played around on social media for distraction, and petted Hue for at least half an hour, and next thing I knew it was late—like, super late—and I was turning pages in the journal I’d stolen from Pear Magic, because I had nothing else to do, and now that I knew the author was Peter Fairchild, I had a better idea of what I was looking for.

8:10 A.M. AWAKE

8:22 A.M. SHOWER, DOOR CLOSED

9:10 A.M. BREAKFAST, CEREAL, DRY, COFFEE, CREAM, SUGAR, DIDN’T FINISH

9:30 A.M. STUDYING, OPEN TEXTBOOK, GEOGRAPHY

9:56 A.M. CIGARETTE BREAK 1, COMPLETE TO FILTER, NO BRAND CHANGE, DISCARDED BUTT SAVED, RETRIEVED, AND LOGGED

There was something about the journal that had bugged me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I flipped through some more pages.

3:15 P.M. BRIEF TRIP OUTSIDE, RETRIEVES SOMETHING FROM CAR, GOES BACK INSIDE.

4:00 P.M. WATCHES TV, REALITY SHOW

4:30 P.M. ASLEEP ON COUCH

This didn’t make sense. Why would Peter Fairchild’s journal talk about studying for geography and watching reality TV?

I flipped through more pages:

3:04 P.M. PICKS UP GRADUATION CAP AND GOWN. TALKS TO PRINCIPAL.

3:20 P.M. IMPATIENT AS DAD TAKES PHOTO IN FRONT OF SCHOOL; ARGUMENT

4:50 P.M. COOKING: POTATOES, ONIONS, GROUND BEEF

I let the journal drop in my lap. I felt teleported backward through time. The day I picked up my cap and gown, I had been surly as hell. The last thing I wanted to do was step foot on that campus again, where I was Convo of the Century. I had asked—begged, pleaded—for Dad to just pick it up for me, but he’d refused. He’d wanted to take pictures of me in front of the school.

Ultimately, I lost the battle. Dad followed me to the school and jumped out as soon as I emerged with cap and gown. He attacked me like paparazzi and it pissed me off. We argued. Loudly. Right there in front of the school at dismissal time. I’d said a lot of things that I ended up regretting about five minutes later. I wasn’t sure at that time what I could trust with my dad and what I couldn’t. But the look on his face when I’d said those things told me he was disappointed. I’d gone home and cooled down, and then gone downstairs to cook us both a nice dinner.

And there it was, logged in the journal I stole from Peter Fairchild.

It was a journal about me.