I’m not sure if that’s the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard or if she’s merely shining a light on something important. People can drown in sorrow, kill a friend in mistaken rage, and isolate themselves out of paranoia. But if someone is purposefully pulling those strings, would you detect it if you were on the receiving end? Again I have this nagging feeling that I’m hearing more than just lessons. Not to mention that my dad used to say something similar about detecting patterns. It feels like every time I turn around I’m realizing how little I understood about my life in Pembrook.

The smell of French toast and warm blueberries wafts into my room and I practically fall out of bed as I run for the kitchen. I wrap my arms around Dad’s back as he mans the frying pan.

“Happy seventeenth, Nova,” he says, and turns around to give me a big hug and a kiss on the forehead. “Aunt Jo’s already called…twice. Even though I told her you were sleeping.” He smiles and shakes his head. “She’ll be here by the time you get home from school—with some ridiculous present, no doubt.”

“Speaking of ridiculous presents,” I say, and swipe my finger through the freshly whipped cream on the counter. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” he says, but by his tone I can tell he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“The surprise you’ve been promising!”

“Oh, right,” he says. “I decided against it. I thought maybe you’ve gotten too old for presents.”

I give him a hard look and he laughs. “No dad jokes right now. This is my birthday we’re talking about.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” he says with a mischievous grin.

I groan. “You hid it, didn’t you?”

He shrugs.

“Okay, give me a hint,” I say.

“Look for the subtle things that are different, a pattern. They’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Oh man. What if I don’t find it before I have to go to school? This is child abuse, you know,” I say.

He grins and flips the French toast. “Well, I suggest you do find it, otherwise you won’t have the keys to drive your new truck to school,” he says, and my mouth drops open.

“My new what? My…No! Seriously? No!” I scream and jump up and down. “I have a truck? Is it green? Tell me it’s green.” I run to the window, and sure enough there’s an old green Bronco in the driveway with a cage in the back that tells me it probably belonged to a forest ranger. “I will love you forever for this!”

How many of these moments were there, where Dad was teaching me something Strategia-esque and I thought nothing of it? What I really can’t understand, though, is why he didn’t tell me who I was all these years. And what the hell is going on with him and Aunt Jo right now that would have him suddenly catapult me into this school?