The O’Connors’ dining room matched the rest of their house in the sense that it was nothing like the rest of the house. While the kitchen was deep blue and filled with shiny metallic baking supplies, the dining room was a pale pink, with tiny teacups and artificial flowers scattered around the surfaces, as if it were straight out of one of those English country novels I was assigned in literature last year but didn’t read. (Austin would know what I meant.)

I pulled out the dark wooden chair across from my best friend, but Carter kept his head parallel to his plate and shoveled in the golden-brown pancakes that his mom had whipped up before that gender-reveal shindig. She was flippin’ (ha) good at pancakes too. Her banana pancakes were award-winning, if you count the certificate Carter and I gave her as a legitimate prize.

Today’s were blueberry pancakes, some bacon links, orange juice, a fruit salad, and some variety of muffin that, as I sniffed it, made my mouth water and forget to care about what kind it was.

Eliza wore her leggings and a plain long-sleeved shirt, with her hair in a messy braid thing. She frowned at her plate, which housed an architectural masterpiece of a syrupy waterfall and a bridge made out of bacon.

“I forgot,” I said, “about your breakfast designs.” A few years ago she’d managed to build a replica of their house out of bananas and oatmeal.

“Sound the alarms,” said Eliza, “Nick Maguire got up before noon.”

“Don’t get too excited; I’m still trying to decide if I like this world.”

“Maybe getting up early isn’t that bad.” She balanced some orange slices for a second bacon bridge.

“Sleeping late means I will never run into morning people.” Grabbing an empty ceramic plate, I piled on the delicious foods and inhaled the treasure. If every morning were like this, I’d become a morning person.

“What about you?” I said. “How did you sleep?”

“I was having a good dream. I’ll take it.” She balanced a blueberry on top of her bridge.

“A good dream? Do tell.”

“You weren’t in it.”

I leaned back in my chair, making the front two legs scrape and lift off the floor.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “You were in mine.”

She opened her mouth for a comeback, but her almost statement was interrupted by Carter choking. Eliza clapped her brother’s back until he caught his breath.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that,” said Carter. “It’s too early for me to tell if you’re kidding.”

He rested his back against his chair, finally looking up from his plate, and had calmed down to his usual relaxed self when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it.” Eliza abandoned her syrupy mess.

Carter poked her bacon bridge.

“She’s gross,” he said. “It’s ’cause you’re here. Our mom’s gone and she’s showing off.”

I took a forkful of blueberry pancake, reveling in its buttery fluffiness. I continued with my mouthful. “I mean, girls are great and all . . . but wow these pancakes.”