Now, pregnant with spring, but deep in winter’s bone, I see he was more than right. He was prophetic. It’s all my fault. I should have been less stubborn and tried harder. I spend hours horizontal on my bed, ruminating. I stare at the ceiling. Full of cracks. Just like my life.

Time takes a break from ticking forward and tosses me a rope. I grab on and whir through the past. Over there where I lost my first tooth. The three of us—me, Dre, and Rone—passing the bloody tooth between us, studying it. Then Dre trying to blow air into the empty hole to see if I would inflate like a balloon. Mom hanging one-dollar bills down my pink with white lace dress for my tenth birthday. Ten candles on the cake she made from scratch. Can I blow them all out in one breath? I can. I’m a big girl. Everyone claps.

I close my eyes and wait. At first, I don’t know what I’m waiting for. When a wave of regret washes over me, I realize I’m waiting for my real life, the one I should be living, to come and rescue me from this reality. I wait a few more hours. Nothing comes.

I watch my mother, wearing her favorite apron (pink with gold stars), perfectly flip a pancake without splattering any batter. I can never seem to do that. I think it’s the hesitation that gets me. She doesn’t hesitate. Just a flick of the wrist and it’s done. This morning is no different. The pancake travels halfway to the ceiling before returning to the pan on its other side. No batter lost. She may not have gone to college, but I have no doubt my mother could have been a five-star soul food chef, given the right circumstances.

I’ve been avoiding my family’s questions about Dartmouth. I know eventually I’ll have to answer, but I try to put it off or change the subject as long as I can. Whatever I tell them, it can never be the truth. I’m too embarrassed and disappointed in myself to reveal my failure. I’ll lie till I go to the grave, I decide.

“So you gon’ tell or not?” Dre asks, interrupting my end-of-life planning.

“Tell you what?”

“Oh, OK. That’s what we doing. We gon’ play games. Mom, Echo playing games so that means something bad must have happened. Smells fishy to these eyes.”

“Eyes don’t smell, fool. Wrong senses. I finished my classes early because I’m a genius. So I don’t have to go back until the start of second semester after New Year’s in early January.”

“Huh,” Dre replies skeptically.

“That’s real good, sis,” Rone says with a hint of sadness in his voice. I pick up on it, but don’t press further.