I should have known. I should have known the minute I went to get my favorite white stripes peppermint tee and found it not in the drawer, but temporarily forgotten in the back of the closet, curled up in crusty ball. Caked with two-week-old, nuked syrup that had shot out of the bottle bounced off my waffle and splattered me like a sweet paintball. I should have known when I came downstairs and found my parents tasting each other’s tonsils in front of the kitchen sink and I nearly barfed on my sneakers. Or when my best friend Lynn—actually she’s my only friend which is fine; you only need one—called to say she was running late and couldn’t pick me up. So I had to ride my freaking bike to school for my first day as a senior. I should have known right there I was pedaling towards disaster. But I just chalked all that crap up to my normal every day bad luck. I jumped on my bike and rode that five blocks to school.
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