The ladder wobbled. Hugo reached for the climbing rose, lost balance and whump, landed on something firm but invisible several feet above the lawn. His secateurs landed beside him. Stunned, he looked around.

Birds still sang. Flowers bloomed. The cat slunk past. Nothing had changed, except his back garden had grown an invisible surface four feet above the lawn and one step from the ladder.

Homeroom just ended. Me and Veronica were talking about prom stuff. She wanted to wear that red dress, even though it was cheap and store-bought. I guess it complimented her hair, which was also cheap and store-bought. Ever the diplomat, I tried to persuade her to stick to solid black. It’s slimming, especially in the hip area. But I couldn’t exactly make any hip area comments to her face. I mean, could you imagine? I would totally sound catty.

Someone let it slip to me about two weeks ago now. And it’s damn near driven me insane. They let it slip so casually too, like they’d said nothing interesting.

“The elderly love feeding the ducks.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I stood on my weather beaten front porch and waved to my sister as she pulled onto the road. Her daughter wrinkled her nose at me through the rearview mirror but I ignored it. Daniel tried so hard to be a good single mother to Grace, but she went overboard frequently. My niece was only six years old, but had the personality of a princess with a wand up her butt.

It was last Wednesday that Phillip Fish was medically declared the worst boy in the world. He had been sentenced to an hour in the school therapist’s office for crying in class and telling his teacher, Ms. Zebrowski, “I am the saddest boy that has ever lived. I hate everything. Even birthdays.”