Daniel ate his stepfather’s pancakes until he began to worry he might burst. Peter Lucklow said things like, “Didn’t they feed you in Ireland?” But he kept making more batter. He was good at pancake shapes. He served Daniel nineteen little pancakes that spelled out W E L C O M E H O M E L A R G E S O N. Which was corny, but Daniel kind of liked it, too. He made a bunny rabbit. Then a guitar. Then a crocodile. Daniel ate them all.
Daniel’s siblings cheered him on. They sliced up bananas and washed blueberries, brought out the container of maple syrup tapped and boiled down last year from the trees in their yard. They shouted out shapes for Peter to make. A pirate ship! A pumpkin! A scary ghost! Harry Styles!
That last one was Carousel. Peter turned around, pointing his spatula at her. “Above my pay grade,” he said. “I make an ugly Harry Styles pancake and what happens? You cry. On the other hand, I make a real good Harry Styles pancake. Daniel eats him. And you cry. My pancakes don’t make people cry unless it’s from joy.”
Carousel looked like she wanted to argue, but Dakota said, “The moon! Make a moon!”
At this, Lissy opened her mouth as if she was about to point out how dumb her twin’s request was, but Daniel kicked her gently under the table. So Peter made a perfectly round pancake, and Carousel carried it over to the kitchen table on the serving plate. When she picked it up between her fingers to place it on Daniel’s plate, it was still hot and she dropped it on the floor.
“Way to go, Carousel,” Lissy said. “You dropped the moon!”
“It’s okay,” Daniel said. “Fart can eat it. Where is he, anyway?” Because Fart was always around at mealtimes to hoover up whatever fell from the table.
“Fart’s dead,” Oliver said. “We put him in the ground because that’s what you do when something dies.”
Everyone had been looking at Daniel with horror and perplexity. Now they turned those looks on Oliver, who said, “What? That’s what you do.”
Lissy said, “We had a funeral and everything. And then Davey and Oliver tried to dig him up because they wanted to know what happens after you die.”
Dakota made gagging noises.
Daniel said, “Fart’s dead?”
His mother said, “Oh, honey. Don’t you remember? We called to tell you when it happened.” All during breakfast, she had been in the kitchen alcove at her desk, organizing some kind of New Year’s fundraiser for the community center where she was the director. Now she came over and bent down to give him a hug.
“He had a good long life full of love,” she said. “And we’ll always remember him. That’s about as much as anybody, dog or person, can ask for.”
“Yeah, of course,” Daniel said. “I guess it just didn’t seem very real. Because I wasn’t here.” He hoped his mother couldn’t feel how he was trembling. Because if it hadn’t been Fart last night, skittering around on those long white legs, then who had it been? He thought he knew.
“Here,” Peter said, bringing over another round pancake. His mother tousled his hair as if he were just a little boy. All of his siblings were watching him carefully, as though they knew that something was wrong with him. Oh, there was, there really was; there was something wrong with him.
Peter said, “Have a new moon.”