This New Weird

I woke up to silence, which should’ve been my first clue something was off. No mom banging on my door with her patented, “Max, it’s 7:15, why aren’t you vertical?” No dad fumbling with the coffee maker downstairs. Just the stupid birds outside my window, chirping like they didn't get the memo that the world had basically ended and restarted with all the characters in the wrong positions.

7:43, my phone said. Whatever. Not like time had any meaning during the zombie apocalypse of online school we’d been living through.

7:43.

Wait.

School. Real school. Today. With actual humans and fluorescent lights and—

“Mom?” I yelled, rolling my bulk off the bed. COVID had not been kind to my waistline. A year and a half of stress-eating Hot Cheetos while watching teachers freeze on Zoom had left me with what Dad called my “pandemic padding.”

No answer.

I thundered down the stairs, still in my Rick and Morty sleep shirt and basketball shorts. The kitchen was empty, the coffee maker cold. A Post-it note on the fridge: “Big meeting! Early sales call. Love you! - Mom & Dad”

They forgot me. Day one of returning to civilization, and my parents straight-up forgot I needed a ride to school.

Perfect.

By the time I trudged up to Jefferson Middle School, sweaty and twenty-three minutes late, the building looked like it had always been there, waiting patiently through the apocalypse while we all hid in our houses. Turns out the world doesn’t actually need us to keep spinning.

“Reynolds!” The secretary’s voice hadn’t changed either.

“My parents forgot I exist,” I said, grabbing the tardy slip. “Apparently that’s a thing that happens when you don’t see your kid leave the house for ten or something months.”

She didn’t laugh. No one laughed at my jokes anymore, not even through text. Maybe they never did.

The hallway felt both smaller and larger than I remembered. Like when you revisit your elementary school as a teenager and all the water fountains are at knee height. Except I was the one who’d changed dimensions—wider, softer, with pants that didn’t quite fit the way they used to.

Room 114. Ms. Winters’s History class. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, and thirty-six eyeballs swiveled toward me like synchronized swimmers.

“Ah, Max Reynolds joins us,” Ms. Winters said. She looked tired, like, down-to-the-bone tired. Her hair had gone gray at the temples—definitely new—and she’d replaced her usual animated gestures with…with nothing really. Maybe her muscles died during lockdown. “Take a seat.”

The only empty desk was next to Jayden Morris, because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

Jayden, who’d apparently traded our five-year friendship for a skateboard and three inches of height during quarantine. Jayden, who’d started ignoring my texts around month four of the apocalypse. Jayden, who now nodded at me like I was someone he once sat next to at summer camp.

“Hey,” I mumbled, squeezing into the too-small desk.

“‘Sup,” he replied. A full syllable. How generous.

Ms. Winters was talking about “historical context for unprecedented times” or something, but all I could focus on was how weird it felt to be breathing the same air as eighteen other humans after so long. How their voices seemed too loud, their movements too quick. How the classroom smelled like disinfectant and worry.

“Max,” Ms. Winters said, and I realized she’d asked me something. “I asked if you could share your thoughts on how future historians might view our pandemic response?”

Great. First day back and already being asked to explain how spectacularly adults had screwed things up.

“I think they’ll wonder why we pretended everything could go back to normal,” I said before I could stop myself. “Like, we’re all sitting here acting like the last year and a half didn’t happen, or like it was just a weird vacation. But everyone’s different now. We’re all pretending we’re not.”

Ms. Winters looked at me with something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“That's actually quite insightful, Max,” she said in a kind of soft way. “History isn’t just about what happens, but how we process and integrate those events. How we make them mean something.” She turned away, but not before I caught something in her eyes—recognition, maybe. “And yes, pretending is often easier than processing our way to insight and understanding.”

Later, the cafeteria was serving up a fresh hell. A Petri dish of new social pacts formed in the apocalyptic vacuum. I stood frozen in the doorway, lunch tray in hand, scanning for a safe place to land.

That’s when I noticed Mika Dumas sitting alone, reading something that definitely wasn’t on any school curriculum. We’d been in the same breakout rooms a few times last year. She’d always had her camera on, which either made her brave or weird.

“Mind if I sit?” I asked, floating beside her table.

She looked up, her face unreadable. “Free country. Supposedly.”

I sat. We ate in silence for approximately forty-seven seconds.

“So, this is weird, right?” I finally blurted. “Being back? With people?”

Mika put her book down. “Everything’s weird now. The weird is the new normal, which makes normal the new weird.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “That’s my working theory, anyway.”

“Deep,” I said, but not sarcastically. It was actually kind of perfect.

Over by the windows, I spotted Jayden with the skater crew. Tyler Washington was holding court, going on about some apparently hilarious wipeout.

“—and then the security guard was all ‘you can't be here’ and I was like, ‘this is public property, dog!’ and he didn’t even know what to say!” Tyler’s hands flew as he talked.

Zoe Rodriguez sat next to him on the edge of the table. Her dark hair dangled across her face as she laughed a bit too hard. My stomach did a stupid little flip when she pushed it back. She was wearing a Billie Eilish shirt that definitely violated dress code.

“They think they’re the main characters,” Mika said.

“Aren't they?” I asked.

“Only in their own stories,” she said. “Just like you're the main character in yours. The pandemic just made everyone’s stories more obvious.”

From across the cafeteria, Jayden caught my eye. For a second, something like the old Jayden flickered across his face. He raised his hand in a half-wave before Tyler pulled his attention back to the group.

The PA system crackled: “Attention students, the boys’ restrooms on the second floor are closed due to... maintenance issues. Please use facilities on the first or third floors.”

“Clogged again,” Mika muttered. “Some genius probably tried to flush a whole roll of toilet paper. That stuff is still scarce. I hear there might be a dumpster fire later.”

“Later?” I said, sighing. “Oh, you mean a real one.”

“Straight up sus.”

Kevin Patel dropped his tray next to mine, adjusting his glasses. “Max! Dude! You look exactly the same in 3D as you do in the Minecraft server.”

“Thanks?” I said. “I think?”

“The latest Loki episode dropped. Catch it, dog! Total mind freak.” He caught himself using Tyler’s slang and looked embarrassed.

After lunch I entered the lower level of Hell known as sixth-period band. Pre-pandemic, I’d actually enjoyed playing clarinet. Now, crammed into the stuffy band room, a human-sized spit trap with twenty-four other rusty musicians, I felt buttered with dread and rolled in disgust.

“Alright everyone,” Mr. Ramirez shouted over the tuning match death rattle. “Let’s try the ‘Avengers Theme’ again. And this time, trombones, remember you’re not auditioning for ‘Squid Game’, okay?”

I glanced over at Jayden, relegated to triangle after dropping band for PE’s version of skateboarding. The only reason he was even here was because his mom forced him back into an elective that “wouldn't break any bones.” He caught me looking and rolled his eyes dramatically, tapping his triangle with extra game.

For a second, it felt like before, before the world and anti-world collided and exploded. When the final bell rang after seventh period, Ms. Winters caught me on my way out.

“Max, do you have a minute?”

I nodded, hanging back as the others escaped to freedom, or was it anarchy?

“I wanted to say I appreciated your comment this morning,” she said. She looked like a wise owl, sitting on the edge of her desk that way teachers did. Up close, not so much. Exhaustion made a home on her face. “It’s refreshing to hear someone acknowledge that we’re all struggling with this transition.”

Way embarrassed, I shrugged. “I just said what everyone’s thinking.”

“That’s exactly what we need right now, people willing to talk about the hard things.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. Her hands kind of shook. “Teaching history while we’re living through it is... challenging.”

“Does it help to know how things turned out before?” I asked. “Like, with other pandemics and apocalypses?”

Something that might have been a real smile crossed her face. “Sometimes. But history doesn’t repeat itself exactly. It rhymes.” She straightened papers on her desk that were already straight. “The hardest part is watching everyone try to force things back into old patterns that no longer fit.”

“Like square pegs, round holes,” I offered.

“Precisely.” She seemed to remember herself then. “Anyway, I just wanted to say keep that perspective, Max. It’s more valuable than you might think.”

As I turned to go, she added, “And Max? I’m glad you made it to school today, despite the transportation issues.”

I froze. “How did you—”

“Teachers notice more than students think,” she said with that not-quite smile again. “Also, the front office called your parents when you were marked absent first period. They sounded quite surprised to hear you weren’t in school…dog.”

The slang sounded so bizarre coming from her that I actually laughed out loud. Ms. Winters winked, shooing me toward the door.

I spotted Jayden in the parking lot after final bell, skateboard under his arm, surrounded by his new tribe. Before I could overthink it, I called his name.

He turned, surprised, then broke away from the group. “Hey,” he said, actually making eye contact this time.

“Hey,” I blurted, suddenly forgetting all the casual, slick things I’d planned to say. “So... skating, huh?”

“Yeah.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It's lit. Gets me out of the house, you know?”

I nodded like I understood, which I didn’t. My pandemic had been a horizontal affair, involving couches and screens interrupted by the occasional reluctant walk when Mom insisted I was “turning into a mushroom.”

“We’re heading to the park behind the library,” he said after an awkward pause. “Tyler found this sick ledge. You could...come if you want.”

Even as internal alarms blared warnings about social embarrassment and physical activity, I said, “Sure, why not.”

This skate park was a concrete lover’s dream, all hard edges and graffiti. I sat on a bench, trying to look like I had a purpose for being there besides pathetic nostalgia for a friendship that had an expiring shelf life.

Tyler was good. He slayed it sailing over obstacles like gravity was optional for him. Zoe too, fluid and fearless as she landed a kick flip while blasting a vomity mix of K-pop and Jonas brothers from a Bluetooth speaker. Jayden was still learning, falling more than landing, but getting up each time.

“Reynolds!” Tyler called, skating over. “You just gonna watch?”

“I am more of an observer of life,” I said. “Less road rash that way.”

“Whatever, Jabba," he snorted, making a crude gesture at my midsection. “Not everyone’s built for greatness, Rey Rey.”

“And not everyone peaks in 8th grade,” I muttered, but only after he skated away.

Things shifted about an hour in. Tyler produced a water bottle that definitely didn't contain water. It made its way around, Jayden hesitating only briefly before taking a swig. I noticed the Rick and Morty sticker on the bottle—Portal Gun edition—and felt some confusion or denial that Tyler liked the same show as me.

“Yo, J-man, show Reynolds your ollie,” Tyler commanded after their second round.

Jayden, cheeks flushed, looked worried. “I'm still working on it.”

“Nah, you got it. Just like we practiced, but off that.” Tyler pointed to a concrete ledge that was absolutely goated.

Something twisted in my stomach. Like a mommie, I said, “Maybe something lower?”

“What would you know about it?” Tyler scoffed.

Jayden glanced between us, then at Zoe, who was watching with a demonic grin. Decision made, he positioned his board.

“Jayden,” I said, standing up. “This is stupid. You’re going to break something.”

“Shut up, Max,” he mumbled, but I caught the flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Listen to Maxie Pad,” Tyler laughed. “Safety first, right dorks?”

And there it was, the never-ending cruelty, the reminder that I didn’t belong in this crappy new world where my oldest friend was trying to skate off a ledge while buzzed just to impress people who didn’t care if he cracked his skull.

“Actually,” I said, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice, “I think I’m over it for today.” I looked directly at Jayden. “You coming?”

For a second—one painful, stretched-out second—I thought he might actually choose me. The old us. But then he looked away.

“I'm gonna stay,” he mumbled.

“Sheesh. Have fun with the brain damage.” I turned and walked away, not looking back even when I heard the slam of a board and a chorus of “Ohhhhh!” that meant Jayden went tits up.

Home was exactly as I’d left it that morning, except I did find another note on the counter: “Working late. Pizza money in drawer. Call if you need anything! Love, Mom and Dad.”

I stood in the empty kitchen, struck by how easily I slipped back into this space, how the day’s adventures seemed small inside these familiar walls. How home was still the same, like the cavemen diorama at the museum in town. Always the same scene, day in, day out. Realized then it was me who was changing.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Hey its Mika from lunch. Kevin gave me ur #. History homework study grp tomorrow?

Then another buzz: Ms. Winters history game is clean but that assignment is no joke

I smiled and typed back: Sure. Library?

Response immediate: Perfect. Bring caffeine and dread. And maybe air freshener to slay the bathroom smell if we sit near them

We may have survived the apocalypse but toilet smells were still a real thing.

A third buzz, this one from Jayden: hey

Just that. One word, a single knock on a door he wasn’t sure he was allowed to open or not.

I waited a full minute before replying: hey yourself

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again: that was messed up today sorry.

I stared at the screen, wondering what version of myself I wanted to be in this new reality. The cynic? The unforgiving friend? The person who understood that everyone was just trying to figure out how to exist in a world that had betrayed us all?

It’s whatever, I finally wrote. Then, after a pause: you ok?

sprained wrist. mom freaked

classic

tyler’s a dick sometimes

sometimes?

lol. Fair. The three dots again. want to play fortnite later? got the mandalorian skin finally

A solid move, but I remembered how he’d ghosted me for the skater crowd during lockdown.

maybe still have to finish squid game

overrated af dog

I rolled my eyes. The silence stretched between messages, until:

miss hanging out. just us

I sank onto the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, something in my chest loosening and tightening at the same time.

yeah. me too

The empty house hummed around me and looked different from the floor. It existed in this in-between state where the familiar seemed strange, and the strange seemed familiar.

Tomorrow I’d go back to school. I’d sit in History with Ms. Winters and watch her try to explain a world that made less sense to her than it did to us. I’d meet Mika at the library and probably have the first real conversation I’d had in months. I’d see Jayden in the halls, both of us orbiting in different solar systems now but still aware of each other’s gravity.

And maybe that was the point. That normal wasn’t a place you could return to, but a condition you had to create from whatever pieces remained after everything fell apart.

I opened the drawer, found the pizza money, and ordered enough for three, just in case my parents remembered they had a son before the delivery arrived and they finished work early.

After all, in this new weird, anything was possible.