Page 2 of Sleeper: The Palisades Edition

“Hey, you’re all dressed.”

“Yeah.”

“Good for you, little man.” I reach out to muss up his light-brown hair—perfectly tousled just like his dad’s—and with the other hand I reach for my phone. “Fuck.” Seven thirty. “Shit. Get your shoes on, buddy.” I spring to life. I got this. I pull on the jeans that I’d conveniently left on the floor right by my bed and grab the first T-shirt I can get my hands on.

“I can’t find them.”

“The ones you wore yesterday?” He has like five pairs of shoes in this house.

“I don’t know where they are.”

“Then wear another pair.”

“I can’t find any of my shoes.”

Goddamit.I bet I know what happened. Margo let Summer watch that Marie Kondo tidying up show, and ever since then, my daughter has been throwing out things that she doesn’t think we need and reorganizing everything she could reach in the kids’ rooms. Last weekend I came home to find my housekeeper Consuelo crying because she couldn’t find anything, and she was afraid I’d think she stole from us.

It’s going to be one of those mornings.

Well, the good news is I slept for an hour. Bad news is I have less than half an hour to get these guys ready and on the school property. It’s fine. There’s time. Twelve minutes to get to school as long as the PCH isn’t backed up. Five to ten minutes to make sure my kids are fed and relatively presentable, and who’s to say that today won’t be the first day in the history of five-year-olds that they’ll actually get out of the house when Ineed them to? Thank God I got their lunches ready last night.

“You checked everywhere in your room?” I hold out my hand to see if Lucky will take it as we walk out of my room and downstairs. He doesn’t need to, but I still like to get in a little handholding whenever I can before they turn six and really start asserting their independence. I feel his hand in mine, and my heart melts just a little.

“Is she in trouble?”

“Nah. We’ll just ask her where she put your stuff.”

“Why is she so weird now?”

“That’s a really good question, and I don’t have the answer. Sometimes girls get weird, and we just have to wait for them to be not weird again. Right?”

“Yeah.”

He’s walking so slowly while thinking about this, and I’ve got one less minute to get to Santa Monica, so I pick him up and carry him downstairs. “Summer!” I call out once we’re in the foyer.

“Don’t come in!” comes a high-pitched, frazzled, but bossy little voice from the kitchen.

“Summer, did you throw out Lucky’s shoes?”

“No! I moved them!”

“I need to know where you moved them to.”

“I—I don’t remember—don’t come in yet!”

I put Lucky down when we get to the entrance to the kitchen, and I’m too caught up in myfuck this no caffeine shitthoughts to wonder why she doesn’t want me to come in.

And now I know exactly why.

My five-year-old daughter is on her hands and knees,frantically gathering all of the fruits and vegetables that I had thoroughly cleaned and carefully sliced and cubed last night, into one large pile. The crackers and snacks are in another floor pile. The meats and cheeses are piled up on top of the soba noodles. Marie Kondo would probably approve of this, and I would love it she would come to my house right fucking now to tidy this up and make my kids lunches and get them to school on time.

Meanwhile, the hummus and guacamole are smeared all over the floor around her and on the skirt of her uniform dress, as she appears to have used her dress to wipe it up.

“Summer. Stop what you’re doing right now.”

“I was letting you sleep!”

“Okay. What can you tell me about what happened in here?”