Age 12
Every day, Papa asks Dylan about his day.
He asks what Dylan had for lunch. He asks what songs they listened to at school. He asks who Dylan sat with and whether anything interesting happened and what he thinks about the weather and whether he believes that spaghetti is better than pizza, or the other way around.
Dylan knows all of these questions are silly. He has known this for a while. When Papa asks one of his silly questions, Dylan turns his head to one side — just slightly, the way someone does when they’re not quite sure they heard something right — and he says: “Papa.”
Just that one word. But the way he says it communicates, with great efficiency, that he is aware that Papa is being ridiculous, that he finds this both tiresome and entertaining, and that he has no intention of stopping the conversation. He usually follows it with the actual answer.
Papa finds this satisfying.
At night, Dylan still wants a story before bed. He has wanted this for as long as Papa can remember. He prefers it when Papa reads out loud rather than tells a story from memory, though he tolerates both. He has a toy named Stick Fluffy who is usually present for the stories. He brings Stick Fluffy with him when he goes places, the same way he always has.
On weekends and after school, Dylan dances. He has strong opinions about music, particularly a group called KPOP Demon Hunters, and his opinions are physical — he doesn’t just listen to the music, he responds to it, the way some people are built to do. The dancing is serious and also joyful, which is a combination that is harder to pull off than it looks.
Dylan is twelve now. He knows things. He knows when questions are silly. He knows when a story is a good one. He knows which of his toys comes with him and which stays home. He has developed the precise sarcasm of someone who has been paying attention for a long time and has finally figured out how to deploy it.
Papa still asks the questions anyway.