By Francine Prose
Lately, I've had the definite feeling that my parents aren't my parents. I can't exactly explain it. But I'm convinced that they're space aliens who look and act like my parents and have taken their places.
I've been asking them trick questions to trip them up.
"Dad, what was the name of my first puppy?"
"Uh . . . Fluffy?"
"His name was Earnest," I say.
"I've got a lot on my mind," says "Dad."
Tonight I'm trying something new. My real mom is horribly allergic to chocolate. She breaks out in a skin rash if she even looks at chocolate.
I bake my fake mom a chocolate birthday cake. I watch her eat it. No rash. She smiles.
"Delicious," she says. "Thank you, Timmy."
"My name is Jimmy," I say.