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path.”
    â€œI had a dream last night. I gave birth on the bus again,” she says.
    My mother has been having weird pregnancy dreams for weeks. But I don’t see how this is connected to boots.
    â€œWas I in your dream?” I ask. “And was I wearing boots?
    She shakes her head. “I wasn’t prepared for the birth. Nobody was. Not me. Not the doctor. Not the bus driver.”
    It’s unclear what triggers the bus pregnancy dreams. But each one is nearly identical. Except the number of people on board the bus varies with each dream.
    â€œDid anybody help you this time?” I ask.
    â€œJust the doctor,” she says.
    There is probably a person capable of psychoanalyzing this scenario. But this early in the morning, I’m in no shape to do it.
    â€œIt’s just a dream,” I say, trying to reassure her. “You don’t even ride the bus.”
    She nods. “I know. I’m not actually afraid that I’m going to give birth on a bus. I just wonder if it means anything.”
    She can’t be serious. “It doesn’t,” I say, pointing my finger at her to drive this point home.
    â€œI love having an introspective and intelligent daughter,” my mom says, walking to my door. “My friend Donna has a pair of boots that will fit you. I’m rushing there now.”
    How her dream triggered a boot crisis I’m still not quite sure.
    The phone rings, but I’m afraid to answer it. “Wait! Before you go, can you answer that? And remember, if it’s Ruthann, I’m not here.”
    â€œI’m not going to lie for you,” my mother says. She leaves my room to answer the phone and calls down the hallway, “It’s Tate.”
    Once I know it’s him, I pick up the phone beside my bed.
    Me: I’ve got it, Mom. You can hang up.
    Tate: Just making sure that you’ve recovered.
    Me: Yes. Fully.
    Tate: Great. We’ll swing by at ten.
    Me: Should I pack a lunch?
    Tate: We’ve got that covered.
    Me: You don’t even want me to bring an extra banana or something?
    What’s wrong with me? Why am I trying to force extra bananas into the car?
    Tate: Feel free to bring a banana if you want a snack for the drive or something.
    Me: Um, maybe I’ll bring some trail mix.
    Tate and I wrap up our awkward conversation and I hang up the phone. I have a talent for adding awkwardness to any situation. My mother has returned to the doorway. It feels like she’s judging my telephone abilities with guys.
    â€œDon’t be nervous,” she says. “He likes you.”
    Those words bring me to life. Because she’s right. Tate likes me, and I have an amazing day ahead of me! Why am I worried about being awkward? Then I realize my mother is standing in the room. “I thought you were going to Donna’s.”
    â€œI can’t find the car keys.”
    â€œAll right,” I say. I am always helping my mother find her car keys. “Let me relive where you may have put them.”
    As I make my way to the kitchen, I pass the freezer and pull out a pint of the red velvet ice cream. My mother tags behind me.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she asks.
    â€œAfter our horse trip I’m going to bring Tate back here and ask him to the dance. I need to get the ice cream ready.”
    I set the ice cream on top of the toaster oven and crank it to the medium heat setting.
    â€œWhy do you want to melt it?” my mother asks. “Is that some sort of fad these days? Eating melted ice cream?”
    When my mother uses words like fad it makes her sound so old.
    â€œI need to bury a note in the bottom. That’s how he’s going to know that I’m asking him to the dance.” I crank the heat even higher. “So I need to scoop it out and repack it.”
    â€œClever,” my mom says. “But what about the keys?”
    My dad enters the kitchen and grabs some bread.
    â€œWait,” I tell