Page 1 of Loving the Legend
PROLOGUE
Some beliefs erect new worlds, while others ravage and embitter. I used to believe that the day was mine to claim. I never thought much about beliefs until I lost that one. It was the last golden morning in the dead of winter. I woke up to the aroma of Mom’s chocolate, almond, and banana pancakes. Reaching for my phone, I paused when my fingers scraped a stack of papers that weren’t there when I fell asleep. I stared in disbelief at a marked-up version of my essay on Garrett Morgan. After finishing it at midnight, I sent it to Mom to proofread. I thought we’d look at it together over breakfast, but she beat me to it.
When does she sleep?
Dad’s melodic baritone voice crooned along to a Stevie Wonder record. His voice sounded more like his old Otis Redding records than Stevie, with its gravelly, soulful inflection. His burly footsteps approached my room. I tossed the papers on the nightstand and scooted under the covers, pretending to be asleep. My door creaked open. Dad did the thing where he watched me for a minute or two before he woke me up.
I grinned and belted out the first line of the chorus in tune with the record. Instead of startling, Dad chuckled and caughtthe next line singing along. We continued singing, alternating lyrics until we belted the last verse together. He approached my bed and sat down facing me. I extended my arm, our knuckles meeting halfway for a kiss.
“My son, what kind of day will it be?”
He’d asked me this every day since I could remember. Even when he traveled for business, he called before school to ask. I peered out the window, thinking it over. The snow was enchanting when it fell four days before. Now icicles descended from the windowpane like stalactites. I shivered, knowing I’d be out there within the next hour, ensnared by the elements. With an exhale, I nestled deeper under my blankets as the warmth of central heating washed over me.
Closing my eyes, I imagined the day ahead. With Mom’s edits on my paper, there was a good chance I’d get an A. I’d play the best ball of my life later that day. I might even surprise Mom and Dad by attempting the windmill alley-oop shot we’d been practicing. I’d shake the feeling I was missing a secret ingredient to nail the shot.
A surge of electricity spread up my spine and swished around my stomach.
The thrill of impending victory.
“It’s gonna be lit,” I answered.
“What’s that?” Dad tilted his ear toward me. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
This was a thing he did. He wanted me to proclaim it like a battle cry. I asked, “WHAT KIND OF DAY WILL IT BE, MY SON?”
His voice reverberated through me like wildfire, igniting a resounding cry. I jolted upright and yelled, “IT’S GONNA BE EXTRAORDINARY!”
We both growled and flexed, hyping each other up. Dad’s muscles were far more impressive than my own. My growthspurt didn’t kick in until my senior year of high school. Out of nowhere, he made the strangest high-pitched sound like an elk. It killed me every time. We both ended up on our backs. I laughed so hard I snorted, which made Dad wheeze with laughter.
Then Mom thundered down like a storm. “Morris! You had one task this morning—get Ty up and in the shower by 7:15.” Her gaze pierced me next. “You’re a year shy of college. It’s high time you learn to get yourself up on time.”
Mom was our captain. I don’t think Dad and I would’ve fared well if left to our devices. We’d easily get lost watching video compilations of funny animal sounds until we ran late. I was, of course, speaking from experience. The minute Mom’s feet hit the floor, she attacked the day with such feverish haste that she’d made a peregrine falcon look like a sloth. She conquered more before six o’clock in the morning than the average mortal. Dad was tenacious but wired more loosely. Whereas Mom’s day began with an urgency to check tasks off a never-ending list, Dad preferred to ease into things. Mornings for Dad involved laughter and singing—always singing. Time may have governed Mom’s day, but it would have found a mutinous subject in Dad.
Before I could retort that Ididwake myself up on time, Dad piped up. “My dearest love, the aroma of your cooking was so delightful that I lost focus on my task. It bears me grave torment to know that I’ve disappointed you. Bleak is the hour that I’ve displeased my queen.”
He bowed his head before Mom in an act of penance. This charade would never work. She sniffed drivel more reliably than a bloodhound-tracked scent. I snickered, and then Dad tilted his gaze toward me, and it was game over. We burst out laughing.
Mom huffed out a breath as her eyes rolled skyward. “Tyler, you have one minute to get in the shower or no pancakes.”
My stomach grumbled in protest. “Hey, wait—”
“57 seconds,” she replied, signaling for me to zip it.
I charged out of bed and sprinted for the shower before she crossed the threshold of the door. There was a ninety-nine percent chance it was a bluff, but those odds were steep for her pancakes. A blue whale lived inside me, crashing its monstrous body around on a mad hunt for fluffy goodness.
I slipped on a book, but Dad extended an arm, breaking my fall.
Mom winced.
“I know, I know.” I waved it off. “I’ll organize them when I get home.”
“It’s become an obstacle course to reach your bed. I almost broke my neck dropping off your essay earlier.”
I slung my arm around her neck. “How do you do it? You have a clone, right?”
She threw her head back and cackled.
“A secret identical twin sister? A time machine?”
