Rita looked up from her phone. “He’s actually gonna be done in a minute because it’s raining. Can I get you something to eat? You said you were at the gym, Nick always ate a ton after a workout. And you—“
“Matt. My name is Matt. I’m Tom’s… uh… Nick’s? son. Which sounds weird because he’s only a couple years older than me.”
Rita laughed. “Everything is going to be all mixed up. Let me get you some of what we’re having for dinner.” She left and came back in a few minutes with a tray laden down with meat, vegetables, rice, beans, and tortillas.
“Chile verde! My favorite!” exclaimed Tom as he rolled a tortilla between his hands.
Rita stared at him. “That was Nick’s favorite, too. So you have to tell me what is going on here. And did they give you his clothes? Because it’s not easy to fit him.”
Tom was about to reply when the door chime sounded. A huge man with a thick black beard came through the inner door. He was dressed in dusty jeans, a long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a torn cap, and well-worn work boots. He set a toolbox down on the ground and ran up to Tom.
“This is crazy,” he said. “You’re him. But you’re not. And you happened to come into my wife’s restaurant by accident. I don’t get it.”
Tom clasped his hand and pulled him in for a hug. “I didn’t know this would happen. They made it sound like I would be Tom Allen in Nick Martínez’s body, but I appear to be a blend of Tom and Nick. And frankly the longer I wait, the more I feel like Nick. We didn’t have anything in common. I was a slender, pale lawyer who played chess and could barely carry a sack of cat litter. Now I’m a huge football-playing Mexican teenager who just went and put up almost a 2,000-pound powerlifting total completely cold. I even have his accent if I don’t concentrate. I can’t remember my law training anymore. And I have to be honest, it’s hard to think. I couldn’t do the math to add up the weights quick enough.”
“Nick was a great son,” said the huge man. “A heart of gold. But he wasn’t a book smart guy. He worked with me during the summers.”
“I never touched any tools,” said Tom. “But I bet if you opened your toolbox I’d be able to tell you what everything is and what it’s used for. But I don’t want to waste your time, Mr.—“
“Roberto. But everyone calls me Beto.”
“So Rita was saying Nick is still growing,” said Matt. “Does that mean my dad is going to get even bigger?”
“Could be,” said Beto. “I didn’t finish growing until I was 20. And I was shorter than Nick is when I was his age. So does the Mind Story thing not stop that?”
“According to the doctor,” said Tom, “I am physically 18. With all that that means.”
“Almost 17,” said Rita.
“Huh?” said Tom.
“We lied about Nick’s age because he was so rambunctious and so much bigger than other kids his age,” said Beto. “So we enrolled him in school and told them he was 5, but he wasn’t even 4 yet. Then when we came to this country, all his paperwork had the made up age on it and we just ran with it. Nick was born on January 9, 2005.”
“So… I’m… 16?”
“Sí, mijo. We never told Nick. But I’m telling you in case there are issues,” said Beto as Rita set another plate in front of Tom.
“So what do I do? I’m going to Syracuse on your son’s scholarship. Do I tell them?”
“That is up to you. But right now I need to go shower. And so do you, mijo, hueles a puro pacuso.”
“Yeah, dad, you stink.”
“You can shower after I’m done,” said Beto. “You can take the rest of Nick’s clothes, too. You will need them.” He showed Tom to a door as Matt and Rita continued talking.