I woke up to a new day, the smell of crackling bacon drifting to my room. I smiled. I was so happy. I got up, practically skipped to my closet, threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, and walked downstairs. My mother was standing over the frying pan, and my father was reading his newspaper, his brow furrowed as usual. I walked in and sat down.

“Why the nice breakfast?” I asked casually. My mother looked up, startled at my sudden arrival, and glanced nervously at my father.

“Because honey, it’s a very big day for your father and I.” she replied with a forced smile plastered to her perfect face.

“Hmph…and why, may I ask, is this a very big day?”

My father put down his newspaper, and once again they exchanged nervous glances. “Because son” he said, “We have something we need to tell you.”

My curiosity raised a level, and my brain whirred with possible situations. Pregnancy? Divorce? Moving? Changing schools?

“What?”

My mother turned off the burner, put the bacon on a plate, and slid it over to me. My father picked up his newspaper and chucked it into the trashcan. His brow was still furrowed. They continued looking nervous.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this, so I’ll just make it as straight forward as possible.” My mother said. “Son, your father and I can pull off our faces.”

That was when my brain stopped. I managed a faint “Wha?” but that was about it.

“Your father and I can pull off our faces.” My mother repeated. I then realized that it was a joke. I laughed.

“Very funny. But really, is there any real thing you have to tell me or-“

“Son, we’re not fooling around. Your mother and I can pull off our faces.” My father said, his voice rising.

My brain stopped once again. I knew that look my father was giving me. He was telling the truth.

Then, just to prove a point, my father pulled his face off. He grabbed his hair, and yanked rather forcefully. From his forehead to his chin, the thick outer part of his face peeled slowly off. My mother did the same.

I threw up all over my plate of bacon. Afterward, I started dry retching.
Underneath their faces was a white marble expanse of nothingness. The faces that they were holding in their hands were still completely animated. They blinked, breathed, and furrowed their brows (at least in my father’s case).

“We’ve been meaning to tell you for quite some time, and thought that since your 15, we should just go ahead and get it over with.” My mother’s face said.

My father’s face kept silent.

I screamed. I threw up again, adding to the hearty plate of regurgitated meat loaf that lay before me. I screamed more.

They both promptly put their faces back on.

“Now, son, this is nothing you need to worry about. We are just a little different” my father said.

I screamed more, this time issuing words. “WHADA?” I screamed. I screamed it again. I threw up one more time, this time solid acid. I did not eat that much meat loaf last night. I started crying.

“Son, we have one more thing to tell you.” My mother said, her voice shaking. “You can do it too.”

And, for the last time that morning, I threw up again.