A lot of people don’t buy into all that astrology stuff.
I’m a Capricorn. I guess we’re supposed to be all about hard work. A lone goat climbing to the top of Success Mountain.
A glance at my homework planner makes me question that idea. I owe Mr. Smith a paper on the presidents. I need to work on my blog for Mrs. Vargas. We actually got homework last week in PE—keeping an exercise log. I already have to do this for NutriNation, but I’m still pissed Coach didn’t get the memo that Phys Ed teachers aren’t supposed to assign homework.
And my Donutville shift starts in fifteen minutes.
I’m not sure I believe that your birthday can determine your entire personality, but there’s no denying that I’ll be turning eighteen on Tuesday. This is the birthday that’s supposed to mean you’re an adult. You can get your own Mastercard. And vote. And get tattoos. You can make permanent choices and your decisions won’t be corrected by some authority figure. Like writing your name on your underwear in black Sharpie. After Tuesday, some things won’t come out in the wash.
I dig around through a pile of messy clothes on my floor until I find my cleanest brown work apron. It’s a lot easier to tie the apron strings around my waist than it used to be. This is one for NutriNation and Amanda Harvey’s list of non-scale victories.
Keys in hand, I head for the door, silently praying the old Corolla will make it downtown and that I’ll get enough in tips during my shift to refill the gas tank.
I pass Grandma on the way out.
“I got everything all set,” she says.
“What?” I ask. I kind of think maybe she’s referring to her hair, which is wrapped up in more foam curlers than I can count.
“For Tuesday. Your party. They’re lettin’ us use Father McKay Hall.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’m not sure if I missed the discussion where we agreed to have a party at the church. I sort of hate my birthday. And birthday parties. They feel like nothing more than a reminder of everything that’s missing in my life.
Grandma thinks these kinds of things are unskippable rites of passage. She’s watching me and clearly expects a better response.
“Oh. Cool. Thanks. Thanks for setting that up.”
She smiles at me. “Don’t work too hard, girl.”
At Donutville, I frost extra fast, making trays and trays of chocolate and sprinkle-covered pastries. Out front, there are a few regulars at the kidney-shaped counter who don’t mind if I set up my homework. I refill coffee cups and Google for examples of presidents behaving badly. Mr. Smith’s in love with the idea that all leaders abuse their power, and I’m sure this tactic is the clearest path to an A on the essay.
I make a few bucks, get some gas. Monday comes whether I like it or not.
Then my birthday.
I wake up feeling, looking, acting exactly the same as on any other day. Except now everything that happens is going on my permanent record.
Grandma’s put together a nice party. It’s sort of old-fashioned, with a punch bowl, pink streamers and a sheet cake. But nice. A bunch of people from church come, but so do all the girls from my Clothing class. And Shelby and Brittany from SoScottsdale. There’s a video from Piper, and they play it on a screen. She’s there in front of the Sydney Opera House, yelling “Happy birthday.”
Steve from Donutville shows up with another birthday cake formed from pink, powdered doughnuts. He’s a man of limited interests, I guess. But it’s the thought that counts.
Grandma even made me a dress. In yet another quasi-hilarious, eye-roll-inducing bit of irony, it’s made from the scraps of crepe de chine left over from the holiday dance debacle. She’s made a simpler version of the dress I designed for Kennes, one without the bulky hip panels.
I’m having fun. But here’s what’s missing.
Tommy.
The dress. The party. It all underscores the fact that my best friend is missing this big milestone in my life. I wonder if he remembers it’s my birthday.
He does.
Tommy shows up looking more like himself than he has in ages, wearing a Carl Sagan Is My Homeboy T-shirt and clutching a black-striped gift bag.
I’m cutting my cake into tiny bites, trying to make the small slice into an epic eating experience, when I see him come in.
We stare at each other from across the church hall.
Awkward.
“I guess you’re eighteen and I can’t make you go over and say anything,” Grandma says. “But you should. Friendship’s important. If you can save it, you should.”
I stay glued to my chair. Grandma sighs and points at a portrait of Father McKay hanging on a far wall. He was a priest, although I’m not sure when or where or why he has a hall with his picture in it. “Cookie, the church says we reach an age of accountability, where your parents or your grandparents aren’t responsible for you anymore. These choices are yours. And the consequences are too,” Grandma says.
The snarky part of me wants to tell Grandma that she hasn’t been to catechism in a while. That the church now says the age of accountability is seven years old. This is when you need to start worrying about going to hell in a handbasket. But she’s gone to a lot of trouble to throw me a party, and she’s probably right. I won’t get too many more chances to bury the hatchet with Tommy, and I’m the one who won’t have a BFF.
As I walk over to him, a mixture of relief and apprehension crosses his face. “Nice shirt,” I say.
“Nice dress,” he answers with a small smile.
I start to read a million things into that remark. Like maybe it’s a slam for the whole thing with Kennes’s dress. My face is getting red.
“Yeah...my Grandma made it. I didn’t ask her to...and...”
He shoves the gift bag at me. “This is for you,” he says, sounding as nervous as I do. “But don’t worry. I bought it with money I got from my lawn-mowing business...and not from...well...you know.”
I peek in the bag to find a new copy of the Fashionary sketchbook inside, which is awesome since every page of my old one is completely full.
“Hey, thanks,” I say.
We stare at each other for another minute.
“The other day in the grocery store...the whole thing with... I just want things to be the way they were before,” he blurts out.
“For things to be the way they were, we have to be who we were,” I say.
“We haven’t changed. Things haven’t changed.”
It’s a lie. We both know it. Everything is changing. Who we are. What we want. What we expect from life and from each other. It’s all in flux. Shifting.
I want to ask about Kennes. If he’s still going out with her. Or if he cares about the way she treats people like Kleenex. Grandma shoots me a look of warning. This too shall pass. If I want to rebuild my friendship with Tommy, its new foundation might be shaky, less solid than before. But what’s the alternative?
Tommy joins me at a table where Shelby and Brittany are replaying Piper’s video, grinning at the sights of the port and trying to copy Piper’s accent. “You’re one yee-ah older,” Brittany is saying as we sit.
It’s fun. Easy. The way it used to be.
“You look good,” Tommy says, before he leaves. “I guess NutriNation really works.”
“Yeah. I guess.” For a split second, I think it’s still possible that my original plan might work. That I could have it all. That I could get skinny and get the guy of my dreams. Except the guy of my dreams doesn’t fat-shame people in the grocery store, doesn’t run some kind of retail return racket and definitely doesn’t hang off Kennes Butterfield’s arm.
The original plan isn’t proceeding like I hoped.
Grandma and I and a few ladies from the church clean up the hall. I drive us back to the yellow house and I’m that good kind of tired, the kind where you’ve spent your energy doing things you enjoyed.
After my shower, I smell the coffee brewing. Grandma’s getting her decaf on. Like I expect, I find her at the kitchen table with a crossword puzzle and a hot cup. She motions for me to take the chair opposite her and pushes a stack of papers in front of me.
It’s the stack from Parsons.
“You’ve got a deadline coming up,” she says.
Stay calm. Look happy.
I slap a bland expression on my face. “Oh, I got a better offer. The Regents Scholarship. To ASU. Full ride.”
“New program? Girl, you been talkin’ about Parsons since you had fewer candles on your birthday cake than fingers on your hand. What do you mean a better offer?”
I get up. I can feel the tears coming and I don’t want Grandma to see them.
She follows behind me as I make my way down the hallway. And then I’m guilty and sad. Grandma’s been working on my party all day and she’s hobbling slow as she tails after me, saying, “I’m not through talkin’ to you, girl.”
“I’m really tired, Grandma,” I say in a choked voice. “Thanks for the party. It was—”
“Spill the beans,” she orders. She grabs the wall for support and I have to say something. I can’t make Grandma mill around in the hall all night.
“I didn’t get any financial aid from Parsons. I can’t pay for it.”
The tears come.
“I’m calling Martin.”
“No. Don’t call Dad.” I wipe my eyes. “He’s busy.”
“Busy doing what?” Grandma spits.
“Curing disease in Africa.”
“Charity begins at home, Cookie. He has a responsibility to you. You’ve been goin’ on and on about Parsons and Claire McCardell since you could talk. Your daddy is a doctor capable of earnin’ a living and sendin’ you there.”
“Why don’t you call Mom? She’s capable. She’s got millions.” I feel bad taking this approach. I know Grandma’s got all kinds of guilty feelings about my mom.
There’s a pause and Grandma shrinks down even smaller, older and sadder somehow. “Believe me, if I thought it would work, I would. I’ve had to reconcile myself to the fact that my daughter will never own up to her responsibilities. Your daddy, on the other hand, he might—”
I’m sort of grateful for the anger that floods me. It helps me steady my voice. “I don’t know why you’re pretending he’s any better than she is. He ran away too. Ran away to Africa. To get away from having to deal with me.”
“Cookie, that’s not true. He’s just...he’s just...” Grandma trails off, trying to put her finger on what my dad just is. It’s the first time we’ve ever said any of this stuff out loud. Acting like my dad is some big hero is a fiction we’ve both always felt more comfortable with. And from Grandma’s perspective, I get it. It’s hard to tell a kid that neither of her parents gives a damn about her.
“All the other doctors come home. For Christmas. Or important birthdays. Or the summer,” I tell her in a low voice. “He stays in Africa. He’ll never own up to his responsibilities either. And I won’t beg him to.” I can’t ask him for help. What would I do when he said no?
Grandma puts her hand on the wall to brace herself. “You don’t understand. You were a little girl and you couldn’t understand what happened. Leslie is selfish. But Martin loved her. She broke his heart and I don’t think he ever recovered.”
“It doesn’t matter.” In a calmer, more pleasant voice, I go on. “Please. Don’t call Dad. ASU will be great. I can stay here. I won’t have to go to New York.”
This has an impact. Grandma hates New York. “Well. Still...” She trails off.
I’ve won.
The preservation of the status quo is my reward.
So I’m eighteen.
Everything’s supposed to be different.
But all I want is for everything to stay the same.
All alone in my room, I make an entry in my blog.