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Day 3722
I wake up to the sound of footsteps and muffled giggles, and the smell of maple syrup. I wake up to a colorful room, to light, to smiling, singing faces, and the sound of “Happy Birthday to You.” I pull myself up, and a tray is lowered onto my lap. I see a stack of pancakes with a candle set in them. I wait until the end of the song and blow the candle out.
Today I am a girl named Cara, and it’s her tenth birthday. I’d wonder if it was my own tenth birthday, too, only I find that I have at least a dozen birthdays every year. Back when I had no concept of what a year was, I could believe that I was growing at exactly the same pace as whatever body I was in that day. But once I started to count, I knew the math was wrong. You cannot have more than one birthday in a year—and as a result, I had to admit that these were other people’s birthdays, not my own. I had wanted to find logic in my life, and that was a mistake.
When I was little, I could lose myself in the rapture of unwrapping, the glee of parties and cake and being treated like the center of the world. When the time came for the candles to be blown out, I would make my own wishes, because I felt that’s what was being granted. Often, I’d wish to stay in that day, to have every day be as precious as a birthday.
This morning is different, though. I do not bother to wish. If anything, I feel like I am stealing Cara’s wish away from her, because she is not here and I am.
I pretend I wish, though. Because I look at the faces of Cara’s parents, her sister, even her brother—and I know that, whatever her wish would be, they too would want it to turn true. Some families are like that.
It’s a weekday, so soon the parents will have to go to work and the children will have to go to school. I try to hold Cara in the halo of their affection for as long as I can, and I hope that when I’m gone, she will still feel the afterglow. The candle is put aside on the counter and the pancakes are eaten. As the food goes from taste to weight, the morning routine returns. The school bus will not wait for me, even though it’s my birthday.
I work hard on the ride to school to access the names and faces of Cara’s friends. Her mind creates flash cards for me, and I try to memorize them as best as I can. The practice is not in vain, because as soon as I get to the classroom, Mrs. Richardson announces my birthday and puts a construction-paper crown on the front of my desk. Even my fifth-grade enemies respect this. I am queen for the day.
I try to enjoy it. The cupcakes at lunch. The excitement about the party on Saturday. My two best friends, Jodie and Michaela, who couldn’t wait to give me their presents. Again, I find myself pretending—and since I am only ten, I don’t fully understand why the pretending also makes me sad. I should be grateful to have a day that’s covered in icing. I should be happy to have so many people happy for me, when all I had to do was get a year older.
On the bus ride home, the kids from my class ask me what I’m going to do tonight, and I tell them I don’t know. The kids who aren’t in my class are indifferent, and I almost wish I were sitting with them.
I am the first one home, letting myself in with my key. Usually, I head straight to the kitchen to get myself a snack—no matter which kitchen, no matter what snacks are available. But I have already eaten enough for one day, so I go straight to my room. Once there, I don’t know what to do. I feel like my boredom is cheating Cara out of something, that I am sabotaging her new year before it’s even begun. I have no way to articulate this to myself; it’s just a sensation.
My sister, Laura, comes home. She is three years older than me, and goes to the middle school. She calls out my name as soon as she gets in the door, and even though I don’t answer, she heads straight to my room. Hearing her approach, I try to busy myself, but since none of the toys or books call out to me, I end up making my bed.
My door isn’t closed, so it’s easy for her to peek in. She takes one look at me tucking a sheet under the mattress and says, “This isn’t acceptable.”
I access our history and get the usual muddle of love and competition that any two sisters share. An epic argument has the same weight in Cara’s memory as a single glance of back-seat understanding.
“It’s your birthday,” Laura says. “What do you want to do?”
What I want is for what I want to actually matter.
“I don’t know,” I tell her.
She gives me a look and doesn’t even have to say it again: This isn’t acceptable. Then another look, as she inventories our options. I don’t need to access to understand this look. I’ve seen it enough in other older brothers and sisters.
Finally, she says, “Okay. I’ve got it. Put on your bathing suit.”
I do as she says, and when she leaves the room, I assume she’s putting on her bathing suit as well. When she comes back, though, she’s still wearing the same sweater and jeans as before. She eyes me, standing there nearly shivering in my one-piece.
“Put something on over it!” she says, rolling her eyes.
As I do, I try to search Cara’s mind for clues about what we might be doing—it’s too cold to swim outside. But I can’t find anything that helps.
I’ll just have to trust her.
I am expecting us to walk to a community center, or a Y. But instead we head up the path to someone’s house.
“Don’t be afraid of her,” Laura says as she rings the doorbell.
An old lady with steely eyes opens the door. I access Cara for a name, and the first thing that comes up is the word witch.
“What do you want?” the woman asks. “I don’t eat cookies or candy. And all you kids ever seem to sell is cookies or candy.”
Laura smiles, like she’s just bumped into a friend at the mall.
“Hi, Mrs. Judge,” she says. “Today is Cara’s birthday. And when she made her wish, she wished she could swim today. So I was wondering … can we use your pool?”
Mrs. Judge turns to me. “How old are you?” she asks. She makes it seem like a trick question.
“Ten.”
“And you desire to swim, more than anything else?”
I almost look to Laura for confirmation. “Yes.”
“More fool you.”
She’s looking at me so intently that it’s almost like she sees the impostor stuck inside of the birthday girl. I dread the recognition, but I also secretly crave it. Even at ten. Or especially at ten.
Mrs. Judge stands there in front of us, and I can’t tell if she’s deliberating or if we’re being silently dismissed.
