CAELA
“Caela …Michaela Grace Conroy, wake up!”
Caela opened her eyes with a groan. Her room was still dark, but with the light from the hallway, she could see the familiar tall, broad silhouette of her dad standing over her.
“Happy birthday!”
“Ugh. What time is it?”
“A little after five in the morning,” he said, as if this was a completely reasonable time to be waking up his fifteen-year-old daughter.
Well, sixteen now. Caela had to remind herself of that. Illogical as it may have been, part of her had expected to feel different when she turned sixteen. More grown-up. More mature. More like those girls she saw on the terrible teen dramas her best friend, Eliza, made her watch, the ones played by gorgeous women in their early twenties. She’d known it was ridiculous, yet part ofher still anticipated some sort of cosmic shift once that five turned to a six.
But Caela didn’t feel different. At the moment, all she felt was sleepy.
“The sun’s not even out,” she whined. “Why are you waking me up?”
“Because it’s your birthday, and I’m too excited to wait any longer to give you your present. You’re lucky I wasn’t in here two hours ago, at the time of your actual birth. Here, shield your eyes, honey.”
She threw an arm over her face as he turned on the lamp on the nightstand. Then she felt his hand on her shoulder, giving her a gentle nudge. With a grumble, Caela scooted across the little twin bed, toward the wall, to make room for him to sit down. It wasn’t until she pulled her arm away from her face that she saw the box—messily wrapped in lavender paper and with a black bow—clutched between her dad’s hands.
“You know,” she said, “I’m pretty sure I, as the kid, am the one meant to be so excited about presents that I wakeyouup before dawn.”
“Shush and open it.” He placed the box next to her as she satup. He was grinning, his smile stretched wide across his face as he bounced slightly on the mattress. Between that and the forgotten smear of blue paint on his cheek, her dad looked a bit like an overgrown child.
Caela tore into the paper, revealing a plain cardboard box that gave nothing away. Peeling the tape off the flaps, she opened it up and gasped. Inside was the video camera she had been staring at online for a year. It was beautiful: matte black with silver buttons. It felt wonderfully heavy in her hands as she gingerly lifted it out of the box.
“Dad …”
“You like it?”
“Of course I do, but …” Caela looked up at him, biting her lip. Because she had stared at this camera enough times to know how painfully expensive it was. “Are you sure you can afford this?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that. I took on a few extra shifts at the store, sold one of my recent paintings, put my kidney up for auction on the black market …”
“Dad.”
“I’m kidding! I didn’t sell a painting.”
“Dad!”
“Really, it’s all right. Leave the stress about money up to me and enjoy your birthday. You’ll have plenty of time to worry about finances when you’re an adult.”
She placed the camera on the nightstand, as carefully as one might handle a newborn, and leaned over to wrap her arms around her father. “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled against his flannel shirt. “I love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, Caela.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just promise me that when you’re off in Hollywood winning Oscars and hanging out with Spielberg, you won’t forget about your dad.”
“I promise.”
He patted her on the back before pulling away from the hug. “Good. Now come on.” He stood up from the bed. “Let’s have pancakes.”
“You don’t know how to make pancakes,” she pointed out as he made his way to the door.
“I know. That’s whyyou’regoing to make the pancakes.” He smirked over his shoulder at her before turning and heading into the hallway.
“You’re the worst!” Caela called after him as she pushed off the blankets and stood up to follow him to the kitchen.
“Whatcan I say? The tree doesn’t stand far from the apple.”
