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No. Not happening.
Instead, I rip shit up.
3
Erica
Ten Years Ago
The mystery surrounding my Great Aunt Lyrica drove me half- crazy through my teens. But when I found out the truth, it fit like a glove. Whenever someone questions my magic, I tell them I’ve been told my entire life my gift is spell-writing. The truth is, the day I found out I’m a spell-writer, it felt like my life finally began. I finally knew who I was. Why I was the way I was. The truth about my family, about my gifts, was unveiled for me on my eighteenth birthday, when it was finally my turn to take the trip - the infamous, secretive Young sister eighteenth birthday trip to Drowsy Hollow, the town where we were born.
I woke up fraught with worry, certain I messed everything up by being stubborn and digging my heels in.
I hadn’t even packed. Danica and Jessica packed a week early. But me? Nope. I told them all last week not to bother with presents or a cake because I wasn’t taking part in any of it.
You could say I’d carried some bitterness since Danica’s eighteenth birthday thirteen months before and had been kind of hard to get along with ever since.
This trip was something I’d been anticipating since shortly after my oldest sister Vivica turned eighteen. With each sister turning that age, my curiosity grew while my patience waned. Because going on that trip changed whoever went.
Yes, it changed them.
They came back different, very different. But the kicker was that they weren’t allowed to talk about the trip with anyone who hadn’t already taken it.
Being the youngest of the five of us, with a little over or under a year between each of us in age meant that as every one of them turned eighteen, I was more and more left out. Because my sisters all got to be in a club I wasn’t yet welcome in. They had secrets I wasn’t allowed to know. I was the last sister standing alone.
And waiting isn’t my strong suit. But they were all adept at following the rules and telling me nothing.
I’ve felt my sisters’ excitement for me the week leading up to my eighteenth birthday, despite the way I’ve behaved.
The smiles. The nudges and eyebrow wiggles? I have not handled it well.
But, they ignored my brattiness and woke me today with Veronica’s cream cheese frosting-filled carrot muffins, singing, and excitement anyway.
It was finally here. I didn’t feel relief, though, because Aunt Lyrica who was normally here on a Young girl’s birthday morning was absent. So I spent the morning of my birthday on the verge of tears, basking in regret.
I’d pretended my heart hadn’t skipped a beat when I’d gotten the handmade invitation in the mail a month ago. I pretended I no longer had any interest in going. So, I didn’t call or write to Aunt Lyrica to accept her invite and the last forty-eight hours was fraught with worry that she wouldn’t come, that not answering her invite meant I’d ruined everything. That I’d never get to join the club my entire family, save me, was a part of.
But early afternoon while I was curled up on the big chair by the window with my sketchbook, doodling dying flowers to match my mood, I heard, “Happy birthday, beautiful birthday girl!” in that familiar raspy voice. My heart skipped a beat and then excitement spiked. She’d let me sweat it out. And I so deserved it.
Aunt Lyrica came; I hadn’t even heard her pull up, but there she was… doing a slow bridal walk toward me carrying a pink cake with a lit candle on top of it. My sisters and Aunt Mimi were behind her.
Today, she wore her long, dyed black hair in Bo Derek style braids and had a black and green scarf holding it back. She was decked out in her trademark jangly bracelets, big chandelier earrings, and she wore a long broomstick dress with a bustier that pushed her ample boobs up high. As usual, she had her signature green eyeshadow and rouged lips.
Though Aunt Lyrica was in her late seventies, her fashion sense was a cross between Captain Jack Sparrow and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.
She gave me a knowing look as she set the cake down in front of me, proclaiming, “Someone should be served some humble pie instead of pink cake, but I’m a forgiving type.”
“No, you’re not,” Aunt Mimi corrected.
Aunt Mimi and Aunt Lyrica looked alike. Aunt Mimi was ten years younger than her sister, not nearly as flamboyant – more Cher than Elvira.
“True, I’m not,” Aunt Lyrica admitted cheekily. “But I’m not the one who’s had to put up with your hijinks lately, so blow out your candle, birthday girl; we need to hit the road.”
I looked down at the baby pink cake with the big, rose shaped swirls of frosting and blew out the black candle knowing I didn’t need to make a wish; my wish was coming true. I was finally part of things. I wanted to kick my heels up in the air. Instead, I sheepishly admitted, “I haven’t packed.”
