“Hello! Letting you do this for me is my gift to you.” She fisted her hands on her hips, all innocence and indignation and, well, my favorite thing in the entire world. “Since today’s my birthday, shouldn’t you be doing something for me?” I asked, hoping to tease her into forgetting about her first ballet performance and the princess role she liked to say she “had been born to perform.” She wanted what I’d never had: their undivided attention. I’d stopped caring a long time ago.Įm, though, she cared.
I was a year older, finally sweet sixteen, but my life was still the same. This year, Mom had hidden notes in drawers to remind herself (I’d found them), and as Em had claimed, my baby sis had even hinted before flat out saying, “Hey, Alice’s birthday is coming up and I think she deserves a party!” but I’d woken up this morning to the same old same old. Last year, my dad had been a little too busy throwing back shots of single malt and mumbling about monsters only he could see and my mom had been a little too busy cleaning up his mess. Unlike Em, they hadn’t remembered-and wouldn’t. So, if you ask him to let us go, and…and…” so much longing in her tone “…and ask if he’ll come and watch me, too, then he will.” “Today’s your birthday, and I know, I know, I forgot this morning…and this afternoon…but last week I remembered that it was coming up-you remember how I told Mom, right?-and now I’ve remembered again, so doesn’t that count for something? ’Course it does,” she added before I could say anything. She became all that I could see, shimmering gold pleading down at me. She stepped over me and planted those dainty pink slippers at my shoulders, her slight body throwing a large enough shadow to shield my face from the overhead glare. And Mom agreed to sign you up for the program as long as you swore never to throw a tantrum when you couldn’t make a practice or a, what? Recital.” You know Dad will never let us leave the house. Your recital might start while it’s sunny out, but it’ll end at dark. “Sweetie, we’ve gone over this, like, a thousand times. “Al-less.” At my side now, Em stomped her slippered foot in a bid for my attention. At five-ten, I was taller than most of the boys at my school and always stood out-I couldn’t go anywhere without getting a few what-are-you-a-giraffe? stares.īoys had never shown an interest in me, but I couldn’t count the number of times I had caught one drooling over my mom as she walked by or-gag-heard one whistle as she bent over to pick something up. Me? I had wavy white-blond hair, big blue eyes and legs that stretched for miles. Mom was short, barely over five-three, and I wasn’t sure Em would even make it to five-one. She was a miniature version of our mother and the complete opposite of me.īoth possessed a slick fall of dark hair and beautifully uptilted golden eyes. She wore a glittery pink ballerina costume, her pigtails bouncing with her every movement. A fat white rabbit, racing toward a tree.Įight-year-old Emma danced around me. A butterfly with one of its wings shredded. As I breathed in the thick honeysuckle and lavender perfume of the Alabama summer, I could make out a few shapes. The sun shone brightly as puffy white clouds ghosted across an endless expanse of baby blue. I lay sprawled on a blanket in my backyard, weaving a daisy chain for my little sister.
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