The sun is setting now and Dad is still asleep on the couch. I turn down the TV volume and put the brown throw over him. It is strange to think that I’m the one behaving like a parent. Two weeks ago, he said, “No, you can’t go with Lisa to the R-rated movie. I don’t care that her mother says it’s okay. What is her cell phone number so I can express my concerns?”
And here it is me who puts two Tylenol and a glass of water on the coffee table, where there should be, I don’t know, an early birthday present.
I eat a cold Pop-Tart for dinner, put on my faded pajamas, and take myself to bed. I try to sleep but can’t. My mind is still churning. This day lacked specialness. I was supposed to be playing with my new iPod by now. Dinner was supposed to be at a restaurant. Pop-Tarts are no substitute for cake.
One of Plant’s leaves catches the breeze from the AC vent and waves at me.
“If that boy suddenly finds he understands English and tells someone I’ve never French-kissed a boy, it could be bad,” I tell her. She doesn’t answer, not even a wave.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling. Sometimes you do strange things and wonder about yourself later while the ceiling fan spins above you. What if I do weird things because I am going to turn out crazy like my mother? Maybe I need to call a hospital and find out what a person needs to do if they notice the signs. They could study my brain. Then I could get a doctor’s note that would get me out of the Family Tree Project.
Sarah is excused for mental-health reasons.
For now, I’m going to stay up all night so I can be awake at the exact moment I turn twelve. Happy birthday to me. Please pass the presents.
At least I’ve given myself a new paperback book, which I’m almost done reading. It turns out that rake is a word I can’t add to my vocabulary. Not in the way they use it in The Valiant Rake, anyway.
rake n.: a dissolute man in fashionable society
And of course, as it often happens with me, I had to look up the definition of a word within a definition.
I’ve racked my brain for anyone I know who fits the description of a rake. I don’t know anyone in fashionable society. But I have seen plenty of older girls who walk around with their underwear peeking out from their jeans. Some of them like to take photographs of this and send them to boys. I will have to investigate if a girl can be a rake. It seems so.
Since tomorrow is my actual birthday, people will be expecting me to use different words. I may be able to throw out dissolute in conversation.
I hope twelve is different from eleven. But I hope that every year, and things are mostly the same. I did notice this morning that the things in my room seemed to belong to a younger girl. Maybe that is the first difference. I will have to rearrange my stuff, add some more black to my wardrobe to match my pretty, new headband. I’m hoping my dad will take me to the mall or a movie. Maybe I can guilt him into letting me get my ears pierced. You know, you were supposed to take me to the mall, but then you got drunk…. Ha! Like I would ever be brave enough to say that out loud.
Sometime after midnight, when I’m officially twelve, I tiptoe through the house as if the floor is made of cotton. Dad is asleep, so there’s no way I can make a Pop-Tart without waking him. Our toaster could wake the neighbors it’s so loud. So I take it plain and cold and run back to my room. Maybe he’ll make pancakes later. Or go get doughnuts, like we do on most Sundays.
Quickly, before he wakes up, I get my real diary out and make a list. I think of my birthday as a fresh start the same way people think of January 1 as a new beginning. My grandmother does this at the beginning of the year. This year, her New Year’s goals included trying out an easier hairdo, joining a book club, and growing tomatoes.
I write goals such as improving my posture and my ability to apply green or blue eye shadow. I’d like to know more about Jehovah’s Witnesses and why they make my dad ignore the doorbell. What have they witnessed, and why wouldn’t you want to know this?
Today, I write my list of new goals in my diary:
- French-kiss a boy.
- Add more variety to my life.
- Get ears pierced.
- Learn a little español.
- Watch for signs of going crazy (ha-ha).
I wish I had my old birthday lists right now. I could go dig them out of my box and read about my old self. I’ve made my lists since my eighth birthday. My eighth birthday sucked. Sucked is a trouble word as huge as Texas, so I don’t say it in front of Dad, who is a general know-it-all when it comes to good grammar, since he is a professor. But sometimes you have to use the word that fits, even if you use it only in your mind.
I won’t even tell you how bad that birthday was. Let’s just say that if I wanted to write an article called “10 Tips for a Horrible Party” I could do it, no problem.
1. Eat cold pizza at Chuck E. Cheese.
2. Come home.
3. Have Dad watch The Good, the Bad and the Ugly for the one-millionth time.
4. Give Dad a drink.
5. Give daughter a dollhouse suitable for a five-year-old.
6. Open card from crazy mother.
7. Quiz Dad about crazy mother.
8. Help clean up Dad’s “accidentally” spilled drink.
9. Eat cake in silence.
10. Read a book until you fall asleep.
Like I said, sometimes using the exact right word is a must, trouble or not. Is there a better adjective than sucked to describe that day? I don’t think so.