Before the sun sets on her sixteenth birthday, she will prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel, and fall into a sleep like death!
—Maleficent

Saturday, April 18, 8:42 a.m.
Two days before my 15th birthday

My birthday plans went up in smoke. Literally.

Last night, while the good citizens of Faraway, Alabama, slept, the paint-your-own pottery place in downtown Faraway where I was supposed to be having my birthday party today burned to the ground. I know this because Dad got me out of bed to see the morning news segment about it. I wasn’t the only one he woke. I hobbled down the hall on my crutches behind the rest of my family as we all went to watch the report.

“Look, Mom! There’s your store!” May pointed to the TV, and there was Flora’s Fashions in the background. Mom’s store is down the street from Clay Makers, and it was pretty unsettling, especially for Mom, to see that it was in such close proximity to a business that was now in ashes.

“What do you think caused the fire?” Mom asked Dad, after the reporter said the source of the blaze was still under investigation.

“It could be anything,” Dad said. “Faulty wiring. A bad kiln.”

“Or arson,” said June.

Mom, Dad, and I all looked at my little sister. Chronologically, she’s nine and in third grade. Intellectually—that’s a different story.

“What’s arson?” asked May.

“When you burn something down on purpose, usually to get money,” June explained.

May winced. I wasn’t sure if it was because the idea of committing arson was repugnant to her, or the fact that she’s in middle school and didn’t like being given a vocab lesson by her younger sister.

“How do you know about arson?” Mom asked June.

“I read a book about a kid whose dad burned down his family grocery store to collect the insurance proceeds. He didn’t get them because what he did was a crime. He ended up in prison and the kid had to go live with his aunt.”

Mom gave Dad a look of disapproval. “I think we might need to monitor what she’s reading.”

“That’s censorship,” responded June.

“Excuse me,” I said, signaling a time-out. “I think the more important issue we need to be discussing is what I’m going to do for my birthday.”

While I was feeling sympathetic toward June, who clearly had no desire to have her reading choices examined, and awful for the owners of Clay Makers, who just had their business burn down, I was feeling bad for myself too. I was supposed to be celebrating my fifteenth birthday this afternoon with all of my friends at a place that no longer existed.

I looked at Mom and Dad, waiting to hear their suggestions, but they just shook their heads like they didn’t have any other ideas. To be fair, this wasn’t the first time we’d had to rethink my party plans. Originally, I was going to have a skating party. That might sound kind of lame, and it would be if you lived in a place like New York, Los Angeles, or even Omaha, Nebraska. But when you live in Faraway, Alabama, it’s not like there’s a plethora of party venues. I was actually excited to have my party at Wheels Up. But when we went snow skiing over spring break with Gaga and Willy and the rest of my family, I fell and broke my leg. I couldn’t exactly skate with my leg in a cast.

When my plans fell through, I wasn’t the only one who was upset. May and June, the girls on the dance team, and especially Sophie and Billy were disappointed.

“This was a big deal for me,” said Sophie. “I’m moving back to New York at the end of the school year, and this was probably my only opportunity to experience that slice of small-town America.”

“Trust me, skating rinks aren’t that great,” I told her.

But she was disappointed, and so was Billy. I’ve seen him show off his moves on wheels more times than I can count, but this was going to be the first time Sophie would see him skate, and he couldn’t wait to impress his girlfriend.

When it became clear that skating wasn’t an option, Mom suggested I have a painting party at Clay Makers, and the rest is history.

Honestly, I’m not surprised my plans fell through again.

“I’m birthday-cursed,” I said to my parents.

“April, don’t be ridiculous,” said Dad.

“Hear me out,” I said, determined to make my point. “At six, Mom was pregnant with June and on bed rest. When I turned seven, I had strep throat.” I paused and pointed to Dad. “At eight, you dropped the cupcakes you brought to my class. My ninth backyard birthday party was rained out. At ten, one of the girls at my sleepover party had lice and everyone else got them.”

I paused as I thought about my eleventh and twelfth birthdays. I had a cooking party and a scavenger hunt, which my former BFF Brynn helped plan. Ironically, those were the only parties that turned out well. But that phase of good birthday karma was short-lived.

When I turned thirteen, my parents planned the unfortunate and unforgettable Spring Has Sprung party for my sisters and me, when June practically announced to everyone at the party that I had a crush on Matt Parker, who had just moved in next door. Then, at fourteen, when I was actually going out with Matt, I spent my birthday waiting around for him to show up and celebrate with me. When he finally did, it was late at night and he tried to feel me up on my own front porch. It was a complete disaster.

Those weren’t memories I wanted to relive with my family. “I’ve had a lot of bad birthdays,” I said. “And this year is clearly falling into that category.” I shrugged. “It must be a curse.”

“April, it’s silly to be afraid there’s some kind of birthday curse.” Mom looked me in the eye. “Fear has never been anyone’s friend.”

I had to laugh.

“I’m not afraid I’m cursed,” I told her. “I’m convinced of it.”

Sunday, April 19, 9:45 p.m.
Last day of being fourteen

It has been decided. For my birthday, I’m going to eat dinner with my family.

It doesn’t feel like much of a celebration since I would have done that anyway, but a.) I know from experience I’m better off not planning something that wouldn’t have worked out, and b.) now that I know this is probably the last birthday I’ll get to spend with Gaga, having dinner with my family doesn’t sound so bad.

I get why Gaga chose not to have surgery or chemotherapy or radiation. She’s old, she has terminal cancer, and she doesn’t want to go through the side effects, which sound awful. Still, it doesn’t make me happy knowing that one day soon Gaga will die. I’ve thought about it plenty, and it’s not something I wanted to think about on the day before I turned fifteen. So instead, I called Sophie. “We’re all going for dinner tomorrow night to celebrate my birthday,” I told her.

Sophie clucked her tongue. “I know,” she said sympathetically.

Her tone irritated me. “I’m cool with it,” I said.

“Well, I’m coming over today and we’re having a pre-birthday celebration.”

I get why she offered. When her grandfather married Gaga, Sophie and I became almost-cousins. Then, when Sophie’s parents split up and she and her mom, Emma, moved to Faraway to live with Willy and Gaga, Sophie and I developed an unspoken pact that we’d always have each other’s backs. But it annoyed me when she volunteered to come over to celebrate, because I felt like a birthday charity case. I would have liked it more if she’d just acknowledged that in her view, my birthday was a bust. When she got to my house, her upbeat mood was really getting on my nerves.

“Tomorrow is your birthday!” Her voice was high-pitched like she was singing, not talking. “So what do you want to do today?”

I stuck my casted leg in her face. “Zumba.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “April, you only turn fifteen once. I have a great idea for how we can celebrate.”

I couldn’t imagine what she had in mind. As it turned out, we spent the day sitting on my bed and going through my old pictures on my computer. It would have been fun, except that May and June came into my room while we were doing it and wanted to know if they could look too. I said no at the same time that Sophie said yes.

“They can stay,” Sophie said. She patted the space on the bed between us, and May and June plopped down without waiting for my permission. I love my sisters, but when Sophie let them join us, I knew the pictures they’d want to look at were the ones of themselves.

May practically hijacked my laptop from me and kept scrolling to all of the pictures of her when she was little. “Look, that’s me diving into the pool, and me hitting a softball, and me playing Frisbee with Gilligan.”

“You were adorable,” said Sophie as she looked at the pictures.

Then June wanted a turn. She took the computer from May and scrolled to the pictures I had of her when she was learning to walk. “I was a darling baby,” she told Sophie.

“You sure were.” Sophie leaned over and looked at the screen. Then she turned the laptop toward me. “Look how cute she was, April.”

I looked, but I’d seen those pictures of my sisters dozens of times.

When they finally left my room, Sophie said, “They’re so cute.”

“I see them every day,” I said. “Their cuteness is less of a novelty to me.”

Sophie recoiled. “You’re so lucky you have sisters. I wish I did.”

I was going to let her comment slide. I’m sure it’s hard being an only child, especially right now, with her parents going through a divorce. But then she added, “You should be nicer to May and June.”

“I’m really nice to May and June,” I said defensively.

Sophie nodded like that was true, at least partially. “I’m just saying that sometimes you get impatient with them.”

I felt my anger rising. “Don’t you think you’re being kind of judgmental? Particularly when we’re supposed to be celebrating my birthday.”

Sophie looked down and picked at a rip in the leg of her jeans. “When you’re right, you’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I could tell she genuinely was. “No worries.” I bumped my shoulder into hers. “You’re going back to New York in five weeks. The last thing we need to do is get into an argument.”

Sophie laughed. “Like that would happen.” She linked her arm through mine. “One of my favorite things about being friends with you is that we never fight.”

“Yeah,” I said. She was right. In the year Sophie lived in Faraway, we always got along. From time to time, like today, one of us might have said something that annoyed the other person, but it was never a big deal. We’d never had a real fight, which made my friendship with her the polar opposite of my friendship with Brynn. Brynn and I had been best friends since kindergarten, but we spent the whole last year fighting, and now we’re not friends at all.

As I thought about Brynn, it made me realize how lucky I’ve been to have Sophie here this year and how much I’m going to miss her. “I’m sorry I’ve been grumpy today,” I said to Sophie.

“I’m going to miss you too,” Sophie said, like she could read my mind. She pretend-pouted, so I did too. Then we both cracked up.

If you have to fight with somebody, that’s the way to do it.

10:02 p.m.

Dad just came into my room to remind me that tomorrow I turn fifteen, and that after school we have an appointment at the Alabama Department of Public Safety so I can get my driver’s permit. I can’t wait! The Driver’s Ed course Dad signed me up for doesn’t start until I get my cast off, but as soon as I pass the written exam, at least I’ll have my permit. I guess that’s a big assumption. Though I’m certain I’ll fall within the range of Alabamians who’ve passed this test, it’s possible my bad birthday luck could somehow strike. I don’t want to jinx myself, but I know the manual cold.

So I have to ask: what could possibly go wrong?