Happy Birthday . . .

 . . . to me. Eighteen. Mom insisted on a party to which she invited my aunt, uncle, two young bratty cousins; Cameron and his ever-present girlfriend Eunice; and Griffin whom I hadn’t seen in a month. I surprised myself by inviting Gus Ligety and Penelope, who turned out to be two of my new best friends, at least in school. And Fritzy. I invited Alana first, but she and Bryce were going to a concert with long-ago purchased tickets.

I wouldn’t have invited both Alana and Fritzy to my party. I don’t know why exactly. Neither was my girlfriend, and neither would be jealous of the other. I guess it was the off chance one of them might say the wrong thing to me about the other. It felt safer to keep them apart.

Fritzy also had other plans, but she canceled them. In fairness, they didn’t involve long-ago purchased-tickets.

“Couldn’t pass up your birthday party,” she said. “Other people can wait.”

“Other people,” it turned out, was one of the two giant guys she was currently dating. She didn’t talk much about them like other girls did. Any information I had about her dating life, I had to drag out of her. I hadn’t actually seen them, but I imagined them as giants. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t.

The party was what you’d imagine. An outdoor barbecue taking advantage of the still warm summer nights. A cake Mom labored over and served with ice cream. Fritzy showed up in her black Tacoma truck. The one that could have transported my bike home after that first fateful game of HORSE. Griffin, who had transferred to Fritzy’s school, was in awe. Fritzy was the star athlete at their school, he told me when we were alone in the kitchen. She had a lock on a full-ride scholarship, the colleges were already circling like vultures. The child’s voice that lived inside my head spoke to Alana when I heard that. I’ll match my Fritzy against your Bryce any day, it said. Everyone at the party was in awe of Fritzy, and she didn’t even have to open her mouth to make it happen. Although she did. Plenty. Mainly for eating, but talking also.

For me, the highlight was the present from Mom. Her old car. She bought a new (used) one for herself. At last, I was officially mobile at the age of eighteen. I got other presents too—a basketball from Fritzy; my own yoga mat from Penelope and Gus so I wouldn’t have to sit on someone else’s “sweaty buttprint,” Penelope had explained (ha, ha, ha); a hundred bucks from my aunt and uncle; and some new graphic novels of the variety Cameron, Griffin, and I once enjoyed together. After a year or two they’d lost interest, but I was forever hooked on that medium which told a story with emotional punch and raw intensity like no other.

Everyone stayed really late, chilling on the patio until after midnight. At some point my phone vibrated, and Pirkle’s number came up. I went inside to take the call, wondering why he was calling at such a late hour.

“Mr. Pirkle?”

Silence on the other end and then, “Who’s this?”

“It’s me, Mr. Pirkle. Hudson Wheeler. Is everything okay?”

Another long silence. “Who are you? Why are you calling?”

“You called me, Mr. Pirkle. Did you mean to call me?”

“I can see her from here,” he said. “Come over to see for yourself.”

“See who, Mr. Pirkle?”

Fritzy wandered into the house and stared at me.

“Do you really have to ask? Don’t you know what’s going on?” Pirkle said.

Then the same noises that come along with a butt dial. Clunking and whooshing. A voice (voices?) in the background. I hung up and dialed his home phone. It rang and rang. No answer.

“Pirkle?” Fritzy asked. “Something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I think he might be drunk and maybe butt-dialed me. He’s done it before.”

“I was just leaving. When I get home I’ll look and see if there’s anything unusual. I’ll let you know.”

The text that came about fifteen minutes later was mostly reassuring.

“Don’t see anything strange,” Fritzy texted. “Saw a flashlight beam bopping around upstairs for a minute, but now everything’s dark.”