| |
Whether you were born on the 1st or the 31st, you have a Golden birthday. Some people call them Grand birthdays or Star birthdays because it’s when you turn the age of your birth date. Today is Friday, February 17th and I’m finally seventeen years old. Mama said that since it’s the year 2017, it’s called a Triple Golden birthday. She’s made this a big deal since the day I was born and we even skipped my Sweet Sixteen party just so we could celebrate this one.
Tonight, is my birthday party and Mama has invited everyone she knows. She’s sent about 250 invitations out and more than half of them said they were coming. This party has gotten so big that I almost don’t even want to have it anymore. I just want to chill with my best friends JJ, Jessa, and Xavier.
I stare at the red numbers on the alarm clock. The minute switches to 5:02. Oh God, why must you keep waking me up this early? My Gram used to tell me that when God wakes you up like this, he’s trying to tell you something.
I lay still, not making a sound. Nothing. If God’s talking, I need for him to turn up the volume ‘cause all I hear is birds chirping. Gram also told me to seek and I shall find, but all I’m trying to find right now is slumber.
It’s still dark outside. There is no light coming from anywhere except for the bright redness of this stupid clock. If there was the smell of coffee wafting into my room, I could understand why I keep waking up so early, but Mama doesn’t have coffee until 5:15. That’s the time she gets up to read in her reading chair, talk with my dad after his run, or sometimes she’ll practice a new recipe for the bakery that she works for, Kate’s Cake and Coffee.
But Mama’s not scheduled to go there today. She’ll only go to the bakery to pick up the cake she made for me. I hadn’t been allowed into the bakery because she wanted my cake to be a surprise.
I didn’t give her much to go on as far as decorating it. I don’t like pink or anything girly. My interests include baking—like my mom, reading—like my mom, and skating—not like my mom. My guess is that Mama will design a cake that looks like a book or a roller skate. Or maybe a car ‘cause I like cars, too. Whatever she designs I’m sure it will be show-stopping because I have absolute faith in her baking skills.
Looking at the clock again makes me want to throw my pillow, but instead, I use it to cover my head. I shut my eyes and try to conjure up a dream that’ll put me back to sleep. Visions of Trevor Watkins pop into my mind. His smooth brown skin, his dark, curly hair, and his one gold tooth on the right side of his mouth. My eyes pop open. I’m not really feelin’ the gold. It’s not even cute.
There’s a light tap on my door. “Come in,” I say, removing the pillow from my face.
Mama peeks her head into the room and the nightlight from the hallway shows the silhouette of her petite frame with her hair pulled into a low bun like always.
“You still waking up early, Buttercup?” she asks, her voice all chipper.
I don’t know how she does it; she’s as perky as a cup of coffee every day of the week. She doesn’t even need caffeine. People in our town affectionately started to call her “Honey” because she’s so sweet, kind, and bubbly towards everyone. “Yes,” I reply. “I keep trying to go back to sleep but I can’t.”
My bed goes down some as Mama sits in front of me. She always smells like cinnamon and vanilla as if she has some sort of secret baker perfume.
Mama pats my back. “Maybe you’re just excited about your Golden Birthday party tonight?”
Nah. That can’t be it. Mama took it upon herself to invite everyone from our church and other people in my Junior class. Being that she’s lived here all of her life, minus the few years we lived in Atlanta, she knows everyone. I don’t mind, but I’m not excited. Not enough to keep waking up like this.
Mama continues to rub my back. “Maybe this means you need to spend more time with me.” I pull the covers back and turn on my bedside lamp. The light shines on her high cheekbones, bringing a smile to her eyes. People tell me I have her smile, but I think they just say that to be nice. When most people see me, their expressions show up before their words.
I’m a highly noticeable person and I’m not bragging. All people do is notice me. The first thing they see is this white jagged shape on my left cheek. I have a skin disease called vitiligo. When I was about nine years old, I made the mistake of calling it “Bity Ly Goat,” but I know better now. It’s Vi-tee-lie-go or depending on who you talk to, it may be Vi-tuh-li-go. Either way, it’s a condition where your skin pigment changes.
I’m African American and my brown skin is very brown, but from my knees up to my thighs I’m white. Not like a tanned white, but more like the color of milk. Throughout my mid-section, I’m a map of the world with white continents and seas of cocoa. The stream of white decreases as it travels up my neck and then takes on the shape of what looks like the continent of Africa on my face.
No one has to tell me I’m hideous, I feel it. At first, I thought it was because we moved from Atlanta to Tennessee. I thought maybe there was a change happening in the atmosphere, but that didn’t make sense. It only happened to me. Not my parents.
The first day of third grade, dead in the hot heat of August, everyone was wearing uniform shorts but I was wearing pants. Instantly, I made enemies and not friends until I met JJ. He didn’t care what I looked like and befriended me immediately. And then I met Jessa the following year. She has vitiligo too, but hers is slightly less noticeable against her pale skin.
I was the one who got called all kinds of names, pushed in the mud, and laughed at. No one called me by my name. I wasn’t Clove anymore, I was Cracked Oreo, Cow, Casper, Ghost Whisperer, and because my dad has become a well-known youth minister throughout the city, I was later called PK for Preacher’s Kid. Unfortunately, PK stuck and got slurred to “Pink-ay” and later “Pinky.” I hate that name, but thankfully none of my friends have ever called me that.
I look at Mama, sitting on my bed. Her skin is all one, smooth, brown color and her smile is so big that it could make the heavens open up. She stops rubbing my back. “I have an idea. How about we make breakfast together? We could do cinnamon rolls or butter croissants?”
Oh gosh, cinnamon rolls take forever. The dough has to rise, then you have to roll them out, make the cinnamon mixture, spread the mixture, roll, cut, then they need to rise again. Followed by making the icing. It’s too much. But then, what else am I doing except lying here wondering why I’m awake? Some time with mom might be good.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Fine. Just let me put on some pants.”
Mama claps her hands in anticipation. “I’ll go get the ingredients ready. We can make ‘em with extra cinnamon like you like and do any icing you want.”
She is spoiling me, but I love it. Being an only child has its perks sometimes. I grab her hand before she gets up and she waits.
“Yes?” she smiles.
I hug her. “Thanks, for all that you’re doing. I love you.”
Mama holds on to me for a while and kisses the top of my head. “Don’t mention it. C’mon, let’s roll!”
I shake my head at her corny bakery joke.