At 3:36 this afternoon
Stacey will turn thirteen.
She wanted to come to the drugstore
and share a banana split to celebrate
the moment of her birth.
Today is also that soda jerk’s day off,
so I feel okay being here.
But I wish I didn’t have to think about
where not to go.
“What do you want for your birthday?” I ask.
I hope she says earrings, because
last week I’d bought her some, and
they’re in my pocketbook.
She slices the banana with her spoon.
“I really want the Cream album
but Daddy says it’s devil music, so I know I won’t get it.”
“My dad has that one. It’s cool.”
“Then I’ll have to listen to it at your house,” she says,
tipping her spoon at me.
“Sure,” I say, happy that she’ll be over again.
We eat more ice cream
and I ask, “Are you going to have a party?”
It would be my first one here.
She pokes the banana with her spoon, then mumbles,
“I don’t know . . . not today, anyway.”
Then she turns bright red
and buries her face in her arm.
“I’m so sorry, Mimi,” she sobs.
“Why—what happened?” I ask.
She lifts her head and wipes her nose with a napkin
and looks at me with red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m having a party Saturday,
but . . . didn’t ask you.”
“Oh,” I say, guessing why.
“Mimi, you’re my best friend,
but Mother—she’s so old-fashioned.
I wanted you to be there so bad,
but I knew she’d say no.”
This soda fountain hasn’t been good to me.
And now I know
that Stacey wanted me to come here on her birthday
because I couldn’t go to her house for her party.
The clock says 3:38. The moment has passed.
I put Stacey’s present on the counter
and say, “Happy birthday.”
But I don’t say things like “I thought we were friends” and
“I hope it rains at your party,”
because then I’d feel worse than I do now.
And because angry words are like minutes on the clock—
once you use them, you can’t get them back.