Inspired by my mother
(I do not mean to offend Raquelles in the world and the characters are real and fictional and the events are all fiction. Still could happen though… Enjoy!)
“I don’t get it. It’s just a day, right? Is it worth celebrating?” I mumble to myself. I know what you’re thinking. Yes! Yes! No! Why? Why celebrate the day you were born? Today is my birthday, and I’m having a cake and party. But why? I DON’T want one!
The sun’s out, shining like a light-bulb, the grass is as green as neon paint, and my porch is glistening from dewdrops. I walk downstairs, mumbling to myself, “Why? It’s just a day?” I inhale the steamy scent of cake when I step into the kitchen. My mother beams at me and shouts,
“Good morning! Happy birthday, Kelly!” I roll my eyes at her but even though I’m sure she notices, she doesn’t do anything but turns back to icing the cake. I try to pull the old trick and groan, saying,
“Mommy? I don’t feel so good. Maybe we should cancel the party.” She swivels around, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Don’t give me any of that, missy, after I spent the whole night making this cake. No sirry-bob!” she says viciously with a smile. She turns around again, baking away. I groan and stomp away. I’m interrupted by my big, teenager sister who, for the first time in a long time, smiled at me.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!” she shouts. I stare at her. Is she.. can it be.. being… nice to me?! I stutter in surprise,
“Um, thanks, Ellie…” Why were people acting this way? Could my birthday have enchanted their minds into being nice?
The doorbell rings. I’m dressed in my birthday summer dress with flowers sprinkled on it. I smooth my dress out and open the door, only to be pushed down by the stampeding crowd of students. I gawk at how many people actually came! My jaw falls open, like a toddler who lets go of a balloon, when I see my archenemy, Raquelle, standing with an armful of presents. She dumps them in my arms. I glare at her and remember why she was my archenemy. She had painted all over me on “accident”, told me that my hair looked like it was on fire, and told everyone that we had pet mice and that my family was a coven of ugly hags. I remember she’s still there and she says sassily,
“Where IS the dessert table? Surely you have one?!” I glare at her before saying, with gritted teeth,
“No, Raquelle, you’ll have to wait PATIENTLY.” She scoffs, flips her hair, and stomps away, chatting with the other girls. Her long black hair floats behind her, unlike her red and black jacket which stays stiff. I, mockingly, scoff at her back and stomp away. THIS is why I don’t like parties.
“Let’s play some games!” my mom cheers. Turns out we play Twister and it was going hot between Raquelle and me. We glare at each other before I secretly knee her in the chest. She falls down, and I win.
“She cheated!” Raquelle blubbers, about to cry. Nobody listens to her, so she sobs, running to her house. I smile, and for the first time, I think I’m liking this birthday thing.