11 Birthdays

by Wendy Mass

  I can’t deal with this now. I have a party to get through. Again.

  With shaking hands, I pull out two Band-Aids from the medicine cabinet and put them on my heels. I slip on the shoes, which feel a little more bearable now. Kylie walks out of her room in her Little Mermaid costume, and I realize I’ve taken so much time getting ready that I never made it into Mom and Dad’s room to complain about the party.

  “Are you okay?” Kylie asks, peering closely at me. “You’ve been weird all day. I mean, weirder than usual.”

  I back up a few steps. “It’s been a weird day. I don’t feel very well.”

  She reaches up to adjust her red mermaid wig. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun at your party. You’re only eleven once, ya know.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I mutter.

  The doorbell rings but I let Mom answer it. While my friends file down to the basement I lock myself in the bathroom and splash water on my face. In the movies that’s what people always do when they find themselves in a situation they can’t figure out. All it does for me is make the front of my costume wet.

  On my way past the front door I see a shadow outside scurrying away. I open the door to find a stack of wrapped boxes and gift bags. I drag them inside and shut the door louder than probably necessary.

  This time I see Kylie slip out after Mom brings down the punch and ice cream. When Stephanie asks me if it’s okay to go to Leo’s I barely hear her. It’s like my brain is buzzing and blocking everything out.

  Just when I think I’m going to lose it completely, the party ends. I linger downstairs, waiting for Mom to come back down. I think I better tell her what’s going on. But when she sees me and starts telling me about losing her job, I chicken out. I tell myself this is some bizarre once-in-a-lifetime thing, and tomorrow everything will be normal again.

  Back in my room, I pull off my costume, ball it up, and throw it in the trash. I toss the shoes on top, along with the little wicker basket. I lock my door this time and double-check that the alarm clock is turned off. Then I put on my pj’s, climb into bed, and sink down onto the pillow. With one last glance at the closet to make sure it’s securely closed, I shut my eyes tight.

  I have a strange feeling the SpongeBob balloon is laughing at me.

  Chapter Eight

  Hurrah! I’m awake and my alarm didn’t go- off! I woke up all on my own, which means it must be Saturday! Whatever happened yesterday is over and done with and I can put it behind me. It must still be early because it’s still dark in my room, but I’m too happy to go back to sleep. Might as well open those presents! I swing my legs off the side of the bed and bump directly into SpongeBob.

  NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

  I grab him, stick him back in the closet, and slam the door. I hold my breath and peer into the trash can next to my desk where I threw my costume last night.

  Empty.

  Maybe I dreamed the last two days and today is really my birthday? Trembling, I reach down to feel the backs of my ankles. Band-Aids on both. I sit down on my bed and begin to cry. This is no dream or déjà vu. I never had psychic powers. I can finally accept that now.

  Ten seconds later, my alarm beeps. I want to throw it across the room. I can’t do this over again. I just can’t. I crawl back into bed and throw the covers over my head. Why is every day my eleventh birthday? And why doesn’t anyone else realize it? Why is this happening to me, of all people? I’m not special in any way. Well, I can touch my nose with my tongue, but that’s pretty much it.

  A little while later Mom comes in and asks me why I’m not up. I say the first thing that comes to my mind. “I don’t feel well. My head hurts.” It’s not even a lie. My head does hurt from thinking so hard.

  She feels my cheeks, cold from crying. “You do feel clammy.”

  “Maybe I have what Dad has,” I say weakly.

  “How do you know your father’s sick? He was fine last night.”

  “I heard him coughing in his sleep,” I say quickly. Then I cough a few times for good measure. “I think I’d better stay home.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t you have gymnastics tryouts? And your party! You can’t miss your own party!”

  “I feel really sick, Mom. I don’t mind not having the party. And let’s face it, I’m not going to make the gymnastics team.”

  I can see her weighing the options. I focus on looking sickly.

  “I won’t be here to take care of you,” she finally says. “And your father is useless when he’s sick. Mrs. Grayson down the street will have to take you to the doctor.”

  Ugh, going to the doctor is worse than school. But today I’ll take it. “That’s okay. I like Mrs. Grayson.”

  Mom sighs and checks her watch. “Okay, I’ll call the school and the doctor, and then I have to run.” She leans down and kisses me on top of my head. “Try to have a happy birthday, sweetheart. I’ll call your friends’ parents from my office and let them know. We’ll figure out a date to reschedule your party when I get home.” She closes the door behind her and I push myself up. No school today! No more pretending I don’t know that a stuffed raccoon lives at the Historical Society. No more humiliating gymnastics tryouts. No more telling myself it doesn’t hurt every time I see Leo on what used to be our special day.

  What a relief.

  But reality returns all too fast. What am I going to do? Why is it always my birthday and never the day AFTER my birthday? I think it’s time I told someone. I put on my robe and slippers and go off in search of Dad. I find him on a stool at the kitchen counter, reading his paper.

  “Happy birthday, honey!” he says, reaching into his robe pocket for a tissue.

  “Uh-huh. Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course.” He blows his nose. “How are you feeling? You must be pretty sick to want to cancel your party.”

  I shrug, unable to lie to him. “How ’bout you?”

  He points to his nose. It’s red and raw already.

  “That’s pretty gross, Dad.”

  He takes a long sip of tea, studying me over the rim. I squirm a bit. “So let me guess what you want to talk about,” he says, laying the cup down. “You want to admit you canceled your party tonight so you don’t have to compete with Leo’s. Mom told me he’s having a pretty big bash.”

  It would be so much easier to tell him he’s right. I shake my head.

  “Really? Okay. What’s up then?”

  “Um, you know how it’s my eleventh birthday today?”

  He nods. “I do.”

  Here comes the hard part. I take a deep breath. “The thing is … yesterday was my birthday, too. And the day before.”

  “Sorry, come again?”

  “My birthday is, like, repeating itself. Every time I wake up, it’s Friday, June fifth again.” It doesn’t sound any less strange saying it the second time.

  Dad folds his paper neatly, tucks it under his arm, and stands up. “Honey,” he says kindly, putting his arm around my shoulders. “I know this fight with Leo has been hard on you. He’s been like a brother to you, and now, well, he’s not in your life.”

  Huh? Didn’t he hear me? “Dad, I already told you, this isn’t about Leo.”

  He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “You probably have a pretty good fever, too. I was delirious around three o’clock this morning.” He steers me out of the kitchen toward the stairs. “You just need a good nap. I’ll wake you when it’s time to get dressed for the doctor.”

  “But —”

  “Get some rest.” He leaves me with a final pat on the head.

  My shoulders sag as I walk back to my room. I hadn’t expected him not to believe me. I guess it’s just too crazy to be true. But how come it is, then?

  I try for over an hour to get back to sleep, but my head is spinning. Unfamiliar with rule breaking, I still feel guilty for making my parents think I’m sick. But actually, if this is the third time I’ve relived Friday, then today really should be Sunday. And what do people do on Sundays
? They relax. I deserve to relax, too.

  The Dorothy costume is lying on my desk where it always is in the morning. This time I pick it up and smile. “I won’t be seeing YOU today!” I declare, scrunching it into my drawer. I push aside the jeans and T-shirt I’d worn over the last two days. If I’m not going to follow my usual routine, I might as well wear something different, too. Even though my life has gone from boring and predictable to totally insane and unreal, there’s something freeing about being home on a school day. I turn on the radio and do a little dance around my room. I’d love to go downstairs to play my drums, but that doesn’t seem like something a sick person could get away with.

  I sit down on the bed, not sure what to do now. That’s the thing about pretending to be sick. You’re limited to sick-person activities, which is basically lying around watching television or reading. I could do my homework, but it would just be undone again tomorrow. I mean, when tomorrow is today again. I let out a huge sigh. What do you call it when every tomorrow is both tomorrow and today? And every today is both today and yesterday? I shake my head. It’s enough to make me truly feel sick. I look at the clock. I’ve missed the pop quiz.

  Well, if all I can do is watch television, I might as well get started. The one in the den downstairs is the best. As I pass Kylie’s closed door I slow to a stop. Carefully, with a glance behind me to make sure Dad’s not nearby, I push open the door. Yup, there it is, sitting on the floor by her bed. I pause for a second and then run in and grab the small purple notebook. KEEP OUT OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES. Hey, what could Kylie do to me that would be worse than reliving this day over and over?

  I skip to the end to read the latest entry. Her handwriting is as messy as her room. Dear Diary, it starts.

  Tomorrow is Amanda’s 11th birthday. For some reason it’s a dorky costume party, like it’s Halloween in June! I’m going as the Little Mermaid. I tried on my costume last night after everyone went to bed. When I looked in the mirror it didn’t even look like me, especially with the red wig on. It was kind of cool to see someone else instead of my boring face with my eyes too close together and that one ear that sticks out too far. Amanda doesn’t know how lucky she is, only being eleven. I wish I were eleven again. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about why Dustin likes Alyssa and not me. When he came over after dinner to work on our project, I wore my new lipstick and my new shirt from Abercrombie (which is really soft and Mom says brings out my eyes), but I don’t think it worked. If he sits with Alyssa on the bus again I’ll just die. Even though all my friends say not to, I’m going to ask him to the dance today during gym class. Wish me luck, diary!

  I lay the book in my lap. The pages flutter closed. Just when I thought life was as weird as it’s going to get, my sister surprises me by actually being insecure. Even though I haven’t really thought much about the whole “wanting boys to like me” thing, it’s obvious Kylie’s thought about it a lot. It doesn’t sound like fun. I even feel sorry for her, which is something I don’t ever remember feeling before. She’s wrong about it being fun to turn eleven, though. She should try doing it THREE TIMES IN A ROW! I rest the book down exactly where I found it and tiptoe back out.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when the phone rings. Dad picks it up then calls my name. I hurry into the den, where he’s now lying on the couch. So much for my plans of watching TV in there. “It’s Stephanie,” he says, handing me the phone.

  I take the phone outside into the backyard and lie down on a plastic lounge chair. I’ve barely said hello when she starts in. “Where are you? Don’t you know it’s your birthday? Everyone’s asking for you. Your locker’s decorated, Emma brought you a cupcake for lunchtime, and most important,” she raises her voice, “WE HAVE TRYOUTS TODAY!”

  I wait till she’s run out of steam. Then I cough. “I’m sick. Party’s off. No tryouts. I’m sorry.”

  “What? How can you be sick? I just saw you last night. You were fine.”

  A yellow bird flies by. It’s a really nice day out. I hadn’t appreciated that before, when I was stuck in school. I cough again. “I woke up with it, there’s nothing I can do about it. And something tells me I wouldn’t have done very well in tryouts.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Are you doing this because of Leo?”

  “No!” I yell a bit too loudly. “It has nothing to do with him. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  “Is it because you really wanted to try out for marching band?”

  I sigh. “No, seriously, I’m just really not feeling well today. But good luck at the tryouts, I know you’ll do great.”

  “It won’t be the same without you,” she insists.

  “Where are you calling me from, by the way?” Neither of us is allowed a cell phone until we’re twelve.

  “I snuck into the guidance counselor’s office to use her phone,” she says, suddenly lowering her voice. “She’s coming down the hall, I better go. Hey, wait.” She pauses for a second. “Mrs. Philips left her appointment book open. It says here Leo has an appointment today after school.”

  “Yeah, I saw him come out of there yesterday. Probably meeting about next year’s schedule.”

  “He was here yesterday, too?” I hear pages flipping. “It doesn’t say that in the book.”

  Oops! “Oh, right, I’m just confused. You better go. You don’t want to get caught.”

  “Okay,” she whispers. “Feel better and I’ll call you after tryouts.” She hangs up right as I hear, “Young lady, what are you doing in my office?”

  I click off the phone and lay it down next to me. I hope Stephanie doesn’t get into trouble. Leaning back in the chair, I tilt my face to the sun until I feel its warmth spread across my cheeks. I could get used to this.

  After a few more minutes of relishing the fact that I’m not in math class right now, I go back inside and scarf down two muffins and a tall glass of orange juice. Dad is snoring on the couch. Realizing I left the phone by the lounge chair, I go out to retrieve it. The gymnastics mat that Stephanie loaned me is still spread out on the lawn. Now that I don’t have to deal with the pressure of doing a back handspring in front of the coach, it could be fun to see if I can do it on my own. Dad’s sleeping, so he won’t see me doing something sick people shouldn’t do. I pull off my socks and grip the edges of the mat with my toes. Okay, bend knees, power down with arms, and go!

  I land flat on my back. I may have just attempted my last back handspring.

  “Ahem,” a woman’s voice says.

  Chapter Nine

  I shield the sun from my eyes and look up. First I see the work boots, then the jeans, then the red flannel shirt, then the silver-and-black hair. Mrs. Grayson. She’s always dressed for gardening, even on a warm day like this. Since her husband died a few years ago, she pretty much gardens all day. “Um, hi,” I say, reddening.

  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” she says, as I hurriedly put my socks back on. “Your mother had you at death’s door.”

  I redden some more and look down. “Yes, I’m feeling a little better.”

  “Well, we’d better keep your appointment anyway, just to make sure.”

  I nod, still not meeting her gaze. “Let me get my shoes.”

  A few minutes later I’m standing in her driveway waiting for her to back her car out of the garage. I expected her to drive something sensible and environmentally friendly. Instead she backs out in a bright orange Jaguar. My mouth falls open.

  I cautiously get in the car, afraid to touch the wood or leather, which is what everything seems to be made of. It feels like I’m sitting on a cloud. She laughs when she sees my expression.

  “I call this little beauty ‘Late-life Crisis.’ A car like this has got to have a name, you know. I never had a midlife crisis because I was too happy, so that’s where she gets her name. It was either this car or a tattoo.”

  “A tattoo? Wow!” Boy, you never really know people.

  She laughs again. “I was just kid
ding on the tattoo.”

  I redden again. “Oh. Right. Well, it’s a really nice car.”

  She pats the dashboard fondly. “Thank you.”

  We don’t talk much on the five-minute drive. I cough once or twice, but my heart isn’t in it. Dr. Frieling sees me right away, and I try not to gag on the flat stick he lays on my tongue. He feels the sides of my neck and checks my eyes and ears. I have to breathe deeply while he listens to my lungs. Basically the usual checkup. When he’s done he announces with a grin, “Well, my dear. I believe you’ve had a miraculous recovery. Or what we call in this business, ‘a gullible mother.’”

  He herds me out of the office, leaving me no chance to explain that, truly, my head did hurt this morning and I’m going through a very tough time. “To be on the safe side,” he says as he makes a note on my chart, “lay low this weekend, don’t overexert yourself. You’ll no doubt be anxious to go to school on Monday.” He winks, and then calls, “Next!”

  Sure, easy enough for him to say. How can I lay low on a weekend THAT NEVER COMES?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Mrs. Grayson asks on the ride home.

  I shake my head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  I shake my head again.

  “You know, my grandmother Bessy used to be friends with your great-great-grandmother, the one you were named after.”

  This catches my attention. I don’t know much about my dad’s family. All I know is that many generations of Ellerbys grew up in Willow Falls, but my dad’s parents moved away right after my dad was born. The only reason he and my mom moved back here is because Dad was offered a job nearby. Over the years I’ve heard a few people in town ask him if he was related to the Ellerbys who used to live in the Apple Grove section of town, and my dad will say yes, and the people will nod, sort of knowingly, sort of impressed, but I never paid much attention. And that was as far as the conversations went.