You Wish

by Mandy Hubbard

  “Argh.” I roll my eyes and stomp past my brother, heading down the hall and the stairs and through the family room. By the time I’m standing on the back patio, I feel like I’ve exited the house and stepped into a Selena Gomez movie. I don’t even recognize the space anymore. On a normal day, our nondescript house is perched in the middle of a big half-acre corner lot, the perfectly green lawn framed with a tall cedar fence.

  Today, though, instead of the empty grassy expanse, there is a big white tent in the middle, long strands of pink and white lights draped between it and the house. There are pink flowers tied to the cedar fence line and some kind of punch fountain near the door, already pumping gallons of pink liquid. Pink and white confetti litters the tables.

  A DJ is playing really bad pop music under the tent, a strobe light and disco ball flashing out onto the empty floor. The round tables, flanked with folding white chairs, are perched all over the place, each of them with a pink floral centerpiece.

  My mom is one of those super-feminine women who love pink. Once my dad was gone, she completely redid the master bedroom in pink wallpaper, with a bunch of pink and white pillows on her pink–and-yellow-plaid bed set.

  In other words, we totally don’t get each other.

  She told me about a hundred times how she’d never had a sweet-sixteen party. And now I think I know what it would look like if she’d had one.

  I wonder how many episodes of Sweet Sixteen she watched in order to pull this off.

  Seriously. This is a bit . . . over the top, even for my mom. It’s like something from High School Musical. The pre-packaged version of a sweet sixteen. Just add water. And, well, a birthday girl who belongs on Disney, not the one standing in the yard right now, staring at the middle-aged DJ.

  “What do you think, honey?” my mom says, appearing beside me like a magician, except without the puff of smoke. My mom normally does bar mitzvahs and corporate events. It’s clear this one is a little out of her comfort zone, and by the tension in her voice, she knows it.

  “Now you know I’ve never done a sweet sixteen, so you’ll have to bear with me if the details aren’t just right. You just let me know, and I’ll fix everything I can, okay?”

  Ugh. The harder she tries, the more awkward I feel. I blink a few times and keep staring at the backyard. Or what was the backyard. There are guests milling about, only a few of whom I recognize. I’m starting to think my mom may have put something like Pretty in Pink on the invitations, because there is an absurdly high ratio of pink clothes on the guests.

  “It’s, um, great.” I chew on my lip. I’m certain I don’t know some of these people. “Who is that?” I ask, nodding toward a tall guy in a suit with a bright-pink tie and a matching pink handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. He’s wearing thick glasses and his gray hair is slicked back in a no-nonsense way. It somehow makes the pink accents seem all the more hilarious. He does not look ready to party. He looks like he’s going to negotiate a better rate on his mortgage.

  “Oh, I invited a few clients out. The sweet-sixteen market is huge, and I think I can really get my name out there. I hope you don’t mind?” she says. Her eyes dart over to me for approval. “I thought if we were throwing this big party anyway, it would kill two birds with one stone.”

  My heart sinks. It’s all for her business.

  These last few weeks, I’ve been trying to convince her to cancel the thing and just go to Red Robin, but she’s been oddly insistent. And now it makes sense. Because she needed this event. It’s about that stupid day planner and BlackBerry.

  It didn’t used to bother me that she was so wrapped up in it. If the phone rang while we were having dinner, I didn’t even roll my eyes when she answered—even though she won’t let me or my brother answer our cells at the table. Because the thing is, there was a time that my dad being MIA really tore her up, and she moped around for months. Then she threw herself into creating a business so that she could return my dad’s alimony checks, a big refused scrawled across the envelope. The first time she did it, we all went out to celebrate.

  But it’s been years since that happened, and now nothing is ever good enough—if she builds her name in one event, she has to add another and another, until every single day of the week consists of her running around in a frenzy. The fridge is filled with leftover pizza and Chinese takeout, and her bed is hardly ever slept in. I don’t think she’s ever slowed down long enough to use that big Jacuzzi she had installed in her showpiece master bathroom.

  I shrug, biting back the words I want to say. There’s no point in fighting with her. I’ll just have to make it through tonight and pretend this ridiculous party never happened. In an hour, Nicole will be here, and we can entertain ourselves. “It’s okay.”

  Or at least . . . it was. Until I see a slim, petite woman walking toward me, a blinding smile on her face. She’s wearing crisp khaki pants with a bright-pink paisley-print top, her hair coiffed in a style that must have taken at least a half gallon of Aqua-Net. She’s still a good thirty feet away, but she’s throwing her arms out to give my mother a hug.

  It’s not this woman who concerns me, though. It’s the girl walking behind her, her arms crossed and her black strappy heels sinking in the lawn. She’s not wearing pink at all, just a simple black halter top and a pair of expensive, well-fitted jeans.

  I swallow, trying to maintain my calm as the bane of my existence looks up and meets my eyes.

  It takes her a moment to realize it’s me standing on the patio, but when she does, her scowl transforms into a look of surprise . . . then delight.

  I am so screwed.

  My mom beams when she sees the woman. “Jean! So pleased you could make it.”

  The woman does one of those weird air kisses, like she’s in France or something, and my mom doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course! This is beautiful, Linda. Just beautiful. Although we’ll need more flowers for Janae’s party. And we were just saying that the punch fountain seems a bit . . . outdated?”

  Oh God. They’re critiquing my party. Janae is standing to the side of her mother, her lips quivering as if she can’t believe how lucky she is to be here, seeing me in this girly outfit, pointing out my outdated punch bowl—er, fountain.

  My mother is nodding as if she totally agrees that it is outdated. But I know she picked it out herself because I heard her on the phone. “Yes, Kayla wanted the fountain. You know how our girls can be, don’t you?”

  My jaw drops, but my mom doesn’t even notice because she’s already turning away from me, her arm entwined with Jean’s. “We can talk more specifics later this evening. You’re going to stay for a bit? I’d like to discuss the sort of theme we might do for Janae’s party. I’ve heard Twilight is very popular. We could do vampires.”

  I swallow. She has got to be kidding me.

  Janae steps toward me. “Oh, sure, vampires. Sounds hot.”

  My mom beams, totally missing the sarcastic tone in Janae’s voice.

  Where is Nicole? I glance at my watch. She promised she’d only be an hour late, tops. That means I probably have fifteen more minutes to go before she arrives. I can make it that long, right?

  I must go straight back to my room and put jeans on. Right this minute, so at least I can feel normal. Standing out here with Janae is like standing on a pier and watching a tidal wave come roaring toward you. You know it’s going to ruin everything, but there’s nothing you can do about it unless a magical helicopter shows up and swoops in to save you. And since magical helicopters rank right up there with getting an A in biology and Ben professing his love for me, my outlook seems pretty dark.

  “Let’s leave these girls to chat, and I’ll give you the tour so we can talk about your options,” my mom says, throwing me to the wolves.

  I watch them wind their way into the crowd, wondering when exactly I lost any hope of enjoying this party. It was somewhere between third grade and five seconds ago.

  “Nice party. I feel so bad that I missed Pin the Tail
on the Donkey.” Janae motions to the punch bowl—er, fountain—and roses. “Although this does explain a lot.”

  I grind my teeth. It won’t help to tell her it was all my mom’s idea, because that just makes me look twelve years old.

  The strange thing is, I once wanted to be friends with Janae. Back in elementary school, she was just a sweet, normal girl. I found her on the playground once, trying to get a fallen baby bird back into its nest. We combined forces and she distracted the janitor while I “borrowed” a step stool and raced out to the playground with it. I held on to the rickety stool while Janae climbed up and put the bird back in its nest, and then we patted ourselves on the back for our commitment to animal welfare.

  For a couple days, things were a little different. We voluntarily worked together on a spelling assignment, and she even asked me to sit with her at lunch one day. But a few days later the school year ended and we never swapped phone numbers, and that’s the summer she grew boobs and became a snob. I think she went to France or something, which explains her mom’s penchant for air-kiss greetings.

  I take a sip of the Diet Coke I’ve been practically crushing in my fist. We’re just standing there, side by side, me barely breathing and Janae with one hand cocked up on her hip, and that’s when the tidal wave officially swallows me whole. “So what, your one friend couldn’t show up?” Janae turns and gives me a long, appraising look.

  The edge of her mouth quivers a little as she crosses her arms and leans on one heel, her head tipped to the side.

  For once, I’m at a loss for words. Janae’s smile widens as she realizes that my usual quick-fire retort has not materialized.

  “Why are you such a bitch?” I hiss. I can feel my face flaming and I don’t even care.

  Janae smirks down at me from her perfect, model, five-foot ten height. Is she wearing seven-inch heels or did I just shrink? “I’d rather be a bitch than a Big. Fat. Zero.”

  I blink a few times, but I remain composed. At least on the outside.

  “My mother dragged me here because your mom was her sorority sister. It’s officially your fault I’m missing the scrimmage against Victor Falls High.” Janae spins on her monstrous heel and stalks away, tossing her shiny, mahogany-colored hair over her shoulder as she walks into the crowd.

  Well.

  If I were a glass-half-full type, I might say the good thing about my sixteenth birthday is that every future birthday is bound to be better.

  But right now I’m not even feeling like the glass is half empty—I’m feeling like I want to break the damn glass. Over Janae’s perfect little head.

  4

  FOR THE NEXT two and a half hours, I stand at the edge of the patio, my arms crossed, trying desperately to keep from scowling at everyone, including my mom. She flashes me a thumbs-up and a wide, dazzling smile as she walks by, a stack of her business cards in one hand.

  She’s poised and perfect, just like always, not a hair out of place, not a speck of dirt on her tailored red suit jacket.

  Somewhere between Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus, I’ve realized that Janae will never actually let my mom plan her sweet sixteen even if her mom did pledge the same sorority as my mom. Janae thinks of herself as edgy, and the whole thing is far too 2007 for her tastes.

  Mine too, frankly. And my mom should know that. She’s trying so hard and has obviously done hours and hours of research.

  But all she needed to do was ask me. Ask me what kind of decorations I wanted, ask me what songs the DJ should play.

  But she’d never do that. Because she never talks to me, she just talks at me.

  I’ve lost every ounce of patience. I don’t want to talk to another random stranger who doesn’t even realize I’m the birthday girl.

  And I am so mad at Nicole right now. She should have arrived at least two hours ago, but there’s no sign of her.

  I flip open my phone and send her another text, what must be the twentieth one tonight:

  Please tell me Timmy fell down the well and you’re busy rescuing him.

  Five minutes ago, I sent: Did the birds eat your trail of bread crumbs and now you’re lost in the woods?

  Ten minutes before that, I sent: If you’re late because Shia LeBeouf decided to join you guys for dinner, I expect pictorial proof.

  I’ve flipped open my cell phone about nine hundred times, but I haven’t missed a call and she hasn’t answered any of my snarkalicious texts.

  She ditched me for some fancy dinner and left me to suffer through this party on my own, and she doesn’t even have the courtesy to text an apology. If she were here, we could roll our eyes at all these ridiculous things, and she could pretend she doesn’t feel well and I could act like I need to hang out inside with her. The DJ could keep right on playing this horrible music, and my mom could keep entertaining clients.

  What is she doing right now that is so important she couldn’t leave? Eating soufflé? Gazing into Ben’s soulful blue eyes? Running her perfectly manicured fingers through his perfect, spiky blond hair?

  Thank God, I’ve hardly spent much time with both of them. Because I bet reality is even worse than my imagination.

  She swore she’d be here, and she’s not.

  On top of that, my mom just walked right past me and didn’t even make eye contact because she was discussing ways for some guy to bond his employees through team-building exercises. Yeah. That so belongs at my party.

  Even my brother has ignored me: He came outside for about forty-five seconds, long enough to fill a plate with food and disappear again. Not that I was going to hang out with him or anything, but he could have at least tossed a “happy birthday” in my direction.

  I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here.

  Every time someone rounds the corner of the house—entering the backyard through the side gate—my heart speeds up for a millisecond and I perk up, hoping it’s Nicole and Ben.

  But it never is.

  Suddenly I hear my mother’s voice, magnified by a microphone.

  “Kayla? Will the real birthday girl please stand up?”

  Oh God. Was she parodying “Slim Shady”? Please make this not be my life.

  Now that everyone’s turned in my direction, I make my way through the crowd, onto the parquet floor, underneath the disco ball. Everyone has gathered around, and the DJ, wearing a sequined teal vest over a white tuxedo shirt, is standing next to the biggest cake I’ve ever seen in real life.

  It’s pink. With white fluffy frosted flowers cascading down all four layers. Sixteen candles—four on each layer—are lit and glowing. I think I’ve seen this exact cake on an episode of Made on MTV.

  My mom is standing next to it, a grin on her face so big that I think her face might crack. “Do you like it? It’s custom,” she says. “Cream cheese frosting.”

  I swallow and nod, staring at the pink mammoth of confectionary perfection. Cream cheese frosting is the only thing about the cake that she got right.

  The DJ starts up the “Happy Birthday” song, and the crowd joins in. It feels like they’re getting closer and louder as the song goes on, and I want to run away from it all. I’m not a center stage kind of person.

  When they get to the part about my name, the crowd falters, and I hear at least a few of them call me Kelly, while the rest say no name at all, and it makes a lump grow in my throat, threatening to choke me. I feel like such a fool, standing here, surrounded by people who don’t even know my name.

  The song ends and I’m still staring at the cake, my eyes beginning to sting a little. When I finally look up, a movement catches my eye.

  Nicole and Ben have finally arrived, three hours after the party started. They’re standing near the edge of the crowd, overdressed for my birthday, so I know they came straight here from their fancy dinner. Ben looks a little awkward in a white shirt and red tie, while Nicole looks right at home in a sleeveless red dress and silver stilettos. She must be freezing, but she’s standing there as
if it’s August and not late September.

  She leans into him, her long blonde hair brushing against his shirt, and he wraps his arm around her, kissing her temple.

  They look so perfect together: both tall, blond, attractive. And I’m standing over here, looking totally dumpy in a reject Old Navy dress with a horrible hairdo.

  “Make a wish, honey!” my mom says, completely oblivious to my distress.

  I shake my head, not sure if I can manage actual words.

  “Don’t be a party pooper!”

  Anger surges through me as I turn to look at her wide, happy eyes. She’s hardly talked to me all night, and she hasn’t even noticed I’m hating this. Fury boils up in my veins, welling in my chest until I spit the word out at her. “Fine!”

  My mom steps back a bit at the sharp edge in my voice. Her wide smile turns a little plastic, and her eyes dart around to the faces of her potential clients.

  I close my eyes to calm the anger boiling in my stomach and also to block out the crowd around me.

  I wish my birthday wishes actually came true. Because they never freakin’ do.

  And then I blow out the candles in one long, lung-zapping breath. As I do, I feel as though I’m blowing my whole life away—like a pile of dried-up leaves.

  5

  WHEN MY ALARM rings out, it’s all I can do not to smash it with a hammer. In fact, if I had an actual hammer handy, I might do it.

  I slap it off and then sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes. My blankets are twisted around me because I’ve spent half the night tossing and turning, angry about the disaster of my party.

  I’m dreading today. I don’t want to know if Janae told everyone about how my party was like one bad eighties movie or how I was trying to look cute in my ugly sailor dress. Or if my mom is annoyed that I blew out the candles and then promptly left and retired to my room and locked the door, blasting Blink-182 so I didn’t have to listen to the crowd outside.

  I yawn as I stand and stretch my arms over my head, grumbling about the start of another day of my less-than-stellar life, when I see something bright flash across the lawn below my window.