23
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Bowie says.
“Really? Why not?”
They arch an eyebrow. They’re wearing silvery eye shadow today, and their nails are done with this pearlescent polish that changes color in the light streaming in from the kitchen window. It’s beautiful, and I kind of want to ask them to paint mine, but my hands get trashed so quickly there’s no point. Maybe my toes?
“Pass me the orange?”
I hand it over, and Bowie starts zesting it into the bowl. They’re making some of their signature brioche French toast for my birthday brunch.
Having a birthday on New Year’s Eve really sucks: It’s impossible to have a party, since everyone’s busy with other parties; and the weather is usually miserable (there’s a “wintry mix” today); and worst of all, it gets swallowed by all the other December holidays.
I’ve had more than one birthday present wrapped in discount Christmas paper that Dad bought at Target on December 27. (He refuses to go on December 26, which he insists is nearly as bad as the day after Thanksgiving.)
Brunch with Bowie is one of the few things I look forward to each birthday. Their parents used to cook it, but Bowie took over once they got good enough in the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson still stay close, though, to dispense a little of the secret ingredient (a tiny splash of booze) to the French toast batter. The alcohol all cooks out; it’s not like they’re letting me and Bowie drink.
Bowie finishes zesting the orange and turns to me.
“Just stuff Liam said.”
“Like what?”
Bowie presses their lips together. “I think sometimes he got a little uncomfortable with how... intense she could be. You know? Like PDA, constantly texting. Constantly showing him off to her friends. I think he felt like a trophy.”
“He never mentioned anything to me.”
Bowie arches an eyebrow. “Can’t imagine why he wouldn’t complain about your sister to you.”
“Fair enough.” I sigh. “I wish he had, though. I wish...”
Bowie pauses as they crack eggs into a fresh bowl. Egg white drips down their fingers as they sign, “Wish what?”
“I wish I could tell him how I feel. But now it’s even worse. He’s not just dating Jasmine. He’s her ex.”
“Yeah. That sucks.” They nod toward the stove. “Is that griddle hot enough yet?”
I hover my palm about an inch above the cast-iron surface. “Yeah.”
“Good. Enough moping. Brunch doesn’t cure everything, but it does make most things better.”
***
After an obligatory family dinner at this new Mexican restaurant on the Plaza—the kind where they mash your guacamole table-side—we go back home to open presents.
Another drawback of having a birthday on New Year’s Eve: If you don’t get home early, you’re stuck on the roads with all the drunk drivers. Which is only marginally better than being stuck at home with Mom and Dad. Mom’s not drunk, but she’s definitely more ready to argue with Dad after splitting a pitcher of fancy margaritas with Amy.
“I’m just saying, there are more options than following in your footsteps,” she tells Dad.
“I don’t care if she follows in my footsteps. Jackson’s not going to. But to not even go to college—”
“She didn’t say she isn’t going, she just said she wants to wait a year.”
At dinner, Jasmine announced she wants to take a gap year and stay with Mom in Denver.Because nothing saysHappy birthday!quite like announcing you’re going to move away, just like Mom did.At least Dad’s disapproval has given her something besides Liam to mope about.
She sits stiffly next to me, cake barely eaten. It’s a hazelnut one Amy picked up from this Swiss bakery in South Plaza.
“And what about financial aid? Scholarships? You know her college fund isn’t where we wanted it to be.”
