“Hold on,” I said, remembering the surprise I had for her in my backpack. “I have something for you.”
Dipping into my bag, I found what I was looking for: a plastic container holding a cupcake decorated just for her. Peeling the lid back, I cringed at the remains of the confection stored inside. Instead of my proud creation, there was only a pile of cake crumbs and a ring of frosting around the walls of the plastic. The #17 I’d formed was smeared into a clump of nothingness. I shut the lid and slipped it back in my bag.
“Never mind,” I grumbled. “I guess I don’t have anything for you.”
“What was that? I want to see.” She reached around and snatched my bag.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Sam pulled the lid off the plastic and choked back a laugh.
“It was a chocolate cupcake,” I rushed out the words. “Not, um… roadkill.”
“You made me acupcake?” Placing a hand to her heart, Sam visibly swooned.
“My mom helped me, but yeah, of course… it’s your birthday.”
Sam continued to fixate on the remains until, unexpectedly, a single tear rolled down her cheek.
I hooked my arm over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam. I know it looks like shit now, but I promise when I packed it this morning, it looked nice. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have stored it upside down in my backpack.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she shyly lifted her gaze to meet mine and I gulped her in. She was gorgeous and vulnerable and everything I never knew I wanted. This wounded girl was rewiring my brain and, like a speeding train barreling toward me, there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“Don’t apologize,” she said in a halting tone, her hand reaching out to grip mine. “You’re the best birthday present I ever got.”
10
Samantha: Crocodile Tears
They mill around in gloomy clothes, their somber faces offering each other solace in this time of mourning. I should be grateful they came at all, but I’m not. I’m angry. Furious. Where were these people when he needed them? Not here, that’s for damn sure. In fact, they’d have been hard-pressed to answer his call had he rung them up in the middle of the day to talk. But now – now they come to pretend. ‘So sad,’ they say. ‘Such a tragedy.’
Go cry your crocodile tears somewhere else.
There she is, my mother, front and center, the martyr. She looks frail under all the black, her hands shaking. No tears are shed. ‘She’s strong,’ they say. ‘She’ll get through this.’ Oh, yes, I have no doubt she’ll survive. In fact, instead of bearing the blame that should fall squarely on her shoulders, she will come out looking like the victim. ‘He was weak,’ she says. ‘All he had to do was ask for help.’
Go spew your hateful lies somewhere else.
My father’s there too, tears spilling from his eyes. ‘Why?’ he asks. “My boy was so happy.’ Yes, he was. When he was ten! Before we were left alone – with her. I can barely look him in the eyes. Traitor. He cradles his four-year-old son in his arms. The six-year-old circles his feet. The replacements. He’ll never let those ones go. Where was that commitment seven years ago, when his other son could still be saved?
Go pretend you’re Father of the Year somewhere else.
These people are nothing but imposters. They don’t care. They didn’t love him – not like I did. They can grieve without me. I’m done. Slipping out the front door, I walk over to the tree – our tree. Sinking to the ground, I rest my back against the weathered trunk and remember. Him. Us. Tears cascade down my cheeks. He’d once been happy here.
The mailman, passing on the street, makes awkward eye contact as he slips letters into our mailbox. Does he know my heart has been ripped from my chest today? Does he care? Once he’s left, I rise to my feet and move to the box. Who else wants to pretend to care? I riffle through the Hallmark-sized envelopes, tossing them back into the mailbox. I don’t want their pity. I want Sullivan.
Something catches my eye – an envelope. Just a standard letter, but there’s no mistaking the handwriting. The gasp that rips from my throat startles even me. To Samantha. From… him.
With shaky fingers, I open the letter. Something bulky is wrapped in paper and taped shut. Attached is a post-it-note. “I’m so sorry, Sis. I tried, I really did. I hope this gives you more strength than it gave me. I love you always. Sullivan.”
He was my brother. My best friend. And now he was gone… forever. I tore through paper and tape, already knowing what was inside before the contents were revealed. Sobbing, I fixed the agate pendant around my neck, then looked up to the sky in thanks as I rubbed the smooth stone.
The door swung open to my room, startling me from the daydream that was currently destroying me. I wiped the tears from my eyes. Why had Sullivan chosen three days after my birthday to do the horrible deed? There was no good time to die, but casting a shadow over the day of my birth felt like a punishment.
My mother swept in. “What are you doing, Samantha? It’s a school day.”
“I know, but I can’t go. Not today.”
“Yes, you can. Now up, out of bed.” Mom yanked the sheets clear off me before opening the blinds and flooding the room with light. “Today is no different than any other day.”
