Your Special Days
Seven Yrs Later are stories on change, in dialogue with Seven Yrs Ago.
0: I come out butt first, defying the gravity that is my head, because a few weeks like that can give you a migraine. Plus I have second thoughts on jumping, yet they push and they yank, so I’ll pull this cord to go back in, the one around my neck for safekeeping. But they chop and they detangle till I howl and they sigh. At 12:34, I shriek, “Hallelujah!” I have made it to lunch. I'll stay.
1: I get passed and held 54 times in this 300 sq. ft. balloon zoo. I miss you completely, floor.
2: I lean over Cinderella, small, elegant, defenseless. I creep towards the flickering, but Mom bats my hand. I look at her then purse my lips like she’s doing; she redirects the wind, turning flames into wisps. I wave at Dad since he waved, then roses split and crumbs purl. I grab at the knife, but Mom pulls away, so I stop, make my case, and the landing echoes.
3: Camcorder ON: I put up three fingers to signify the occasion. CUT TO: Playmates in itchy dresswear pace the lawn. Nora monitors the egg on her spoon, not stopping to scratch. CUT TO: The kitten crowd circles and sits on cue. There’s leeway and controversy; Moms intervene.
4-6: Variations on 3.
7: Against ponies and pinko dance-offs, we up the ante and reserve Funtasticks for the PMGA tour. I chip a hole in one or six, then sashay to Dad’s surprise: an illusionist who knows every card in the deck and the ones in my hand. Kids from other schools ogle through the rails, but I pay no attention; I let them eat cake.
8-12: God sends girls with nice parents because nice girls with parents aren’t enough. I take a limo to TGI Friday’s, dip limp hands in cups of water, and knee myself in the face in the jumping castle at Funtasticks. Before midnight, I find spare rooms from the real-life packs, and bring books for when I get bored or they do. At mine, we have pillows the size of our torsos and we can watch the best movie, Chicago. I stay up the longest wherever I am, so no one can hear me fart. At 10, a marbled sign hangs outside, quoting how I’ll never be a single digit again.
13: I ask Dad about the big one, when I’ll become Betty or Veronica, and he says we can celebrate after I win the bee. He had a dream that gold and black confetti will fall, along with scholarships and documentary-worthy esteem. I win county a month later by being a ‘decent, but not wonderful speller’ and lose state a month after for the same reason. The word is “tobogganer” and we live in a desert. I do not follow up.
14: There’s still a dream and a chance, so I don’t ask, but it snows at school and we skid down the halls like toboggans. The word is “bobolink”.
15: Next to columns of stacked chairs, Mom and I sit on the patio, waiting for On the Border enchiladas. Both TVs recite the unknowns around Heath Ledger’s death and I deliberate my freak storms, first the snow, then this. The awning drips after a day of listening.
16: I swallow cold beef, then cross to the other table. I ask what’s so funny and Isobel explains and I smile and nod like I know how to do. I glance at these nice girls and how they can just leave—they have parent(s) and friends—which reminds me to go back, so my friends don’t think I’ve moved on, though I hope it looks like it, then a duo of crooners appear. They kazoo “You’re Sixteen (You’re Beautiful And You’re Mine)”, which Dad knows I love, but not at this second or the next 170.
17: Washes flood and cars crash, so I slug through the rapids to Arctic Monkeys’ Humbug. I am almost two hours late and briefly explain where I’ve been.
18: From the balcony, Mom and I watch the second of two musicals this month, either Spring Awakening or Wicked, the first I researched to worship. I then slap on a leopard dress and proceed to formal where I jiggle in circles to “Black and Yellow,” a joint dedicated to no one who wants it. The principal announces my occasion and I reap a cacophony of well-meaning, then I float to Dad’s where he has some words, none of which are sung.
19: I sink in my chair more than usual, goggling a grid. Aaron knowingly takes the bait and asks again what’s up. I murmur and he makes me repeat myself, so I tell him what day it is and click click click. I decline to go to the bookstore, then check Facebook which hasn’t shown my birthday in years. Upon returning, Aaron tosses some candy bars onto my desk. I unwrap one and take a nip.
20: This project isn’t going to do itself. Jason and I break up the next day.
21: I consider inviting the entire architecture class, then imagine the questions, so I wear a silk dress to lecture instead. Having bussed a piñata and harbored a friend, I feel a surprise coming, and Kelli and Rae deliver. I have a cocktail and sundae at The Grove, then we Uber home to a mob that doesn't hide in time, but jumps. They down their shots, while I pour my Wonder Woman mug into the sink. Then RAs knock and youngins stash in the dark; Sid skates off the roof; Ben speeds right through the guards. I’m put on probation and Rae and Kelli apologize, but I’ve never, ever, been less sorry.
22: My favorite people are in Italy, so Tanner, his friends, and the friends I’m less used to, land at The Edison. I Charleston.
23: I go bar hopping with most of my favorite people and nascent coworkers who drink. Roses, a poem, and a wine voucher from Tanner arrive at the door of our home.
24: Signs and pussyhats go the opposite way of the Greyhound. I sell our old minivan in our old driveway, two busted sliding doors and all. Mom and I zipline for the second time over saguaros, chickens, chollas, and rusted metal. We pick up a hitchhiker we recognize from earlier and discuss his vocation in planting self-sustaining gardens. We drop him off at his destination mountain.
25: Led down a dark alley, I enter an oddly quaint restaurant and Stevie Wonder’s version blasts on sight. Tanner’s a terrible liar, so I kinda already knew, but I hug Rae, the gang, the band, the crew.
26: On the rec of my new roommates, I show up at Guild Hall with homemade chocolate caramel ooze and red velvet rocks. A smattering of acquaintances show up and I bounce between board games, ready to yell for whatever side I’m on. Four people bring boxes back to my car. Maybe it won’t be as bad as I think.
27: Leather jumpsuit, fuschia eyeshadow, I roam the brewery, wondering who’ll see who first. Assorted guests assemble and thankfully, eagerly, we yell at each other. Waves and a live audience pass through Tokyo Beat where a good time gets honed if not damn certified. I am blessed by Lale and a victory/danger dog.
28: I run out of notebooks and decide it’s okay. Mom and I take slingshot mode to sandy wine country. Instead of sleeping, we watch the sequel to Bridget Jones’s Diary which has the best star, Renée Zellweger. I try to respond as individually as those who greeted me did, on the open mic card I posted, like last year’s and the year before. Over an ocean, a shih tzu blows candles and a stranger compiles a video; cousins pack a car when they come to check if Mom’s sad. I rearrange flowers from Nora and unwrap a mug from Dad’s favorite Hallmark. I say bye to Mom for some stupid reason, then Winona pinches my cheek and Ben and Lale call along I-10. Cornflake 3000 is lulled only by the rain. I return to Wade and Howie’s cherry almond cake, then burrow beneath luggage, sealed packages, and Christmas cards. When I redecide it’s okay, something pink calls from the kitchen. The rest can wait until January 22.