25 Happy Birthday
Happy Birthday
There’s something dark in the desire to never grow up, never grow old.
Because the only way you can do that is to die.
Lucy will always be twenty-four, and today I’m turning twenty-three; soon I’ll be older than my big sister.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I try to get a picture of my life, of everything I’ve done, and all that seems to matter is that one time I saved Lucy.
It’s pathetic. I can’t even remember this moment of glory, that little achievement that marked my life, our lives.
But still, that’s all there is. I can’t think of another single thing worth noting down on the résumé of my life.
I never worked in an animal shelter or helped old ladies with their groceries.
I never made a robot arm out of Lego for young amputees the way some guy I saw on TV the other day did.
I never discovered the hidden masterpieces of an artist like Vivian Maier.
I still haven’t figured out what I want to do with my life, which makes it pretty hard to do anything for anyone else.
Getting older terrifies me because I ask myself if the day will ever come when I can say, I know who I am now. I did it.
Is it possible to turn fifty, sixty, seventy, and still have the same doubts you did when you were twenty?
Or do you have different problems, more complicated ones—deep, vital, and impossible to unwind?
I worry about not being able to act like an adult.
And what even is an adult? Does a time come in your life when you have to be completely resolute and know what you’re after and make big decisions and always keep a cool head?
I look at myself in the bedroom mirror and take a breath.
It’s seven in the evening, and Will’s about to come pick me up.
We’ve hardly talked since we had our getaway last week with the tense silence at breakfast and on the way back.
But last night, I got a message that read: Next step is your birthday.
Don’t make plans for after 7:00 p.m. I’ll come get you.
I look through the window, see a black car parked in front of the door, run downstairs, and find my parents in the kitchen. What a weird day. The three of us went for lunch to my favorite restaurant, and even though Mom didn’t talk much, it was more pleasant than I had expected.
Now Dad’s doing chores and she’s rearranging the fridge. We look almost like a normal family having a normal day. People with ordinary lives have no idea what a relief it can be to get a surprise dose of normality.
“I’m going out,” I announce.
“Where are you headed?” Mom closes the fridge.
“No idea. I guess it’s a surprise.”
“Are you going out with Olivia?”
“No, with my friend Will.”
“Will? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
The real Rosie seems to be slowly emerging from the mist. I wonder how much I should tell her about Lucy’s game—if she’s ready to know, if my sister had some kind of plan about it I’m still ignorant of.
“I need to go. I’m running late.”
“Wait just a second, Greta. I want to give you something.” She picks her bag up from one of the chairs in the kitchen and takes out a tiny, square, velvet box. “It’s nothing big, but I saw it and liked it…”
I open it and discover a thin silver chain with a tiny key. I lift it up and watch it sway. It’s precious. “Thanks, Mom. I love it.” I could almost cry.
“I just thought… You know, keys are there to open doors.” The message isn’t exactly clear, but I think I get it. “Here, I’ll help you put it on.” She pinches the clasp and lets it go, and I feel the key on my skin next to my mole. “Have fun.”
“Be careful,” Dad adds.
I leave home a little bewildered.
Will’s waiting outside, leaning on the car with his arms crossed. His face changes when he sees me and the corners of his lips rise softly.
“Happy birthday, Greta.”
“Thanks.” He opens the door to the car. Then he sits behind the steering wheel.
“Any chance you could tell me where we’re going?” I ask hopefully, knowing better.
“Not a one.”
He smiles, I smile, and everything’s easy as always, without a trace of the tension from the other day. When he stops at a red light on the way out of town, he passes me a letter before setting off into the suburbs.
Happy birthday, little Greta!
Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not a day you’re usually excited about and you’ve never been one for big parties, but what the hell?
You’re turning twenty-three today. You’re a part of this gigantic, beautiful world, and if you stop and think for a few seconds, you should be grateful.
So enjoy every hour, minute, and second of the day.
I’m going to ask you something. It’s no secret that your brain is always clicking like a machine. I’m going to ask you to hit the stop button. Did you do it? Yes? Good. Now, go out and have a blast! Do something crazy without thinking! I told Will to take you somewhere fun, and he better do it!
I love you,
Lucy
I fold the letter and put it back in the envelope. “So we’re supposed to have fun…”
“That’s the idea. Or so I hope.”
I look in the back seat. There’s a plastic bag that wasn’t there before and a big rectangular package. Tempting. “Is that for me?”
“Yeah, but you don’t get it till the end of the day…”
“It’s already seven twenty,” I say. “It’s almost the end of the day.”
Will smiles and shakes his head and keeps driving. We cross fields and small towns and reach a midsize city with a sign that reads Welcome to the Summer Festival.
We park. Will grabs his bag but leaves the package in the car.
We walk a few yards to the entrance and pay for our tickets before going in.
There’s a field full of wooden shacks with straw roofs selling artisanal marmalade and honey.
Far away, I can see the lights of rides and a Ferris wheel glowing in the advancing night.
There’s a good crowd, but it still feels like the country.
And something here feels so free, an utter break from the monotony of my life.
“Will, this is amazing!” I shout.
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I wasn’t sure.”
“Are you kidding? No one’s ever surprised me for my birthday. And I love fairs. There’s just something magic about them, maybe because you can act like a kid and no one minds…”
His smile gives me a tickle inside.
“You’re right,” he says, “and I guess this is the best way I could possibly show it.” He reaches into the bag and shows me what’s inside it.
He has two wigs: One is violet, with bangs, the same length as my hair. The other is bright blond and a little longer.
“Wigs? Are you for real?”
“You said you liked them when you made that list.” He scratches his chin, looking insecure. It’s adorable. “We don’t have to wear them, though.”
“We, like in plural? This just keeps getting better.”
Will tries not to smile as I pass him the blond wig. We put them on and look at each other and laugh like idiots.
He’s wearing black pants and a black T-shirt that hugs his shoulders, and that only makes the almost-platinum wig stand out even more.
“You look ridiculous. Like, totally ridiculous.”
“Thanks,” he grunts. “Yours looks good. Wait, though, you need to adjust it here.” He bends down and tucks a bit that’s sticking out by my ear inside. “There we go.”
We walk into the labyrinth of the fairground, ignoring the stares of the crowd, passing by a couple of game stalls until we find one with a bunch of glimmering bottles you’re supposed to shoot at.
“Should we?” he asks.
“Fine but not there. I hate guns.”
“Okay, where?”
“Over there.” I point to a shack with a glittery archway and little balloons tacked to a wall. “Come on.”
“Darts are a weapon too.”
“Sure, just think of all the people killed by darts every year…”
Will follows me, and when we get there, the man behind the counter looks at us a long time, probably because of our ridiculous appearance.
“Should we bet?” Will asks.
“Sure. Whoever loses has to share what they’re thinking.”
“What they’re thinking?” he muses.
“Yep.”
“Sounds good.”
The man hands us the darts. Will takes three and hands me three too.
He hits a balloon on the first try and it pops.
He misses the second two. When it’s my turn, I tell him to stand aside and give me space.
He smiles arrogantly. I’d like to elbow him in the ribs, but instead I throw. I miss all three times.
Will asks, with a smug expression, “Double or nothing?”
“Of course.”
We grab our darts. I start this time. But again, I keep missing. Will thinks it over before throwing. He hits the third time. He asks if we should go another round, and I nod.
“Come here, Greta.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me back softly, not knowing how much the slightest touch from him affects me.
He whispers, “These games always have a trick. Look at the tips of the darts. They’re dull, but some are sharper than others, so you have to pick the right ones to start with.
Also, the balloons don’t have much air in them.
That’s what makes them so hard to pop. You have to aim for the biggest ones.
And finally, they bend some of the darts so they won’t fly straight… ”
“We should call the cops.”
He smiles and continues, “Again, aim as best you can, throw hard, and choose the biggest balloons.”
“Done.” I take a breath.
We stand close to the counter, and I look at the tips of the darts before choosing, even if I can hardly tell a difference between them. I take a minute to pick out the biggest balloons, decide on a couple in the middle, aim, and throw. Zilch. It slips off. I fail on the second try too.
“This is bullshit.”
Will whispers in my ear, “You have to throw harder.”
I roll my eyes, but I listen and throw one last dart. Boom! A blue balloon pops and tatters of latex fall to the ground. I jump around Will in circles and shout, and he laughs.
“Let me remind you, I still haven’t had my chance to throw.”