Life Was Not a Dream

I checked the kitchen calendar while the pasta water boiled, even though I knew what the square said. June 14. My sixteenth birthday. I had written it there myself in blue marker two weeks earlier, beside the school's last day and a reminder for Mrs. Bell's caseworker visit. No one had crossed it out. No one had added a cake or a heart or even a question mark. From the living room, the television blared through a commercial for an outdoor furniture store. June and Mark had gone out that morning to help with the church's spring auction, which had somehow become a summer auction after the spring one got rained out. They'd promised they'd be home by six. It was nearly seven. I stirred the pot with a wooden spoon and tried not to count the minutes. The dough had taken longer than I expected. I'd rolled it on the counter with a wine bottle because the rolling pin was missing, and the first batch of noodles had come out too thick. The recipe card in my mother's handwriting said "thin as ribbons," which I'd always assumed was the kind of instruction people wrote when they didn't want to measure. I had made the noodles with broth, chicken, and the last handful of parsley from the planter by the back door. It wasn't a cake. It was what I remembered making with my mother when I was little, before I got good at pretending I didn't miss her. I'd made enough for four bowls, because I still had the reflex to cook for a family. Wes came into the kitchen with his phone in one hand and a can of soda in the other. His dark hair stuck up at the back, and the black hoodie he wore was too warm for June. He glanced at the pot. "Dinner?" "It's mine," I said. He gave me a look. "You made all that for yourself?" "I made enough." "For your birthday?" My hand paused over the spoon. "You remembered?" He snorted. "No. You put it on the calendar." Heat climbed into my face. "I wrote it there because nobody else did." Wes opened the fridge and stared inside as if the answer to my life might be behind the milk. "You could've said something." "I did. Last week." "When?" "When June asked if I wanted to help her pick out a gift for Mark." He shut the fridge. "That doesn't mean you told her your birthday." "I said it was the fourteenth." "Maybe she forgot." "She did." I reached for the bowls. Wes moved past me, bumped my shoulder, and pulled open the drawer. He was seventeen, a year older than me, and his nickname was Weasel because he could slip out of any argument with a grin and a story that made the other person sound unreasonable. He'd told me the name was affectionate. He'd never said who had given it to him. "Move," he said. I shifted aside. "You can wait until I'm done." "I'm looking for a fork." "There are forks in the drawer." He yanked it too hard. The cutlery rattled. My face went hot again. "You don't have to be awful." His eyes flicked to the bowls. "You're making this into a whole thing." I lifted one bowl and ladled in noodles. "It is a whole thing. It's my birthday." He gave a laugh without humor. "You want a parade, too?" "I wanted someone to remember." The kitchen door opened behind us. Mark came in first, carrying a folded tablecloth, and June followed with a cardboard box. They both looked tired. June's hair had come loose from its clip, and a paper auction sticker clung to Mark's sleeve. "Hey," June said. "You made dinner?" "I made noodles." She set down the box. "That's nice, honey." I waited. The bowl steamed in my hands. Mark glanced at the calendar. His eyebrows rose. "Oh. Is it today?" I lowered the bowl. "Yes." "Your birthday," June said, and the surprise in her voice landed harder than any deliberate insult. "I'm so sorry. I thought it was next week." "You were at the school meeting when I told you." "I must have mixed it up." She reached for me, then stopped when she saw my face. "We'll make it up to you." Wes leaned against the counter. "I told her we should throw her a party." I stared at him. "You didn't." "Sure I did. We'll do a real dinner. Invite people. Make a night of it." He opened the soda and took a long drink. "You've been asking for a family, right? Now you can have one." "Wes," Mark said. "What? It's a nice idea." I set the bowl on the counter. My fingers were shaking, and I hated that they were. "You just said I wanted a parade." "I said you wanted attention. A party is attention." June looked between us. "Let's not do this right now." I picked up my bowl. "I'm going to eat in my room." "You don't need to take it up there," Mark said. "Sit with us." I turned toward the doorway. Wes stepped sideways, blocking the narrow space between the island and the counter. I tried to go around him. "Move." "Say please." "Move, Wes." He shoved my shoulder. My hip struck the counter. The bowl tipped, and hot broth sloshed over my fingers. I gasped and dropped it. It hit the tile and shattered. I bent down without thinking. Wes's sneaker struck my cheek before I could get up. The hard rubber caught me under the eye. My head snapped sideways, and the floor came up fast. For a moment all I heard was a high, thin ringing. Then June screamed my name. Mark grabbed Wes. Someone was saying, "What the hell?" and someone else was telling me not to move. I pressed my palm against my cheek. The skin burned. My mouth tasted like salt and metal. Wes stood over me, breathing hard. "It wasn't on purpose." June knelt beside me. Her hands hovered near my shoulders. "Look at me, sweetheart. Can you see clearly?" I could. I could also see the broken bowl, the noodles spread across the floor, and the calendar square above the sink. "I'm okay," I said. I wasn't. But I knew the difference between a bruise and a reason to lose a home. And I still wanted this one.