An hour later, gift certificate in hand and experimental makeup on their faces, Erin and Pippa arrived home to find the FedEx box. Without space for anything more in her room, Erin stored it, sealed, in the garage.
She was ready for Felicity’s birthday and whatever it brought.
On Erin’s seventeenth birthday, she imagined she was living on Venus, where a day is longer than a year. She texted Ben an apology and told him her body was punishing her with a relentless headache.
It hurt from the hangover, from crying over her assured social implosion, from crying over Grandma Tea’s ring, from crying over Grandma Tea and Grampa themselves, and from Ben’s tardy reply.
She had no appetite but kept drinking water to rehydrate. Some birthday.
Two years ago, her last birthday celebration with Grandma Tea, she’d received a letter instead of a card.
Erin pulled files from her desk and quickly found the pistachio envelope, which had resealed since she first opened it. Gently, she pulled away the flap and reread her letter.
My Dearest Erin:
After the excitement of your birthday celebration subsides, once you’ve put away your new things and recycled your cards, I wanted to say once more how grateful I am to have you in my life.
Our summers together mark the best times of my life; your childhood was a second childhood for me, and for that I am truly grateful.
You have grown into a clever, fierce, stunning young woman, and I hope you find as much happiness in your life as I’ve found in mine.
I miss you always and am grateful you keep in close touch. As you prepare for big things, remember I am a mere phone call away.
I love you, Erin, and I’m beyond delighted you’re my granddaughter.
XOXOXO,
Tea
Erin cried herself to sleep and woke to Ben’s ping at last.
♥ ♥ Ben♥ ♥ :Stop texting! I am done with you.
She sat up in bed, her stomach in her throat again.
Erin: That’s not funny.
Despite never before generating read receipts from Ben, Erin’s phone indicated Ben had read her text. Panicked, she called him. It rang once and diverted her to voice mail. She hung up and called again. One ring and voice mail.
Expecting to vomit, she ran to the bathroom and stood over the toilet.
Nothing came up. She held the sides of the toilet seat and cried. First swimming. Then her social life. Her car. Now Ben.
How had she so angered the gods?
Erin called Lalitha. No answer.
Erin: Litha, I need to talk ASAP.
Lalitha must have been sleeping off her hangover, lucky girl.
Erin couldn’t imagine eating alone at Topolobampo while other diners looked on. She couldn’t imagine eating, period.
Her parents couldn’t handle one more thing right now, so she’d have to fake it. Erin pulled up her hair, chose a tiny purse, and slipped into the dress meant for her birthday celebration.
TWENTY-FOUR
Most mornings, Erin’s life in Wheaton felt light-years away. Lalitha was in school when Erin woke. When Wheaton let out, Erin was in class. Lalitha was never available during Erin’s five seconds between school and swimming. And after Erin’s swim practice, Lalitha was already in bed.
Texting across time zones was almost as painful as snail mail.
In Christchurch news, Erin learned Good-Time Girl had been at a beach bonfire the previous night. Erin must discover that Christchurch without becoming a creepy stalker.
She scanned her dad’s daily How Are You/I Miss You/Sending My Love email, peppered with details of the weather, the Fiat, and Wheaton news.
Claire had demanded Erin text her as soon as she woke up.
Erin drew a deep breath.
Erin: Hi, Mom. I’m up.
Claire: I have a client in five.
Erin: Okay.
Claire: Our plan isn’t going to work if you don’t keep in closer touch.
This plan was Claire’s; Erin had not consented to such rules.
Erin: Okay.
Claire: I sent you the edits. She says you have to sell yourself in this essay. You’re studying abroad, which is rare in high school. You’re a great cellist. A great swimmer. Show them how amazing you are: you are relentless. They need to know you are ambitious and will stop at nothing to get what you want.
If that were true, Erin would destroy her phone to forestall more text conversations with her mother.
Erin: I’ll send you a new draft soon.
Claire: Like tomorrow. We need to get this right.
Erin: Okay.
Claire: Are the classes rigorous enough? It will look bad if you are regressing academically.
Erin: They’re fine.
Claire: How were orchestra auditions?
Erin: Everyone who wants to play gets to play.
Claire: What kind of cello is it?
Erin: It’s fine.
Claire: Okay. Practicing every day? Keeping your schedule? Are you back in your routine?
Erin: Yeah.
Erin: Yes.
Claire: Okay. Keep working.
Erin: I am.
Claire: We’ll get there. I promise.
Erin: I know.
Claire: Bye.
Erin: Bye.
Claire often texted to ensure she was on schedule, but this felt to Erin like micromanagement. To justify lying, she told herself she was mature enough to manage her own time. And what Claire didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
Or Erin.
TWENTY-FIVE
On Felicity’s birthday, Erin sprinted to the warm side of the house as soon as the Wakefields started moving around, but she backpedaled to her room when she heard Hank, the guitar teacher, wishing Felicity happy birthday.
Her host family seeing her pajamas was one thing, but the tattooed dropout with amazing eyes was another. She shook her head awake. What is he doing here?
A half hour later, showered and dressed in her favorite clothes, Erin joined everyone at the table.
“Morning!” they chorused.
“Happy birthday!” Erin said.
“Thanks,” Felicity said. “Coffee’s on,”
The house looked just the same: no decorations, no tiara for Felicity, no fanfare.
“What’s the birthday plan?” Erin asked.
“We got a late start today,” Felicity said. “Once we’re dressed and ready, I’ll head out for a bit.
“Wait, no sunrise this year?” Hank said.
“Supposed to be cloudy all the way round.” Felicity explained to Erin: “I like to watch the sunrise on my birthday. Another trip around the sun and all that.”
Erin smiled. “That’s how I think of birthdays, too! I always
