Brian and I were born two years and one week apart. This prompted Mom to plan joint birthday celebrations every year; it benefited the schedule and the budget for us to celebrate together.
The following weekend, Mom held the party in our sunroom because the weekend forecast predicted rain. Most of our guests came from the neighborhood or school. Brian’s basketball buddies were there.
“Having fun, Dell?” Dad asked. He entered the sunroom from the outside, where he’d been grilling hotdogs and hamburgers under our shallow awning.
“Yes,” I said. It was true. I enjoyed having friends over, even if it meant sharing the spotlight with Brian.
“Your Mom loves a good party,” Dad said. His eyes danced across the room. Mom was holding a pitcher, topping off refreshments.
As the party was winding down, Mom requested everyone’s attention. “Give me one minute,” she shouted.
We could never simply have a party. There always had to be some entertainment. An event. Something that would elevate the gathering to a shindig. I appreciated it, and in some ways, it made me proud she cared so much. But I was at that age where you can never be fully proud of your parents without also being embarrassed. With Mom, especially.
“Maybe she’s fishing out a new training bra,” Brian whispered. I gave him an angry stare. Normally, I would have elbowed him, but there were people around. And Dad was still holding the video camera.
Moments later, the door leading into the backyard re-opened and a white puppy came running. Our guests released a unified Aww, and some of my friends squealed.
I bent to my knees and held out my arms. The puppy came closer, giving my fingers a few preliminary licks before moving to my neck.
“Is he mine?” I asked. Mom had returned to the sunroom. Her cheeks were flushed, and I noticed tears in her eyes. She’d succeeded in creating a heartfelt birthday memory.
“Actually, it’s a she,” she corrected. “And, yes. She’s all yours. And Brian’s.”
I looked to my left, but Brian was no longer by my side. He walked up to Mom who was leaning against the empty gift table. “You know I hate dogs,” he said.
“Not now, Brian,” she said, raising a hand.
My friends moved closer, patiently waiting for a turn to pet the puppy. Brian grabbed one of his new gifts and walked away with a huddle of friends. Dad put down the camera and walked toward Mom. I saw them speaking but couldn’t hear what they were saying due to the crowd of friends in front of me.
“What will you name her?” asked Amber, rubbing the dog’s fur.
“I don’t know,” I said, looking around the room. The tile floor was covered with wrapping paper, streamers and hollow pixie stick tubes. “How about Pixie?”
“I like it,” Mom said. She walked up behind me and put her hand on my head. “I hope you’re happy.”
“I am.” I’d wanted a pet for years. Even if I had to share my party with Brian, Mom had found a way to make me feel special. “Thanks, you guys.” I looked for Dad. He was still standing by the food table with a sour look on his face.
That night, I sat in the living room watching an episode of The O.C. while Pixie snuggled in my lap. I’m sure the adolescent swarm from earlier rattled her nerves. She hadn’t moved from my side since the guests left.
Brian had been upset ever since the party ended. He wanted Danny to stay over, but even Mom had had enough of playing hostess. She was ready to relax. Tomorrow she’d be busy making the house immaculate again. Tonight, she drank wine in the kitchen with Dad. They sounded all giggly. I turned up the volume, wanting to drown out their gross adult merriment.
At the next commercial, I stood to go to the bathroom. Pixie sat up, alarmed.
“Stay here, girl,” I said, not knowing if the dog would know what that meant. I’d only had her a few hours. Regardless, it worked. Pixie nuzzled back into the softness of the sofa cushions.
I walked to the half bath by the kitchen. Mom and Dad were still in there, but they were less giggly now. They were talking.
“I wish you’d told me,” Dad whispered.
“Why? So you could say no?” Mom countered. “Her fur is hypoallergenic. I was very specific when choosing—”
“You know that’s not my main concern,” Dad said.
I didn’t know what that last comment meant. My whole childhood, that was all I’d heard. We couldn’t have a dog because Dad had allergies.
“She deserves this,” Mom said. “The thing with the squirrel happened years ago. I don’t even think he was old enough to know what he did. He won’t do anything to Della’s dog.”
I heard the pitter patter of Pixie’s feet following my trail. I snuck into the bathroom before my parents spotted me, allowing Pixie to follow me inside. I shut the door.
“Bad girl,” I said. She looked up and rubbed her furry neck against my ankle.
I didn’t know what Mom meant about the squirrel, but I had an idea. Was Dad worried about having Brian around Pixie? Around animals in general? Brian had always acted cruelly to me, but I didn’t think he was capable of hurting anyone else. A few weeks later, we learned I wasn’t Brian’s only target. And this time Mom and Dad couldn’t ignore it.
Earlier that day, the three of us—Mom, Dad and I—trekked to the team’s regional tournament in Orlando. Wilsonville won by twenty points, Brian being responsible for many of the goals. We all cheered.
