“The sweet shoes were more than enough,” I say. “You didn’t have to get me anything else.”
She bites her lip, shakes her head. “This one’s not from me.”
“Not from you?”
“Noah. He texted me that he dropped something off. It was at the top of the driveway.”
Noah. He was here. “I thought he was too busy with his Wawa shift?”
“Guess not.”
My gut feels sour, all that champagne and pizza and cake curdling into a toxic, swirling lump. The unavoidable Wawa shift had felt like a weak excuse. He couldn’t see me, not even for my birthday. If it was up to me, I’d choose his friendship over whatever was in that ugly smiley-face bag.
“Are you going to open it?” I can tell Max is trying hard to sound cool and disinterested.
Ginger dangles the bag out, waiting for me to take it from her.
I keep my hands at my side. “I don’t have to. I can look later.”
“No. Open it,” Mama says. “It’ll determine how mad I am at him for skipping out on my only daughter’s eighteenth birthday. I love that boy, but really—time to suck it up. Life needs to go on. He’d be a complete ass to throw away so many years of friendship over a silly little puppy-love broken heart.”
“Mama! Please. Stop.” My whole body flames with heat. I want to peel my skin back.
I can’t look at Max. I can’t look at any of them.
Mama shrugs her shoulders. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”
I rip the bag from Ginger’s hand and stomp over to the hammock. The bag is light, like it’s nothing more than the white tissue paper inside. I reach my hand in, feel around. My fingers touch metal strands, and I tug.
It’s a necklace set we saw online a few months back—peanut butter and jelly jar best friends charms, something second graders are supposed to wear. I’d adored it immediately, but I’d said I would only want it if it were split three ways. It wouldn’t work with just two halves. I was only partly serious, and I’d forgotten all about it. But Noah clearly hadn’t. And now he’s saying that two halves will be just fine.
We’re not three anymore.
It’s the cruelest gift he could have given me.
A sob rises up my throat. I put my hand over my mouth to hold it back, but it’s too late.
Everyone is pretending not to stare at me.
The bag falls from my hand and a note slips out. I don’t want to look. But I do.
Happy birthday, Calliope.
I bought this necklace months ago, back when you first saw it. I know it wasn’t thirds like you wanted, but I’d found another necklace with a loaf of bread. After all, you need bread to make a PB&J sandwich. It’s corny, I know. But you like corny. And apparently you also like jewelry made for kids. (No judgment.)
Anyway, I hope you and G wear the PB&J proudly. Don’t fight too hard about who gets to be the PB. Even if it is the best part of the sandwich. Obviously.
Sorry I’m not there today. I thought we’d all be better off if I stayed home.
But I hope it’s a great day. The best. You deserve it. Happy 18.
—Noah
I hate that I’m crying. But I’m laughing, too. Noah found a loaf of bread to match. He doesn’t say that he’ll ever wear it—or even that he’ll keep it—but that had been his intention at least. It wasn’t just a spiteful jab.
Maybe there’s still hope for us. Someday at least.
“Everything okay?” Ginger asks. I can tell she wants to ask much more than that, but she refrains. She glances sideways at Max.
“Yep. It’s just the peanut butter and jelly best friends necklaces I saw a while back. Remember? Delightfully kitschy?” I dangle the necklaces in the air to jog her memory.
“Ugh. You expect me to wear that? It’s so tacky. Are we back in elementary school?” But she’s smiling. Maybe a little hopefully. This summer has been hard on Ginger, too. She walks up to me and plucks both necklaces from my hand. “I’m assuming you’re going to make me take the jelly jar, aren’t you? It’s red at least. Strawberry. Maybe raspberry. Not grape. I would draw the line at wearing a grape jelly jar around my neck. Disgusting.” She reaches up to clasp the necklace around her neck, then tosses me the peanut butter jar.
I wear it proudly on top of my new ruby necklace.
I can’t pick a favorite.
Mama and Mimmy don’t say anything, but they both look as hopeful as Ginger. The sun has dipped completely out of sight by now, and Mama lights the firepit next to us while Mimmy brings out a few citronella candles. They clear away the plates and scraps from the table and then announce they’re heading to bed. Time for old biddies to sleep, and young hellcats to keep the party going, Mama says. I don’t miss her parting wink.
“What now?” Max asks when it’s just the three of us. He sits next to me on the hammock, kicking back to swing. His eyes flick to my necklaces. Away, and then back again. “You still have a few hours of birthday left.”
“Don’t ask me. The birthday girl can’t make her own plans.”
“Is it a bad time to say that before I knew Stella was going to get us nice and toasty today, I might have packed a special birthday bottle of my own?” Ginger walks over to her canvas tote she’s left by the picnic bench. “And mine might be a tad harder. Just a tad.” There’s an amber-filled bottle in her hand, glowing in the candlelight. Peach whiskey.
“That’s probably a terrible idea.” Just looking at it makes me feel woozy.
“One swig. Just us. A toast to all the wild adult times ahead.”
“One,” I say, already regretting it. “Only one. Don’t
