Birthday(11)

“AC’s broke,” I say.

“You don’t say,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep?”

I spoon bran into my mouth and shake my head.

“Can’t blame you,” he says. “Coming to the game tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. My new high school friend, Jasmine, is dragging me entirely against my will, but I also know my recent game attendance makes Dad happy, and I don’t want to let him down.

“That’s the spirit,” he says. “Happy birthday, by the way. How’s fourteen feel?”

Well, I hardly know how to answer that. I can’t tell my dad that I don’t relate to any boys my age except Eric, and no girls are interested in being friends with me except Jasmine. That the bullying from the guys on his football team has only gotten worse, and the only reason I still run every day is because I want to stay fast in case I need to make a quick getaway. Some days, I have my weird feelings under control, but every time I think about getting older in this body, it feels like that Tom Cruise movie where the vampires are in the mine shaft and watching the sunlight get closer inch by inch.

But “fine” is all I say to Dad. “Pretty much the same, I guess.”

“It’s a weird time,” Dad says. “Next year you get a learner’s permit, then a driver’s license at sixteen, then eighteen’s the big one. Don’t get much for fourteen though.”

“Acne,” I say. I rub a red spot on my jawline that I’ve been feeling self-conscious about.

Dad laughs. “And maybe these…?” he says. He opens the utility drawer, pulls out a stack of envelopes, and drops them on the counter beside me. A quick glance reveals my name on the top one, but my eyes are still too bleary from sleep to make out much more.

“Grandma’s getting senile if she sent this many birthday cards,” I say.

“They’re not from your grandma,” Dad says. His mouth ticks up into a little smile, but then he checks his watch and groans. “I have to get to morning practice. See you tonight.”

“Yeah,” I say. I give him a perfunctory wave and set my bowl down. The sound of the door closing and his car pulling out of the driveway barely even registers as I focus on the top envelope again, and with a flutter in my chest, Mom’s handwriting swims into focus.

The envelope reads, Morgan, 14th Birthday.

I rip it open like there’s a golden ticket inside and pull out five sheets of paper—one of eight-by-eleven printer stock and four of higher-quality art paper. The top sheet, the white printer paper, has her handwriting on it. I rub my eyes and focus.

Morgan,

Hi, it’s Mom.

Sorry there were only two videos, but I’m not looking great these days and I would rather you remember me the way you knew me before this year. I know it’s a little vain, but I was pregnant for nine months and labor hurt a lot, so I figure you can humor me. And, also, you can frame these letters or have them scanned into a computer, but I’ve seen too many VCRs eat tapes to let those be all you have to remember me by. Who even knows if people will still have VCRs by the time you read this? Hard for me to imagine, but then again, I insisted CDs would never replace cassettes.

(Cassettes don’t skip when you run with a Walkman! Cassettes don’t scratch! It’s not like I was wrong, everyone else just went insane!)

I’m rambling. Sorry. I actually feel pretty good today, which is getting rarer and rarer, so I can’t help getting a little manic. Anyway, happy birthday, my love! I’ve been thinking a lot about your future, what sort of man you’ll grow up to be—



There’s a crinkle in the paper and I realize with a jolt of panic that I’ve clenched my fist. I pause to try and smooth the page back out, but my hands are shaking too much so I quickly give up.

—and, well, since, if you’re reading this, I’m not there to see it, I thought I might share some of what I thought up with you … I know people grow and change as they get older or else we’d have a country of nothing but ballerinas and astronauts. I just want you to know how I see you, and how much I love you, and how much faith I have that no matter what you choose to do, you’ll do it well.

Love always,

Mom



I set the letter aside, making sure to avoid any wet or greasy spots in our eternally dirty kitchen, and go through the other pages one by one.

Each page is a piece of art—one in watercolor, one in ink, one in charcoal, and one in acrylic paint. The watercolor is a painting of me, muscular and short-haired in an orange Vols jersey, hoisted up by hands rising from the bottom of the page. Sweat plasters hair to my forehead and my face is dirty but I’m smiling, clutching the Heisman Trophy to my chest.

The roof of my mouth feels heavy as I look at the painting. I can hear my pulse in my ears.

I’m smaller in the monochrome ink drawing, only taking up about a quarter of the page, bearded and a little shaggy-haired in a blazer and jeans, standing with my hands in my pockets looking thoughtful in front of a huge blackboard covered in a complicated mathematical formula that looks like something from Good Will Hunting.

I feel my face and my lip, where a tiny amount of light brown peach fuzz has already sprouted, imagine growing a beard, and quickly put that page on the bottom of the stack, my throat feeling suddenly dry.