restaurant on the pizza holidays. Night before Thanksgiving, New Year’s, Super Bowl, prom. Days like those. Nick has three sisters. It’s hard to keep track of how old they are, or even which one is which—they’re a lot younger and they all look sort of the same. And I’m sorry, but there’s not enough room in their house.
“I’ll stay with a friend,” Trey offers.
“Me too,” I say. Yeah, right. I have none.
Rowan frowns. “I’ll go with Jules.”
“We’re all staying with Mary,” Dad says, and it’s clear that now is not the time to argue. “At least for now.”
• • •
When it’s finally clear to my dad that the firefighters aren’t going to let him poke around in the still-burning embers, we pack up the meatball truck and the delivery car and drive away with everything we own. We park in the elementary school parking lot across the street from Aunt Mary’s house. We drag our bags of random donations inside and crash in Aunt Mary’s living room while her kids are in school.
• • •
When I wake up, it’s two in the afternoon. I have a crick in my neck and for a minute I can’t figure out where I am. But then I hear my mom and dad talking about insurance and it all comes back to me.
Five things that rush through your brain when you wake up midday in a strange place after your house burns down:
1. It feels like somebody died.
2. I wonder what the losers at school are saying about this.
3. I guess that’s one way to get rid of all Dad’s shit.
4. My hair absolutely reeks.
5. Oh yeah, it’s my birthday.
Wait. One more thought:
6. Um, why didn’t anyone have a vision to help prevent this?
From the reclining chair I’ve been sleeping in, I watch my parents talking at the kitchen table. My dad looks like he got hit by a truck. His hair is all messed up and his face is gray leather. I don’t think he slept much. Mom looks tired, but not as bad as my dad. She’s always been stronger than him. I get up and venture over to them.
Mom looks up and sees me. She smiles and points to a chair. “Did you sleep okay, birthday girl?”
My lips try to smile, but for some stupid reason I’m overcome by the fact that in the midst of this mess, my mother remembers it’s my birthday, so I do this weird screwed-up face instead. “Not bad, considering it’s a lumpy chair. I just want a shower.”
“You’ve got about an hour before your cousins get home,” she says. “Aunt Mary has everything you’ll need in the bathroom.”
I get up, and she grabs my hand. I stop.
“We had gifts for you,” she says through pinched lips.
I swallow hard and feel dumb that I’m so emotional about this. The whole house and restaurant is gone, and I feel sorry for myself because my birthday presents burned up. “I don’t need anything,” I say. “I wasn’t even going to mention it.”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “We’ll all go out for dinner—the five of us, I mean. For your birthday.”
I glance at my dad, and he nods. He pats his shirt pocket. “I have my delivery tips to pay for it.”
It’s a joke.
My dad made a joke.
And I remember when I used to love him.
Nine
Sawyer calls when I’m putting on some stranger’s donated clothes.
“Happy birthday,” he says. “I love you. What do you need most for your birthday?”
“Besides you?”
“Besides me.”
“A phone charger.”
“That can be arranged. What else?”
I think about this stranger’s bra I’m wearing that doesn’t quite fit, and cringe. “Some . . . you know. Embarrassing schtuff.”
“Ahhm . . . ,” he says, and I can tell he has no idea where to begin. He guesses. “Like panty liner shit? And whatever else? ’Cause Kate’s got like a whole drawer full of that stuff and she said I could bring you whatever.” Kate is Sawyer’s college-aged cousin who he moved in with after his dad gave him a black eye.
“Thankfully, no.” I think about how much it would suck to have your house burn down on the night before your birthday and also get your period, and I realize things could actually be worse. “Like underwear.” I blush. Apparently we haven’t gotten to the underwear-discussion stage in our relationship.
“Hey, that’s perfect—according to my sources, underwear is the five-week-dating anniversary gift,” he says. “Can we go shopping today? Or are you too busy with . . .