by Sarah Price
One video, he thought. He filmed it last Monday, and just a few days later, it must have caught the attention of enough people who liked it so that it was made Featured Video of the Weekend. By the end of the day, who knew how many new followers he might have? He took a few deep breaths, trying to wrap his head around this. But he couldn’t. Something was fermenting, like a seed pushed into the dirt and gently watered. It would grow. He just didn’t know into what yet.
The important thing was that, with a little improvement, he could reach new users and maybe, just maybe, he’d reach five thousand followers. Five thousand. He couldn’t imagine it. Five thousand would be amazing. It was all he had ever wanted ... to perform and to act, to touch people’s lives with laughter and hope. If he could reach five thousand people, it would be the ultimate accomplishment. An audience. What else could a fifteen-year-old cowboy in the making ask for?
CHAPTER ONE
Happy Birthday!
Today is the day!
That’s the first thought that crosses my mind when I wake up. Actually, it’s the second thought, the first being that my dog needs a serious breath mint. Pica’s idea of a good morning wake-up call is licking my face and ears. I hate that. Especially the ears. But she’s more reliable than my alarm clock, an old wind-up clunker that probably belonged to my grandmother back in the 1800s or something like that.
But all of that is destined to change today. After all, today is my birthday.
I know I live in a world of rainbows and unicorns, purple horses and talking butterflies. At least that’s what my mom always says. But birthdays are different. Birthdays are magical and full of happiness and joy, ponies and parties. On your birthday, the world revolves around you, and no one can take that away. Not even Alex, my older beast of a brother who lives to punch my arm and give me Indian burns when Mom isn’t watching.
Nope. Not today. Even he has to be nice to me today. Unspoken rules of birthday protocol.
I toss back the sheets, not caring that they fall to the floor. There’s not a chance that I have to make my bed today. More benefits of being the birthday girl. No chores. No lectures. No bed making.
“Come on, Pica!”
She wags her white tail and grins at me. She’s a Chihuahua rat terrier mix and has the most adorable face, mostly black but with two little brown dots on each side of her mouth. When she’s happy and panting, she looks like a cheerful clown. As I always say, simply adorbs!
“I bet Mom made chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast!” I jump out of bed and hit the ground running, full speed ahead.
Despite knowing my French stepfather Marcus will have a fit, I bypass my slippers (hate slippers!). He has a thing. That’s what we call it: a thing. He seriously freaks out over bare feet. Something to do about time he spent in Uganda, working as a medic before he immigrated to the States. He told me gross stories of worms in the soles of the feet because no one wore shoes. I don’t think he appreciated my comeback, that America has medicine to get rid of disgusting things like that. Still, I eventually learned to honor his “thing” because dealing with his freak-outs is so not worth it, even if listening to him freak out in a French accent is kind of entertaining.
Shuffling barefoot across the floor, I glance in the mirror. My long brown hair is a mess, hanging down my shoulders and poofy on top. Bedhead. And I have it bad. I run my fingers through the rat’s nest and flatten it. Later, when I get dressed for school, I’ll tie it up on top of my head in a messy bun. It’s my signature hairstyle. I like to think I started the trend, even if my older sister Brooke tells me otherwise.
I glance down at Pica, who is doing her funny wiggle dance. She has to pee; I can tell. “Ready, girl?” I fling open my bedroom door, half expecting to see a mound of presents waiting for me.
To my secret disappointment, nothing awaits me.
Downstairs, I tell myself. The gifts are probably downstairs.
I race down the steps, taking them two at a time. Pica is behind me. I can hear the little panting noise she makes when she runs. Near the bottom of the steps, I leap into the air and land on the hardwood floor with a thud.
“Goodness gracious, Cat!” Mom’s voice comes from the kitchen. I anticipate that she’s busy making my birthday pancakes, and my mouth starts to salivate at the thought of warm maple syrup mixing with melted chocolate chips. I run into the kitchen, sliding on the tile floor when I round the corner. Mom lifts her hand to slow me down. “Easy there, girlfriend. It’s not even seven o’clock!”
To my surprise, my mom isn’t standing by the stove, a spatula in hand to turn over my birthday pancakes. Instead, she’s leaning against the counter and holding a coffee mug. The newspaper is laid out on the countertop, and I can only presume that she’s reading it instead of making my big birthday breakfast.
“Uh ...” I’m not certain how to react to this grave injustice without sounding insolent. That’s the one thing that drives Mom batty. If you want something, don’t sass her. She wants peace and quiet, a house full of harmony. Still, I can’t help wondering why my mom’s not cooking my birthday breakfast and why there aren’t any presents waiting for me on the table.
“What gives?”
Mom frowns. She’s already dressed for the day. Her short hair is spiked in the front and smoothed down on the sides in a typical old school One Direction style. Her sunglasses are propped on top of her head (sometimes she wears two by accident ... she is getting older), and a piece of hair is sticking out behind the shades. Last year, she had cancer. Sometimes it’s easy to forget about that because she refused to be that cancer person.
In fact, there were some benefits to her condition. I got to miss a lot of school using the ole cancer card, and Mom didn’t care. “As long as you have straight A’s, I really don’t give two hoots,” she always told me.
Of course, that’s all changed now that she’s better.
“What gives what?” she asks me. Her eyes widen and she frowns. “And why aren’t you ready for school? You’re not staying home. I have appointments, Cat!”
I look around, my eyes scanning the table which is, surprisingly, empty. No boxes wrapped in happy smiley face gift wrap with shiny bows. No pretty purple bags with white tissue paper sticking out the top. And no little box that looks like an iPhone.
Holy Hannah, I say to myself. She forgot!
“Mom, you do realize what today is, right?” I don’t wait for an answer but put my hands together in the shape of a heart in front of my chest, give her my saddest puppy dog eyes, and break them apart. “You’re killing me, Mom.”
“Don’t be so dramatic!”
She sets down the mug and crosses the room. She pulls me into her arms and hugs me. I’ve gotten used to her new hugs, the ones that are deeper and warmer but without that soft cushion called “the girls.” I shut my eyes and inhale: Angel perfume, Mom’s signature fragrance. I tried it once but it didn’t smell the same on me. I use Taylor Swift’s new perfume instead, even though half of the seventh grade smells the same. However, I know that on me it smells extra fantabulous ... my friend Jamie told me so.
“Happy birthday, baby girl!”
Finally! I smile to myself, relieved. It will be only a matter of minutes before the presents will begin to flow.
“Yo! What’s going on?” My brother, Alex, walks into the room, pausing just long enough to flick the back of my head.
Earlier in the school year, he turned sixteen and thinks he’s all that because he’s got his driver’s permit. I don’t care if my friends think he’s good looking. Blue eyes and dark brown hair? Lots of boys have that. So do lots of girls, but, unfortunately, I’m not one of them. I don’t care if my mom says my brown eyes are pretty and almond shaped. I’d do just about anything to have blue eyes like Alex and Brooke.
What my friends don’t know is that he takes over thirty minutes in the bathroom every morning and his feet stink. I’d love to tell them that, but he’d probably do something horrid to me. That seems to be
his calling in life: torturing me.
“It’s your sister’s birthday, Alex.” My mom gives him one of her looks. “Don’t you have something to say?”
“Yeah! You’re still a butt face.”
“Alex!”
I stick out my tongue and he lifts his fist at me, pretending to punch me behind Mom’s back. I mouth the words You’re a poop head.
He reaches for Mom’s mug and takes a sip, staring at her over the rim. “What’s cooking, Marty?”
She grimaces. Unfortunately, her real name is Martha, but everybody calls her Marty, a nickname she despises. But she really hates it when Alex calls her that, his mocking tone grating her nerves. I almost giggle as she tries to snatch back the mug. Alex is ginormous. He’s a full six inches taller than her, which irritates her, and big enough that no one really bothers me at school. It’s not like he’d actually stick up for me, but no one is taking any chances. He plays football, both offense and defense, and hangs out with no one and everyone at the same time. I’m not always certain if that helps me or hurts me.
He laughs at her and lets her win back the coffee mug. I see her give him that look, the one that says Knock it off, even if you are funny. They have a weird relationship, Mom and Alex. I can’t always tell when they’re serious or if they’re in cahoots together. He sure does get away with a lot of stuff that would never fly if I did it, that’s for darn certain!
“Look, guys, I need some cooperation today,” Mom says in that all-too-familiar serious tone. “Marcus left for work and I’ve got to head out early. You can’t miss the bus today. Okay?”
“What? The bus?”
I can’t believe that I just heard my own mother say that. The bus? I can only stare at her, my mouth hanging open. She must be joking. But she doesn’t laugh and tell me she’s kidding. In fact, she’s not even paying attention to me.
“Seriously, Mom? You’re making me take the bus? On my birthday? That totally stinks!”
I hate taking the bus. These two girls always sit behind me. They might be twins because they get on at the same stop and kinda look alike; I never bothered to ask. But they love to sing 1D songs even though half the time they have no clue what the lyrics are. It’s one thing to be uncool but to be uncool and screw up Niall’s songs? Unforgivable!
Mom gives me a look. It’s not the same one she always gives Alex. I’m pushing her buttons, and that never sits well with her. “Honey, give me a break, okay?”
“You’re a writer, for crying out loud! You write from home!” I know I’m toeing a dangerous line, but I don’t care because so far, this has been the suckiest birthday ever! Clearly there are no chocolate chip pancakes coming my way, and unless there’s a secret birthday fairy tucked up her sleeve, no gifts either. My brother is being a big jerk, and now she wants me to ride the bus? I think I’m going to cry.
As if she senses this, my mom compromises. “Look, we’ll celebrate tonight. Everyone is coming over for pizza and cake. We’ll do gifts then.”
Once again, my mouth falls open. I simply cannot believe the words that just came out of my mother’s mouth. It’s like she hates me or something. Now I really think I might cry. I have to will myself not to; crying makes my eyes red and puffy and everyone at school will know. The last thing I want is that wicked Leslie Murphy finding out I cried on my birthday. The torture would never end.
Leslie Murphy is my arch nemesis. She’s the “A” to my Aria. She’s the Voldemort to my Harry Potter. This girl lives to embarrass me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear my brother Alex and her were separated at birth because they could be twins.
If I were to cry in school, everyone would hear about it from her lips. I don’t care that her older brother is a senior and the star-whatever on the lacrosse team. I don’t think that the popularity of an older sibling should automatically make her queen bee of middle school! It’s not like I get any benefits from Alex playing on the football team or my sister having been the head cheerleader-chick.
“No gifts? Not even one?” This is unbelievable.
Never in my entire life has this happened. There’s always the morning gifts from Mom and then the evening gifts from my grandparents, Nina and Poppy. Sometimes I celebrate with my dad if I see him on my birthday. He used to drop off something on his way to the pharmaceutical company where he worked at the time. Once he tried to throw me a birthday pizza party at his house, which was definitely more for his then-girlfriend’s benefit, but even a blind person could see that he was just trying to impress her. Clearly she fell for it—they got married two years ago, she’s having a baby at Christmas (yuck!), and they moved to Boston right before Easter.
Now I hardly ever see him anymore which is A-OK with me since he usually gives lame-o gifts: a Kmart gift card (Mom hates Kmart ... he does that just to make her mad!), a stuffed animal (hello? I’m not a toddler!), and a stupid shirt with a kitten on it that is so not cool, I wouldn’t have worn it when I was nine, let alone thirteen! Half the time I wonder what on earth he’s thinking and then I realize ... he’s not.
“You’re going to take me to the barn after school at least, right?” I’m not even sure why I ask this because it’s only two miles from our house. I could walk there if it wasn’t for that busy road and the creepy guy who lives in the corner house.
My mom doesn’t respond right away and I know the answer is no.
“What!” I cry out in disbelief.
“I’m sorry, Cat,” she says. “I have to meet with my publisher in New York City today.”
Today? Of all days? She couldn’t reschedule that appointment? “How am I getting to the barn then?” Even though Marcus and I battle constantly, I have to admit that there is one super de duper cool thing about him: he owns a horse barn in Morristown. So, for the most part, I spend all of my free time at the barn, grooming horses, playing with the ponies, or even getting a freebie lesson if Marcus says it’s okay.
Mom sighs and has that expression on her face, the one that says I’m getting on her last nerve (singular, mind you, because at this point she probably only has one left).
Now I know I’m going to cry. Horses, after all, are my life.
“Mom!”
Alex laughs. “Loser.”
Mom shoots him a glare but doesn’t reprimand him. When she turns around, he puts his finger in the shape of an L and presses it to his forehead, mocking me.
“Mom, that’s just so not fair! No gifts and a ‘maybe’ to the barn?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. For a second, she taps her fingers on the granite countertop and I think maybe, just maybe, she’ll give in. “Look, sweetie, you know this year was tough. It’s not like I have a mountain of gifts or anything. With the medical bills and ...”
I don’t want to hear it. Not again and certainly not today. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” I should just be happy that she kicked the cancer. That should be gift enough. Still, deep down, there was that one special gift, the one that keeps on giving all year long, twenty-four hours a day. The one that my friend Cassie got for Christmas when all I got was an eReader (and not an HD one at that!).
Already I know that this year’s birthday is going to be total suckarama. And the only choice I have? Take it on the chin. Grin and bear it. Cry inside, as my mom always tells me.
Total suckarama ...
CHAPTER TWO
Leslie Murphy
“What do you mean no gifts?” Jamie doesn’t mince her words. She has the habit of constantly blurting out exactly what I’m thinking but am too afraid to actually say. “That’s totally not cool! Who’d you tick off?”
I have two best friends: Jamie and Cassie. While Cassie lives next door to me, I feel closer to Jamie. Probably because Jamie and I are in the same grade. But I’d never admit that to Cassie. Even though she tends to be more quiet, she’s really weird about favorites in our group. Once I caught her trying to read Jamie’s text messages. She made up some lame-o excuse that she thought it was her own phone, but I think she
was spying on Jamie.
I never told Jamie.
In some ways, they are both my best friends. In others, they can be my worst enemies. Take, for instance, when I had a crush on Tommy Hunter. Okay, that was back in sixth grade, but Jamie had an absolute fit about it and said that if I married him, my name would be Cat Hunter, and that just did not sound right. Plus, Cassie chimed in, she saw him pick his nose and eat it at a Little League game.
World’s shortest romance ever.
“She said gifts later,” I explain to Jamie as we walk down the hallway at school.
“Oh, man. That sucks!”
Tell me about it.
“Is Brooke coming home?” Jamie asks.
I shrug again. My older sister’s whereabouts are always a mystery to me. She’s twenty and tends to come and go. It’s like someone has her on fast-forward all the time. Don’t get me wrong; I like her well enough, although there was a period of time that I forgot who she was since she’s almost never home. I suspect she inherited my mom’s high energy because Brooke sure is busy: between college, work, and horseback riding, she’s always somewhere else.
“Well, you’ll get good gifts then, I’m sure,” Jamie says half-heartedly.
I’m not so sure. I mean, Mom prepped me with the whole medical bills scenario. That certainly set the stage for no Jumble-Bug-upgrade-to-iPhone. And I know Dad is totally out of the running for even contemplating something cool like that. He still thinks I’m into Littlest Pet Shop figurines, which was so three years ago.
The homeroom bell rings and we say goodbye until lunchtime, which is really the only time I get to chat with her anymore. After school, it’s like she dissipates into a vapor. You see, Jamie has an iPhone. I, on the other hand, have something called a Jumble Bug or some ridiculously embarrassing name like that. And it’s bright green. Like fluorescent. There’s no losing that phone ... even if I tried ... which I have.
