I finally fought my way to a less-crowded area of the room and sank down into a seat in the shadows, partially hidden by a giant speaker.
I saw Hero racing around with two other kids his age. They’d managed to snatch some of the gold balloons and silver streamers.
I saw Dad laughing with a group of kids as he “reffed” the balloon volleyball game. Spencer was on one of the teams, laughing with a group of girls.
I watched everybody who came to my birthday party while the deafening music pounded endlessly. Songs I never listened to or had never even heard before.
Everyone seemed to be happy and laughing and enjoying this loud, loud party.
Everybody but me.
That feeling of being lonely, lonely, lonely in a crowded room at your very own ginormous birthday party.
CHAPTER 16
The Party Lasts Several More Years
All of a sudden, the music stopped.
“Sixth grade party animals!” yelled the DJ. “It’s time to get our birthday girl up here to blow out some birthday candles!” He started up a chant.
“Di-Va, Di-Va, Di-Va…”
I swallowed and mentally calculated the sprinting distance to the door. Too far; right across the room. Why had I not escaped to the bathroom sooner?
Mom was at the mic now.
“Deeeeee-va, where are you? Everybody, I need your help. Help find Diva!” She said this like it was some fun, Find-the-Diva game.
I needed her to stop talking before she started telling the stories about when I was a little girl and used to hide in various places (the pantry, under tables, behind curtains), reading books. Bear in mind that I was two at the time, but the stories always ended with me being discovered and saying irritably: “Tan’t see me!” Adorable, maybe, when told around family. Around the entire sixth grade? Not so cute.
I needed this to be over as quickly as possible. I will go and blow out candles, I thought. I will endure everyone dutifully singing “Happy Birthday.” But if anybody so much as thinks of giving me the bumps, I swear I will fight like a wildcat.
“I’m over here, Mom,” I called, coming out from behind the speaker. “I was just… back there.” I started weaving my way through the crowd to the DJ platform. I wished there was still the cover of music—because all of a sudden, even with the murmur of talking, the room was way too quiet.
“Ah, I think I see her,” said Mom, shielding her eyes and squinting theatrically. “Yes, it’s definitely her. The Birthday Girl! Get ready to sing ‘Happy Birthday’!”
Miranda gave me a long look as I walked by her, then turned and whispered something to Miko. I looked down at the ground the rest of the way, achingly conscious of my old clothes, a trickle of sweat running down the side of my face. The room felt very hot, what with all the people and the lights and the crippling embarrassment.
“Here she is, here she is! Diva has ARRIVED!” Mom was trying really hard to make this a special moment. Hero high-fived me as I got to the platform, and Dad patted my shoulder, looked anxiously at my face, and whispered, “Everything okay, Deev?”
I nodded and climbed up the three steps. Mom swept me up in a smother-hug, clanging the microphone against my shoulder.
“Whoops, sorry folks!” she laughed. “Well, Diva, twelve years old! Is there anything you want to say to everybody? Anything at all?” She smiled and held out the microphone.
I couldn’t believe she would do that. Put me on the spot. What on earth should I say? Other than maybe: Why are you doing this to me, Mom?
I had a horrifying mental image of myself smacking the microphone out of her hand and running, screaming and crying, for the far door. But I didn’t. I thought about what a disaster this party was, but it flashed through my mind that I’d come through disasters before. Like when Hero broke his arm and I ran all the way home for help. Like the performance of The Lorax at my old school, where Warren Pitts threw up all over the stage in the first act.
That’s it, I thought. Treat this as a play. My part is the happy birthday girl, delighted at this lovely surprise party my parents have thrown for hundreds of my very closest friends.
“Rosie,” my dad whispered urgently, “I don’t think—”
Mom was still looking at me encouragingly, happily, totally oblivious to how I was feeling.
I cleared my throat and grabbed the mic. I looked out at the sea of faces.
“Thanks, everyone, for coming to this party.” There was an awkward silence. “It was a total and complete surprise, as you can see by the way I’m dressed!” Laughter. Laughter is good.
“I know this party is pretty over the top, but I want to thank my mom and dad and my brother for doing all this, for making it all so special.” I managed a smile at all of them. I even meant what I said. As an experienced party-planner helper, I knew this had been an incredible amount of work. And they did it all without me suspecting a thing. “Even if Dad and ’Ro lied to me to get me to come here.” Laughter again.
I gave the crowd a nervous smile, flicked off the mic, fumbled to put it back in its stand and bolted down the three steps. Mom had lit the candles on a table-sized cake set on a trolley. She wheeled it around to the front of the platform and held out her hand to me.
“Happy birthday to you…” she started singing and made a “c’mon, EVERYONE” gesture, throwing out her arms. Everyone else joined in, which is pretty much obligatory for “Happy Birthday.” The kids sang in that half-hearted, half-embarrassed way that sixth graders do when they have to sing “Happy Birthday.” But there were enough adults to carry the tune.
I gritted my teeth and stared down at my feet while a large room of people I didn’t know sang for me. Some people want to be the center of attention. They crave it. They long for it. I know for a fact that Mom would have been happy to talk for hours up there with the mic. This was always astonishing to me. Even during the plays I’d been in, even behind the shield of a costume and a character, I never really wanted to be the center of attention. I never wanted to be the lead. I just wanted to be part of something.
All I wanted right now was for the bright, blinding glare of attention to shift far, far away from me. I’d never really realized how long and agonizingly slow “Happy Birthday” is, especially when it’s led by a small woman who is determined to sing the extended clapping version. “For she’s a jolly good fellow… which nobody can deny” and “so say all of us!” I don’t even know if those were official “Happy Birthday” song verses, but Mom had everyone sing every one of them.
My smile was wavering into a sickly grimace when it finally, finally ended. It was such a complete and total relief when it was over and everyone focused their attention on the cake. Bless that attention-shifting cake. It really was a lovely cake—white icing with a beautiful pattern of silver and gold leaves framing my name.
As I looked at the huge cake with the twelve candles on it, a thought struck me.
“Do not even think about mentioning anything about boyfriends when I blow out these candles,” I hissed in Mom’s ear. “Not one word.”
“Well, you know the rules: if one stays lit—” She broke off when she saw my face. “Okay, okay, Princess. I promise I won’t embarrass you.”
I don’t trust you anymore, Mom. I’m sorry, but after this party, how could I?
I took a huge breath and blew out each and every candle, just to make sure.
Mom and Dad started cutting the cake and handing it out to the kids who were lining up for a piece. I tried to help, to make myself useful, but Mom shooed me away.
“We got this, Diva, honey. I’m doing cake; Dad’s got the plates and serviettes. You can’t work on your birthday!”
“It’s not actually my birthday,” I muttered, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“Off you go! Mingle with your guests.”
Right. Mingle.
I turned and looked uncertainly at the snaking lineup of kids—most of them were in groups, talking and laughing. I stood for a few
minutes, hesitating, wishing I had my backpack to rummage in so I wasn’t just standing there awkwardly.
“Hey, Deev.” Dad nudged my arm, handing me a piece of cake. “First piece!” His eyes said “Please be having fun, please understand we did all this for you, please don’t be mad.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, and found a smile for him. At least holding the plate of cake gave me something to do with my hands.
I bravely set out to mingle with my guests. I wandered down the lineup, but everyone seemed to be talking with somebody else. My mingling efforts lasted about thirty seconds before I realized that they were pointless. Short of mingling by force, by butting right into a group, there was no chance to mingle. I wasn’t a mingler. There was nobody to mingle with. There would be no mingling.
I stood uncertainly, holding my cake, feeling increasingly desperate. Then I thought that maybe I could just go back and hide in that spot behind the speaker and wait there quietly until the party was over. I ducked behind the DJ platform, down the side wall of the room, and found my way back to my seat in the shadows behind the speaker.
I heard snippets of conversation from the people in line as I moved to the back of the room.
“… I got a stuffie, and these and these from those DJ scrambles…”
“… score! I won a real football. I thought the prizes were going to be lame…”
“… this picture, no wait, this one is hilarious…”
“… you weren’t supposed to keep the mustache…”
“… what is this thing? Is it an eraser? Do you eat it? No seriously, it smells good…”
“… already had, like, four of those candy shish kebab things. And cotton candy. But that cake looks so delicious. I’m gonna be so sick…”
“… yeah, my mom made me come, too. Whatever. I wasn’t doing anything else…”
“… shut up. That song is, like, my fav!”
“… vanilla? You think vanilla? I’m betting chocolate. Hard to tell by the icing.”
“… which just made me want to throw up…”
I found my chair behind the speaker, dragged it a little deeper into the shadows, and put my plate of untasted cake on the floor beside me. I had no appetite at all; my stomach was a tight ball. I wished I hadn’t heard that comment about somebody’s mom making them come. At least two somebodys actually, because the person had said “my mom made me come, too.” Also. More than one person had been forced to come to my party.
I sat with my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor between my feet. There was a popped balloon down there, a shriveled gold mess tied to a broken, frayed gold ribbon. I tried not to think about how it seemed like a symbol of this whole party.
The DJ was taking a break, maybe getting a piece of cake, so for the moment, the speakers were mercifully quiet.
But maybe the quiet wasn’t such a good thing. Because a group of people stopped on the other side of the speaker in front of me, and I heard them very clearly.
And I wished I hadn’t.
“So that’s it for our list of decent music suggestions.” I heard that voice every day at the back of class, talking to Kallie. It was Miko. “Twenty-seven songs. Should we just give it to the DJ and say his music sucks, or what?”
I stayed very still.
“Just put it on his DJ chair thingy. Anybody want to get cake?” I recognized Kallie’s loud voice.
“I’d get some, but her mom is going to be all ‘Miranda! Thank you for coming!’ Like I had a choice. She seems to think I’m actually her kid’s best friend or something. As if.”
Shut up, Miranda. No she doesn’t. She thinks you’re insecure. But I know you’re just mean.
“I want cake,” grumbled Kallie. “She’s giving out monster pieces…”
“Then go get some already! I’m just here for the loot bags,” said Miko.
Excellent. Love you too, Miko.
“Me too,” said Miranda. “It was right there on the invitation. No presents and ‘awesome’ loot bags. My dad said that sounded like a sweet deal—you don’t need to bring anything, but you get something.”
Your dad sounds like a super-great guy, Miranda. A real gentleman. My dad would never talk like that.
“Let’s go put this list where the DJ can see it so he stops playing that totally lame music,” said Miranda. “And I want some of those balloons for my room.”
“Just rip a bunch off the wall. Nobody’s going to say anything.”
“Let’s check out that photo booth while everyone’s swarming around the cake.”
“But I want some caaake,” wailed Kallie, her voice getting fainter as she trailed off after the others.
I sat very still and stared down at that popped balloon until I was sure they were gone.
That was not totally a bad thing, I told myself. Bad, but not totally bad. Yes, those girls are jerks, and yes, they’re just here because (a) they have to be, and (b) they want stuff. But I hadn’t been thinking that they came because they liked me or wanted to be my friend anyway.
Their conversation told me one thing that made me feel better. At least now I knew the invitations to this party said not to bring gifts, which was a huge relief. That made us seem way less horrible as a family—at least nobody could say we only had this huge party so we could cash in on a hundred and fifty presents. So—Mom, Dad—good call on that “no gifts” policy.
I couldn’t imagine what kids would have brought, anyway. What do you bring a kid you don’t know at all? Maybe the sort of stuff you get a teacher when you know nothing about their personal life. Mugs, gift cards, bubble bath. Maybe chocolates? Wow, a huge pile of those I-don’t-know-you-at-all kinds of gifts would have been truly depressing.
I suddenly felt very, very tired.
That feeling of being done. Crumpled up. Deflated. Just like a popped balloon.
CHAPTER 17
And That’s (Finally) a Wrap, Folks
The DJ played a few more songs before he signed off with a “Later, sixth graders!” I didn’t know if those were songs off Miko and Miranda’s list, and I didn’t care. The cotton candy man had long since wheeled his sugar-sticky cart out the door, the fake-grass putting green was rolled up, and there were people packing up the other stations. The regular room lights had been flicked on, and many of the kids had already left, grabbing loot bags from a side table as they went.
“Jeez, these loot bags are incredible,” said a boy I recognized from another class as he dug in his shopping-bag-sized bag and pulled out a nerf football. “There’s a massive lollipop, a writing journal, gift card…”
My mom must have stayed up nights stuffing all those. The thought of that made me feel so guilty.
I watched kids leave for a while, then stood up.
My eye fell on my piece of cake. I should probably at least taste it, I thought, but I just couldn’t. I chucked it in the nearest garbage can and went to help clean up.
Spencer, Jeremy, and Shaya were just leaving by the far door. Shaya caught my eye and waved her cotton candy at me.
“Happy birthday!” she called from the door. “I tried to find you! Where you been? Thanks for the awesome party!”
Spencer and Jeremy turned, smiled, and waved.
“Thanks for coming,” I called, and waved back.
Why, oh why hadn’t I come out of hiding sooner? Three friendly people, three potential friends, there all along. And I’d been wasting my time listening to the mean ones.
Speaking of mean, there was Miranda, leaning against a wall, texting. Her mother and my mother were sitting at a table. Mrs. Clay was talking, and my mom looked sorry for her. She nodded, then shook her head sadly, then patted Mrs. Clay’s hand.
Miranda shoved her phone in her back pocket, sighed theatrically, and pushed herself away from the wall. “Mom,” she said, “Can we go already?”
“Okay, okay.” Miranda’s mother pushed her chair back. I saw her quickly reach up and wipe her eyes. Mom stood up with her, and put her arm aro
und Mrs. Clay, giving her shoulders a little squeeze. Surprisingly, Mrs. Clay turned, smiled, and gave Mom a hug.
“Thanks, Rosie. Thanks for everything,” she said. She saw me hovering and said brightly, “Hey, happy birthday, Diva. Awesome party, huh? Your folks did just an awesome job.” Her smile was wobbly and watery.
“Awesome,” echoed Miranda. And the look she gave me left no doubt that she was being totally sarcastic.
“Yeah, sure was,” I said fake-cheerfully. Hey, you have to try. “Total surprise.”
“I can believe it. Nobody would wear what you’re wearing if they knew they were going to a party.” She said this in a lowered voice so our mothers didn’t hear it.
“Did you get a loot bag, Miranda?” Mom asked. “Can’t leave without some loot!”
“Yeah. I took one for my sister, too. That’s okay, right? And some balloons.” Miranda nodded her head to where some gold balloons were tied to two loot bags. She clearly wasn’t the slightest bit interested in whether it was okay with Mom. She wasn’t asking for permission at all. She’d already pulled out her phone and was looking down at it.
“Of course, of course.” Mom smiled until they left. Then she turned to me and said: “Her sister is eighteen and doesn’t even live at home anymore. Ah, well, such a sad family. In fact, Julie and her husband are splitting up. Anyway, we can be generous.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I was amazed that Mom knew all that about Miranda’s family. All of that was way worse than being a party mermaid or having to play the Yellow Brick Road. It didn’t make Miranda any nicer. It didn’t erase the meanness. But maybe it explained her just a little.
I turned to help Dad and ’Ro pull all the silver streamers down.
Most of the gold balloons were already popped or gone.
It was almost eleven o’clock when we got home. My legs were cramped from our seats being pushed as far forward as they could go so we could fit all the totes in the back. Mom and Dad both looked as exhausted as I felt. It was only ’Ro who still seemed to have lots of energy. Way too much. Hyperdrive energy. He was nattering about the “rules” of balloon volleyball all the way home.
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