First, Last, and Always

by Lehman, Kim

  Pursing her lips, she gives me a tsk and rings up my purchase.

  With my head down, I walk out of the store feeling about two inches tall.

  Charlotte

  As far as teenage birthdays go, mine is the lamest of the lame. Personally, I didn’t feel the need for a raging party. For one, there wouldn’t really be anyone there, and two, most kids my age stopped attending birthday parties in sixth grade. I only agreed to a birthday dinner because Mom said she was going to have it whether I wanted one or not. In other words, I was forced.

  Other than myself, there’s Mom, Dad, Alexa, Miles, Lani, Uncle Paul, and Aunt Claire sitting around the table. We finished the meal ten minutes ago; a buffet of my favorites: macaroni and cheese, mini tacos, and pizza bites. An odd assortment that works exceptionally well together. The mac and cheese was devoured (further proof that no one of any age can pass up the much-loved pasta with creamy cheese sauce), and we’re now enduring jokes that are flying back and forth a mile a minute between Dad and Uncle Paul. None of the jokes are funny, and yet both of them roar with laughter after every terrible punch line. The rest of us at the table chuckle as a courtesy. Alexa is the only one who hasn’t cracked a smile.

  “I got another one,” Dad announces. Uncle Paul leans forward, elbows on the table, with anticipation. Dad clears his throat and waits for complete silence. Then he leans forward too, stares around the table, and says, “A dyslexic man walks into a bra.”

  Uncle Paul is broken up.

  “Are you serious?” Alexa hangs her head as if in pain.

  “Come on,” Dad says. “That was funny.”

  “All right.” Mom stands up and clasps her hands. “Who’s ready for cake and ice cream?”

  Lani’s hand shoots up in the air. Miles nods. “I’d love some, Mrs. Hubbard.”

  Mom scowls at him. “Miles, how many times have I told you to call me Dee? ‘Mrs. Hubbard’ makes me feel so old.”

  “Sorry.”

  Alexa slides her chair out from under her. “None for me. It’s been a blast, but I can’t sit here anymore.” She gets up to leave.

  “Alexa!” Mom exclaims. “Where are you going?”

  “To my room.”

  “Don’t you want to stay and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to your sister?” Dad asks, his tone implying: You’d better stay and sing “Happy Birthday” to your sister.

  She looks at me and rolls her eyes. “You really want to hear me sing?”

  “You don’t have to stay,” I say.

  “See,” she says to Dad. “Charlotte doesn’t care if I go.”

  “Well, I do,” he says, stressing each word with a forced smile.

  “Just ten more minutes,” Uncle Paul jumps in. “We’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ cut the cake, and get a quick group picture. You gotta stay. If you aren’t here then I can’t get a pic,” he continues, trying to persuade Alexa. “And I gotta have a picture with my four favorite girls.” He smiles at Mom and me while pulling Aunt Claire into him.

  This doesn’t sway Alexa in the least. She crosses her arms and glares at the table.

  “Come on,” Mom says, motioning her over. “I’ll grab the ice cream, you grab the cake, and we’ll do this real fast.”

  You’d think my sister was getting pricked with a needle. Scowling, Alexa walks around the table toward the cake. Uncle Paul jumps up. “Here,” he says reaching out. “I’ll help you with that.”

  Uncle Paul grabs one side of the cake pedestal and Alexa grabs the other. “I got it,” Alexa says. “Let go.”

  “It’s okay. I’m closer to the table I can set it down for you,” Uncle Paul tells her.

  She glares at him a moment and then says, “You know what? Fine. Go ahead.”

  I don’t think Uncle Paul realized she would let go so fast because he seems surprised that she releases her grasp on the pedestal. His hands wobble. The cake slides. Next thing I know the chocolate cake with peanut-butter frosting, my favorite flavor, smashes and crumbles onto the floor.

  We all stare at it for a moment, silent. Lani is the first one to chuckle. I give her a look that says, “Not now.”

  “Sorry,” Lani says, wiping her smile.

  “Jesus,” Alexa grumbles at Uncle Paul. “You ruined it.”

  “Alexa!” Dad shouts.

  Mom jumps in too. “It was an accident.”

  “Was it?” Alexa says, still staring at Uncle Paul. “Was it an accident?”

  Uncle Paul looks at her confused and them turns to me. “It really was an accident. I’m so sorry, Charlotte.”

  “Liar!” Alexa shouts. “You aren’t sorry. You know you aren’t sorry.” I have no idea what is going on. I think she may be having a mental breakdown.

  Dad jumps up out of his chair. “Alexa Hubbard, that is enough!”

  “Dad—,” she starts.

  “Go to your room! Now!” Dad yells.

  Alexa looks at everyone looking at her. Her face turns red. “Shit,” she mutters before running from the room. A few seconds later, I hear the slam of her bedroom door.

  Mom sighs as she bends down to clean up the mess. “She’s just embarrassed,” she explains as if it needs stating.

  Nobody says anything for a while. We all watch Mom pick up the cake. Dad looks furious, Uncle Paul looks upset, Aunt Claire is trying to console Uncle Paul, Miles looks like he wants to leave, and Lani looks totally bored. This birthday is even worse than I imagined it would be.

  Dumping the dismembered cake into the trash, Mom opens the cupboards, pulls out a Little Debbie box, turns to all of us and says, “Okay, who wants Swiss Rolls?”

  All of us stare at her.

  Lani is the only one who reacts. “Ooh! Yes, please, Mrs. Hubbard,” she says, holding out her plate. “I’d love some.”

  Uncle Paul and Aunt Claire leave an hour later. Things get less awkward before they leave, but there’s definitely a weird vibe in the air. Miles, Lani and I are talking about it as we sit out on the front porch and wait for Lani’s dad to pick her up.

  “So, that was weird,” Lani says. “Why do you think your sister freaked out like that?”

  “I have no idea. Her attitude’s been worse the past month, but now I’m starting to think she might be legitimately crazy.”

  “You think she’s doing drugs?” Lani asks.

  I shrug. “Possible.”

  “Or maybe she’s pregnant?” Lani says.

  Miles and I both turn our heads with matching scrunched foreheads. “Why would you say that?” I ask.

  “Hormones,” she says flatly. “They totally make you whack. My mom was all moody with the quads. Seriously, there were times I thought she was possessed.”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t think that’s it.”

  Miles jumps in. “Actually, Lani could be right.”

  Now I’m staring at him with a furrowed brow.

  “I was in the locker room the first week of school,” he explains, “and some guys were talking about your sister. They said she hooked up with Lance at a party over the summer.”

  That’s hardly a convincing argument. “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Ooh!” Lani exclaims. “If she is, she should totally sign up for that television show, Teen Mom. I bet producers would love your sister. She’s got all the qualities for a dramatic TV personality.”

  Lani has a big imagination. “Okay, now we’re going too far,” I tell her.

  “I’m just sayin’,” Lani argues, “Turn lemons into lemonade. It’s just a suggestion.”

  “She’s not pregnant,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” Lani says, she looks to Miles for support. He looks at me for a response.

  “Yes,” I say, adamant. “I’m sure.” They both raise their eyebrows at me. “I’m pretty sure?” I’m waning. Lani crosses her arms. “All right, I have no idea.” I can’t deny that there has to be something more going on.

  Lani’s dad pulls up in his truck and she stands to leave. “Check her room,” Lani says. “
See if she has any baby books or pregnancy tests or anything. Ooh! Check her browser history. Maybe she’s going on baby sites and stuff.”

  “I’m not going to spy on her.”

  Lani shrugs. “She’d do it to you.” Then with a quick wave she adds, “Later. Feel free to miss me.”

  Miles and I wave.

  Miles

  We continue to wave as Lani jumps in the car and stretches across the front seat to lay on the horn. Her dad attempts to push her off as he pulls away. With a sigh, Charlotte turns to me when they are out of sight. “Shittiest birthday ever or what?” she asks.

  “Entertaining,” I reword, keeping it more positive.

  “I guess.”

  “So, did you get everything you wanted?” I wonder. Her parents gave her a journal, clothes that Charlotte did not seem at all happy about, and a gift card to buy new music. Her aunt and uncle got her a mini retro Coca-Cola fridge for her room, fully stocked, which she loved; and Alexa gave her a card that said: I forgot to buy you a present so I had to get you this stupid card. Happy Birthday, Brainiac. Charlotte stared at it for a while, until Alexa said, “Why aren’t you laughing? It’s supposed to be funny.” I’m pretty sure Charlotte did not find it funny, but she pretended to chuckle anyway.

  “All I really wanted was cake,” Charlotte answers. “It’s not a real birthday without cake and candles and a wish.”

  Cake? I have to smile.

  There are so many reasons I like Charlotte. For one, Charlotte doesn’t act like most of the other girls in our grade. I’ve never seen her act obnoxious or pretend to be something she isn’t. Also, she’s shy and smart, she’ll play video games with me for hours, and she’s just not overly dramatic about stuff. I can remember this one time, in fifth grade, when this guy from the zoo came in to our class with all different kinds of spiders. Charlotte was the only girl who volunteered to hold one. All of the other girls screamed and stood as far back as they could. Charlotte didn’t flinch once when she held them. Even some of the other boys squirmed. Charlotte and I laughed at them. “Wimps,” she whispered to me as we watched.

  And now the she tells me the only thing she really wanted for her birthday is cake.

  Reason number four hundred and fifty-two to like her.

  “I gotta go.” I jump up off the front steps.

  “Oh.” Charlotte seems taken aback, which is understandable since we were sort of in the middle of a conversation. “Okay?” she says, confused.

  I start to walk off. I’m too excited to stand still. “Stay by your phone,” I tell her.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m great.”

  “Bye?” she says.

  I’m already running down the street.

  Charlotte

  After Miles and Lani are gone, my legs drag me into the living room, where I plop myself onto the couch and flick on the television. Outside the window, the skies have darkened. The Weather Channel is on in the background. A woman in a black skirt and red blazer is giving the local forecast. She’s calling for light rain tomorrow, sunshine after that. I think she’s wrong. The forecast is much more bleak.

  Miles

  Preheat oven to three hundred and fifty degrees. Easy enough. After doing that, I read the next line on the recipe card: Grease and flour two nine-inch round pans.

  I can’t find round pans, so I grab some square thing I find in the cupboard.

  Next line: In a large bowl, stir together the sugar, flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

  I wasn’t able to find my mom’s measuring cups, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need them. I’ve seen Mom make dinner plenty of times. She estimates ingredients and adds more to taste. Eyeballing two cups of sugar, I pour from the bag into the bowl. I do the same for the flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in the appropriate amounts (give or take). When I stir them all together and take a small taste of the mix, it’s not what I’m expecting. I think it needs more sugar. Another cup maybe?

  Yep. Better.

  Next line: Add in two eggs.

  Done.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asks, walking into the kitchen and glancing over my shoulder. She glances at the bowl in front of me and freezes. A horrified look comes over her face.

  “I’m trying to make a cake.”

  Mom scrunches her forehead. I may as well have said I’m slaughtering a calf. I’ve never baked anything before.

  “It’s for Charlotte,” I explain. As soon as she told me she wanted a cake, I knew that is what I could get for her. I just needed to make sure we had all the ingredients at home.

  The confusion disappears in Mom’s eyes and is replaced with a gentle smile. “Oh. I see.”

  Grabbing the bowl in front of me, she dumps the contents into the trash, puts it in the dishwasher, and grabs a new bowl from the cupboard, setting it where the other one once was. With grace and ease she flits around the kitchen, grabbing measuring spoons, measuring cups, two round pans, toothpicks, butter, and wax paper.

  Interesting. The recipe didn’t mention half of those things.

  Setting everything in front of us, she sighs, looks at me, and says, “Okay, first rule in baking...you have to measure everything precisely.”

  Charlotte

  Miles calls just after ten o’clock, as I’m crawling into bed. Pathetic, I know. I’m probably the only teenager in town who’s in bed at this hour on a Saturday night.

  “How are you doing?” he asks right away.

  “Looking forward to tomorrow.” I’m sulking.

  Snuggling in under the covers, I prepare for a long and late talk. Sometimes Miles and I will do that when one of us had a crappy day or can’t get to sleep. I think it’s the sound of a soft voice that helps relax and lull me to bed. Tonight, however, he doesn’t seem interested in having a conversation.

  “Can you be outside on your back porch in two hours?”

  “Okay...,” I say, hoping he’ll let me in on what’s go on.

  “If your mom and dad are still up, give me the signal.”

  He’s referring to the flashlight signal. We used to sneak out of our houses all the time in grade school. If my parents were awake when he came over, I’d pulse the light in the window to let him know I was stuck. “Okay,” I say again, curious and excited.

  “See you then.”

  Miles

  Standing a good distance away from the house, I watch the window for any signs of a flashing light. The entire house is dark. Nothing moves. When the glint from Charlotte’s bedroom window doesn’t appear after a few minutes, I assume it’s safe and I make my way to the back of the house.

  It’s ten after midnight. She isn’t here yet. I still have time.

  Moving quickly, I pan for a section of the patio that’s not visible from inside the house. When I find a spot I think will work, I pick up a small table in between two deck chairs, move it to that spot, and set the cake on top. Reaching into my pocket I grab the candles, count, and insert fifteen, lining them up perfectly, like waxy soldiers standing at attention. My fingers wrestle with the matches until finally the cake is ablaze.

  I hear the gasp before I see her face. When I turn around she’s mostly hidden in the shadows. With slow movements she tiptoes over and stands next to the cake. Her face is aglow; the light from the fire flickers in her eyes.

  “Happy birthday,” I whisper.

  Her eyes start to water. “You made this for me?”

  I nod.

  “Did Lani help you?”

  “No, but my mom may have helped a little,” I confess.

  She shakes her head, wipes her eyes, and smiles.

  I nod at the cake. “Make a wish.”

  Looking down at the candles, she takes a moment’s pause before lifting her head. “Make a wish with me,” she pleads.

  “I can’t,” I tell her immediately. “I shouldn’t share your wish
.” This is said as if I’m the expert on making wishes.

  “Why not?” she says.

  “Because it’s your wish.”

  “But I want you to.”

  She wants me to. You can’t argue with that logic. I shrug and relent.

  “Count of three,” she says, beaming. On the count of three we both blow. The flames flicker as the wind between us pushes back and forth, until all fifteen flames go out and all that’s left are smoke rings. With a heavy sigh she looks across to me. Her orange face is now a luminescent blue from the light of the moon. We stare at each other through the thick haze. Her eyes are excited and happy, a look that feels like it means something more, or maybe that’s just the remnants of my wish reflecting in her eyes. “Thanks.” She hugs me. I don’t see it coming; her arms wrap around me quickly. I lean into her body and curl an arm around her waist. My brain is spinning.

  She’s the first to pull away. “I really needed that,” she says.

  “It was nothing,” I respond.

  With a heavy yawn she shifts her body, lies on her back, and tucks her hands behind her head. “This is the perfect end to a crappy birthday.” It feels good to be the one to make her feel that way. “Do you remember when we used to lie out on your back porch like this?” she asks.

  Scooting closer, I copy her and lie on my back too. Above us the stars trickle in and out of view from behind the clouds, as if they’re spying. In front of us, off the edge of the deck, the tall grass moves back and forth.

  “Fifth grade,” I say, remembering it well.

  Charlotte stifles a yawn. “Remember what we called it?” Lifting her finger, she points up at the sky.

  “Shooting the stars,” I respond without thinking. It was a game we played. We actually thought we could blow them up with the tip of a finger.

  With an outstretched hand Charlotte closes one eye. “Ping,” she says. “Ping. Ping.” With every ping another star explodes. “Why did we stop?” She giggles.

  Joining in, I play along. Between the two of us a thousand stars detonate somewhere in space.