Brooke's Wish ... Part Two

So it was that on the Friday before my party, a day notable only for the deluge of rain that drummed the area for ten straight hours, I shamelessly lobbied my classmates to remember my birthday. I reminded everyone I saw that my mom was at home that moment baking a massive cake, and that everything had been prepared for the party. I told them where I lived and mentioned we had a dog but reassured everyone that he wouldn't dream of biting.

I'd heard Miranda say the rain was on the way out so I faithfully shared that bit of meteorological insight, hoping my peers would take to heart that, whatever else hampered them that Saturday, they wouldn't have the weather as an excuse for missing my party. My blandishments were met with limited enthusiasm at best but I did not allow myself to become discouraged.

When Crissy and I got home that afternoon, more bedraggled than usual on account of the dampness, the rain had indeed stopped and a disinterested sun was beaming on our pathetic yard. The ruts in our road were full of dun-colored water and I paused to view my reflection in a few of them as I walked to the corner a couple of times after supper, imagining as hard as I could the parade of cars that would come slowly down the lane in less than 24 hours to deposit children on my doorstep.

I made myself some toast which I garnished with apple jelly and consumed standing by the sink with a glass of cold milk to wash it down.

I tried not to think of the gaily-wrapped gifts they might bring along with them, and what it might be like to open the boxes, my stomach full of cake and ice cream, all my classmates' eyes upon me. I didn't want to jinx anything by being greedy.

That night I barely slept because the fear brick had come back to lodge in my gut. But when the heat of the bright sun of birthday-party Saturday (not my actual birthday; that would be Monday) coaxed my eyelids open, I realized the brick had evaporated and I was calm. I got up and stretched.

Crissy was being lazy and I kicked her foot to wake her and get her moving. She kicked back and refused to budge. I went out into the living area and there was Rafe, a cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke curling grayly around his head, a cup of instant coffee steaming at his elbow, clumsily arranging plastic forks alongside a pile of garish paper cake plates and matching napkin squares.

A lopsided chocolate sheet cake sat squarely in the middle of the kitchen table, eight small white swirly candles protruding from its wavily frosted surface. Miranda had written "Brooke" in some kind of white frosting and the candles punctuated my name. Gaudy streamers of red and yellow crepe paper had been affixed from the doorjambs to the light fixture above our kitchen table, making a kind of clumsy inverted umbrella.

"You better feed SeeFee and put him on his leash out back," Rafe gruffed, not looking up, the cigarette jumping with each word.

I did as I was told although my stomach was hurting on account of I was so hungry. Crissy usually made pancakes for us on Saturday mornings and we ate them while watching Bullwinkle, Bugs Bunny, and The Jetsons, but it was already nine o'clock and although the party wasn't set to begin until two, I had a feeling we wouldn't be having pancakes. After plunking a cupful of dry food into SeeFee's battered plastic dish and hooking him onto his chain, ignoring him as he yowled in protest, I made myself some toast which I garnished with apple jelly and consumed standing by the sink with a glass of cold milk to wash it down.

By this time Crissy was up and she stood unsteadily beside Rafe, still muzzy with sleep, peering disdainfully at my cake and the decorations. She was just jealous, I told myself, relishing the unfamiliar sense of my own burgeoning importance.

After my breakfast I took a bath and dressed carefully in clean shorts and a sleeveless cotton top that buttoned up the back. I had to ask for Crissy's help with the buttons and she did it, but without speaking to me. That meant she was mad and likely to be uncooperative all day, but what else was new? I didn't care. I brushed my shoulder-length hair until I brought out a shine, the way Miranda had taught me, before arranging it in a ponytail. I brushed my teeth. The whole thing took twenty minutes; it was ten o'clock and the party wouldn't start for four hours.

I rolled up my pallet and tidied our room, then found a book and went outside where Rafe was tinkering under the hood of his old car. Terrified that he might want me to "help" -- which meant identifying, locating, and handing to him whatever greasy tools he called for, and having to stand there forever, bored to tears -- I sidled noiselessly around the side of the house and made for a tree I liked to sit under. I read a chapter or two but it was hard to concentrate because I kept envisioning all my guests in their various homes, anticipating the fun they were going to have at my party.

I hoped it was black cherry. It made me choke up to think of Crissy making the Kool-Aid for my party.

At last it was five minutes until two and the house felt charged with an electric kind of readiness. SeeFee had gone to sleep under his shade tree. Rafe had shaved and put on a clean shirt. If he'd had a beer I hadn't noticed, but he must've because his hands weren't shaking. Crissy had dolled up a little bit and was fussing with the cake plates and napkins. I thought I heard a car outside but when I went to the door I saw it was only the mailman trundling by, making a concerted attempt to avoid the biggest ruts. I waved from the door but if he saw me, he made no indication.

I walked outside. Our gravel lane looked longer to me than I had ever seen it, and so wide, so empty! The dirty water in the ruts sparkled when the sun hit them, and a light breeze nudged their surfaces. Everything was quiet.

I went back inside to check and make sure the house was clean and that nothing had happened to my cake and the plates, forks, and napkins. I re-counted the candles on my cake and with my eyes I traced the white curve of the letters of my icing name. I saw that Crissy had made some red Kool-Aid and it was standing in a pitcher beside the sink, some small paper cups beside it. I hoped it was black cherry. It made me choke up to think of Crissy making the Kool-Aid for my party. What a ninny I was.

What time was it? Two eleven. Did I hear voices? I ran to the door, my heart pounding, the brick forming in my stomach again. Nothing.

Two thirty ... still nothing. I stood at the door and leaned out, holding onto the door frame with only my left hand, scanning the road for cars. A few went by on the distant cross road, but none turned. Two forty-five ... nothing. Three o'clock ... nothing. Rafe leaned against his automobile in the yard, arms crossed, the late-day sun's reflection making sharp-edged shiny blobs in his dark sunglasses. His mouth was a straight hard line and I knew he was angry. I was sure he was angry with me for failing to have friends.

Crissy had gone out back to talk to SeeFee and it was so quiet, I could hear her murmuring to him. Then there was a car. It turned up our road and lumbered toward our house, glinting, jouncing in and out of the ruts. Could it be Wendy? Wendy Appenzeller who seemed always to want to say something to me? My palms were slick with sweat and I was wiping them on my shorts when the car went on by. Its driver was a man of at least eighty and he was alone.

At four fifteen I gave up and started tearing down the crepe paper streamers. There was a big lump in my throat but like I told you before, I did not cry and I did not feel sorry for myself. I felt stupid. I was embarrassed and afraid of what the people in my class would say when they realized what had happened. People who had never spoken to me before would probably ask me about it, just my luck.

There was a big puddle of condensation under the Kool-Aid and I wiped the counter dry before putting the pitcher in the fridge. I was gathering up the plates and forks and napkins to put them away when Rafe came into the house, and I could tell he was trying to be upbeat but it came out dour as usual.

"We might as well eat this cake your mother made." Removing a book of matches from his shirt pocket, Rafe lit all eight candles. Crissy came in from out back and silently washed her hands at the sink. I watched the candles burn and thought about my life. Rafe and Crissy did not sing to me. Miranda would soon be home and maybe she'd sing to me with her arms around me, rocking me gently like I was little again. I watched my candles, mesmerized by the eight tiny flames.

Finally I said silently to myself: "I wish I could make a friend at school. I wish just one person would like me." I counted it as a single wish.

I was on my customary swing, kicking at the dirt, when a shadow grayed my feet. I looked up.

My candles were halfway gone by the time I blew them out, which took two breaths. "Your wish won't come true now," Crissy intoned. Rafe cut three big pieces of the cake and we sat down at the table to eat it. The lukewarm Kool-Aid was brought back out and splashed into the tiny cups. It turned out to be strawberry, my least favorite Kool-Aid flavor, but I endured it because I was hot, my throat felt funny, and the cake was sort of dry. For some reason we forgot all about the two blocks of ice cream in the freezer, one vanilla and one Neapolitan.

Not long after that Rafe left to pick up Miranda from work. Crissy and I sat down to watch Gunsmoke.

On Monday I felt as though everyone in our room was talking about me, even though no talking was allowed, but at recess I was ignored as usual. I was on my customary swing, kicking at the dirt, when a shadow grayed my feet. I looked up. There stood Wendy Appenzeller, smiling timidly like she was scared to death, and she had something in her hand. A tiny box wrapped in pink paper, with a wisp of lavender ribbon. Wendy offered the box to me and I took it.

"Happy birthday, Brooke."

"Thanks Wendy," I mumbled, remembering for the first time that day that it was actually my eighth birthday. Rafe and Crissy had said nothing at home; Miranda hadn't been up yet when we left for school.

Wendy sat demurely in the swing beside me. Recess was almost over. "I'm sorry I couldn't make your party," she said. "Our car broke down. I was all ready but I couldn't call you because I don't know your phone number." She swung back and forth lightly, the toe of her oxford making a divot in the ground beneath her.

"Well, we don't actually have a phone so that's okay," I said, as with my fingernail I began probing an edge of the wrapping on the little box.

I knew the bell would ring within the minute and I was anxious to know what Wendy had gotten for me. The paper slid off and I lifted the box's lid. There on a swatch of white tissue lay a tiny beaded bracelet in rainbow colors. My breath caught in my throat at its delicacy and beauty.

"I made it," said Wendy. "I hope you like it."

"I do, Wendy. Thank you," I whispered. I thought about my eight half-burnt candles and about the wish Crissy had predicted would not come true.

The bell rang. Wendy and I scrambled off our swings and walked, talking -- as friends do -- back to class.