She closes the door, and I roll my eyes, flopping back down on the bed. Mind games already. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.
Just before lunch, and after my mother has nagged me a second time, I head downstairs. The table outside is all set up with a white tablecloth and shining silverware under the olive trees. Nothing is out of place.
My father is absent and my mother is still running around like a headless chicken, but everyone else seems to have gathered around the table, taking their seats, and at the end of the table is a huge stack of presents.
I don’t feel anything when I look at them, but knowing my family is looking at me expectantly, I pretend to be happy. Gee, presents. More stuff I don’t need.
There’s a flurry of activity at my approach. Uncle Luddie is the first one up from his chair, and he envelops me in a tight hug. I’m not used to being hugged, so I straighten up, going stiff.
“Happy birthday, Blaise,” he says to me before pulling away and patting me on the back. He smells like the Dumont-label aftershave he always wears, a different one from my father’s. “Thirteen is a big deal.”
He smiles at me. It’s kind of lopsided; my father says that he was hit in the head with a croquet mallet when he was young, but I wonder if that’s true. It’s a kind smile, though, and Uncle Luddie is always handing it out to everyone, even if they don’t deserve it. I certainly don’t.
I nod, say thank you, and proceed to get a light embrace from my aunt Eloise, who kisses both my cheeks. She smells like roses and radiates warmth. This is why I hate being around my uncle and aunt: it reminds me that I was born to the wrong family. I’m not used to this much affection.
Or maybe I’m rotten at heart, and my family is what I deserve.
Then there are my cousins. Thankfully all three of them are cool enough to not try any displays of affection with me. There’s Renaud, who is stone faced and grumpy, like he’s always hungry or something. He’s nice to me, but I don’t really know him that well. Maybe because he’s a lot older—seventeen—and doesn’t say much.
Then there’s Olivier. Olivier is a year older than me. My mother always remarks on how handsome he will be, as if I’m going to grow up to look like a can of dog food. Olivier is easygoing and always smirking at something, and to be honest, it makes me want to punch him in the face. Why does he get to feel that way and coast through life when every day feels like a struggle to me?
Finally, there’s Seraphine. She’s not even a real cousin of mine. She’s only ten years old and was adopted last year. I don’t know her that well, either, other than the fact that my mother has said some shitty things about her. She’s from India originally, I think, though she has a British accent. I actually think she could be quite pretty when she gets older, if she wasn’t so tall and awkward with such messy dark hair. Plus she stares at you with these big bug eyes, like she’s always thinking. I don’t think she’s judging you in a bad way, but either way, I don’t like being the subject of her thoughts.
Right now her eyes are fixed on me, as usual, but at least she doesn’t look put off by me.
I take the seat across from her, beside my brother, Pascal. I’m surprised he’s even here; he’s usually off somewhere else, pretending I don’t exist.
“I didn’t get you a present,” Pascal says to me under his breath. “Sorry.”
I glance at him, and he’s smiling, not sorry at all.
I shrug. “I never want presents anyway.”
“That’s because you have everything.”
“So do you,” I point out, lowering my voice once I realize Seraphine has been staring at us in awe. Apparently she was adopted from an orphanage, and so maybe she’s never even seen so many presents before.
Pascal looks over at Seraphine and frowns. “What are you looking at?” he snaps at her.
“Pascal,” my aunt says quickly, giving him a tight smile. “Let’s all be nice on your brother’s birthday.” My own parents would never try to talk back to him in public like this; they prefer to do that in private and in much harsher ways. But my aunt and uncle have been dealing with Pascal since he was born, and even though it’s a tightrope to walk, it seems to work.
It’s working right now, anyway. Pascal doesn’t look remotely ashamed, but at least he leaves Seraphine alone. She has shrunk back in her chair, trying to avoid looking at us.
It feels like an eternity before my parents come out. They bring a tiered cake, which is made even more ridiculous by the fact that they have another cake for tonight’s party. Always with the excess.
Everyone starts singing “Bonne Fête,” and I should feel embarrassed, but honestly, I feel nothing at all. I just want this to end, to go to my room, and forget about everything and everyone.
But it’s impossible. My aunt encourages Olivier to “play” with me, as if we’re children, as if I didn’t just become a teenager today. I show him some of the stuff I’ve gotten lately, like a remote control car, which is top of the line and does laps around the yard, and we occasionally chase Seraphine down with it until my real guests show up and the actual party begins.
I have a fair number of friends, but none that I’m particularly close to. Most of them are rich as fuck—birds of a feather, as my father often says. My only good friend is Jean, whose father fucked off when he was young and who has only his mother raising him and doesn’t have a lot of money. My parents hate the fact that I’m friends with him—not just because he’s poor, but because they say he’s a bad influence.
Considering right now we’re sneaking around the yard to the gazebo so we can drink the liquor he stole from his house, my parents probably have a point. It’s evening now, and we have the cover of darkness on our side.
I’ve never gotten drunk before. I’ve had wine on some special occasions, but I didn’t care for the taste. But now that we’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shadowy gazebo, having escaped the party, I’m eagerly reaching for the bottle.
“You’re thirteen now,” Jean says as he hands it to me. “My mother says that’s when you become a man. So you better drink up.”
I pull the cork off and smell it. It causes my eyes to roll back in my head and reminds me a lot of my mother. I eye the bottle. It’s some sort of almond liquor, so it’s not even that strong. Not the big-league stuff, but it will have to do.
I take a deep breath before bringing the bottle to my mouth and swallowing some. It burns and I start to cough. By the time Jean takes the bottle back, the burning has turned into sweetness. It’s actually not that bad.
I’m about to encourage him to try it, but he’s already taking a giant swig. He coughs, too, and then laughs.
And then things get a little fuzzy. We drink a lot of the bottle, just hiding out in the darkness, hearing the music blaring—some kind of abrasive rock Pascal most likely put on that my mother will turn off soon. I should feel bad that I’m missing my own birthday party, but the more I drink, the less I care. Maybe this is why my mother does it all the time.
“Oh shit!” Jean swears harshly as he gets on his knees and peers through the fence of the gazebo. “I think your father is coming!”