Page 174

Fairhope, 13th March 2015

“Come on, Max. It’s your birthday, for crying out loud. We can’t just buy a cake from the grocery store and call it a day.” Jalen throws an arm around my shoulders as we make our way across the parking lot. “You’re turning eighteen. That’s worth celebrating.”

“He’s not wrong,” Sienna chimes in from my other side. “I mean, I’m all for a quiet Friday night, but eighteen is kind of a big deal.”

“Not for me,” I retort, shrugging Jalen’s arm off before pulling open the door to the grocery store.

Eager to avoid another round of suggestions about how I should celebrate this particular milestone, I quicken my pace, leaving my only two remaining friends to trail behind me.

I understand where they’re coming from. I really do. If my life looked anything like it used to, maybe I’d be excited too.

But somewhere between sophomore year and now, I became invisible. A ghost.

I walk through the halls of Fairhope High every day, surrounded by people who have perfected the art of pretending I don’t exist. No one sits beside me unless they have to. No one picks me for group projects. Conversations have a funny way of dying whenever I walk into a room. Even some of my teachers barely acknowledge me anymore.

And the worst part is, no one even has to say anything.

They already said it all last year.

Now I carry the words around for them.

Slut.

Junkie.

Home-wrecker.

Sometimes it feels like the words have been tattooed on my forehead, for all of Fairhope to see and mock.

Sienna and Jalen are the only exceptions.

The only two people who still talk to me like I’m Max, not some cautionary tale parents whisper about over dinner.

So forgive me if turning eighteen doesn’t exactly feel like something worth celebrating.

What am I celebrating, anyway?

Another year of this?

Yeah. Pass.

I make my way toward the freezer section and stop when I spot an ice cream cake behind the glass.

Chocolate fudge with little frosting rosettes around the edges.

For one stupid second, I’m reminded of the ice cream cake I wanted for my eleventh birthday. The one I’d spent months saving up for, carefully tucking every penny into my baby-blue elephant piggy bank, only for my mom to sneak into my room one night and steal every last cent.

I didn’t get a cake that year.

Much less the ice cream cake I’d wanted so badly.

And now, ten years later, with enough money in my pocket to buy it myself, I can’t bring myself to do it.

I don’t deserve something that nice.

“Ohhh, that looks good.” Sienna appears beside me and peers through the glass. “Get that one.”

I shake my head and move farther down until I find the saddest-looking cake available.