My birthday passed as two separate days, for I celebrated it twice. Between the two days, I set such a high standard for myself, it will take an extraordinarily intense birthday next year to top this year's. I've made up my mind: the only way to make my 18th birthday more kick-ass than my 17th will be to go skydiving, which is what I will do.
My celebrations began early in the morning of my birthday. For the past god knows how many years my birthdays had been remarkably uneventful, with the most interesting occurrence generally being a family dinner at a restaurant. As much as I enjoy eating out at restaurants, however, this was not something I was looking forward to doing on my birthday this year. Considering my bad relations with my parents, not to mention my higher social standards, I would consider my birthday wasted if I didn't do something more wild and adventurous than go out for dinner with my parents.
I woke up relatively early, although not early enough to get any homework done, and immediately opened the presents my parents had left on my armchair. I confess, I was mildly disappointed in them at the time. There was a bottle of obviously-expensive Marc Jacobs perfume, which I appreciated, and some silver bangles, which grew on me over time, and a pink hoodie, but nothing else. They were all fairly nice presents, and I was grateful for the gesture, but none of them were what I would have gotten for myself, I couldn't help but think that next year, I would prefer a nice check in the place of presents, so I could spend the money on whatever I wanted.
I dressed quickly in my favorite clothes, grabbed my purse and the minimal amount of books I needed to bring, jumped on my bike, and ran out of the door, my heart racing with excitement. Last year, I had taken four tests in school on my birthday--this year, I was ditching school.
I rode my bike over to the Waffleshop, and, after waiting for fifteen minutes, my friend Michael Nistor arrived to join me for a birthday breakfast feast. He seemed rather sleepy and mildly spacey, but he still seemed glad to see me, and I was extremely glad to at least have been able to spend some time with friends--especially as important a friend as Mike was to me--rather than with my parents as most of my other birthdays had been spent.
I had initially planned on merely skipping part of the day, and going to school for my calculus and history classes, and possibly for oceanography. Undoubtedly, some of the teachers would have had some questions about my attendance later on, but I had gotten away with far worse violations of the school attendance policy. So, after breakfast with Michael, instead of riding my bike to school in order to arrive in time for my calculus class, I biked my way over to the library. I stepped outside of the library for a brief moment, called the High School Office, and told them, in a thick Russian accent, that "my daughter, Elvira Kozhevnikova, would not be in school today because she is sick." The secretary merely thanked me for my call and asked no questions. Ecstatically convinced that my plan had worked and that my parents would never know I ditched school, I glided down the streets of downtown to the Dragon Chaser's Emportium to see if Jon was there.
Jon was there, along with a short, dark-haired girl I later learned was his girlfriend. I hung out with them for a few minutes, then left them for a span of two hours in order to make a trip to the mall and Barnes and Noble. I intended to study at Barnes and Noble and at least get some of my calculus homework done, but, typically of me, my plan did not go as intended. First, I had to take a trip through the mall and pick up several new acquisitions, and, afterwards, when I finally made it to Barnes and Noble, I met a new friend, Buzz Evers, who started chatting with me and whom I thought a desirable contact. So, quite typically of me, I left Barnes and Noble with a new connection established, but with no more homework done than when I entered the bookstore.
I returned downtown, and spent the next few hours hanging out with Jon, wandering all over downtown, and discussing our plans for the future. As the time neared six o'clock, I reluctantly returned to the library to pick up my backpack, hugged Jon good-bye, and returned home with a smug feeling of suppressed triumph. I pedaled over to my house, left my bike behind the house, calmly drew my keys and entered the house with carefree, nonchalant grace, expecting everything to proceed as smoothly as it always did when I ditched school.
I knew something was wrong as soon as I entered the house. My father's first words to me were, "How was your day at school?". "Well enough", I replied to this uncharacteristic question with a confused but unconcerned look on my face. My father repeated his question, "How did your day at school go?", and I replied again, "Fine, why?" Without even waiting for me to climb the stairs and put down my bag, my father nailed me with the question, "How many classes did you skip?" I froze for a brief second, and had the sensation of my stomach flooding with ice as I struggled to comprehend how on god's earth my parents could possibly have found out that I had skipped school. I had called in sick--had the school not believed me, considering my dismal attendance record, and called my parents to verify? Or did a phone call simply not de-activate the email system the school had in place? How much did my parents know, anyway? Then the feeling passed, and I shrugged away my fear. It did not matter how my knew I had skipped school--they had clearly found out, somehow or another, and all that mattered was how I dealt with their knowledge and how effectively I minimized their reaction. With cool composure that gave no indicator of the shock I felt, I answered my father's question laconically, "Three classes."
I retreated to my room briefly, and for a few seconds I was too afraid to come out. I felt exactly as I had felt after my mom brought me home the day I was arrested. Then I took a few deep, calming breaths, and forced myself to leave my safe refuge and go straight into the kitchen where my parents were sitting. I entered with a cool, insolent, nonchalant grace, poured myself a glass of water, and leaned back against the wall, pretending I had come into the kitchen for no other reason than to drink it, all the while waiting for my parents to breach the subject of my ditch day, rant at me if they so wished, and get it out of their systems once and for all.
My dad looked at me with a look of confused reproach on his face, and inquired, "So, what periods did you skip?" I answered conversationally, "French, English, and Health", looking for all the world as if I did not give a damn whether or not they knew of my misdeed. My apparent unconcern had the desired effect--it threw my parents; they were unsure of how to react to it. "So, why?", my father asked. I shrugged, and replied with careless confidence, "Because I overslept in the morning and didn't have time to finish the oceanography homework I had planned on getting up early to finish. So, I skipped the first and most worthless periods on my schedule to finish it." My dad shrugged, still looking rather confused and unsure of how to deal with my straightforward, unapologetic approach. I waited for a round of interrogations and reproaches, holding my breath and mentally preparing myself to brazen them out. None came. My dad, although clearly unhappy with me, let the matter drop, and not another word was said on the subject of me ditching school.
Shortly afterwards, my parents took me to Red Lobster, keeping up the tradition of eating out at a restaurant as a family on birthdays. As we sat down at our table, a tall blond waiter approached our table, introduced himself as J****, and asked us what we wanted to drink with the most subtle flirtatious gleam in his eye towards me. Soon afterwards, he returned with our drinks. I found him charming. He carried himself with such graceful nonchalance, and was so courteous, so pleasant. He kept looking over at me every time he came to our table, and his gaze lingered on me with such a way that made me suspect he was interested. I couldn't help but feel unbelievably frustrated. If I had been alone, or with friends, I would have made conversation with him and probably would have stood a good chance of charming him. My parents presence, however, reduced me to merely sitting proudly at my the table and occasionally throwing a daring smile at J**** when I was sure they would not see me. Flirting, or responding to the attentions of a man, in front of my parents, was absolutely out of the question. Yet this young man was so smooth, so charming, so pleasant to look at. I stabbed at my baked potato as I pondered my dilemma. My frustration vanished instantly as I was assailed by a bold, reckless inspiration. I furtively slipped a pen into my back pocket, stood up, excused myself, and left to go to the bathroom. Inside the stalls of the ladies room, I quickly tore off a piece of a paper towel, wrote my name and phone number on the inside along with the inscription "Just in case you're ever bored. Thank you for the excellent service". I folded the paper towel, wrote the waiter's name on the outside, slipped the paper towel into my pocket, and returned to my parents' table. As we were leaving the restaurant several minutes later, I inconspicuously left the napkin on the table. What did I have to lose? If the waiter was at all interested in me, he would be glad to have my contact info--and if he wasn't, I wouldn't ever see him again, anyway.
It was only nine, and I asked my father to drop me off downtown so I could walk home. I did not return home immediately, however, for I preferred to wander around outside for as long as possible, seek out adventures, and avoid the mountain of homework that awaited me at home for as long as I possibly could. A young man on Beaver avenue called out to me from across the street, crossed to introduce himself, and invited me to drink at a bar with him and his friends. I warily agreed to give it a try; however, when I saw that the bouncer was indeed carding, I excused myself, thanked the young man for his kind invitation, but told him I could not accompany him. I left, after exchanging phone numbers with the young men, and dozed on the Dunkin Donuts couch for half an hour before forcing myself back into the chilly night air for the long walk home.
My parents were dozing when I got home. I woke them up, and we all sat around at the table for half an hour, drinking tea and eating the exquisite cake my mother had somehow found the time to bake in honor of my birthday. Back at my house, I felt strangely awkward and uncomfortable in my parents' presence, but it did not particularly bother me. The unconventional, wild, and extremely enjoyable events of my birthday made everything else seem insignificant.
I crashed shortly past midnight, worn out by everything that had happened that day. I felt dizzy and lightheaded as I alternated between a restless doze and a deep slumber. Some part of me was dimly aware of the fact that tomorrow was the last day of the school marking period and that I didn't have any homework completed--but, for the most part, I didn't care. I vaguely promised myself to wake up early the next morning in order to finish my homework, then promptly put the matter to the back of my mind, and forgot all about it. I was in such a state that the morning seemed too far away to worry about. I was drunk and in love--in love with life and drunk on success, utterly and sweetly intoxicated on the sweet nectar of life, adventure.
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