Chelsea is the wonderful person behind the wonderful blog The Page Flipper. Today she is sharing some of her fictional writing. (Did you know one day she wants to be published? Now you do. :D)
Sixteen candles. One for every lame excuse of a year, flickering around in a type of crazy pyro dance. Obviously, it's my birthday. Whoop-de-doo. For a pessimist like me, birthdays aren't very exceptional. I'm just one day older than yesterday - but, hey, if you want to buy me presents, go right on ahead. Actually, it's kind of ironic that exactly sixteen people happened to show up, even though there are suspiciousally fourteen gifts on the table. Some of these sixteen I'd rather have been barricaded in the basement, though, instead of sprawled out on our kitchen furniture. They were the "pity" invites, so my friend Beck says. The ones who are friends with your friends, so you have to be nice to them by default. One of these said "pity's" is Rachel, a superbly stuck-up, egotistical girl who happens to be my cousin's "bestest friend ever". That's quoted. And, no, I'm not kidding. My cousin was a Pity, too, as I'm sure you assumed by her lack of actual IQ.
Rachel thinks she's special because her dad works for some big-time recording studio or something, and my cousin, Shelley, thinks she's equally special for being friends with her. And the worst part? Neither of them brought presents, because, apparently, simply their presence is a present in itself. I kind of want to throw the cake in their faces, but it looks too yummy. I confirm this by stealthily dipping my finger in the icing and sneaking a taste. Definitely too good for their turned-up noses.
And okay, maybe I'm not being entirely fair. But Rachel's over in the corner right now macking on my boyfriend, Michael, so I'm kind of allowed to be. Michael irks me, too. He plays video games practically all day and refuses to watch any movie without blazing guns and badass crooked cops. He has exceptionally bad taste in entertainment, if you don't count music. Like, I couldn't get him to watch or read anything decently good without hundreds of complaints, or at least a counter-bribe to watch Star Wars with him about fifty times. Basically, he's a guy. Very irkish. But we met at a local concert, and like an idiot, I fell in love with him. Now it's our weekly ritual to go back to The Dive, where we met, and see a new band every Friday. Albeitly, it's kind of cute. But he still sucks. And he so shouldn't be talking to that stupid red-head right now.
I crack my fingers menacingly, even though Rachel, and everyone else, is occupied with staring at the cake that my mom is carefully cutting into slices. It's some kind of pomegranate concoction that makes my mouth water dangerously. I might start drooling, if I'm not careful. Sinful is way too underrated a word for this cake.
My family has this weird tradition of singing Happy Birthday while the cake's being cut, so my mom starts warbling haphazardly, and everyone else quickly joins her. I always love when people sing on birthdays. It's an event that gets everyone singing, despite whether you actually can, so if you listen carefully, you can pick out the horrible off-key voices from the sweet, melodic ones. I just smirk a smile, listening to my friend Leann sing twenty octaves too high.
And then a beautiful, jaw-droppingly gorgeous voice starts in the distance, slowly growing in strength. It's almost akin to the pitch of a siren, and it sounds distinctly familiar. My mind doesn't make a complete connection until my gaze pops up and locks on the face of Jude Jensen through the river of splayed legs and limbs. Um, the Jude Jensen. The one Michael absolutely loathes because I constantly faun over his picture and music, like, every day. The indie hipster who graces the cover of a good third of my CD collection, his classic plaid lumberjack look making me fall in hardcore lust. I just stand there, eyes popping out of my head like someone featured in Ripley's museum, staring in awe as every voice starts to fade but his own.
"Happy Birthday to yooooou" he finishes, now standing in front of me, his jet blue eyes piercing mine. He plants a kiss on my cheek and his stubble scratches my face, not that I'd ever complain. If I had a working mind right now, I'd probably wonder what the hell he was doing here, but I'm kind of lacking a brain at the moment. Um, upstairs organ? You want to start working again?
Thankfully, something clicks and I'm able to open my mouth. "Um..."
Um? Maybe not so thankfully. Brain, you can short-circuit again.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and pry my eyes from Jude's delightfully scrumptious face to see Rachel beaming at me. "Happy birthday! Do you like your present?" She asks this while bouncing on the heels of her feet and looking at me expectantly, then waving happily at Jude after a too-long moment of silence. Then, I get it. Rachel's dad.
Even though this is absolutely too perfect for words, I kind of just want to run in my room and hide under the covers. I'm completely and totally overwhelmed. It's my favorite CD cover come to life, like a twisted version of Inkheart.
"Thank you" I whisper exaggeratedly to Rachel, whom I've met approximately five times, and turn my gaze around the room, seeing tons of slacked jaws, Michael's smoldering eyes, and the nonchalant faces of several cameras. I look back at Jude, who takes my hand and squeezes it before instructing a couple road-crew-like people to set up for him to play. At my stupid little insignificant party.
So maybe Rachel doesn't suck as much as I thought she did. I'm beginning to be a bit more optimistic about her personality. For a pessimist, that is.
Happy Birthday, indeed.
Wow, that was amazing, Chelsea. Thanks!