The cupcakes were still there. Two dozen, lined up in neat little rows.
And every single one had a fat, smooshed thumbprint, right in the middle.
I slapped the lid back closed and dumped the box into the trash can. The whole thing.
“Hey!” Mr. Paul called after me as I stomped out of the kitchen. “Kid! Don’t you want your cupcakes?”
I didn’t even bother to answer.
something
you’ll really
love.
We had a birthday dinner on Saturday, just me and Mom and Dad, because I said I didn’t want a party. I didn’t want a party because Erlan couldn’t come anyway because of filming stuff, and Betsy was still mad at me, and Calista had that day off, and I hated pretty much everyone else, so who cared. We had Chinese food. Big whoop.
When Mom asked me how everyone at school liked the cupcakes, I said, “They were great.” Which was a lie, but so what.
Mom got me a book. Something about a hatchet, whatever that was. “Because you loved Johnny Tremain so much,” she said.
Dad’s present was in a big box. “I think it’s something you’ll really love,” he told me. I got excited when I first pulled back the wrapping paper, because I saw a wing, an airplane wing, on the cover of the box, and I felt my heart leap up in my chest. It was a new model airplane, I knew right away. Another airplane just like my A-10 Thunderbolt, maybe a bomber or one of the gliders, and Dad was going to help me work on that one too and then we could display them both in the living room, and it would be awesome.
It wasn’t another airplane.
Well, it was an airplane. But not another one.
“A real live A-10 Thunderbolt!” Dad said, smiling like he thought he got me the greatest present in the whole universe. “Isn’t that marvelous? It’s just like the plane in the museum you liked so much. Don’t you remember, Albie? I thought we could put it together, just you and me. Albie? Where are you going?”
I didn’t even say anything. Just slammed my bedroom door.
flying.
It turned out that dumb old A-10 Thunderbolt from the Sea, Air, and Space Museum didn’t fly at all. I don’t know if it was because I put it together all wrong, or maybe it was never going to fly in the first place, but all I know is that when I cranked open my window and shoved it outside, it slammed right down to the ground eight stories below without even trying to soar. A man on the sidewalk who was walking right nearby looked up and cursed, but he couldn’t tell it was me who did it, and anyway I wouldn’t’ve cared if he could. All I could think was how I spent a whole year and a half working on that stupid airplane, all by myself, and now it was smashed to bits on the sidewalk. Pieces everywhere.
Good.
I hoped Dad would say, “Hey, Albie, I just remembered I already bought you an A-10 Thunderbolt a year and a half ago. Where is it? I’m ready to help you finish it now.” Then I could say, “I threw it out the window. It’s nothing but smithereens now.” And then I could see the look on his face.
But Dad would never ask. I knew he’d never ask.
I decided I didn’t like birthdays anymore.
changing
channels.
When I woke up the next morning and opened the door, that new A-10 Thunderbolt from Dad was sitting right outside my bedroom in its box, with the bow still on top.
I thought about throwing it out the window. I really did.
Instead I scooped it off the floor and put the box on the top shelf of my closet and put five towels on top of it so I couldn’t see it. Then I closed the closet door.