When I look up, Natalie, Jaimie, and Felix enter by the gate.

“What’s the plan, Mary Frann?” Jaimie asks in a sing-song voice.

“You guys are boring,” I say.

“A crate of beer and a bottle of Three Ships on the spot,” says Felix.

We all start to laugh. “You don’t even drink, Felix,” Natalie says.

“If you turned sweet 16 twice, wouldn’t you want to drink?” he asks.

“If I turned sweet 16 once I would drink,” Natalie answers.

“Jesus, where’s my grandma? I’m sitting my whole life away in this shop,” I say, and close the window.

All four of us go to sit in my room, and I open my presents.

“From Natalie. With lots of love.” It’s a teddy bear and a pack of marshmallows. Inside the card tagged to the teddy’s ear it says, “For my Cindy, xx.”

I ask loudly, “Who is Cindy?”

We all burst out laughing.

Jaimie and Felix’s gift is a sweater with the line, “I am THAT BITCH!”

Jaimie puts on the music. Natalie and I start dancing to a sad song. I only listen to sad songs, folk music, and rock music. Usually they complain, but today no one says a thing, because it’s my birthday.

In the back of my head I see the envelope that I tucked into the side of the sofa. And I can feel how parts of myself are shutting down. This is the last day that so many people here are going to know me.

My grandpa knocks on the door. When I open he’s standing with his two manilla envelopes and a question on his face. I say, “Nothing, Papa.” My grandpa walks away so disappointed that I swear he’s the one who looks forward the most to my mom’s letters.

I’m not upset. I know secretly my mom needs me and if I acknowledge my second birthday it means she gets to decide when she wants to be my mother. The best moment of the day is just us here in my room sitting and laughing and talking nonsense. But time marches on and before we know it, my grandma’s returned with cake and biscuits and a lot of other unnecessary stuff. That I think is more for the church people, who are showing up later to pray for me, than for me.

When it’s nearly five, my friends start to make excuses one after the other for why they really would’ve loved to sit in church, but really can’t. When the church folks arrive, they thankfully keep the service short. The pastor’s whole sermon was about cake and drinks and chips and all the luxuries that can lead you astray off the righteous path. But I think the pastor was just hungry. Even my grandma, who doesn’t easily make jokes about church, had to say, “Damn, Pastor was battling that sweets demon tonight.”

After everyone has left and my grandpa goes to lie down a little, I’m finally alone again after a long day. I offer to sit in the shop for my grandma, even though she insists it’s my birthday and I should take an off-day. I say, “No, don’t worry, Mama,” and I kiss her on the cheek. And off she goes, to keep herself busy with something else.

It’s still early in the evening and the sky is beautiful dark blue. I sit on the stoep and light my cigarette. Instead of putting on my playlist, I put on the radio, and I stand on my own listening to the ramblings of the DJ on my headphones. As I’m standing and thinking about nothing really, that song by Fleet Foxes comes on the radio, “Helplessness Blues.” A beautiful song sounds 10 times more gorgeous when you hear it in a place where you didn’t expect it. When the song reaches the chorus, “What good does it do singing helplessness blues?” I sing along, but then, like salt falling on a red tomato, different words fall on my tongue: “What good does it do singing spaza-shop blues?”

I open the letter that I’ve avoided reading. “Dear Miss Smit, We are pleased to inform you your application to the New York Art Institute for 2024 has been accepted.” I’ll tell Mama and Papa tomorrow.

I fold the letter, stub out my cigarette, and do the thing that I’ve been wanting to do all day: I stand and cry my heart out.

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