@Robertopancake by Stephanie Taylor

Author:Stephanie Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stephanie Taylor

Robertopancake I wonder what sheep intestine tastes like it.

10:33 PM - 18 Jan 2015

Robertopancake Ignore the unneeded “it” in my last tweet.

10:36 PM - 18 Jan 2015

Robertopancake Battery at 69% LOL

10:56 PM - 18 Jan 2015

Robertopancake Maturity is overrated. So are birthdays.

10:57 PM - 18 Jan 2015

Deenie’s mixed CD is currently uploading to my iTunes, despite the fact that there are some seriously questionable songs on it. Not many, mind you, but ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ by Fergie? I seriously don’t know about that one. Still, it was a thoughtful gift and it’s from Deenie, so obviously I love it.

The room is dark but for a shaft of light from the streetlamp outside, and the blinking green and red lights of my computer and modem. Pat is talking to my mom downstairs, probably watching ESPN in his boxers and stumbling around after his four Coronas at dinner. I heard Danica crying up until about fifteen minutes ago, whining that her stomach hurt. A police siren wails in the distance, breaking the silence outside.

As far as birthdays go, this one gets mixed reviews, without a doubt. But really, it’s been no better or worse than any others in recent memory. I lace my hands behind my head and stare up at the textured ceiling in the dim light. It looks like someone spread white frosting across it and this makes me think of birthday cake, which I was cruelly denied today. I never really ask her for one, but my mom hasn’t made me a birthday cake in years. Danica gets one every year without having to ask for it, and it’s always decorated by a bakery with some sort of kids’ character airbrushed on the top. But I don’t get cake, and dammit, I like cake.

My phone rings in the darkness. “Hello?” I sit up and scratch at the few hairs that are beginning to sprout on the middle of my bare chest.

“Robbie? Hi, sweetie. It’s Michelle. Happy birthday!”

“Michelle?” I pull the phone from my ear and look at the caller ID. Sure enough, it’s a Florida area code. “Hey, thanks,” I say, putting the phone back to my ear. It’s nearly midnight in California, and my dad’s girlfriend is calling to wish me a happy birthday at three in the morning on the east coast. This feels odd.

“Sorry to call so late--am I waking you?”

“No, I’m just about to turn in. I’ve got school tomorrow.” I wait, wondering what she’s doing up at that hour.

“Your dad talked all day long about calling you,” she says. “But he got a side job doing some handiwork, and, well, you know how that is. Next thing I knew, he was asleep in his recliner and it was after midnight.”

My dad asleep in his recliner equals him passed out with a beer in his hand, drool running down one side of his chin. “I guess it’s the thought that counts, anyway. At least that’s what they say, right?” I stand up and look out at the wet pavement on the street from between two slats of my blinds.

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