“She’s fun,” I’d said, and left it at that.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with Mel anymore. I just found myself saying yes to Elise more, gravitating toward her, spinning in her orbit.

We were on our second cigarette when midnight came for me. A new year, a new me.

“Happy birthday,” Elise said, tapping her ashes over the car door. “Welcome to seventeen.”

“I hate birthdays,” I said, wrapping my jacket around me tighter. The wind chilled my fingers but I didn’t want to pull the top over us and lose the stars.

“Why?” She turned to me, curious.

“Bad memories.” When I turned five, my parents lost me inside a department store. When I turned nine, my dad had been gone for weeks and forgot to call. When I turned thirteen, no one remembered until early December.

But although most of my birthdays were forgettable at best and traumatizing at worst, not all were like that. One of my favorite memories was from my sixth birthday, when my parents got me a bike. Electric blue with a shiny bell and wire basket—it was love at first sight.

The day started off horribly. That morning, Dad said he had to go into the office even though it was the weekend, leaving Mom in charge of teaching me. But she didn’t believe in training wheels, on bicycles or in life, which meant I quickly racked up an impressive array of scrapes on my knees and elbows, hands and shins.

“I don’t understand,” Mom said after I crashed for the fifth time. “Christian picked it up right away.” I wanted to cry but I knew she’d only yell at me for it, and say something about how crying was a weakness. She believed that as a girl, I shouldn’t cry especially because that was what people expected from me.

“I’m sorry” was all I said.

Things were no better when Dad emerged from the house in a crisp shirt and slacks, hair gelled back, his laptop bag over his shoulder.

“Christian practically taught himself,” Mom said, helping me up yet again.

“Hey, come on,” Dad said, walking over to us.

“Stay out of it, Stephen,” she said, straightening the bike. “Don’t you have to go?” She didn’t bother glancing back at him. I looked between them, terrified another fight was about to erupt.

Dad didn’t answer, just watched as Mom sent me down our driveway yet again. By then I’d learned to stay close to the lawn, and Dad saw me land on the grass a couple more times before he intervened again.

“Why don’t I go to the store on my way home later and pick up some training wheels?” he offered. “We can try again tonight.”

I would’ve liked that, but Mom said no. “I told you to stay out of it.”

“You’re not making this fun—it’s her birthday. All she’s doing is falling and hurting herself over and over.”

“She has to learn on her own. She’s got to toughen up. She’s not always going to have the option of training wheels, then what?”