Ivy runs ahead, but my mom and I walk slowly up the driveway, with the weeds growing through the cracked pavement. Our old farmhouse is red, and the paint is peeling. Some of the shutters hang a little off-kilter. Even though we don’t really live on a farm, my grandfather made a sign for the house, just like real farms have. My mom decided on the name Bittersweet Farm when she and my dad moved in, before Ivy and I were born. She had taken a walk on the property with my father and discovered bittersweet running all along the stone wall that ran next to the road and defined the property line years ago when it was still a working farm and the stone wall kept the cows and sheep from getting out. Every fall she cuts branches and makes bittersweet wreaths to hang on the walls throughout the house. The vines are full of bright-yellow shells that open up when they dry to reveal a red berry inside. My mom says they make our drafty old house feel cheerful on cold, dark days.

Whenever we come home from someplace, the sign welcomes us and reminds us that life isn’t perfect, just like my mom always says. It’s a little bitter and a little sweet.

We stop midway up the driveway to look at the sign, which also needs painting. My mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “Happy first day of summer,” she says, squeezing.

But not Happy birthday.

In fact, the whole day no one says a word about me turning thirteen, and I finally realize that they’ve forgotten. Micah always says there’s no such thing as lucky or unlucky numbers, but thirteen sure feels pretty unlucky so far.

Chapter Two

I always thought my tenth birthday would be remembered as the most awkward and disappointing in history, but my thirteenth takes the cake. At least when I turned ten, everyone remembered. But it was really the best day for my mom, not me. She called me downstairs for my “birthday meal,” but instead of having anything ready, she was holding a winter scarf.

“Close your eyes and let me cover your face,” she said, wrapping the scarf around my head.

It was an old woolen scarf she’d knitted for my dad years ago when they were still dating. It was brown with white stripes and smelled like an ancient sheep. It scratched my cheeks.

“Now let me lead you outside,” my mom said.

“What’s happening?” Ivy asked as she bounded into the room. “Why are you tying up Rachel?”

“I’m not tying her up. I’m covering her eyes so she can’t see.”

“How come?”

“We have a special birthday present for her.”

“Is it outside?”

“Yes.”

The door slammed, and I heard Ivy woot in the distance.

I hoped that meant I was getting a new bike.