March 15, 1990
Most numbers made sense.
Harold was still short, still lanky and strangely shaped and he didn't even have the first hair on his face that hadn't been there the thirteen years before. Twelve melded to Thirteen. Nothing changed.
Jilly two desks over had laughed at his little note, not even bothering to check 'no' before tossing it at him. It had stuck comically between his nose and his glasses frame. His eyes clenched shut, and he had just sighed.
He didn't even bother to pull it out until class had let out, staring at it cross-eyed. A physical manifestation of every awkward, angsty, self-deprecating emotion inside him.
In front of the bathroom mirror, he notched two fingers around the folded piece of paper, pulling it free. Turning it over in his hand. He chucked it in the sink disgustedly, cutting on the faucet and drowning it.
No. He didn't know why he thought Thirteen should change things. Maybe it was because of the shiny new -teen at the end. It seemed like that should matter. Like it should open up a whole world of adulthood and cool that seemed to go with the designation. Teen. It was just better.
He was just as much an awkward loser as Twelve.
Maybe it was him. Maybe he was just destined to be what everyone is at Twelve and leaves behind at Thirteen. Maybe he was stunted. Stuck in a timewarp.
Maybe he was adopted, and they'd had to guess at his birthday. He wasn't Thirteen at all, but Twelve, and some day soon that magic -teen would kick in without him knowing and suddenly he'd be as cool as the f*ckers that smoked out by the football pitch at lunch. Maybe they'd stop throwing rocks at him, too.
The note long since soaked, he shut the now-cold water off. Clunky glasses and a still-too-round, boyish face stared back at him blankly through the mirror.
The school day wouldn't improve.
He trudged home when the bus dropped him off, his jeans scuffed and his hair still askew. He combed it down with his fingers, trying to reorder it before his parents saw. No. Definitely not as cool as those kids by the pitch. He must still be Twelve. Thirteen was supposed to add up to something that didn't leave his knee aching and his barely-formed self-esteem mangled.
His mother ushered him inside, soft frown on her face.
"Why so quiet, greenbean?" she asked, holding her son by the shoulders, arms out to look him over. Pride in her eyes. "My little boy's a teenager today. Smile!"
He pulled a grin to his lips that he didn't feel, and Sandra nodded sagely, ushering her son to the kitchen. Harold's smile turned something more genuine at the sight of the immaculate cake, printed with a Star Wars motif. Thirteen candles in a neat row, already lit for him. He wanted to protest that cakes like that were for little kids. That he was too grown-up for it.
He just smiled softly, greeting his father quietly. His mother sang - of course she did - and he blew out the candles dutifully, relieved that the universe hadn't seen fit to replace them with automatic relighting ones or firecrackers or something.
Myon sat at the table, turning a small box in his hands.
As his mother set about cutting the cake, Harold took a seat, eying the box but saying nothing.
Myon eyed in him return. Cool, a little stern, but not cold.
It was a long moment before Myon finally spoke; Harold's cake would already be laid in front of him, and Sandra was giving that damnable knowing grin of hers as she served her husband.
"...Thirteen years old." Myon nodded at that simple statement. Harold wanted to snort, but didn't. Uh, yeah. I noticed. Didn't change a f*cking thing, either.
His father continued, unmindful of the vulgarity of his thoughts. "Not yet a man, but perhaps one small part. Here. For my young man." Myon passed the little box to his son.
Harold took it. It was not wrapped; simple, black, glossy. He peeled back the lid and unfolded the white tissue inside. A simple, black, unadorned leather wallet nestled among the fragile paper. It was a fine leather, too; even little fingers, inexpert and mostly uneducated of the material could feel that.
Harold didn't know why it meant so much. It should rightly have been like getting socks for Christmas or an apple in your trick or treat bag.
He flicked his eyes to his father. Myon nodded once again, a slow and careful motion. Harold swallowed a lump in his throat and thanked him quietly, pulling the wallet free of the box and holding it, two-handed, in his lap.
His cake was forgotten, along with the thirteen candles on it.
Something had gone up by one, anyway.
Most numbers made sense.
Harold was still short, still lanky and strangely shaped and he didn't even have the first hair on his face that hadn't been there the thirteen years before. Twelve melded to Thirteen. Nothing changed.
Jilly two desks over had laughed at his little note, not even bothering to check 'no' before tossing it at him. It had stuck comically between his nose and his glasses frame. His eyes clenched shut, and he had just sighed.
He didn't even bother to pull it out until class had let out, staring at it cross-eyed. A physical manifestation of every awkward, angsty, self-deprecating emotion inside him.
In front of the bathroom mirror, he notched two fingers around the folded piece of paper, pulling it free. Turning it over in his hand. He chucked it in the sink disgustedly, cutting on the faucet and drowning it.
No. He didn't know why he thought Thirteen should change things. Maybe it was because of the shiny new -teen at the end. It seemed like that should matter. Like it should open up a whole world of adulthood and cool that seemed to go with the designation. Teen. It was just better.
He was just as much an awkward loser as Twelve.
Maybe it was him. Maybe he was just destined to be what everyone is at Twelve and leaves behind at Thirteen. Maybe he was stunted. Stuck in a timewarp.
Maybe he was adopted, and they'd had to guess at his birthday. He wasn't Thirteen at all, but Twelve, and some day soon that magic -teen would kick in without him knowing and suddenly he'd be as cool as the f*ckers that smoked out by the football pitch at lunch. Maybe they'd stop throwing rocks at him, too.
The note long since soaked, he shut the now-cold water off. Clunky glasses and a still-too-round, boyish face stared back at him blankly through the mirror.
The school day wouldn't improve.
He trudged home when the bus dropped him off, his jeans scuffed and his hair still askew. He combed it down with his fingers, trying to reorder it before his parents saw. No. Definitely not as cool as those kids by the pitch. He must still be Twelve. Thirteen was supposed to add up to something that didn't leave his knee aching and his barely-formed self-esteem mangled.
His mother ushered him inside, soft frown on her face.
"Why so quiet, greenbean?" she asked, holding her son by the shoulders, arms out to look him over. Pride in her eyes. "My little boy's a teenager today. Smile!"
He pulled a grin to his lips that he didn't feel, and Sandra nodded sagely, ushering her son to the kitchen. Harold's smile turned something more genuine at the sight of the immaculate cake, printed with a Star Wars motif. Thirteen candles in a neat row, already lit for him. He wanted to protest that cakes like that were for little kids. That he was too grown-up for it.
He just smiled softly, greeting his father quietly. His mother sang - of course she did - and he blew out the candles dutifully, relieved that the universe hadn't seen fit to replace them with automatic relighting ones or firecrackers or something.
Myon sat at the table, turning a small box in his hands.
As his mother set about cutting the cake, Harold took a seat, eying the box but saying nothing.
Myon eyed in him return. Cool, a little stern, but not cold.
It was a long moment before Myon finally spoke; Harold's cake would already be laid in front of him, and Sandra was giving that damnable knowing grin of hers as she served her husband.
"...Thirteen years old." Myon nodded at that simple statement. Harold wanted to snort, but didn't. Uh, yeah. I noticed. Didn't change a f*cking thing, either.
His father continued, unmindful of the vulgarity of his thoughts. "Not yet a man, but perhaps one small part. Here. For my young man." Myon passed the little box to his son.
Harold took it. It was not wrapped; simple, black, glossy. He peeled back the lid and unfolded the white tissue inside. A simple, black, unadorned leather wallet nestled among the fragile paper. It was a fine leather, too; even little fingers, inexpert and mostly uneducated of the material could feel that.
Harold didn't know why it meant so much. It should rightly have been like getting socks for Christmas or an apple in your trick or treat bag.
He flicked his eyes to his father. Myon nodded once again, a slow and careful motion. Harold swallowed a lump in his throat and thanked him quietly, pulling the wallet free of the box and holding it, two-handed, in his lap.
His cake was forgotten, along with the thirteen candles on it.
Something had gone up by one, anyway.