Nobody remembered, not really.
I woke up to silence, no decorations, not even a card. My mom didn't even stumble into my room to pretend like she cared. Jace was gone, probably lost in some smoke-stained corner of town or passed out in the driver's seat of a car that wasn't his. There was no breakfast. Just quiet. Thin, echoing quiet that felt like it might crack if I breathed too loudly.
At school, it was the same. No "Happy Birthday," no clumsy jokes or cupcake surprises. No one even looked at me, except for Mrs. Hartley. Midway through homeroom, while the class buzzed around her like flies swarming a dying light, she walked by my desk. Her hands shook. The paper in her grip trembled like it knew something she didn't want to admit.
She paused just long enough to whisper, "Happy birthday, Grey."
Then she fled. I don't mean walked away, I mean fled. Like she thought being near me too long might make her sick. She nearly dropped her clipboard.
I sat there, maybe half-stunned, not particularly surprised, though, not because of the words, but because of her eyes. She was scared. Scared of me.
It was the first time I realized it. The way she avoided eye contact. How her voice always tightened around my name. How she never called on me, although that part I did like quite a bit, not being bothered, anyway. I thought teachers were supposed to treat people the same. Equal.
But I guess that only applies if you act the part. If you smile enough. If you don't sit too still. Maybe that applies if you always act okay, and your eyes have a glow to them. That isn't me, I guess.
In a way that made what I always thought more obvious, people only care about you when you make it easy for them. They don't like putting in that effort.
The rest of the day blurred past in a dull, throbbing smear of noise. I didn't talk. I didn't need to. The walls had more warmth than the students around me. I watched one girl cry because someone else wore the same shoes as her. Another kid got praised for turning in an assignment he probably copied, not that the handwriting was legible. It was all so loud, so empty. A thousand tiny disasters masking the fact that nobody saw anything real.
After school, I didn't go home.
I took the bus out as far as it would go, then walked the rest of the way, three miles, maybe more. The sky was heavy with winter clouds, and every gust of wind made the bruises on my ribs sting like they were fresh again. I kept my hands in my pockets, hunched against the cold. My shoes were soaked by the time I reached the neighborhood. Mud clung to the soles, and I left dark prints across the walkway up to the porch.
When I knocked, there was a pause. A long one. Then the door creaked open.
My grandfather stared down at me, brows knitted. "Grey? What in the world? How did you get here?"
My grandmother appeared behind him, drying her hands on a towel. She looked at me like I'd stepped out of a storybook she hadn't read in years.
"You walked?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Bus took me most of the way," I muttered. "Rest was on foot."
They didn't badger me much past there, I was okay with that. I hated speaking, so it was nice they let me be.
They exchanged a glance. One of those quiet, loaded glances adults think kids can't read.
Still, they moved aside.
They were waiting. Somehow, they remembered. I think they always do, even if they pretend to forget things like how awful their daughter turned out. When I stepped inside, the smell of cinnamon and old books hit me like a blanket I hadn't realized I missed.
"Happy birthday, Grey," my grandmother said with a soft smile.
They had a cake. Chocolate. Store-bought, but I didn't care. The frosting was clumsily written, my name squeezed between too-small swirls. I stood there, unsure what to say, until my grandfather asked, "Where's your mom?"
I didn't lie.
"She forgot," I said. "Or maybe she's too busy getting railed by Jace to remember."
They didn't laugh.
Grandpa looked at the floor. Grandma's lips pressed together until they turned white. The silence sat between us like a funeral procession, polite and impossible to ignore. Grandpa's wrinkles squinched as he read the lines in the oak.
Then grandma's eyes landed on the edge of my shirt. I followed her gaze, not on purpose, one of those instinctual looks.
The bruise had shifted, purple bleeding into a muddy green. It peeked out just above my waistband. Which showed just barely below my cotton shirt.
She didn't say anything, not that she needed to. I knew she caught a look at it, how I'd explain it, that was up for grabs, whether she asked or not.
She turned back to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that didn't need cleaning.
We ate cake in silence, and for a moment, I almost felt normal. In a way, I almost felt like a person. My grandparents were the only people I could consider letting some of my guard down around.
While they were still eating, I took the old compound bow and went back out to the tree line.
Soft shadows danced around the forest, illuminated by the bright sunlight, and leaves flowed through the air with an almost mythical quality. The scent of grass went into my nose, not that I minded; it was nice. I felt at peace, as much as one could get, I suppose.
I aimed down the sight and shot an arrow clean through the air, sniping an ant that was crawling on the soft oak bark. It didn't look too happy being dead, sad for it, I didn't like being alive much either.