The Birthday, by Ilse Eskelsen

“I’m tired of having created the world,” said the boy with the snow-soft hair. 

Though he was, as a child on the cusp of thirteen, the youngest of the group, he was also the eldest.

“Everyone is after time and time and time again,” said his sister. Well. Not his sister. Possibly his mother. Possibly his wife. Possibly no relation. “Also, you have not been getting enough sleep lately.”

“No,” said the boy. “It’s not either of those.” He pointed to the sky. “It’s that.”

The others looked.

Another boy said, “Naw.”

The grass was cool and wet beneath their backs. The first boy stretched out in it, experimenting with the discomfort of the scratchy spears of grass against his legs and arms and neck. He wiggled a little. It was undignified, but then, he was only twelve.

Almost thirteen.

“It’s the birthday blues, man!” said the other boy. He was wearing, noted the first disdainfully, a neon yellow t-shirt. No one who wanted to be taken seriously ever wore neon yellow unless it was mandated by either OSHA or God. It was possible that the first boy was a god. It was possible that he had not been getting enough sleep lately. “It’s, what, five minutes to midnight? You’ve got to be feeling that.”

Was he feeling? The only things the boy was sure he was feeling were a vague, dull sense of exhaustion as he stared at the stars and a vague, dull sense of rusted pride. The stars had once seemed so wonderful. Now they were only distant bulbs of gas and pricks of shame.

“I do not believe in birthdays,” said a fourth individual, who was probably a girl. She scratched at her knee just below the cuff of the jean shorts she had bought from Kohl’s the Saturday previous. They had been on clearance. The price was very good.

She did not elaborate on her stance on birthdays.

“Hmm,” said the first girl.

“Hmm,” said the boy with the horrible neon yellow shirt.

“Hmm,” said the boy who was tired of having created the world. “Hmm. I think I’m done.”

“You should probably have a reason,” the first girl said.

“You should wait until H&M’s big summer sale,” said the second probably-a-girl.

“You should let me cover the guest list for your birthday party,” said the boy who clearly did not want to be taken seriously.

Why? thought the first boy. So you can invite more people who will unironically wear neon yellow?

“I have a reason,” he said.

He did not tell him what his reason was.

They did not ask him what his reason was.

“Fine, then,” said the first girl, a little angrily. It would’ve been nice, she thought, to be consulted on something like this. Which was fair; after all, she was his sister. Or his mother. Or his wife. Or no relation. “So, midnight?”

“That’s very round,” said the probable girl in the reasonably-priced jean shorts. “I like it.”

“Well, I don’t,” said the horribly-outfitted boy. His neon yellow t-shirt had not even been reasonably-priced. It had cost him $14.99. He had no excuse.

The first boy thought about his reason.

It was about the stars; something about the stars was wearying him either pre- or postmaturely, depending on your worldview. The stars were such unimportant things. They were extra worldbuilding details, a glimpse out a window for when children couldn’t sleep, a comfort food for nursery rhymes and a chew toy for astrophysicists. You only needed one, but you gave them more than a trillion instead. They only needed one, but you gave them uncountable. Why? It made them happy. No; it made you happy.

The first boy was no longer happy.

Wonders stacked on wonders stacked on wonders, and none of it made anything anymore. There was too much. It was too beautiful. It was not beautiful enough, not by half. There was nothing so beautiful as a good sale on a pair of sturdy jean shorts you happened upon at Kohl’s, and the boy knew it. If I made the world again, I would not give it so many stars, the boy thought. 

He was growing stingy in his old age.

After all, he was almost thirteen.

Or maybe he would give it more stars. He didn’t know. Maybe he would fill the sky with stars and stars and stars, so many and so close and big and bright that if you lifted your head even a little above the ground, you’d be blinded by them, rows of gleaming diamonds, sharper and more shining than shards of broken mirror balls across the floor of a ruined club.

“It’s almost midnight,” the first girl said.

The first boy, the soft-haired boy, the sad, the tired youngest boy checked his watch. She was right. The minute hand was hovering expectantly near the XII.

“Let it be undone,” said that boy.

“I can’t believe we’re missing out on birthday cake,” the other boy said.

It was midnight. Happy birthday to me, the boy thought. And also, happy birthday to the world.

“We will have cake,” said the one with the affordable jean shorts and the probable femininity. “We will all have cake one of these days. Who cares if it’s today?”

“I do,” said the boy in his horrible shirt.

“Shh,” said the first girl.

The first boy said nothing.

The four of them lay on the grass and watched as the stars faded away.

The boy smiled.

Ilse Eskelsen is a teenage writer from DC who has been published in Penultimate Peanut and The Showbear Family Circus.