“Do you wanna see his finger?” My friend reaches into his pocket to grab his phone, grinning like we’re talking about high school drama.

“Um, not really,” I tell him. He’s immediately deflated. I don’t remember the last time he was so eager to show me something. I don’t get why this of all things has him so excited.

…

I FaceTime my mom the day after. I usually call her on the weekends. Or I used to, at least. I’ve missed…how many weeks now? I can’t even remember. But I’m calling her now. She picks up, not yet out of bed—and I’m about to drop dead.

“Hey, how are you?” she asks me.

“Good,” I say. Anything else and she’ll freak. It’s not a lie though. At least, I don’t think it is.

“How’s school?”

“It’s good.” I need to come up with a better answer.

“That’s good. Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah.” I pause, and then: “This semester’s been a lot better.” Just to add some more substance. I don’t know if it’s really true. It might be, but I honestly feel so burnt out that I’ve forgotten to experience everything.

“Oh, that’s great!”

“I’m just kind of worried that things are getting better now, since I only have a year left. It would be kind of sad if my last year was the only time I actually wanted to be here.”

Again, I don't know if this is true. It’s not rehearsed though, and it comes out organically, so there must be at least some truth to it. Maybe except for the part where I said I was worried. I’d love for next year to be the best of my life.

There’s a pause in the conversation. My mom reassures me that this is normal—“I think everyone feels that way. Your cousin said the same thing.” A bit comforting to be honest, but I don’t really want to talk about this. I change the subject.

“Hey, is there any news on the kid?” I watch her face change. She’s much less excited to talk about this.

“Yeah, they found him. I’ve told your sister she can’t go to the mall alone anymore.”

I frown. “I don’t think we’re targets.”

“I don’t know. This is the eighth one recently.”

Oh. It’s much worse than I thought.

I nod and watch her. She’s itching to change the subject. She looks back at me, and then her face lights up. “What are you doing for your birthday?”

Oh, right. My birthday’s this week. I turn 21. That’s a big deal in this country, I think. What am I doing? “I’ll probably just have dinner with friends.”

“Oh, not New York?”

I laugh. “No, not this year.”

When she hangs up an hour later, I pass out on my bed. I haven’t washed my face, brushed my teeth, anything. My laundry is unfolded, filling my hamper while my dirty clothes pile up on the floor. I wake up four hours later, the sun still down. What am I doing for my birthday?

…

A kid was kidnapped at my high school the other day. He was 14. Maybe home’s a lot less safe than I thought.

…

Tomorrow’s my birthday. The first part of it, at least—this year’s not a leap year. But I have a paper due tomorrow, so maybe I just call my birthday March 1 and move on. No point having a double-birthday if I can’t even celebrate them both. That’s disappointing, though—I wanted to test if liquor stores counted me as 21 on February 28. I guess I’ll never know.

I quickly text my friend, asking if she’s free on Saturday. I told my mom I was having a dinner—I might as well have it. She gets back to me pretty quickly. Should be. Well, at least that’s something to look forward to.

I feel like it used to be a pretty cool thing, not feeling settled down where you are. At least it was cool when I was a first-year, because everyone felt that way. Maybe the schtick got old last year. But if it’s gotten old for other people, just imagine how old it’s gotten for me.

…

I get a text from my dad. How are you celebrating your birthday? I don’t open it. I turn my phone off. My hair falls in front of my eyes. I run my fingers through it, but a strand catches on my chipping nail polish, and suddenly I can’t take my hand out. I grunt, frustrated, and use my other hand to pull the caught strands free.

…

Instead of writing my paper, I spend the next day filling out internship applications. There’s one listing I really want, so I write out a cover letter. While writing it, I scan the job description. That’s when I see it: “We do not accept international students.” I sigh at my near-finished cover letter and scrap it. So much effort, and for what?

For someone that always wants to go home and never wants to come back, I sure feel bitter about the idea of going home for the summer. I could absolutely get an offer there. I might even be able to build a career there. I’ve always wanted to move back, so why do I care about this? Why am I suddenly worrying about my life in two years when my visa expires? If home is where all my best memories are and this country has housed some of the worst, why am I so reluctant to go back?

…

Twelve hours into what is sort of my birthday, and I’m 12 hours overdue on my paper. I can’t bring myself to write it. I have some ideas, some conceptions about Hertz and Van Gennep and whatnot, but no words can come out. I have another paper due tomorrow. I need this thing done.

It takes me another three hours before I submit. As I hit the button, I wonder if I’ve ever submitted a paper on time.

…

My friend has a call at 9 p.m. We meet at 7 p.m., so we have a good two hours.

The first restaurant we go to is full. I’m hungry, so we head to another—this takes us an extra 30 minutes.

“You know, we could’ve probably gotten a table.”
“Yeah, I know.”

…

It’s 8 p.m. by the time we get to order anything. I ask her how important her call is—she says it’s fine, she can be a little late. I make a mental note that she hasn’t so much as mentioned my birthday yet. I’m not sure if it’s intentional or not. I look down at the menu.

“Okay, on birthdays I usually don’t like trying new things, so I’ll just get this,” I say, pointing to their specialty. I blew it, I think. That was not subtle at all.

I look up and her eyes have widened. She brings her hand up a bit.

“Wait.”

I start to laugh. I used to keep track of my friends a lot more aggressively. On a leap year it should be impossible to forget it. In a normal year, you have two days to greet me, so missing it is crazy. Obviously, people miss it anyway, because I’m not the center of their world. But I like to pretend I am.

But this time it feels good to talk to someone who forgot. It’s nice to remember that the world doesn’t revolve around me, and that really, no one cares whether I’m turning 21 blacking out at a club in New York or having ramen with a friend in Providence.

…

We get back at around 9:30 p.m. She’s late for her call, so she says bye and rushes home. I walk home alone.

When I get back, my mom FaceTimes me. I pick up.

“How was your birthday?” she asks.

“Good,” I reply.

“What did you do?”

“I got dinner with a friend.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, did you have fun?”

“Yeah. Probably my best birthday I’ve had here.”

“That’s good! Oh, by the way, we’re about to go out for lunch.”

“Oh, what for?”

“We’re celebrating your birthday!”

I stare at her in disbelief. “I’m not there.”

“Yeah, I know.”

We stare at each other for a while, my mouth slightly agape. She calls over the rest of the family. My dad and brother say hi. My sister gloats about her grades which, admittedly, are better than mine were at her age. We talk for a while longer as they get into the car and leave home.

“I have to hang up now. Love you!” my mom says once she gets to the restaurant. I say bye to them all as they leave to celebrate my birthday without me. When she actually hangs up, I start to laugh. My suitemates probably think I’ve got issues.

…

My hair falls in front of my face. I run my fingers through it, moving it out of the way. Hair strands hook onto my chipped nail polish. Pulling my hand away feels like pulling my nail off. I let out a groan before taking each strand, one by one, out of my nails.

I look at my hands. My nails have grown too long. All 10 of them have chipped at least a little. Most of the patterns are gone. Keeping the paint is doing me more harm than good.

I stare at them a little longer. My friend back home did these nails two months ago, just days before my flight back to America. There’s still some chrome left over.

Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.