Your Mark on Me

Chapter 4: Sweet Sixteen

Turned out that being sixteen didn't feel any different than any other day.

I woke up at midday with the TV still on. I turned the volume up, just to drive away the silence of the empty house, then made some cereal and lazily ate it without brushing my teeth, showering or changing my clothes. I was determined to allow myself to indulge into self-pity to the point of enjoyment.

The sci-fi channel was showing an episode of Star Trek that I'd seen before, but nothing else worth watching was on. When it was over, I kept flicking through the channels, until the sight of the postman at the end of our driveway eventually made drag myself off the coach. I wasn't usually so keen on collecting the mail, but today was my birthday, so maybe I had some cards? Some surprise gift from Mom? Most likely wishful thinking, she was bringing the gifts at the weekend, but I had to check.

I squinted at the outdoors light and breathed the fresh air of the loveliest, sunniest early-September noon. Perfect for a day out, I thought wistfully as I unlocked the tiny door of the letterbox.

Newspapers. Domino's vouchers. Mom's bank statements. The yearly card from Aunt Helen, accompanied by the $20 bill that had become a tradition ever since I was old enough to understand the concept of money. A card from Marisa, a friend of Mom's that she hadn't seen in over ten years, but with whom she still exchanged cards religiously at every suitable occasion. I was about to open it even though I didn't really care - I'd never met the woman - when I noticed the other envelope.

It was blue and felt hard. Another card, probably. Our address was handwritten on the back, but no recipient name. On the front, the same steady hand had penned in neat, cursive writing an unfamiliar return address.

I messily ripped it open to find inside the generic birthday card for a girl: flowers, butterflies, candles and "Happy Birthday" in pastel colors. The content, though, was most definitely not generic.

It was addressed: "To the little damsel-in-distress whose name I forgot to ask", and it read as follows:

Hi there,

Hope you're well. My date canceled on me, so here you are. Something tells me you wanted to see this more than I did, anyway. Take a friend and enjoy.

Happy Birthday.

Mark C.

I stared at it without believing my eyes.

For the first few minutes, I didn't really care about the concert.

IT'S THE MAN-IN-A-SUIT!! HE REMEMBERED YOU! He remembered your birthday! He's given you his tickets!

The voice inside my head would have grown hoarse for screaming so hysterically, had it been attached to a real larynx. I might have even jumped up and down a couple of times, before getting back in the house.

My heart was still hammering in my chest as I sat back on the sofa, turning the tickets over and over in my hands. Weeks ago, I had been so upset when the concert sold out, and here I was now, with a spare! From him!

I couldn't quite believe it was real. The crappiest birthday ever had just turned into, well... still not the best. When the initial enthusiasm eventually died down, an issue became apparent: I had no one to go to the concert with.

Chloe was already camping with her boyfriend and his parents; she'd texted me earlier, to say "Happy Birthday" and to tell me that George's mom was annoying (to which I wanted to reply "serves you right", but refrained myself). Then, there was Roy, but I couldn't invite him now, with all this be-my-girlfriend thing going on.

And that was it: I didn't have other friends. I had the piano, which took up most of my time, not allowing me to be as social as perhaps was considered normal for a teenager. For a second, I considered inviting Mrs. Jackson, lame as it was, but then, the idea hit me like a thunder.

Was this out of place? Surely not.

After all, they were his tickets. This way none of us would miss out.

I picked up the business card, and just stared at his name and the string of numbers. Let alone my fear of speaking on the phone, I wasn't supposed to have his number in the first place. Of course. Stupid idea. I flopped back in the sofa, disappointed.

It was no big deal: I still had the tickets, and I was going to see Martha Argerich, even if I had to go by myself. I was lucky to have the opportunity, right?

But the joy had now been spoiled. I didn't want to go on my own, on my freaking birthday!

My glance rested on the envelope lying on the coffee table in front of me.

33 Newbridge Drive, 20744.

I got up and poured myself a glass of water from the fridge, then went to the piano, in an attempt to clear my head with a little practice. I couldn't focus at all. No matter how much I tried to banish it, the idea still lurked at the back of my mind. I kept going from musing on my miserable existence, to fantasizing about how nice it would be if I called and he picked up and agreed to come with me. How sad was it that I had no one to go with to a concert, on my birthday? That was how pathetic my life was.

I banged the keyboard in frustration, a dissonant cluster of notes punctuating my inner discourse.

The big clock hanging above the piano was only showing two-thirty, so I still had time to think about it. At no other occasion would I have such a good excuse to see him. This was my only chance. Did I really want to let it go to waste? The more I contemplated the possibility, the more sense it made.

I brushed my teeth and changed, went to the shop to buy some bread, made myself some lunch and ate it, and soon, it was late afternoon.

By 4:30, I still hadn't decided what to do. I told myself that now it was probably too short of a notice to be asking Mrs Jackson. I almost dialed Roy's number, only to throw the phone back on the table and pick up the envelope.

I remembered the corporate party and how bad I felt when I missed my chance to speak to him, how I wished I was someone else, someone more outgoing, someone charming and confident, someone who didn't feel the need to rehearse conversations in her head before any social situation.

Well, now was a good time to start being that person. No more regrets washing over me, no more 'what if I said or done that' and 'why the hell couldn't I'.

I had to try.

The excitement rushed in. If I got ready quickly, I could be at the man's house between five thirty and six o'clock, which still left me over an hour to get to the concert on my own, if he wasn't at home.

I dashed to my room and opened the wardrobe. Usually, it never took me more than ten minutes to get dressed, but this time was different: nothing seemed appropriate. I felt like one of those characters in romantic comedies, trying out several outfits before going on the first date. Too desperate. Too conservative. Too sexy.

I didn't actually own anything that was "too sexy"; most of my clothes had gone through Mom's seal of approval, and I wasn't that interested in fashion anyway, unlike Chloe, for instance. This one time I wished I had all her clothes.

Eventually, I settled for a white lacy top and a black just-above-the-knee skirt, with black flats. Nothing fancy, just appropriate for attending a classical concert. I never wore skirts, or make-up unless I performed, nevertheless, this time I put on some mascara and lip gloss, and even added some curl cream in my hair to tame the unruly strands. Fancy.

On my way out, I stopped briefly in front of the full-body mirror in the hallway.

I looked... decent.

My hair and my face were fine; as for the rest, there was nothing I could do. I was too skinny and underweight, with barely any curves, even though I was now wearing a bra two sizes bigger to create the illusion that I actually had something there. But I had always been like that; I was used to being teased for it. If it wasn't for my insecurities, I would have thought I actually looked quite pretty. I shrugged, and the image in the mirror shrugged back at me.

Ten minutes later, I was in a taxi.