The Mandala Girl (COMPLETED)

Chapter 2

My home isn't far from the art studio; ten or so miles. Good thing, too, because I don't have much faith in this old Honda of mine. It's a 2000 Accord model. My parents bought it from an elderly couple who owned it for over ten years. They took excellent care of it; serviced it faithfully every three thousand miles, never smoked or ate food while in it, and they washed it every other Sunday. Honestly, they took better care of it than some people do their own children. But after mom and dad got their use out of it, they decided to give it to me as a birthday present last year. It's hard to believe I've been driving this rattletrap for an entire year.

As I arrive home, I notice the house isn't lit, and mom and dad's cars aren't parked in the driveway. We're like most Americans; we have too much junk to be able to fit our cars in the garage, so I can always tell when they're home. I guess they're out at the moment. Go figure. Looks like I'll be spending my birthday alone this year. I'm eighteen after all; it's not like birthdays are as special as they were when I was a little girl. To be honest, I'm kind of tired right now. A quiet evening consisting of Netflix and a bowl of Butterfinger ice cream, while wrapped up like a human burrito in my favorite blanket sounds quite inviting.

I park the car and make my way up the zigzag stone pathway to the front door. As I insert the house key into the lock, I hear hushed voices cease immediately.

Is someone inside?

"Hello?" I call out through the partly open door and wait for an answer from the darkness. "Mom? Dad? Is anyone home?" No answer.

After a few more seconds of waiting, I grip my car keys in between my fingers, ready to use them as a weapon if need be, and shove the door all the way open. An ominous creak sounds as it glides on its hinges. Dad still hasn't gotten around to oiling them. As I step into the dark house, a large object swiftly moves across the room. Now that was definitely a person!

I'm about to spin around on my heels and bolt for my car when I hear the flick of the light switch. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" The overhead lights turn on and a group of familiar faces pounce from the shadows. I shift my head from one face to the next and see my family and friends. Confetti flutters from the ceiling, balloons sway back and forth, and there's a banner hanging on the wall wishing me a happy birthday in colorful lettering.

My little brother, Will, who isn't so little anymore—he's nearly a foot taller than me—gives me a hug. "Happy birthday, sis!" He then blows a party straw in my face. Typical.

"Thanks, Broseph." I lightly punch him in the shoulder. "Broseph" is the nickname I gave him every since we were little. I don't remember the first time I used it, but after I did, it stuck.

Mom moves over to me next. "Happy birthday, sweetie." Her eyes start to tear up. "I can't believe my baby girl is eighteen. It seems like yesterday you wearing diapers running around in your Baby Bop T-shirt." Some of my friends standing nearby laugh when they hear that.

"Mom! We talked about this. No embarrassing moments. Okay?"

"What? I'm not embarrassed. Oh, you mean you?" She gives me a mischievous grin. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm just filled with so many emotions right now: happy, sad, excited, reminiscent." She wipes a tear from her eye. "I promised myself I wouldn't cry."

"It's okay to cry, mom." I wrap my arms around her. She leans her chin on my shoulder, and I hear her suck back tears.

After we part, I see that the rims of her eyes are red and puffy. "I'm going to go regain my composer," she says. "When I come back, we're going to open presents. Sound good?"

I nod. "Sounds good."

After she had gone, my friends encircle me like a pack of vultures, each one wishing me a happy birthday followed by a hug. By the end, my lungs feel like they're devoid of oxygen from so much tight hugging.