Thirteen Plus One [antikvár]

So^ Out ^owd WhM I Want Out ©^ HE THING ABOUT BIRTHDAYS, at least fourteenth birthdays, is that they're more . . . well . . . complex than every single birthday that came before. Or maybe the only reason I thought that was because I just this very day turned fourteen. Me me me me me me! Fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen!!!! In the cozy warmth of my bed, I pointed my toes and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d my arms above my head. Then in one great whoosh, I let my limbs flop down. The mattress jounced beneath me, and I exhaled happily and reflected on my life. Fourteen years and counting, hahy. That was a lot of birthdays! The earliest ones, I didn't remember. There'd been cake and me looking adorable with icing in my hair, all the normal stuff. On my third birthday, according to family mythology, I'd tilted my chair so far back that it toppled over—with me in it. Dad said my skull hit the floor with a thwack. He also said that my older sister, Sandra, had burst into tears because she was so worried about me. Aw, so sweet (and a teeny bit funny).