In sixth grade--in sixth grade, I don’t remember much.

In seventh grade, I remember walking to school with the jitters. It was my birthday, and I thought everyone would just know by looking at me. I went to the orchestra room that morning to drop off my violin, and saw my friend, who at the time I was trying to make my best friend. She had an edgy charisma to her, a loud carelessness, that attracted an entire solar system of admirers.

We might have been talking when she suddenly dropped on a chair. It was a chair, any chair, left out from practice, but at the moment I was confused about the chair. She put her head in her hands and kicked out her legs, and began to rock herself back and forth.

I forgot your birrrrrrrthday, she moaned.

It was then another friend walked in. To this day, she is my best fair weather friend. She’s the best fair weather friend, ever. She began to laugh loudly, and, giggling, comforted my other friend.

I thought my birthday had just started, so I was feeling only a little crushed, but my friend had begun to reassure my other friend so thoroughly it was okay she forgot my birthday that I had no choice but to follow. I do remember, though, they were moaning and giggling so loudly I wondered if it was a joke. Maybe that was my present. But after I had mumbled the same thing fair weather had, they had dropped their violins and left.

In eighth grade, I remember feeling claustrophobic about my birthday, the feeling only enhanced by the recent splendor of my friends’ birthday parties.

In freshman year, I remember worrying so much the day before the big day that I managed to mention my birthday in every conversation I had. It took some creativity, but it happened, and sure enough, the next day had a few more half-hearted Happy birthday’s.

In sophomore year, I decided not to do anything. But I accidentally got offended when another friend, whom I had known since seventh grade, forgot my birthday a day early. I was mad, so the next day, at the crack of dawn, she texted HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! with pictures of cake and candles. I responded with the exact same number of exclamation points, but was starting to feel a little stupid.

In junior year--this year--my birthday fell on a Saturday, for the first time in years. I had just taken the SAT and the ACT within three days of each other, and had allergies to blown down a house. After a great deal of brokering, my sister and I decided which restaurant we were going to go out to eat, and set out after I slept in.

When we got home, my sister insisted I stay outside while she readied the presents. Presents are a big deal between the two of us. For us, Christmas and birthdays are like national emergencies. My sister even got me a 4th of July present one year, which freaked me out, which I begged her never to do again unless she warned me ahead of time, so I could be prepared. That day, I waited till my phone charged, and went for a walk outside.

The last two years, I’ve been dabbling in the art of iPhone photography. Nothing too fancy, and I haven’t got the guts to put anything online. It’s become my favorite mindless hobby to go out, walk or run or bike, and create stories out of pictures.

I walked along the river trail, where everything looked new. I remember stopping at every flower to take its picture before moving on. The sun was high in the sky, defining everything, even the shadows.

I never made it to downtown, after being urgently texted by my mom and sister successively to Turn back, Mom’s home from work, and come home for cake. I remember walking up one of the red stone roads, people milling past, the wind lapping at my legs, and went home a day older.