Rather than a conventional biography, the piece accompanying Senhor Ricardo’s work speaks volumes about his character: “Blah blah, born in Lisbon, blah blah, based in London as a freelancer, blah blah, active in advertising, arts, and music, blah, blah.”

Download “Her Island” here. 

Download “Krystal (Remix)” here.

The first Christmas since Richard, my father, died, and the funk of stale liquor and vomit was replaced with the aroma of cinnamon scented candles. But the kitchen still stunk of fried fish and borscht as Mom prepared a feast. We had a plastic tree. Almost naked, the faux-fern was carelessly draped by a short string of cherry red ornaments. I sat on the couch, silent as she set the table. To my mother and me, Christmas had become a formality. To feel like a normal Polish-American family, we forced ourselves to prepare dishes neither of us enjoyed and decorate our cluttered apartment with 99 cent mistletoes and lights.

Holiday jingles and themed television shows didn’t excite me, but I couldn’t escape them. At school, the facility threw parties for the students before winter break. “How about some music?” my English teacher, Ms. Wilde would ask, fiddling around with the antique record player she kept at her desk. Eccentric, she rarely combed her hair and always spoke in high-pitched squeals. But at 13, when many of my peers listened to songs about sex and drugs, regularly viewed pornography, and experimented with the vodka in their parent’s private stash, having cardboard cutouts of Santa Claus in each classroom and dancing to “Frosty the Snowman” seemed like an attempt to reclaim our innocence.

Maybe I was bitter for never experiencing the cheer being advertised. Christmas never stopped Richard from coming home drunk. He would still hit my mother and voice his disgust. “You failure,” he’d shout, towering over me. I’d retaliated after he punched Mom. “This slime is my son?” His eyes were bloodshot and his spine bones poked from beneath from his skin. She clenched her stomach in pain, while Richard tugged on my ear and slapped the back of my head. “It’s because you were raised by this whore.” He pushed me away. “That’s why you don’t call me ‘dad.’”

He was my biological dad, nothing more. To my mother, he was a constant evil. But since childhood she’d safeguarded others: Whether it was her schizophrenic mother, who she kept from hurting himself, or protecting me from abuse. It gave her purpose. I overhead her telling Ching, who lived next door, about her loneliness. Following Richard’s death, she reminscened on the early days of their relationship. He would promise her the world. Coincidentally, it was after my birth that he began to question his life choices and drink away regrets. Now, Mom became embroiled in an endless cycle of going to work and coming home to an empty bed. “I’m grateful that Mariusz’s there, but some things you can’t talk to your child about.” 

“You need a man. It’s time to move on.” Ching was a social recluse, but she trusted us. Mom had invited her over for our holiday dinner, but gatherings weren’t her thing.

“All men are the same. I swear, if my son ever comes home drunk, I’ll hang myself. They say it’s genetic, you know? He already has his father’s impatience.”

That Christmas evening was cold and damp. I looked out the window. Our ancestors believed that waiting until the first stars were out before eating brought good luck. However, the horizon was blanketed with thick clouds. A storm just passed. Ornaments wrapped around our neighbor’s fire escape flickered on and off. It didn’t bother them.

There were two sets of silverware prepared. “Did you take your meds?” Her hands shook as she finished preparing the table, which was covered in a worn cloth. 

“Yes.” I was on anti-depressants. Mom insisted I speak to a professional. She self-medicated and took pills out of my prescription. She had become determined to avoid her mother’s faith, said to run in the family. To her, Prozac was the end-all-be-all. “Nothing,” I reported back, disappointed in Mother Nature’s reluctance to grant me the “perfect” Christmas.

“Forget it, come eat.” I trudged back to the dining room. Within seconds, Mom started to pick apart a piece of salmon. “I’m starving.” She squeezed a spoonful of lemon juice onto her plate. I started with the soup. Mushrooms floated atop the red liquid. I hated them.

I wasn’t interested in the food. The conversation between her and Ching had haunted me for weeks. To others, I was a bastard child, destined to become a statistic: Either I would become like my father, becoming a testament to the misfortune of genetics, or I wouldn’t, becoming a minority. Everyone told me that I was different, but was my own mother expecting me to fail? Or did she, in her own way, try to prevent that? I didn’t have the courage to ask. “Do you miss him?”  

“Even if I did, do you remember ever having a dinner like this? Nice and quiet, like a miracle.”

As the co-founder and administrator of The Corner Society, Mariusz Zubrowski is out to inspire creativity and the arts. He’s the creator of the “Momma’s Boyfriend” series, which is gearing up for its cinematic releases. And when he’s not writing or exploring Tumblr, he spends most of his time watching television with his cats (both of whom can vouch for the disastrous reality shows he has forced them to enjoy).  

In our commitment to creativity and art, The Corner Society happily introduces Emily Lozano, a photographer-turned-activist. Below she describes our ongoing collaboration, which you can help out with a small donation on her Kickstarter. Furthermore, all who pledge $5 or more (and send proof via email) will be eligible for a chance to be spotlighted on our site..    

“Hello! I’m a freelance graphic designer in Chicago. Cuba: Branded is a project that explores the state of branding in a communist country, where everything is owned by the state. I plan to travel to Cuba and photograph examples of branding including packaging, printed materials and storefronts. From these I’ll create a set of 20 full color 4 x 6 postcards.

My parents were born in Cuba in 1930. My dad was one of two kids and my mom was one of 9. While I was growing up I heard countless stories about what it was like before Castro’s reign. The food, the parties and the freedoms which we would consider normal.

My dad told me about how he was part of the CIA’s attempts to overthrow Castro. He did this for about 4 years, two years on the island and two years living in Florida and traveling secretly between the two countries. Finally he decided to escape in a little boat with my mom and 2 older sisters. Their lives nearly ended that night. These stories were thrilling to me as a kid and still are. They kept Cuba alive for us.

Eventually my family moved to Chicago. Not long after that I came along. I grew up like any American kid surrounded by branding. Like a lot of kids, I was told to clean my plate because there were starving children who would be grateful for food. That kid was my cousin Anabel. She was about my age and my relatives from Cuba always brought news about what Anabel was doing. I grew up always thinking about her life, which was the polar opposite of mine.

Cuba:Branded is an extension of my curiosity. I grew up there, surrounded by brands, with new ones popping up all the time and even helping to create some. I spend a lot of time thinking about brand loyalty and how consumers make choices based on brands. But what’s Anabel’s experience with brands?

In a country where the state owns and makes everything, what happens to brands? One interesting example is Bacardi. It was a Cuban brand that moved to Puerto Rico after the revolution. But they are still making rum at the old Bacardi location. What does that label look like?

While I’m there I’ll take photos of Cuban “brands” including product packaging, printed materials and storefronts.

I expect to find some established, well-executed brands and a lot of mom and pop trademarks. I’ll collect Cuban made products and will try to meet with the artists who worked on them, if I’m allowed.

I also want to talk to Cubans about how they make choices and if brands enter into that equation. Do they have more than one kind of product? Are some brands better than others? There are many brands of cigars, but is there more than one kind of coffee? Sugar? Does branding influence choices or is it all about price and availability?

I’ll be photographing the brands, so we’ll get to see what the aesthetics are. Is the look of brands stuck in the 50s or have other countries influenced the commercial art there? How is the art made? What’s the design process like?

I plan to travel in the Spring of 2012, and I hope to stay for one or two weeks. My sister will be joining me to help with legal questions and translating, and so that I am not traveling alone. The Corner Society will document my journey.

Your funding will help with:

Travel expenses to Cuba (flights are about $1500)
Travel within Cuba (taxis, car rental, etc.)
Photography supplies (memory cards, etc.)
Hotel stays (while I can stay with family in Matanzas I’ll need to spend some time in Havana as well.)
Product purchases to photograph (I’ll need to purchase food and other household items to photograph the packaging)
Printing costs for the postcards and box

Anything above the goal will help provide a longer stay, better equipment, more product purchases and possibly more postcards for the set.

The finished product will be 20 4 x 6 postcards printed on 100# recycled paper (cardstock) and collected into a box with a full color sleeve. I plan to print these in May or June of 2012.

I realize this project is very expense heavy because of the travel. I’ve tried to make the rewards fair without breaking my budget. If you contribute at $500 or more I will bring back a souvenir for you — something I’ll find it hard to part with!

If you’d like to have extra sets of the postcards please add on $5 for each set. At the end of the funding cycle you’ll have a chance to indicate the quantities you’d like.

Please add $5 for shipping to Canada.
Please add $10 for shipping outside of US or Canada.

I’m sure I will come back with more photos than I can publish at one time so this may lead to a Volume Two.

Feel free to contact me with any questions and please help spread the word. Thank you so much for your support!”

The branches of my heart sway against the wind
as we look towards the sky.
The sunset of our love has come
and leaves have fallen to the ground.
Until the dawn arrives we can only hold each other
and wait for the rain,
trailing our tears into a river
that flows towards a lonely ocean.
Under the dark night sky we pray
for the morning to come to our eyes.
Without the light our love cannot
bloom its lovely soft blossoms.

    Justin jogged up the same street that he had for the last 167 days. His home wasn’t on this street or the next, but after school he made his way over to the cozy little neighborhood before going home. He saw the same girl outside, sitting on the steps of a house that looked like the dozens of others on either side of the street.  He didn’t speak to her. As he came closer to her house, the girl stood up and waved to him. Like every other day, he began to slow down, began to lift up his hand to wave back, but instead, he kept jogging, eyes focused on the ground.

    Justin was a fairly normal boy. Standing at 5’8” and of a slim build, he wasn’t the most unattractive boy around. Though it’d help to comb his short brown hair more often, it usually looked like he just woke up. He had friends, he went to the movies, and his parents were still together. He even had decent grades; he wasn’t anything special, but he wasn’t falling behind the curve. That’s why it was so distressing to watch him become a stalker – especially one of a sick girl. Who knew what he’d do?

    “So…Shiela, you know, from work? She told me that she saw you on the bus yesterday—” Justin’s mother, Prima glanced at Justin as he ate his breakfast.

    Justin looked up at his mom, chewing on a burnt piece of toast, not particularly eager to respond.

    “Well…were you headed to that girl’s house again? Linda or something?” Prima asked, fully facing Justin.

    “Linette. I don’t go to her house. I’ve never been there.” Justin replied dryly.

    “Right you…just go to her block, right? You…jog?”

    “Right.”

    Prima sighed, shaking her head and taking Justin’s now empty plate and putting it in the dishwasher. “Fine, go on to school. Say hi to Linette for me.”

    “Hey, stranger!” Linette called out to him again with her big smile, catching Justin off-guard. Maybe she thought he’d answer one day, but he never did. He’d always pass her, slowing down just a bit. At times, he opened his mouth to speak and began to lift his arm. But then he’d run off, head down. “Bye—” She’d call after him, just like every other day. Her smile would soon fade, just as he would trail down the street. Yet still, she felt that he was the love of her life.

***

    It wasn’t too bad, the trip to and from her block. He slowly started to enjoy them. It gave him time to think, listen to music, and write. To do whatever he wanted, just for a little while. His parents had even stopped asking him why he went to see her once they were satisfied that he wasn’t out with thugs or whores. Sometimes he wondered what it’d be like to talk to Linette. He’d doze off on the bus and dream.

    “Hey,” he’d say to her, a winning smile on his face, one Linette wouldn’t be able to resist.  She’d become deeply mesmerized by his charm, as she replied hello.

    Justin would stroll over to her porch, look into her blue eyes, and finally, they’d kiss.

    Then, he’d wake up and still be Justin Thyme, the scrawny stalker on his way home from staring at Linette, the only person to whom he wanted to speak.

***

    She went over it in her head dozens of times: Justin would speak to her and say the most wonderful things. That’s how it would work. “I love you, Linette,” or “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.” It’d be amazing! She thought this, and yet, she knew it was a silly dream. Her neighbors worried for her, was the boy a stalker? Justin? Her Justin? Never! He came to see her and she waited to greet him, day after day. He’d even snuck out of detention before, the day of that big food fight; it was so romantic of him!

    He was running late, would she still be there? It was raining as he ran, and he’d forgotten his umbrella at home. Would she hate him? Why did it suddenly matter? It felt so odd, his heart beating hard against his chest. He ran faster than he thought possible, for him anyway. The sirens caught him off-guard, and he felt as though his heart was caught in his throat. She was sick, he knew that. Every kid at school knew that. That’s why she stayed home so often. The red and blue lights against the otherwise perfect neighborhood were terrifying to Justin. He saw Linette as they carted her pale body off. He saw the faces of her worried neighbors too, some of them were crying.  He ran towards her, mouth opening and closing like a guppy. He still couldn’t find the words.

***

    Linette never had a chance to go a dance. She was always just so sick. It made it hard to get close to anyone, to make any real friends. But she had taken a chance and asked Justin. He wasn’t anything special, but he wasn’t a jerk either, and that worked for her. She was so excited that he said yes. It’d be her first dance! Or she thought he said yes, she hoped really. He’d just sort of nodded when she approached him with the offer.

***

    It was so unbelievable. Linette had asked him out! Justin couldn’t believe his luck, though he was still a little embarrassed. He didn’t even say yes or no. He just nodded, he was so stunned. He was going to meet her on her block before the dance, just like she asked. He thought about how much like a puppy he was, but shook the thought away. It didn’t matter, for he was going to a dance with Linette, the Linette.

***

    Linette had fallen into a coma for a little over a year. The world in her mind played out as the outside world moved at a dreary pace. Her mother was so sad, her sweet daughter was gone. She kept saying that she was gone, but Linette was still around, in some sense anyway.   Every day, Justin stopped by the hospital. He touched her arm and watched her breath. He wasn’t sure why he kept visiting her, why he kept doing this to himself, but he did. In the winter he trudged to the hospital in the snow, and in the summer he jogged. Linette’s parents were glad that she had such a loyal friend, but he always shook his head at that. He wasn’t a friend to her, he wasn’t anything. He had never even spoken a single word.

The poet must approach the page as a discipline, a practice, and wait for the wandering poem to find her, fill her, spill out of her and into the notebook like breaking, leaking waves.  

The poet is a canyon, an empty lot – a receptacle for God, Iris the rainbow and messenger, a part of the Earth, gathering pieces of debris and light to construct castles in the mud.

The collector of wishful thinking and seeds of revolution bursting through crinkled, grey minds.

The one who shouts out amongst the silence and knows that when inspiration strikes, she’ll grab the pen and run to let it spill out, come out, gush out – reveal itself, and there is no seeking because in seeking, there is interference, there is you and the world building up and reconfiguring your identity as “the poet,” but you are NOT a poet, you are just you, you are one and you are everything.

So you have to wait. 

Through the Summer and Autumn and nights when you can’t sleep and your body suffers, when your lover begs you to come to bed, but you can’t because you hear the call of it coming, you hear it coming, falling on your typewriter keys, skating past your journals and loose leaf, caressing your pens and chalk and crayons like a mistress in the night.

*Lucy Tan is a high school senior. She has been writing poetry for as long as she can remember.

            Angela inhaled deeply, leaned her head back, puckered her lips, and let out a fierce blow, sending hundreds of tiny ray flowers and dandelion seeds parachuting – sailing into the wind.  Proudly, she clung to the thick taproot, her small, nine year old fingers wrapped around the ugly beige stem.  She stared into the air, mesmerized, as she made a wish. 

            “I wish to be more like my sister, Mackenzie,” she thought.  Then, she uprooted another dandelion, the stubborn roots of which were tangled in a ball of dirt that hung from its bottom.  She looked into the tiny florets, each one like a thread made of crystal.  With an effusive blow, she let out a rush of hot air that made the flower head scatter.

            She thought about her older sister, how her world seemed so much bigger, far more interesting, since she was in the eighth grade.  She thought about how Mackenzie could make her crumple to the floor with laughter, the howling kind that sits in one’s belly and erupts explosively.  On nights when neither one could sleep, Mackenzi built a fort out of blankets and with a flashlight shining on her face, read scary stories about dogs’ heads dropping from chimneys and corpses eating puss on slices of white bread.  When their parents argued because their father was drinking, Mackenzi crawled down from the top bunk to set up the Nintendo and played with Angela until they both became drowsy and fell asleep.  Mackenzi put just the right amount of peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on Angela’s sandwiches.  She let Angela sleep in her bed when her little sister thought the shadows on the wall were those of demons and aliens.

            Despite how close they were, one wouldn’t guess the two were sisters by looking at them.  While Angela took after their Romanian mother, with fair skin, light brown eyes and straight brown hair, Mackenzi took after their Spanish father, with tanned skin, dark eyes and curly hair.  While Angela was forced to drink protein shakes to help her gain weight, Mackenzi was made fun of by classmates for being too pudgy.  Though she tried to hide her figure in baggy sweaters, her loose wardrobe did little to detract teasers.  Their grandfather, Nelson, called Angela “Spaghetti” and Mackenzi “Meatball.”  Then he offered them both a slice of grasshopper pie and fell asleep on the couch while watching wrestling.

            Opining over the wish making capabilities of dandelions, Angela traced shapes on her arm with the fuzzy perennial.  Mackenzi studied her sister who was knee deep in blooms.  She tore through the gold foil of a chocolate candy, fully cognizant of the fact that she shouldn’t be indulging in sweets, but after a moment’s hesitation, decided against better judgment and greedily shoved the cream filled egg into her mouth, hoping her mother, who was sitting nearby, wouldn’t see.  Mackenzi looked in her mother’s direction.  She was focused on a scratch off, and so Mackenzie was safe.  She swallowed the candy, licking her teeth clean in fear of lingering chocolate that, later, might serve as evidence.

            She strode over to Angela, who was pressing her fingers into the dirt.  “I got an 85 on the report that you wrote for me, the one on Martin Luther King Jr.,” she pronounced proudly.

            “Only an 85,” Angela said with consternation.

            “It’s the highest grade I’ve gotten yet this year.”  Mackenzi picked up a handful of dirt, and forming a funnel with her palm, poured it over Angela’s fingers, burying them.  Both girls had matching friendship rings made of knotted colored threads.  “I don’t think Mrs. Graham likes me.  She’s such an old crab.  If only she’d jump into a lake and drown already.”

            “You should come to my class.  Ms. Simmons is taking us to the museum this Friday.  It’s going to be great.  I just hope I don’t have to sit next to Terrence on the bus.  He always smells like bologna.  I swear he must rub himself with it every morning.”  Angela’s face furrowed.  “Anyway, I’m going to buy you something from the gift shop.  Grandpa gave me ten dollars because I got the highest grade on the reading citywide test out of anyone in my class.  Maybe the museum will sell stickers,” Angela said.

            “I wish I could just skip the eighth grade and go straight to high school,” Mackenzie said diffidently.  “If I go to a school for performing arts, I can become an actress, and then I’ll never have to read again.”

            “Blow on this.”  Angela shoved a flower in her sister’s face.

            “I’m just happy that my birthday party is coming up this Saturday.  Mommy’s going to buy an ice cream cake.”

            “Who did you invite?”

            “Eleven girls from my class, but I hope Beatrice doesn’t come.  She called me a pig on Tuesday.”

            Angela’s eyes diverted from the dirt.  “Don’t even listen to her.  She’s jealous because she’s not as pretty as you.  She has a cow face, seriously.  She looks like she was hit with a frying pan—smashed.” She pressed her hands flatly against her cheeks.

            Mackenzie let out an exaggerated laugh.  Despite her size, she looked like she could have been only ten or eleven herself.  She donned a large bow in her hair and had paint stains on her shirt.  She spent most of her time with Angela, partaking in the hobbies of younger girls, which suited her fine, as her first priority was to be silly and play.  The room the two girls shared was stocked with dolls, board games, and rollerblades.  She pinched at Angela.  “You’re not going to ballet class on Saturday, are you?  The party starts at twelve.”

            “Well—” Angela looked into the distance thoughtfully.  “Maybe I could do both, and come to the party a little late.”

            “Can’t you miss one class?  It is my birthday after all.”

            “I know.  I—” Angela pushed back her hair with dirty hands.  “The thing is that I have perfect attendance right now.”

            “Perfect attendance,” Mackenzie repeated in astonishment.  “Who cares about perfect attendance?” she shouted.  “I’m only going to turn thirteen once, and you can’t come to my party late because of some stupid dance class!  I thought you were going to help me hang the streamers.  We need to make everything just right.  This is a big deal, Angela.”  She stood and rubbed the dirt from her hands.  Her silver charm bracelet dangled as it shook.

            Angela weighed the guilt of missing class against the fear of upsetting Mackenzie; the last time she got angry, she filled Angela’s shoes with mud.  “Okay,” Angela finally conceded with a deep breath, “you’re my sister.  I can ruin my perfect attendance record for you.”

            “Good.  Now give me one of those flowers.  I’ve got some wishes of my own.”

                                                  ♦      ♦      ♦

            Outside the Herrara family’s Brighton Beach apartment complex in Brooklyn, the grass was manicured; it looked artificial, like it had been spray painted green.  Elderly women sat, crocheting, or just idly passing time, as people swarmed the street, most were immigrants who spoke little English.  Some seemed lost, trying to figure out the signs at the fruit stands and candy stores, while others pushed and elbowed to hurry home to children and grandchildren. 

            Inside, Mackenzi scurried to get ready, putting on the red chiffon dress her mother bought especially for the occasion.  Rux was in the kitchen, scooping a variety of cold salads clumped in mayonnaise into bowls for her daughter’s party: macaroni, potato with hardboiled eggs, tuna, and ham; a six-foot sub ordered from the deli down the block hung over the sides of the dining room table that was covered in a vinyl cloth.  A pyramid of canned colas towered unsteadily near boxes of peppermint cookies.

            As Rux shoveled food, she lit a cigarette and screamed for Angela to clear her art supplies off the couch.  She was a tall, handsome lady with hazel eyes and an unruly mess of hair.  Her body was stalwart and wide.  She wore a rayon jogging suit with a pair of black running sneakers.  “These girls are gonna show up any minute, and where are they going to sit?” she cried out.  “I’m telling you, with how messy the two of you are, I could just have easily have had boys.”

            “I’m sorry that I’m not domesticated enough for you.”

            “What do you know about being domesticated?”

            “I know that I’m never going to be a housewife.  I’m going to be a successful professional, and I’m going to live in a penthouse with Mackenzie.”

            Paying no mind to her daughter, Rux shuffled through the grab bags.  They were iridescent pink sacks from a bargain store filled with marshmallow cereal treats, plastic jewelry, and puzzle books.

             “I made five extra because I have a feeling some of the girls might bring their sisters or other friends.  Whatever doesn’t go, we’ll take the candy out and feed it to grandpa.”

            “What am I, a garbage disposal?” Nelson called out.  He was sitting on the recliner in the living room, watching the Home Shopping Network.  He was corpulent, like a horse, an operose man who did much physical labor as the super of a large building.  He had a smattering of hair and a smattering of teeth, both of which he claimed unnecessary to attract attention from his collection of girlfriends whom he referred to as “lady friends.” 

            Mackenzi hurried into the room, looking for her headband.  “It’s near the telephone,” Rux shouted. 

            “Does my hair look okay?  We have to take lots of pictures.”  Mackenzi fussed with a large broach in the shape of a dragon fly that she pinned into her hair.  “Everyone’s going to be here soon.  Is it weird that I’m nervous?” she asked Angela.

            “It’s good to have a little nervous energy – that’s what mommy says, at least.  But don’t worry, today’s going to be perfect, like a dream.  You look pretty, I’m telling you.  I wish I had a dress like that.  Mine makes me look like a sailor with these strange flaps around my neck.”  She pulled on the fabric of her collar.  “What time is it?”

            “It’s almost twelve.  I’m going to go taste the cake.”

            “You’re not tasting the cake!” Rux bellowed.

            “Just from the bottom.  Only one finger-full,” Angela implored.

            Rux stuck her head out of the kitchen, and waving a wooden spoon, said, “If you come near that cake, I’m going to whip you from here to tomorrow.  I don’t care if it’s your birthday, Chanukah, or St. Patrick’s Day.  Now go watch TV with grandpa if you’re feeling antsy.”

            Mackenzi made of show of slumping her shoulders and traipsing over to sit near Nelson, who rested his feet on an ottoman made of gray microfiber, trying to hide her ebullience.  This was the first real party since she had turned ten, and that one didn’t really count because it was at The Beefsteak House where deer heads hung on the walls.  Soon enough, her father, Rufus, would be back from the store with the balloons, and all of her friends would arrive.  She would open up gifts that were stacked high in a pile, dance to her favorite songs by Madonna, and blow out the candles on her cake.  Her birthday was finally here, and she was determined to remain excited and not think about Mrs. Graham, or the boys on the school bus who tortured her every morning. 

            She looked over at her sister with fascination, as Angela was fruitlessly trying to pierce an avocado pit with a toothpick with the intention of suspending it in a cup of water.  The windowsill was lined with Angela’s pots filled with cacti, apples, potatoes, and beets.  Most of her potted plants and vegetable seeds sprouted a few leaves and then died shortly thereafter.  Angela, after breaking the first toothpick, reached into her pocket for another, this time trying to steady the pit on the radiator while hammering the toothpick in with a small phonebook.  Mackenzi grinned at her sister, hopeful that this time her efforts would grow into a verdant plant.

                                                  ♦      ♦      ♦

            Nearly two hours later, Beatrice was the only guest at the party.  Picking at a piece of salami, she eyed Mackenzi with disdain.  She looked vulpine, predatory.  Thin lips revealed too much of her teeth.  Her face was long and pointed; her nose aquiline.  “Didn’t you make sure to tell everyone to RSVP?” she asked.

            “Of course she did,” Angela answered.  “Didn’t you?”  She looked at her sister, who pushed food around her plate. 

            “Everyone except Daniella said they were coming.”

            “Maybe they’re just late,” Angela offered.  “The bus might be running slow.”

            “Excuse me, but our entire class lives within a three block radius,” Beatrice chimed.  “If they were going to come, they’d be here by now.”

            Angela rolled her eyes.  She knew how much Mackenzie loathed Beatrice, and yet the two were always in each other’s company.  It was as if their friendship was based on the fear that if they parted ways, they’d both be alone.

             “Let’s make some phone calls,” Rux said, nervously scrubbing the counters with a dish towel.

            What remained of the cake was quickly turning into a melting slop.  What was moments earlier exquisite, with sugared lilacs and gardenias, coconut whipped cream rosettes, and sour lemon ice cream, no longer seemed grand.  A soupy pool formed around the silver platter.  Noticing this, Angela said, “If no one else shows up, we can eat all of the cake ourselves.”

            Beatrice wiped her oily fingers on a paper plate, and murmured, “The last thing Mackenzi needs is cake.” 

            Angela slid off her chair and went to grab the telephone book.  “Why do you always have to be the most horrible person in the room?  This is a special day for my sister, and you’re ruining it.”

            “Enough,” Rux exclaimed, throwing down the towel.  “I spent all day cooking, and I have a headache.”

            “But you ordered a sand—” Angela started to respond.

            “It doesn’t matter what I did and did not prepare by hand.  You are not the birthday party police, the last time I checked.  Now give me the book.  We’ll start with Alicia.  I go to bingo with her mother.  There’s no reason why that girl shouldn’t be here right now.”

            After Mackenzi’s third slice of cake and hearing countless excuses, from Samantha, who claimed she woke up with the stomach flu, and Henrietta, who said she was so sorry, but she had to babysit her brother, she found herself passing through the parking lot with her mother and sister while wearing a paper crown that read “Birthday Princess.”  Her face was deflated, her eyes puffy.  She felt like screaming at her mother, telling her that she wanted to go back home and bury herself in bed, tear the decorations off the wall. 

            “Let’s just forget it,” she said fixedly.  I shouldn’t have to beg people to come to my party.  I’ll be the laughing stock at my school.”  She felt like she was losing her composure; her eyes began to well up with tears.  “I already am,” she said.  “As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t make sense to celebrate a day that should have never happened.  I should never have been born.”  Her body tightened.  “I tried to make you happy—” she turned toward Rux, whose face was now blank—“I tried to be the perfect daughter.  I put on this stupid dress, these tight shoes.  I pretended that everything was perfect, that I was some kind of teen queen who you could show off.  I gave out those ugly invitations with hideous ducks on them to girls who don’t even acknowledge my existence in the school cafeteria, and do you know what they did?” Her voice got higher, pleading.  “They pointed to the lollipop taped to the envelope and laughed.  They laughed at me.  They laughed at me.”  Mackenzi covered her face with her arm.  She was sobbing, her back jerking rhythmically as she gasped and wheezed.  Rux stood motionless.

            Mackenzi, wiping her face, looked weary.  She dug into some part of herself, some treasure trove of strength, of juvenile obstinacy, and asserted to her mother: “I’m not going to school anymore.  That’s it.  I’m done.  I’m not smart like Angela, and I’m sorry.  I aplogize, but I can’t be the perfect daughter.  I’m thirteen years old now, and I won’t be compared to my younger sister.  I’m just not her.  I know that you wish I were, but I’m not.”

            Angela was struck, as if she were pummeled by stones; she felt immediately consumed by a sorrow that stemmed from the realization that she was a burden to her sister, a source of pain.  She looked to her mother for help, to say something that would make the moment easier.

            Rux, however, could not digest Mackenzi’s declaration.  Her face twisted with befuddlement.  “But I never—” She thought she had given her daughters everything: a nice apartment, as many toys as they asked for, Saturdays spent riding the Cyclone at Coney Island and eating hot dogs on the boardwalk.  She knew she wasn’t perfect, but at least she was capable of providing them with a childhood better than her own, which was one of struggle, abject poverty, and living with parents who were concentration camp survivors.  Nelson was never around; her mother was so lost in grieving for her dead family members that she failed to care much for her living ones, for her daughter who was right in front of her.

            “I thought we were having this party for you,” Rux said softly.  “I threw it to make you happy.  Because I love you.  Because you’re my daughter.  And no, I don’t expect you to be like Angela.  You’re both different, and that’s okay.  You’re your own person.  I think that you need to be.”

            The parking lot was vacant, except for an old man hobbling with a cane.  Rux had told her daughters never to pass through the lot once the sun had set; she tried to foresee danger before it arrived, but now, the lot that was the adjoining space for the seven apartments that made up the complex, along with the park of concrete and shrubs, seemed smaller, less daunting.  Across the street was the school her daughters attended.  Down the block was the supermarket and pizzeria.  On most days, Rux never went further than five blocks with her daughters, but somehow, that wasn’t enough—just keeping them boxed in—somehow, a deep sadness had overtaken her daughter; it had been looming for quite some time, though Rux pretended it didn’t exist. 

            She eyed Angela, who was still, watching a bird fluttering on the branch of a northern red oak.  The bird was gray; it looked frail, like it could have fit in the palm of one’s hand.  Angela turned to face Mackenzi, who was drained, depleted.  “You never did get to blow out your birthday candles,” she said to her sister, “I mean, we just cut the cake, and we were so busy checking to see if the buzzer in the lobby was working and trying to shut up Beatrice, that we didn’t even get a chance to—”

            Angela caught sight of something a few yards away: the tops of white, transparent flowers; an idea was sparked.  She sought to offer consolation; she had felt the need to end her sister’s grief, for in turn, that would end her own.  She stopped at a cluster of dandelions under a lamppost and tore them free, letting out a small yelp.  Then, she hurried back to her sister and mother, who looked confused.  She took a deep breath, and in her high-pitched voice, began to sing: “Happy birthday to you.  Happy birthday to you.  Happy birthday dear Mackenzi—”

            Mackenzi blew, and the flower rays floated away, dispersing through the breeze like fragments of something that once was, but no longer existed; the wind carried them, past the gray apartment buildings, past the girl’s school, the small park with broken swings and a too steep slide, over the fences, further and further until they drifted out of sight, each and every last bloom, and finally, were gone.                                                                            

*Jessie Leon is a student at the City College of New York, where she is earning an M.F.A. in creative writing.  She lives in Brooklyn, where she works as an English teacher.