MY SLEEP IS INTERRUPTED BY giggling and whispering from the shadows of my room. Even without opening my eyes, I know exactly who it is and why they're here. Mom flings open my curtains. I cringe away from the stark morning light. She and Luke start singing. "Happy birthday to you."

"Ugh, if you really loved me," I place an arm over my eyes, "you'd let me sleep."

They continue. "Happy birthday to you."

"Oh God, no."

Their voices grow even louder, and I'm left wondering why they don't listen to me. After all, it is my birthday. "Happy birthday, dear Sophie. Happy birthday to you!"

"Okay. That was fantastic. Thanks, guys."

My mother chuckles, telling Luke, "Let's leave the birthday girl to get some sleep."

The loud slam of the door reverberates around my skull, shaking loose all the fragments of sleep I was hoping to gather up and piece back together. I shut my eyes, hoping to snooze for a few minutes, but that damned sunshine is taunting me. Fuck.

Angrily, I slap my hands down on my bed, folding back the top of my blanket with it. Every shift of my hands and feet is purposefully harsh, as I irritatedly get dressed. Not a great way to start a birthday. "I made a special breakfast," Mom tells me, smiling cheerily as I sail into the kitchen. One glance at my aggravated expression, and she frowns. "Oh, we're so sorry for waking you up early."

My eighteenth birthday was always going to be a special day for my mother, maybe more so than it is to me. So, I try to straighten up though my sleepiness wants to drag my shoulders down and plaster a smile on. For her. "It's okay. I'm just tired."

Swerving her hip around the corner of the counter, Mom places in front of me a plate of chocolate chip pancakes, drowned in melted white chocolate and Flake bars. My eyes widen; who knew heaven could be compressed down and served on a dish? Luke gets an identical meal, except with a dark chocolate topping. "Happy birthday, darling," Mom kisses the top of my forehead.

This is the best breakfast I've ever had. Finally. The bakery perks are finally showing up. Any annoyance about sleep-deprivation is swept away by fluffy pancakes and rich chocolate. Before I leave for school, Mom reminds me about the birthday dinner she's planned. Like I could forget.

"Dress nicely," she chastises, before leaving for work.

She took time off work to be home this late in the morning, and I feel slightly bad considering her packed workload. I really don't know how she does it, week after week. After brushing my teeth — sadly, losing the sweet aftertaste of those magnificent pancakes — and making sure that weird patch of bed hair that always sticks up on my head is firmly tied down, I can declare myself ready for school.

Luke trails behind me like a phantom on the walk to the bus stop, his shoelaces trailing behind him like the phantom of a phantom. He'll tie them up later, when he sees them, or trips over them. In the wait for the bus, I scroll down my timeline, reading and replying to the short birthday posts my classmates have left for me.

I believe the shortest one I see is from Phoenix Kent, in Book Club, and it reads simply: hb. It's the thought that counts. From my old school friends — Nova, Avalon, Graeme, and Declan — are long, fond birthday wishes, and I reply with extra emojis. I haven't spoken to them for ages, with the distance between us, but we still check in from time to time when annual reminders pop up in our social media feeds.

And then, before I can even take a breath, someone is leaning over my shoulders, putting all of their weight on me. I'm not strong. I wasn't prepared. I think my knees buckling is an expected reaction to that.

Drew tries to turn me so I don't fall, which only means me landing on the boniest part of my body. The pain throbbing in my hip makes me think I've cracked it in half, especially since I dragged Drew's weight down with me.

The pain is blinding, and my eyes go fuzzy instantly. A strangled cry wants to declare how much I'm hurting to the world, only to be sucked in with several gasping breaths. I should be crying and screaming, but the only thought that pops up is how, from here, I have the best view of Luke's untied shoelaces.

His voice rains down on me. "I am so embarrassed to be your brother."

Drew removes his arms from around my shoulders, peering at the blood on his elbow. The scrape is nothing major; just some topical bleeding, and peeling skin. He looks at me, blinks once, and says, "That did not go how I planned. I'm so sorry!"

I'm still clutching my hip, pressing and rubbing in hopes of dispelling some pain. I wheeze out, "No kidding. What the fuck did you plan?"

Drew is picking at some skin on his elbow, and looks down at me with sincere guilt in his eyes. "I was going for a hug from behind, but then I tripped."

"On what?" I hiss.

Slowly, so as not to disturb the pool of agony I writhe in, Drew retracts his legs from mine, giving me a great sight of his untied shoelaces. I'm going to cut a bitch. One day, just one day for some me-time, and I fall and hurt my hip. That is not supposed to happen until I'm eighty, not eighteen!

"Oops," he says. "Are you alright?" I grumble an affirmative. After rolling up his shirt sleeve high enough that it won't be stained with blood, Drew slips his hands around my waist to pull me up. Even the movement has me recoiling in pain. I pull up my shirt and see the ugly purple colour already eating away at my hip.

"Hey, Luke," I say.

He looks up, trying to stifle the laughs by biting his lip. "Yeah?"

"I don't think Aunt Kate's cracked heel cream is the worst birthday gift I've ever gotten now."

"I'm really sorry," Drew tells me. I know he is. He's clumsy, forgetful, and a complete goof. But I know he meant well, so in the spirit of a happy birthday, I smile regardless of the pain shooting bullets at my side.

"It's okay," I murmur, just as our school bus comes roaring around the corner, like a vicious whale. Drew keeps an arm around me for support, which still doesn't stop me from hurting at every twitch of my left hip.

Walking up three steps has never been so torturous. When we do finally sink into our usual seat, on the end of many amused looks from our fellow students, Drew looks to me guiltily. "Really, I'm sorry."

"Do you have money on you?"

"Yeah... "

"Buy me something actually edible lunch, and we're all good."

Finally, I get a hug that doesn't debilitate me, as Drew says, "You're the best."

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I'm usually the one to internally hate on the slowcoaches who block up the halls at school, but today, it's a new experience to be the slowest one in sight. Seriously, it's like breaking down in the middle of the highway, watching everyone else speed by while you sit there waiting for help, dysfunctional.

"You know, if you at least had a wheelchair, I could push you," Reece mocks, at first from behind me, but taking one stride to end up beside me.

"Don't push it, Dormer."

"I'm not, Olsen. What happened to you?" Without a word, I pull my t-shirt up a sliver. Reece gets a glimpse of the festering bruise on my hip, which has also swollen to the size of a golf ball.

"Oh my God," Reece gapes at my hip, his eyes flickering over every expanse of skin in sight with awe, and I drop my clothing to force him to stop staring. "Did you get hit by a truck or something?"

"Or something," I growl. The pain and the questions and the lack of speed have summed up to a generally foul mood on my part.

"What a shitty birthday, huh?" Reece chuckles.

Pretty much.

Keeping my head straight, as well as trying to stop my hip moving too much as I shuffle along, I scowl, "I told you not to push it."

"And I said I'm not pushing anything. In fact, I could probably give you an hour head-start, and I'll still get to the cafeteria before you."

I don't mean to laugh, but Reece's laugh is infectious, and coupled with that maddening smile, while he sings, "Shitty birthday to you, shitty birthday to you," drives me into a few reluctant giggles.

"What do you want, Reece?"

He stops singing, almost to the end of the song as well, to beam at me, "Happy eighteenth. Praise the Lord for Facebook reminders."

The doors of the cafeteria appear as we continue at a snail's pace towards it. I really appreciate Reece slowing down his pace to stay beside me, though it makes it even more humiliating. He literally takes one step and pauses for me to toddle the five miniature steps it takes to cover that distance. When he finally gets to the cafeteria, he opens a door and waits patiently for me to finish the race. "Have you gotten that checked out by the nurse?" he ponders, looking back at my covered hip with worry.

I flashback to this morning's visit with Mrs. Stell. "Yeah. She iced it, and it went from baseball size to golf ball size. I was told to go home, but I can't miss school this close to exams."

"Jeez, you geek." Reece casts a lingering glance towards his usual cafeteria table, and I do the same for mine. "I'm not even going to ask how you did that."

I laugh, waving as I start shuffling away, "Don't." The walk to my table takes longer than usual, but when I finally approach, I address everyone — except Drew, since he knows about the incident, "Guess what I got for my birthday?"

Delaney, Leah, and Benjamin chorus, "What?"

Up goes my shirt, and down goes the jaws. "A hernia."

In a mushy, indiscernible mess, Benjamin spits out his mouthful of risotto — I think? — spluttering. "You just ruined my appetite."

Delaney is still peering at my hip with a curious expression, mixed with disgust. "That's not actually a hernia, is it?"

I drop my shirt and embark on the awkward process of sitting down. Kind of hard to do, since that requires a hip movement, and every hip movement kills me inside. Wincing like hell, I finally shuffle in next to Leah, and reply, "No. It's a massive bruise that Drew gave me."

All heads swing to Drew, whose eyes widen, watching him drop his head in shame. "I bought you lunch," he mutters apologetically. "It's chicken potato-top pie."

"Ooh, yum," I say.

My friends relax when they see I'm not really bitter towards Drew. I dig into the dish, which is pretty good, but nothing compared to Mom's heart-stopping breakfast.

Out of blue, Delaney says, "Sorry." And I think that shocks us all. I don't think a genuine apology has tumbled from her lips this year.

"What for?" I ask, puzzled.

"You know." Delaney doesn't bother to elaborate, rather leaving me to tie up the ends of her confusing thoughts myself. I think she's talking about the accusations she made, which I'm not really angry about anymore, but who knows? The table has gone quiet, and to preserve her pride, Delaney coughs. "That's my birthday gift to you. Happy birthday."

Drew giggles, and that triggers my friends to all give me their birthday wishes, though I read enough of those this morning. In return, I thank them, and that is all that really centres on my birthday. More important topics, like Ben's trip to New York next week, draw our attention away, and I am perfectly fine with that.

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Given the throbbing bruises flourishing outwards from my hip, unfurling petals of purple, yellow and black, my movement has been severely limited today.

School was the real battle, but my most taxing challenge came in the form of a dress. I attempted to shave my legs for my birthday dinner tonight but shortly, painfully admitted defeat. Squeezing into that dress, however, made me break into a cold sweat and pant quickly and grit my teeth more than Coach's Gym class ever did.

The restaurant Mom reserved at is in the town center — where everything is — but on a level of the mall building that you enter only via elevator. The elevator dings when we get to the third floor. With a metallic rumble, the doors slide open on an elegant dining scene.

Only a few paces past the elevator, standing behind a black podium, is the maître d', looking fancier than I can ever hope to. There is not a wrinkle to be seen on his pressed tuxedo. He stands ramrod straight, nose upturned regally. Mom steps up to the podium. "We have a reservation under Olsen."

I can't remember the last time I saw Mom so dressed up. As I watch her handle herself in such a luxurious setting, with the utmost grace, I feel proud of her, but also completely awkward in comparison. From behind, with her coiled updo and dark navy dress, I could have mistaken her for an heiress out to dinner with some contingent of elite people.

He leads us to a warmly lit table, courtesy of three tiny tea candles set in the middle. Shadowing the three small candles is a slender glass vase, with a long-stemmed white rose. One jeweled chandelier hangs on the ceiling, refracting small rainbows of light on everyone. Luke looks around with fascination. This slob is not used to such refined tastes.

Neither am I, for that matter.

Under golden light, Luke looks less troublesome, and Mom appears more youthful. She shines in this setting, eliciting a spreading warmth in my chest that can only be described as love for my family. Her hands are worn from working countless days, but still manage to be gentle with Luke and me Eyes alight with wisdom, she glances quickly at the pressed, leather-bound menu.

I pick up my own menu, laid carefully under a scented napkin. Every dish sounds way out of my league, written in curled calligraphy and with heaps of diacritics over Italian-sounding words. A waiter skirts by our table just as Luke and I decide our meals. We have Mom order them since neither of us trusts our pronunciation.

As we wait for the food, the conversation turns to me asking Luke when he's going to ask Sasha out. He retaliates with, "Whenever you learn to drive." Ouch. But fair.

I've wanted to drive for a while now, but Mom is kept more than preoccupied with her work. Paying someone else to teach me would strain the budget more than I'd be happy with. So I just decided to wait when I'm out of high school, have a job, and can pay for lessons myself. Besides, my real concern right now is school and the Revolution.

When the food arrives, I smell it before I see it. But the sight that awaits me when the waiter slides it in front of me does not disappoint. Maybe this says something about how messed up my priorities are, but just having good food makes this a great birthday.

Even though we are in the midst of Carsonville's finest, I still feel completely at home. Luke acts the way he always has, and our conversations flow from ridiculous, hilarious topics, to ones I'd much rather avoid, like my college options.

I am excelling in school, but I still haven't found the thing that will spark a lifelong fire in me. Mom tries not to pressure me too much on this, but I can see her restraining the desire to jump into my life and start organising it the way she wants. It's only because it's my birthday that she ignores my indecisiveness, and I am thankful.

She, and everyone else, can say that today is my eighteenth birthday, and it's mine and mine alone to enjoy. But as much as it is for me, this is for them, too.