Maia isn’t a bad person.
At least, I didn’t think Ainsley would be her friend if she were one. Not that Ainsley was the paramount judge of character, but she never tolerated people acting out of turn, whether it was the boys in our class making a joke at the expense of the teacher or any of the girls speaking badly about each other. Ainsley was respectful and decent. From the few months I’ve spent getting to know her, it seems like she demands the same from her friends.
But where Ainsley was reserved and demure, Maia was expressive and emotional. She was especially so in March, the month of her birthday.
I didn’t understand people like Maia, people who made a big deal out of one day of the year that happened to be the same day they were born. The thing with Maia was that she celebrated the whole month. Maybe it was different with her because her family had the money for those kinds of luxuries, but birthdays have always been a quiet affair for me. A nice dinner with all of my favorite foods and cake baked by my mother was all I needed. I even let my brother, the youngest member of the family, blow out my candles.
Maia would balk at that kind of celebration if she would even call it one. A proper birthday needs more than good food. This, I learned from Ainsley, who dragged me into the month-long planning for the elaborate surprise she managed to deliver for her dearest friend every year.
“She’s going to be so happy that you’re a part of it,” she whispered excitedly. “It’s only ever been the two of us. Well, me and her mom. And then her mom will drag the rest of her family into it.”
Ainsley planned for Maia to have a Formula One-themed sweet sixteen. I didn’t know what that was.
“That’s ok,” she said. “It’s some silly European car sport. You’re good at studying, right?”
I nod cautiously. She gives me a thin smile. It was well-known throughout the student body that my name was among the list of students who had the ten highest grade point averages in our year.
“There are two key things you need to know. One, Maia’s favorite team is Scuderia Ferrari. Two, her favorite driver on that team is Kimi Räikkönen. She originally became obsessed with watching the races because a boy she fancied in grade school loved it. But now, she’s practically an expert in the sport. I tell her all the time that she could be one of the announcers.”
My brows furrow as I try to digest everything she’s telling me, taking in the odd pronunciation of the driver’s name in her faint British lilt. Maia had a similar accent, but Ainsley’s was much stronger. It was a byproduct of their mutual schooling in the UK and both girls tried hard to sound American after being admitted into Two Bridges.
I think their natural accents sounded much cooler, but they vehemently disagree.
“I would prefer to sound like you,” Ainsley said. “You sound like you belong in New York.”
“Your accent is much better for getting a good job or being accepted into a decent university,” Maia added.
I didn’t bother to tell them that I sounded American because I was born here. The conversation had shifted by then to something I couldn’t remember. But I recall thinking that day how easily I would trade my accent for even a smidge of the wealth their families had if such an exchange was possible.
I try not to let my mind stray to our socioeconomic differences as I type “Scuderi Ferrari” and “Kimi Räikkönen” into the search engine in a futile attempt to make sense of Maia’s special interest. But I quickly found that was impossible because the sport itself was the sheer entertainment of watching twenty millionaires compete on a race track with cars that had a budget several times more than the cost of the apartment my family rented. I look up how much a ticket to these races costs and I nearly throw my laptop on the library floor.
The tickets were the cheapest in Europe, but unfortunately, the three of us did not live in Italy or Monaco at the moment. I also inconveniently did not have the budget for plane tickets or better yet, the keys to a pink Ferrari. That was Maia’s dream car, something that would remain in the realm of imagination not only because I was horribly poor compared to my friends but also because Ferrari didn’t make pink cars.
What am I supposed to get for a girl who always had more than me?
The answer struck me like a bolt of lightning. There was something I could afford, something that neither Maia nor Ainsley would expect from me.
I wait for the last bell to ring. Once it does, I skip down the front steps of Two Bridges and head straight for the train station.
Last year, Natalie and I found an old print shop near one of her favorite bookstores. On a whim, we walked inside. There was something intriguing about the vintage font on the store sign and the paper art on the window display. It called to the primal part of me that loved to create. My fingers practically itched for what was inside. But I didn’t tell that Natalie then. To her, it was just a pretty store to kill time in.
To me, it was the perfect heaven for keeping my hands busy. I step into the store again, alone but filled with the same excitement as before. Rows of colorful stationery line the walls. Pens of all shapes and sizes cluster in clear containers. All of them begged to be in my hands.
I blink rapidly, walking to the back. I must stay focused.
Digging through my backpack, I find an image I printed in the school library and give the paper to the store owner. Five minutes later, my wallet was twenty dollars lighter, but my gift for Maia was secured.
Over the next few days, I scheme with Ainsley to plan Maia’s surprise. We decide to host her sixteenth birthday at a karaoke place. One of her acquaintances will bring her there under the pretense of studying in the library. I’ll be the one to handle decorating the room we rent with Ferrari red. Ainsley will gather her family members.
When Maia arrives, she acts appropriately shocked. I don’t miss that she’s perfectly dressed for the occasion in gold jewelry and a glittering hijab.
Ainsley presents her gift first. She hands Maia a simple cream envelope. Maia raises her eyebrow at how humble the gift looks, but she makes no remark. She knows Ainsley would never give her something small.
“Oh my god! You got me tickets to a race!”
Her best friend smiles smugly. “Look at where we’re going.”
“Monaco!” She squeals in pure delight. “How did you get these?”
“I had to call in a favor with this ang mo I knew when we were younger. He didn’t want to part with these tickets, but everyone has a price.”
It was no secret that Ainsley inherited her father’s business acumen and she made sure to slip it in every now and then. But whether she stood to have a piece of his corporation was a different story entirely.
Sensing that it was my turn, I bring my gift. It’s taller than me and I’ve covered it in a red cloth which I yank off for dramatic effect.
“I couldn’t afford the real thing,” I said, pointing to the cardboard cutout of Kimi Räikkönen. “But I hope he can satisfy you.” I specifically instructed for it to match his real height at five feet nine inches so it towers over the three of us. Kimi’s emotionless ink-printed face regards us warily.
Maia bursts out laughing. She hugs the cutout, lifting it from the ground.
“I love it! I can have him sit next to me at the race.” She and Ainsley cackle at the thought until it’s time for Maia’s family to present her gifts.
Her sister gives her a pair of gold earrings to match her necklace. Her brother gives her a designer handbag with a label that makes Ainsley gasp, but it rings no bells in my head. Finally, her mother gives her a slim box with a silver HW printed on it.
Maia opens the box, already smiling. Quickly, her face drops.
“It’s a diamond,” she said, frowning. She peers closer at the gems. “The color is white.” Her frown deepens. She looks at her mother, hurt evident in her eyes. “This is Raisa’s birthstone.”
Her sister stiffens next to her. Maia’s bottom lip quivers. “Do you even know what my birthstone is?” When her mother doesn’t respond, she storms out of the room. I can hear her wails echo down the hall.
Ainsley shakes her head. Maia’s mother sinks her forehead into her hands. “This girl,” she muttered. “Only she is capable of receiving Harry Winston jewelry and crying about it.”
I follow Ainsley out of the room and I can’t help but think of my own mother and the gift she gave me. If they only knew how happy fake Swarovski made me.
As Ainsley rubs her back and I wipe the mascara streaming down Maia’s cheeks, I almost feel sorry for her. No one should feel the way she did on her birthday. The emotion in her eyes reminded me of my mother on her bad days. I see her face red from screaming at the family and her eyes bright with exertion. Maia’s cheeks are flushed pink and her irises are shiny with tears.
My father taught me that showing emotion was weak. There would be no tears from him just as there would be no tears from me. But sometimes I wonder how many bad days I need to have before I become just like my mother and Maia.
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