All I wanted for my birthday was a set of watercolors.

            I knew I wasn’t getting them. We’d always been short on money, and then Dad lost his job.

            I love painting, but it’s not just that. I don’t want to be ignored.

            I walk up to the counter of my favorite café and hand Charlie the dollar. She gives me the cold glass, smiling all fakey, like cashiers do.

            I sit at an empty table. I’m doodling on the napkin when somebody says, “Hey, mind if I sit here?”

            I look up.

            It’s a blond girl with her hair tied in pigtails. She’s wearing striped leggings, bubble-gum pink and baby blue, and a white T-shirt with a unicorn on it.

            A first-class weirdo.

            I shrug, say, “Sure,” and go back to my drawing. She goes over to the counter to order a mocha.

            A mocha in the middle of summer.

            Weird.

            We sit in silence, I occasionally sipping lemonade, her thoughtfully slurping her coffee as she gazes out the window.

            When I look up again, she’s gone.

            Sitting on the table is a set of watercolors with a sticky note stuck on the top:

            Happy birthday, Jen.

Sonja