Jennette McCurdy

If Mom really didn’t want what was best for me, or do what was best for me, or know what was best for me, that means my entire life, my entire point of view, and my entire identity have been built on a false foundation.

Oh. So we started going to church when we wanted something from God?” I asked.

“No.” Even though Mom was laughing when she said it, she sounded kind of nervous, maybe even a little annoyed.

“He makes me laugh. I was hoping he’d make you laugh too.”

“Thanks, Poppy Seed.”

“ ’Course,” he says with a nod. “You know, I hope you remember to have fun. Life should be fun for a kid.”

Grandpa bends down, picks up the hose and starts watering the grass again. I look down at Mike, running my thumb over his rubbery skin while I think about what Grandpa said.

Fun isn’t a thing I’m particularly familiar with. Life’s a serious thing. There’s a lot going on in this place. Being prepared and working hard and doing well are far more important than fun.

I can’t let Mom know I’m into purple, since Mom prefers pink. She would be heartbroken if I suddenly announce that I’ve switched my favorite color to one that isn’t also hers. It is an honor that Mom cares about me so much that something like me having my own favorite color would devastate her. True love.

And then she looks at me with her big eyes and I know she doesn’t, she couldn’t, but I almost feel like she’s enjoying this. I almost feel like she’s enjoying the pain. Like it’s a representation to her of how much I care.

She knows I have money and could take her anywhere she’d like, and yet she chooses Wendy’s not because she likes it, but because she can go and tell her friends or fellow churchgoers how humble she is, how down-to-earth, that even on a day as special as her birthday, all she did was eat a side salad from a fast food restaurant.

This thing in Mom drives me nuts. This thing where she yearns to be pitied. She’s got stage four cancer, she’s already plenty pitied. She doesn’t need to throw Wendy’s on top of it.

I don’t like knowing people in the context of things. Oh, that’s the person I work out with. That’s the person I’m in a book club with. That’s the person I did that show with. Because once the context ends, so does the friendship.

I yearn to know the people I love deeply and intimately—without context, without boxes—and I yearn for them to know me that way, too. And as much as I think I know Miranda deeply and intimately, I don’t like that I know her through the context of iCarly, because iCarly is ending, and I don’t want our friendship to end with it.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for two whole weeks, since I first decided what I was going to wish for. The birthday wish is the most power I have in my life right now. It’s my best chance at control. I don’t take this opportunity for granted. I want to make it count.

I don’t like knowing people in the context of things. Oh, that’s the person I work out with. That’s the person I’m in a book club with. That’s the person I did that show with. Because once the context ends, so does the friendship.

When I’m drunk, all of my worries disappear—hating my body, the shame I feel about my eating habits, coping with my dying mother, starring in a show I’m humiliated to be a part of—it all just goes away. When I’m drunk, I’m less anxious, less inhibited, less worried about what Mom would want or think of me—in fact, when I’m drunk, the voice of Mom judging me evaporates completely. I can’t wait for tonight.