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sing. The rest of us just sort of sat there like we always do, lumps of mostly silent humanoid non-playas.
    After the song I was, of course, unable to blow out any candles. But somehow, all the kids, led by several who tend to salivate and spit a lot when they “help,” managed to extinguish them and make my birthday wish come true—which was for the candles to go out before the smoke alarm went off.
    As if we didn’t look bad enough already, we all got ugly, pointy birthday party hats attached to our skulls (Debi would have loved them). Next we had the cake.
    The kids who could eat on their own scarfed down their pieces of cake and then signaled or asked for more. The kids who couldn’t feed themselves, like me, got bites spooned into their mouths. When we were finished, it looked like a cake explosion had taken place. Frosting and mashed cake covered everyone’s faces, chins, eyebrows, and pointy-hat tips. Cake on our bibs and hands and pant legs. Cake and frosting smeared into chairs and on the floor underneath. Really, it’s amazing how one little cake can spread so far when being fed to me and my special needs classmates.
    Tonight, at my family party, the big surprise is when my dad shows up. This is the first time Dad’s been back here since that night he tried to … you know. I gotta admit it feels pretty weird. As he walks into the house, he hands Mom a birthday card for me, no doubt including a check for the occasion, and Mom says, “Thanks.”
    Dad hugs Cindy, waves to Debi rather uncomfortably, and then holds out his hand to Paul, who shakes it. To say Paul and Dad have had a rocky relationship is putting it mildly. Paul has never been able to forgive Dad for bailing on us after I was born so messed up. But recently things have been better. Now Paul is civil to Dad and will speak to him.
    Dad says to Paul, “Your mom says you are homing in on a school—maybe Stanford or U-dub.”
    Paul looks at Dad, takes a quick breath, and says, “Yeah. Nothing’s for sure yet.”
    â€œWell,” Dad says, “whatever you decide, we’re with you.”
    I can see the wheels turning in Paul’s head, almost hear him self-censoring all kinds of smart-ass things he would say if their uneasy cease-fire weren’t in place.
    Finally Paul smiles. “Thanks, but we’re here for Big Boy’s fifteenth, right?”
    Dad smiles too. “Absolutely,” he says, adding, “Quinceañero.”
    It’s fine with me if they use me to avoid their conflict. I mean, think about it, it’s really the only way I’ve ever been able to help my brother—well, other than letting him steal my girlfriend who didn’t know she was my girlfriend, but I digress.
    Debi is sulking and mumbling and looking pissed because she hasn’t been able to stick with her routine tonight.
    Paul tries to cheer her up. “You look nice today, Debi,” he says.
    Debi smiles at Paul and says, “I like when you say dat.”
    Cindy catches the vibe and, maybe trying to add on to the Debi-looks-nice theme, asks Debi if she has a boyfriend. Debi smiles even wider. “Dat’s for me to know and you to find out.” She laughs at her joke.
    Mom insists that Debi join us for my birthday party, which, now that dinner is done, consists of having yet another birthday cake, after which I’ll “open” my presents. I already know that these so-called presents will be the usuals: socks, T-shirts, and bib overalls with snaps on the inseams so I can have my diaper changed easily. In other words, my birthday presents are just normal things that I need anyway, wrapped in brightly colored kiddy wrapping paper that my family “helps me” tear off.
    â€œI like presents!” Debi says, eyeing my gifts.
    â€œYes,” Mom says, “presents are fun. These are for Shawn’s birthday.”
    Debi looks bummed. She glances away from