Cheryl Miller's Ninth Birthday Party

I was excited everyday for the whole week leading up to the birthday party. Cheryl Miller had invited me to her ninth birthday party! She handed me an invitation one day outside of Mrs. Brown’s 5th grade class at Hamlin Elementary School. It was one of those tiny folded cards in a tiny envelope. The card had printed colored balloons on the outside and a birthday cake with candles on it. On the inside there were more balloons and spaces to fill in the birthday person’s name and address, the date, and the time. On the outside of the envelop someone had written my name, Jim.

“Jim, can you come to my birthday party?”, Cheryl asked as she handed the invitation to me.

“I think so. I’ll have to ask my mom.”

I just stood there looking at the invitation in my hand. Cheryl Miller just stood there for a moment also, her chubby freckled face framed by curly red hair beamed a cheshire-like smile at me. In her chubby, freckled hand, she held a stack of other birthday invitations for other people.

“Is Susan Smith going?, I asked with great anticipation.

Cheryl’s beaming smile disappeared. She spun around on her pink Keds and ran off across the school yard. I didn’t know it then, but I had just stuck my foot in my mouth for the very first time.

I ran all the way home from school that day. Birthday invitation in hand. I was very happy.

My mom bought me a new pair of slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a nifty blue clip-on bow tie from J.C. Penney’s. My near-new school shoes would have to do for this occasion. She helped me get dressed the day of the party, combing my hair after smearing in a dab of or two of Brylcream.

Straightening my clip-on tie and pulling up the waist of my new pants and re-tucking my new shirt, she sent me on my way, “Have fun. Don’t forget her present!” I headed off on foot to Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party.

It wasn’t a long walk to Cheryl Miller’s house, maybe a mile or so. In fact, it was right across the street from our school. It seemed like 10 miles when you’re eight years old.

On the way, I passed by the huge empty field that would eventually become a mall with a Sears store and a new J.C. Penney’s, a toy store, dress shops, and a pet shop with puppies and baby rabbits in the front window. That pet shop even sold snakes, baby alligators, and monkeys. I loved going to that mall. But that wouldn’t happen for a couple of years. I walked on toward the big birthday party, trying not to get dirt on my newly-polished shoes. Victory Boulevard was still just a two lane road with dirt and gravel shoulders. I stepped gingerly around the dead cat I had seen everyday on the way to school for a week. It had gotten smelly! The late afternoon sun was making me sweat. I walked on.

As I entered Cheryl Miller’s neighborhood, my anticipation turned to anxiety. What if no one likes me? What if I don’t know anyone besides Cheryl? What if she thinks the present I got her is stupid?

I rechecked the address on the little invitation...1983 Hamlin Street. There it was, the number 1983 fastened to the front of the house in wrought iron letters. I made sure my shirt was still tucked in, my clip-on tie was still clipped on, and my zipper was zipped. My dad wasn’t there to remind me of that last little detail, but it had become a habit.

Walking up the stone sidewalk, I approached the front door. There were three steps up the front porch. The door was open, but there was a screen door. I could barely see inside the house. There was a woman in the dimly lit living room pushing a vacuum back and forth. She was wearing a flower print dress and a white apron. I remember how she reminded me of June Cleaver. I couldn’t see anyone else inside the house, just the woman vacuuming the carpet.

I knocked three times on the screen door. She didn’t notice. I knocked again, this time a little harder. Still nothing. I knocked a third time, rattling the screen door enough that the woman vacuuming the carpet finally looked up and saw me standing at the front door. She tapped the foot switch on the vacuum and approached the front door.

“Hello, young man,” she said with a polite smile, placing her hands on her hips, ”What can I do for you?”

I just stood there for what seemed like an eternity, my mouth agape, staring up at the woman behind the screen door. A wave of fear rushed through my head and down my body to my feet. Had I gone to the wrong address? I quickly pulled out the little invitation and checked the address.

“Is this 1983 Hamlin Street?”, I managed to squeak out of my trembling lips.

“Why yes it is.”

“Is this Cheryl Miller’s house?”

“Yes it is.”

That wave of fear rushing through my body had turned to stark raving fear and nausea. I felt like throwing up.

In one last desperate attempt to make some sense of the situation I asked her, “I’m here for the birthday party!” It would be the last thing I said. My mouth was so dry I wouldn’t have been able to speak again.

“Well, young man...(she paused for a moment, her face a bit sullen)...”that was yesterday.”

I don’t remember saying anything else to her or she to me. A second later, I found myself bolting down the street, away from the house. All I wanted to do was get back home. And that’s what I did. I ran all the way home, trying to catch my breath as I ran. It was hard to breathe. I was hyperventilating, trying not to cry.

When I got home, I ran to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. My mom was outside the bathroom door. “How was the party? It didn’t last very long. Are you all right?”

Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party was on Saturday, not Sunday. I suppose it was my fault. Since then, I always check, then double check times and dates for appointments and other events I have to attend. I’m never late. In fact, I’m always early.

At school on Monday, nobody said anything to me about not going to the party on Saturday. I did make eye contact with Cheryl Miller one time that day. I’ll never forget that smirky, little smile on her chubby, freckled face. She turned toward her friends and they all giggled in my direction.

Maybe it wasn’t my fault.