The security guard in the entryway glanced at us for less than a second before his eyes slid on to the next waterlogged visitor. He knew my dad already, and a sullen little girl didn’t warrant a pat-down.
            Inside, the slanted ceilings were sliced into strips by long panes of glass, where, very far above me, I could see a tiny trail of water following each raindrop as it made its way towards the ground. The whole antechamber was white and bright and cold. I felt plain and grubby with my brown braids and windbreaker, and despite myself, I held onto my father’s hand as we made our way past what felt like a thousand artfully twisted ficus plants and empty gleaming wastepaper bins. My dad’s feet made a spectacular toc, toc as his shiny shoes paced across the shiny floor. Mine made more of a wet squelching as I hurried to keep up in my rainboots with the hole near the heel.
            In the time it took us to cross the room, I made a list in my head of places I would rather be. The petting zoo, the library, the cinema, the museum, the schoolyard, the beach, even our backyard in the rain was more fun than this.
            We turned a corner and came to my father’s frosted glass office door, which he unlocked for me. He knelt down to be at my height before saying, “Don’t worry hon, the meeting won’t be too long, and then I promise we’ll go do something fun.” He leaned towards me for a kiss but I turned away and made him settle for the top of my head.
            The door clicked shut as he rushed off down the hallway. I sat down in his twisty chair with the wheels and looked through his drawer for pens in nice colors. Only boring blue and black. I used them to make myself a drawing of eight blue candles on a black cake (chocolate), and wrote “Happy Birthday Cassie” across the bottom of the cake before I pinned it on top of some pages on his bulletin board. I hoped my dad got the hint when he came back. So far, this had been the worst birthday ever.

About the Author

Laura Weir lives on the West Coast of Canada, where she has spent the spring waiting for rain.