“We love pizza,” she said, shrugging.

“I promised birthday cake tomorrow night, too. And if you are lucky, maybe some good singing.”

“Chocolate cake?” Donika asked, propping herself up on one arm, head still muzzy with sleep.

“Of course,” her mother replied, as though any other kind would be unthinkable.

“Excellent!”

A flutter of wings came from the open window and a scratching upon the screen. Mother and daughter turned together to see a dark-eyed owl perched on the ledge outside the window, imperious and wise. Brown and white feathers cloaked the owl and it tucked its wings behind it.

“What the…? That’s freaky,” Donika said, sitting up in bed. “I hear them in the woods all the time, but I’ve never seen one during the day. Do you think it’s sick or some—”

“Away!” her mother shouted. She rushed at the window and banged her open palm against the screen. A string of curses in her native tongue followed.

The owl cocked its head as if to let them know it wasn’t troubled by Qendressa’s attack, then spread its wings and took flight again. Through the window, Donika caught a glimpse of it gliding back toward the woods.

She stared at her mother. The woman had completely wigged out and now she stood by the window, arms around herself as though a frigid wind had just blown through the room. She had her back to her daughter.

“Ma?”

Qendressa turned, a wan smile on her face. Donika studied her mother and realized that the birthday morning silliness was over. A strange sadness had come over her, as though the bird’s arrival had forced her to drop some happy mask she’d been wearing. “I should go to work,” she said, but she seemed torn.

“What is it, Ma?”

“Nothing,” she said with a wave of her hand, averting her gaze. “Just…sixteen. You’re not a girl anymore, ’Nika. Soon, you leave me.”

Donika kicked aside the sheet that still covered the bottom of her legs and climbed out of bed. She went to her mother. Even with no shoes on, she was the taller of the Ristani women.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ma.”

It didn’t sound true, even when she said it. There had been many days when Donika had dreamed of nothing but leaving Jameson, finding a life of her own, making her own decisions, and not having to live in the shadow of the old country anymore. Her body still weighted down by some secret sadness, Qendressa reached out and brushed Donika’s unruly hair away from her eyes.

“Tonight, we talk about the future. And the past.”

Donika blinked. What did that mean? She would have asked but saw her mother stiffen. The woman’s eyes narrowed as she stared at her daughter’s bed.

“What is that?”

The girl turned. Specks of dirt, a small leaf, and a few pine needles were scattered at the foot of the bed, revealed when Donika had whipped the sheet off of her. A shiver went through her, some terrible combination of elation and guilt. She tried to stifle it as best she could.

“We cut through the woods to get downtown. I always go that way. I took off my sandals. I like going barefoot out there. It’s nice. It’s all…it’s wild.”

Donika couldn’t read the look on her mother’s face. If the woman suspected anything, she would have been angry or disappointed. Maybe those emotions were there—maybe Donika read her mother’s expression wrong—but the look in her eyes and the way she took a harsh little breath seemed like something else. Weird as it was, in that moment, Donika thought her mother seemed afraid.

The woman turned, all grim seriousness now. At Donika’s bedroom door she paused and looked back at her daughter, taking in the whole room—the guitar, the stereo, the records and posters, and the clothes she would never approve of that were hung from the back of her chair and over the end of her bed.

“No boys here while I’m gone. No boys, ’Nika.”

“I know, Ma. You think I’m stupid?”

“No,” her mother said, shaking her head, the sadness returning to her gaze. “No, you my baby girl, ’Nika. I don’t think you are stupid.”

With that, Qendressa left. Donika stood and listened to her go down the stairs and out the door. She heard the car start up outside and the sound of tires on the driveway, and then all was silent again except for the birds singing outside the window and the drone of a plane flying somewhere high above the house.

She wasn’t sure what her mother suspected or feared, didn’t know what had caused her to behave so oddly or why she’d freaked out so completely at the sight of the owl. But Donika had the feeling it was going to be a very weird birthday.

Gina couldn’t get the car, so the trip to the mall was off. Donika knew that she ought to have been bummed out, but she couldn’t muster up much disappointment. She’d be seeing her friends tomorrow night, and today she wasn’t in the mood to window-shop at the mall. The idea of wandering around Jordan Marsh or going to Orange Julius for a nasty cheese dog for lunch didn’t have much appeal. If it had been raining, maybe she would have felt differently. But the day was beautiful, and in truth, she wanted to be on her own for a while.

All kinds of different thoughts were swirling in her head, and she wanted to make sense of them if she could. Her mother’s strange behavior that morning troubled her, but she was still looking forward to the afternoon of them cooking together. The lamb in the fridge was fresh, not frozen. It had come from the butcher the day before. They’d put some music on—something her mother liked, the Carpenters, maybe, or Neil Diamond—and work side by side at the counter. Normally, that kind of music made Donika want to stick pencils in her eyes, but somehow with her mother whipping up the yogurt sauce for the lamb or slicing peppers as she hummed along, it seemed perfect.

At lunchtime she sat on the front porch with a glass of iced tea and a salami sandwich. A fly buzzed around the plate and then sat on the lip of her glass. Donika ignored it, more interested in the droplets of moisture that slid down the sides of the cup. She stared at them as she strummed her acoustic, singing a Harry Chapin song. Harry was one of the only musicians she and her mother could agree on.

“All my life’s a circle,” she sang softly, “sunrise and sundown.”

Her fingers kept playing, but she faltered with the words and then stopped singing altogether. Despite her concerns about her mother, she could not focus on anything for very long without her thoughts returning to the previous night.

Pausing for a moment in the song, she leaned over to pick up the iced tea, pressing the glass against the back of her neck. The icy condensation felt wonderful on her skin. Donika took a long sip, liking the sound the melting ice made as it clinked together. Then she set the glass down and grabbed half of the salami sandwich. All morning she had been ravenously hungry, yet when she’d eaten breakfast—Trix cereal, an indulgence left over from when she’d been very small—it hadn’t filled her at all. Later in the morning she’d had a nectarine and some grapes, and that hadn’t done anything for her either.

Now, even though she still felt as hungry as before—hungrier, in fact, if that was possible—the idea of eating her sandwich held very little appeal. She took an experimental bite, and then another. The salami tasted just as good as it always did, salty and a little spicy. But for some reason she simply did not want it.

She set the sandwich down and took another swig of iced tea to wash away the salt. Her fingers returned to the guitar and started playing chords she wasn’t even paying attention to. Whatever song she might be drawing from her instrument, it came from her subconscious. Her conscious mind was otherwise occupied.

“You’re a crazy girl,” she said aloud, and then she smiled. Talking to herself sort of proved the point, didn’t it? Her mother had always been a little crazy, and now Donika knew she shared the trait.