Our young Heroine at last deigns to begin her Day

At this time, the main heroine of the occasion finally deigned to open hers. The sun was already slanting down on the windowsill, drawing golden stripes on the floor, and dust particles were swirling in them, thin, weightless, like little ballerinas. The air in the room was warm, very quiet, as if no one was breathing. Outside the window, the birds were singing loudly, ringingly and carefree, and their ringing voices seemed too joyful for such a quiet, almost hidden morning.

Delia's room, usually so bright and elegant, was today filled with a soft, golden light. On the snow-white walls, where her own drawings hung - awkward but bright watercolors with houses and flowers - sunbeams were now dancing. On the chair next to the bed, her favorite dress was neatly folded, the same one with blue ribbons that she wore to dinner yesterday. And on the chest of drawers was a box given to her by her father, with carved birds, and a small porcelain figurine of a ballerina that Karen brought from Paris. By the window, on the windowsill, stood a row of her books, some of them already read to holes, and the pages were wrinkled from frequent turning. The curtains, light, almost weightless, swayed slightly from a barely perceptible draft, bringing from the street the smell of damp earth and blossoming buds.

At first, Delia smiled. Well, almost smiled. Birthday! It's a holiday! The buns are probably ready by now, and the ribbons are hung everywhere, just like she likes. Everything is as usual. If only she could get dressed quickly and run downstairs, and there... And there they are waiting!

She stretched. Her nightgown rode up, revealing her skinny knees. Delia yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. And suddenly she felt how the hair on the back of her neck had matted slightly during the night. She ran her fingers through the tangled strands.

"Oh, my God", she whispered under her breath", this is a nightmare! How can I go like this? Well, and then they'll say I'm a slob. Lisa will definitely say so.

And then, like a fly in the ear, yesterday came. Slowly, like a dream that doesn't want to go away. The kitchen. And Xander there. How he sat, and she pressed herself against him. And how he was silent, and his shoulder was so... So strong. And then... And then the words. Those same stupid ones that she herself said.

"I love you."

She didn't want it! Honestly. It just popped out. Like a frog jumped out of a swamp - and now it's sitting there, jumping around the room. They made everything... Not right. Everything, everything, everything. Like a book you're reading, and suddenly there's a new page, completely unfamiliar. And it's not scary at all, no! Just awkward. So what now?

Delia shifted on the bed. She looked at her doll lying on the nightstand. Josephine had given it to her when she was six. The doll was beautiful, but now... It seemed alien. As if it wasn't hers anymore. Had she grown up or something? And the doll, with its round glass eyes, seemed so small, so naive, as if the girl who played with it had stayed in another day, in another life.

Oh, but I don't want to get up. And I don't want to go to the window. Let the dust particles dance, let them. And she... She needs to lie down for now. To think. If only she knew what to do with this "I love you" now. It's just sitting in my head like a pebble in a shoe, it's in the way. And I can't throw it away. She ran her hand through her hair again. "What if Xander... What if he thinks?" she whispered, and then blushed. "Oh, that's nonsense! He's a boy, he doesn't understand anything!"

She suddenly imagined Xander coming with a bouquet of flowers, her hair disheveled, and herself sleepy and awkward. Delia frowned. No, that wasn't right. It was her birthday!

Suddenly the door to the room swung open with a light thud, and her mother, Karen, appeared on the threshold. Karen's face was lit up with a forced, almost theatrical gaiety, which she seemed to have put on like a mask. It was obvious that every laugh, every bright intonation was difficult for her, because the house had recently lost Josephine, and a subtle, barely perceptible sadness was still in the air.

"What is this? - Karen exclaimed, throwing up her hands and feigning such exaggerated surprise that Delia almost laughed. "Our birthday girl is still in bed? As if she really were a princess with a special royal regime! And I, silly girl, thought you had already jumped up and were waiting for a festive breakfast! Pelageya and I made you some cinnamon pretzels there, finger-licking good!

Delia wrinkled her delicate nose.

"Well, Mom", she drawled capriciously, pouting her lips, "it's not my fault that the sun wakes you up so late! And the pretzels... They've probably already cooled down. All the tastiest ones have probably already been eaten without me!"

Gene appeared behind Karen. He held a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, from which came a tart, invigorating smell. His eyebrow was raised in his usual sarcastic manner, and mischievous lights danced in his eyes. He smelled of something bitter - menthol, cigars, just like an important gentleman who had just come in from the street and had not yet managed to shake off the bustle of St. Petersburg.

"In our house, Deedle", Gene noted, entering the room, and his voice was softly but good-naturedly mocking, "it is customary to get up at eight. This is not a palace where princesses are served on lace pillows. But if we are having a ball today, let there be a royal awakening. After all, nine years is not every day, right? You can sleep until lunch, if you really want to! Even until dinner! Let Pelageya complain later that the pigeons ate her pretzels!"

"Oh, Dad!" snorted Delia, pretending to be indignant. "Of course, pigeons! And you, too, I bet! You always grab the tastiest ones! And then you say: "Deedle, you're too slow!"

Her mother, smiling with the corner of her lips, came up to the bed. She leaned over and kissed Delia on the forehead, too quickly to be out of habit, almost mechanically, but with unfailing tenderness. Karen smelled of almond soap and a light, barely perceptible haze of morning anxiety, which she tried to hide behind her ostentatious cheerfulness. Delia did not answer, only nodded slightly, turning her face to the wall. The words did not come, they were stuck somewhere deep inside, like those same "I love you" from yesterday that just did not want to leave her head.