Trick Candles

For the first time in her life, blowing out the birthday candles didn't seem like one of those "first bright star" situations Clara used to associate with Barbies, hoopskirts, promises, and Disney. She was no longer a little girl in a pink dress. Now Clara knew that the first star she wished on always turned out to be Venus, which was a planet, not a star. No, this time the act was more like finding a fortune in a cookie: it had nothing to do with wishes and everything to do with ample warning. One year closer to the finish.

So when the singing trailed off and the melting wax made hard little pools on the dark brown frosting, Clara filled her lungs like a diver. And she didn't think anyone noticed when two of the candles flickered back to life.

Clara's mother, who'd made the cake, wasn't the type to buy those trick candles at the joke store, the kind that reignite and burn up the straw of the future before one can properly grasp it. So it was no wonder that when the two wicks caught flame, Clara felt cheated. And since nobody was paying attention, she snatched a quick breath and blew out those two remaining candles.

And thus that moment she stole from her future held more magic than three hundred and sixty-five first stars.