I think my family is catholic because my mom fell in love with Mel Gibson’s chest in that movie, The Patriot, and was willing to forgive him no matter what he said.

  That’s what I told the priest at my first confessional, anyway. I don’t care; I didn’t do anything.

  I told him that too, that I hadn’t done anything, and none of it was my fault.

  It was my birthday, so it couldn’t have been my fault.

  Jesus has to forgive you on your birthday; that’s in the bible, or it should be.

  They left some books out.

  So I have to write this, because everyone’s supposed to write about their first confession, or my teacher is making me do it for some reason.

  I’ll probably have to stand up in front of class and read everything out loud too.

  At least loud enough to be heard over Susan, God.

  The teacher would probably yell at me though for talking over her when she should just tell her to shut up. Susan, not the teacher. Though that’d be cool too.

  Anyway, I need to tell you how this started.

  I mean, if you were at my birthday party you’d already know.

  I wanted to invite like as many cool people as I could, so I don’t know if you’d be there or not.

  It totally depends on how cool you are.

  And if you like, live in the same town as I do, but if you’re reading this you probably do.

  You might already know. If you don’t I’ll start at the beginning.

  It’s completely possible you’re really weird.

  My name’s Caroline and I was talking to my friends Abby and Jessica about my birthday party.

  “My mom’s making me invite Adam,” I said. “I can’t stand him! Why is she making me do that? I don’t care if we’re neighbors or not, but I don’t want him there!”

  “Why not?” asked Jessica.

  Abby wrinkled her forehead.

  “Cause he’s weird, Jessica. What are you thinking? Remember when I invited him to the roller skating rink, and he brought a skate board? I mean, come on, really?”

  Jessica nodded her head.

  “Yeah, that was kind of weird I guess. It was sorta funny though too.”

  “Funny? I don’t want a funny birthday party. I mean, I want people to have fun, but not weird fun. Not like what’d happen with him and Jeremy,” I said.

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  “So, what do you want at your party?” Abby asked.

  “I really want a pinto.”

  “What? Like the bean?”

  “No! A bean? Are you crazy? It’s not a bean, silly, it’s a thing you hang from like a tree and people swing a bat at it.”

  “Oh, you mean a pi?ata,” Abby said.

  “Yeah, that’s it! My cousin had one at her birthday party, so it’s like an American tradition.”

  “I don’t think it’s American,” said Jessica.

  “Um, yeah, it is. My cousin’s not Japanese, Jessica. She’s not foreign, duh; she’s as American as television commercials, birthday cake, and pi?atas.”

  “I think you need to pay more attention in Mrs. Cunningham’s class,” Abby said.

  “What? You’re taking her side?” I shrieked. “That’s not cool! Look, it’s really important that I have an awesome party, so we all need to listen to me on this.”

  “What’s so important about your birthday?” Abby asked.

  “My birthday’s in the middle of summer. If it’s a blast, it’s all anyone’ll be talking about when we get into seventh grade. That’ll guarantee us a spot at the cool table in the cafeteria.”

  Abby and Jessica blinked a couple of times.

  Then they turned to each other and grinned.

  “That’s actually a really good idea,” Jessica said.

  “Yeah, I completely can’t find any fault in this plan,” Abby said.

  “So you’ll help me?”

  “Help you? Our future social lives depend on it!”

  I knew what the problem was when I learned about free will in church: people have too much of it.

  Specifically my mom.

  I mean she has enough for two people, and my dad doesn’t have nearly enough.

  It was like this: it was a couple of days before my birthday party, and there was this bee’s nest in the tree beside the picnic table where I wanted everyone to gather for cake and stuff.

  I mean, I didn’t want them hanging out inside, hello, no one would see us!

  Imagine Stacey Donovan in her mom’s van driving by and seeing my yard full of people; how cool would that be?

  Um, very, duh, and she’s in eighth grade!

  Everybody would hear about it, but first I had to remind my mom to remind my dad to kill the bees.

  “He’ll take care of it as soon as he gets off work, Caroline,” Mom said.

  “How come he didn’t last night? He came home from work then, too, and the bees are still out there.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me,” she said looking up from her catalog. “We were both very busy last night with the Knights. And you know he’s putting in extra time trying to get that promotion.”

  “Or trying to get away from you.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said I wish he’d get to it. Why can’t you? You know where the spray is.”

  She laughed out her nose and leaned forward across the table showing me her fingers.

  “Look at these nails, honey. Would you risk them handling some metal can of bug spray? I just had them done.”

  “If it meant having my party outside I would. Why’s Adam got to come?” I sighed and stirred my spoon around the bowl.

  “I knew that’s what this bee thing was about,” my mom snapped. “Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean I can’t invite him to your party.”

  “It’s my party though! Doesn’t that mean I can invite the people I want?”

  “Caroline, someday you’ll understand that the things your father and I do are for your own good. We make a lot of sacrifices around here for your benefit. They’re our neighbors, and they’ll see your party outside and it’ll be really awkward that he’s not invited.”

  “It’ll be more awkward with him there,” I pleaded.

  She had to see my side. I mean, Adam could ruin everything.

  “I’m trying to have the coolest party I can possibly have! I want to invite all my friends, and I want them to be really impressed! This party could totally help all of us in seventh grade; we could get to sit at the cool table at lunch, you know! I mean, this, I planned it, and I don’t want anyone to ruin it for all of us!” I spilled my guts hoping my mother would see to reason.

  And for a second she just sat there.

  She didn’t flick at her clothing catalog, or pretend to check anything while I was talking.

  She nodded her head as if agreeing.

  “Caroline, Adam isn’t going to wreck your whole party. You’re the prettiest, smartest,” she began.

  “Mom, come on, you have to tell me that stuff!”

  She sighed.

  “Remember the story of the Good Samaritan?”

  “Does that mean leaving Adam to die on the side of the road is an option?”

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