ElevenbySandraCisneros.

Whattheydon'tunderstandaboutbirthdaysandwhattheynevertellyouisthatwhen
you'reeleven,you'realsoten,andnine,andeight,andseven,andsix,andfive,andfour,and
three,andtwo,andone.Andwhenyouwakeuponyoureleventhbirthdayyouexpecttofeel
eleven,butyoudon't.Youopenyoureyesandeverything'sjustlikeyesterday,onlyit'stoday.And
youdon'tfeelelevenatall.Youfeellikeyou'restillten.Andyouareunderneaththeyearthat
makesyoueleven.Likesomedaysyoumightsaysomethingstupid,andthat'sthepartofyou
that'sstillten.
Ormaybesomedaysyoumightneedtositonyourmama'slapbecauseyou'rescared,
andthat'sthepartofyouthat'sfive.Andmaybeonedaywhenyou'reallgrownupmaybeyouwill
needtocrylikeifyou'rethree,andthat'sokay.That'swhatItellMamawhenshe'ssadand
needstocry.Maybeshe'sfeelingthree.Becausethewayyougrowoldiskindoflikeanonionor
liketheringsinsideatreetrunkorlikemylittlewoodendollsthatfitoneinsidetheother,each
yearinsidethenextone.That'showbeingelevenyearsoldis.Youdon'tfeeleleven.
Notrightaway.Ittakesafewdays,weekseven,sometimesevenmonthsbeforeyousay
Elevenwhentheyaskyou.Andyoudon'tfeelsmarteleven,notuntilyou'realmosttwelve.That's
thewayitis.
OnlytodayIwishIdidn'thaveonlyelevenyearsrattlinginsidemelikepenniesinatin
BandAidbox.TodayIwishIwasonehundredandtwoinsteadofelevenbecauseifIwasone
hundredandtwoI'dhaveknownwhattosaywhenMrs.Priceputtheredsweateronmydesk.I
would'veknownhowtotellheritwasn'tmineinsteadofjustsittingtherewiththatlookonmy
faceandnothingcomingoutofmymouth.
"Whoseisthis?"Mrs.Pricesays,andsheholdstheredsweaterupintheairforallthe
classtosee."Whose?It'sbeensittinginthecoatroomforamonth."
"Notmine,"sayseverybody,"Notme.""Ithastobelongtosomebody,"Mrs.Pricekeeps
saying,butnobodycanremember.
It'sanuglysweaterwithredplasticbuttonsandacollarandsleevesallstretchedoutlike
youcoulduseitforajumprope.It'smaybeathousandyearsoldandevenifitbelongedtomeI
wouldn'tsayso.MaybebecauseI'mskinny,maybebecauseshedoesn'tlikeme,thatstupid
SylviaSaldivarsays,"IthinkitbelongstoRachel."Anuglysweaterlikethatallraggedyandold,
butMrs.Pricebelievesher.MrsPricetakesthesweaterandputsitrightonmydesk,butwhenI
openmymouthnothingcomesout.
"That'snot,Idon't,you'renot...Notmine."Ifinallysayinalittlevoicethatwasmaybe
mewhenIwasfour.
"Ofcourseit'syours,"Mrs.Pricesays."Irememberyouwearingitonce."Becauseshe's
olderandtheteacher,she'srightandI'mnot.Notmine,notmine,notmine,butMrs.Priceis
alreadyturningtopagethirtytwo,andmathproblemnumberfour.Idon'tknowwhybutallofa
suddenI'mfeelingsickinside,likethepartofmethat'sthreewantstocomeoutofmyeyes,only
IsqueezethemshuttightandbitedownonmyteethrealhardandtrytoremembertodayIam
eleven,eleven.
Mamaismakingacakeformefortonight,andwhenPapacomeshomeeverybodywill
singHappybirthday,happybirthdaytoyou.ButwhenthesickfeelinggoesawayandIopenmy
eyes,theredsweater'sstillsittingtherelikeabigredmountain.Imovetheredsweatertothe
cornerofmydeskwithmyruler.Imovemypencilandbooksanderaserasfarfromitas
possible.Ievenmovemychairalittletotheright.Notmine,notmine,notmine.Inmyhead
I'mthinkinghowlongtilllunchtime,howlongtillIcantaketheredsweaterandthrowitoverthe
schoolyardfence,orleaveithangingonaparkingmeter,orbunchitupintoalittleballandtossit
inthealley.
ExceptwhenmathperiodendsMrs.Pricesaysloudandinfrontofeverybody,"Now,
Rachel,that'senough,"becausesheseesI'veshovedtheredsweatertothetippytipcornerof
mydeskandit'shangingallovertheedgelikeawaterfall,butIdon'tcare.
"Rachel,"Mrs.Pricesays.Shesaysitlikeshe'sgettingmad."Youputthatsweateron
rightnowandnomorenonsense.""Butit'snot""Now!"Mrs.Pricesays.ThisiswhenIwishI
wasn'televenbecausealltheyearsinsideofmeten,nine,eight,seven,six,five,four,three,
two,andonearepushingatthebackofmyeyeswhenIputonearmthroughonesleeve
ofthesweaterthatsmellslikecottagecheese,andthentheotherarmthroughtheotherand
standtherewithmyarmsapartlikeifthesweaterhurtsmeanditdoes,allitchyandfullofgerms
thataren'tevenmine.That'swheneverythingI'vebeenholdinginsincethismorning,since
whenMrs.Priceputthesweateronmydesk,finallyletsgo,andallofasuddenI'mcryinginfront
ofeverybody.
IwishIwasinvisiblebutI'mnot.I'melevenandit'smybirthdaytodayandI'mcryinglike
I'mthreeinfrontofeverybody.Iputmyheaddownonthedeskandburymyfaceinmystupid
clownsweaterarms.MyfaceallhotandspitcomingoutofmymouthbecauseIcan'tstopthe
littleanimalnoisesfromcomingoutofmeuntiltherearen'tanymoretearsleftinmyeyes,and
it'sjustmybodyshakinglikewhenyouhavethehiccups,andmywholeheadhurtslikewhen
youdrinkmilktoofast.
Buttheworstpartisrightbeforethebellringsforlunch.ThatstupidPhyllisLopez,whois
evendumberthanSylviaSaldivar,sayssherememberstheredsweaterishers!Itakeitoffright
awayandgiveittoher,onlyMrs.Pricepretendslikeeverything'sokay.
TodayI'meleven.There'sacakeMama'smakingfortonightandwhenPapacomes
homefromworkwe'lleatit.There'llbecandlesandpresentsandeverybodywillsingHappy
birthday,happybirthdaytoyou,Rachel,onlyit'stoolate.I'meleventoday.I'meleven,ten,nine,
eight,seven,six,five,four,three,two,andone,butIwishIwasonehundredandtwo.IwishI
wasanythingbuteleven,becauseIwanttodaytobefarawayalready,farawaylikearunaway
balloon,likeatinyointhesky,sotinytinyyouhavetocloseyoureyestoseeit.