13.

Thirteen. A number history has taught us to fear.

At a banquet in Valhalla, the Norse god Loki—uninvited—made himself the 13th guest and brought death upon another, more favored god.

Twelve apostles dined with Jesus at the Last Supper; 13 men in total, seated at a table of betrayal.

Friday the 13th; not just a superstitious day of bad luck, but a series of horror movies acknowledging its depravity.

She didn't always find the number 13 so deplorable; it held no meaning for her beyond what pop culture told her. Just another set of digits on an infinite line.

When she was 12, 13 was an age she craved, a status she wanted in on. Jealous, she watched her friends enter their teenage years and counted down the days until she joined them.

But that was before the number—the age—turned on her; before it became ugly, tragic—an integer hard on her heart, one she grew to hate.

At 13, she hosted a dance party for her birthday. Despite the false maturity she and her friends boasted, none of them were prepared.

The boys, dressed too casually, lined one side of the building. The girls, in their finery, sat in metal folding chairs along the opposite wall. Awkward stares and sidelong glances filled the empty dance floor. Trepidation fogged the room as they wondered who would make the first move.

Don't make eye contact! She'll think you want to dance with her.

Are cooties still a thing? They used to be contagious…

Oh, God, not him!

Tired of the charade, the boys made their way outside to the basketball hoops that beckoned to them. The girls, relieved, found freedom in the boys’ absence to dance together, unencumbered by the pressures of adolescence.

At 13, she begrudgingly put away her dollhouse. She boxed up the hand-held characters who had been her secret companions behind her bedroom door. None of her friends played with toys anymore. They’d outgrown their imaginations, while she clung desperately to hers.

Instead, they read Teen magazine. They lazed about listening to music from boomboxes. They snuck R-rated movies from the video rental store. She pretended to love it, pretended to fit in, but she mourned who her friends used to be and their united, make-believe play.

At 13, she took cruises with her older brother. He was 16, a fresh driver's license tucked into his charcoal leather billfold. Their dad bought him a ’92 Chevy pickup months earlier—faded blue, a white stripe running the length of both sides. Her brother christened it “Old Blue.”

Windows down, the crooks of their elbows resting on the sills, her brown hair whipping in the wind, they drove along small-town roads. The gnarled oaks that lined the streets bore witness to their frivolity.

Freedom. Equality. The three years between them stopped mattering. Their drives united them through a shared love of music. Hip-hop. Playing so loud the cheap speakers rattled in their plastic casings, a vibration they felt in their chests. Those cruises taught her how lyrical, how poetic, explicit language could be when joined with rhythm and bass.

Their father disagreed.

At 13, she saw her brother for the last time. She had recruited him to drop her off at summer school one morning. A Tuesday. July 15th.

He pulled into the school’s paved semicircle parking lot—the student drop-off zone—mindful of the oblivious kids who ran across without looking. She hopped out of Old Blue and told him thanks, waving over her shoulder as he drove away.

She never saw him again.

At 13, she hugged a murderer. No one knew he was a murderer at that time; he still bore the title of her brother's best friend. She found him sitting on one of the wooden benches that circled the back deck in her family’s yard. His elbows rested on his knees. His face, his tears, were hidden in the palms of his hands.

She nestled beside him as the sweltering midday sun beat down on them. The sadness that radiated off him absorbed into her. She wrapped her arms around him and made naive promises he knew couldn’t be upheld.

"Don’t worry, he'll be back. He will. He's going to show up."

He didn’t respond, didn’t look at her. He never hugged her back.

At 13, she braced herself for the sheriff's words with the rest of the people crammed in her small living room. He knocked on the front door timidly. No one wanted to answer.

When he walked in, his steps were lumbering. He hated this part of the job. Cloaked in dread, he approached her mom.

"Will you have a seat?"

"No. I won't. Just tell me if it's him. Is it my son?"

Hearts stopped beating. Stares went blank. Breaths were held in.

"Yes. It’s him."

At 13, she became an only child.

At 13, she learned how to hide from grief. She didn’t understand it; couldn’t comprehend the feelings that swirled inside her. She was in shock. Confused. Lost. Not knowing how to miss her brother, she resented his absence instead. His death ruined everything.

At 13, her home became a masquerade ball. She learned the steps necessary to dance around her family's new normal. She decorated her mask with the emotions she thought would make everyone else comfortable.

Her dad wanted silence. She talked to him less. Her mom needed love and attention. She choreographed routines with her in the living room like they used to. Her friends didn't want her to be sad. She made them laugh.

She’s handling it all so well, they murmured. As if she deserved awards for bravery and resiliency.

No one could see her loneliness.

At 13, she adopted a new identity. She paraded around wearing traits that had once come naturally: humorous, witty, spirited, easygoing. The loudest one in a crowded room. She performed them all so flawlessly, she'd fooled herself into believing she overcame the shadow that shrouded her life.

At 13, the number history taught us to fear stopped being superstition. It became her life.