Our young upstairs neighbor, Ariana,* is absolutely obsessed with artificial nails. She continually asks me to buy her some, for all manner of occasions, big and small. Every other week or so, she claims that her birthday is coming, and she asks if we will host a party for her and, of course, buy her some nails.
A couple of weeks ago, we helped one of our friends in the apartment complex give a party for her daughter, a friend of Ariana's.
"When will you have my party?" Ariana asked.
"We'll give you a party when it's your actual birthday," I promised.
"It is!" Ariana insisted. "On Friday it will be my birthday."
"You say that every week," I said. "I'm going to ask your dad when your birthday is."
Because her father usually works in the evening, I didn't have the opportunity to ask him for quite a while. A week or so ago, while I sat cross-legged on their floor one evening helping Ariana with ridiculously hard math homework--something about number bonds and five-groups, things we never learned when I was in school--Ariana started in again with the birthday requests.
"I'm gonna ask my mom to tell you," she said. She launched into a stream of rapid-fire speech in their native language. The only thing I could understand was the word "mama" and the inflection that signaled a question.
"Yes!" Sediqa* replied with a smile.
"See?" Ariana demanded triumphantly. "I told you my birthday was coming."
"Ariana, I have no idea what you just said to your mom. I'll have to wait until I can talk to your dad."
A few days later, she took up the refrain again. "My birthday is this Friday."
"That's what you said last week," I reminded her. "I thought you said it was last Friday."
"No, it's this Friday," she said. "I forgot to say next when I said Friday."
"Hmm," I said. "I'll need to ask your dad."
"My dad is getting me a cake," she said excitedly.
"Oh, he is? Are you having the party at your house? I hope you will invite me."
"Yes, we will invite you," she promised.
Despite having observed her impressive talent at spinning yarns on many occasions, I began to wonder if perhaps she really was having a birthday. I resolved to talk to her dad very soon.
This evening, I finally got my chance. I had gone upstairs to help Ariana with more math homework, and to read to her little sister, Safya.* On my way out the door, I asked Basir* when his daughter's birthday is.
He laughed. "I don't know."
I didn't find this terribly surprising; I had heard from a friend in the community that in their culture, they don't often celebrate birthdays. Further, some of the children here were born in refugee camps, and their parents don't know exactly when their birthdays are. For most of them, a birthday is just a normal day.
"Ariana tells us it's her birthday every week," I said, joining in his laughter.
"I check the green card," he said.
I nodded. "Tomorrow," I suggested. "We will give her a party when her birthday comes."
Meanwhile, Ariana had gone into the kitchen. "My dad bought me a cake," she called out. "Come and see."
I rounded the corner to find her on the floor with a good-sized cake in a bakery box. She and Safya were scooping up dollops of frosting on their fingers and then slurping it off.
I turned toward Basir. "You bought her a cake?" I asked. "So it really was her birthday?"
He threw his hands in the air. "I don't know!" he repeated, bursting into laughter again.
I could easily imagine what had happened. Her relentless pleading must have worn him down.
"When it's her birthday, we'll give her a party," I repeated. "You can check the green card tomorrow."
"No," Ariana wheedled. "Can't we check it now?"
"My wife check the green card now," Basir said.
Sediqa disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
While we waited, Ariana announced, "I'm gonna give you some cake. Three pieces, for you and Amy and your mom."
"That's very kind," I said, eyeing Safya's blue, frosting-stained finger dubiously.
"What should I put it on?" Ariana said to herself. After perusing the kitchen and the dishwasher, she grabbed a plate with a cut apple on it. "I know what to do," she said, dropping the remnants of the apple into the sink. She ran some water over the plate and wiped it with the end of her T-shirt. I suppressed my shudder.
Ariana picked up a large knife from the counter and studied the rather messy cake thoughtfully. I gestured to a corner that looked undisturbed. "Maybe you could cut some cake from that corner," I suggested.
While she laboriously cut out three triangular wedges, her mother emerged from the bedroom, holding a laminated card with a photo of Ariana as a baby. When I read the birthdate, my eyebrows rose in surprise. She really had had a birthday earlier this month, though it had been on different day than Friday.
"Your birthday already passed!" I exclaimed.
"It did?" she asked, shocked.
I read the date aloud. "Yep, we owe you a birthday party."
"And nails?"
"Yes. A party and nails and a cake. We can do it... tomorrow night."
"Yay!" she said.
"What year she was born?" Basir asked.
I took off my distance glasses and moved the card so that I could make out the tiny print. "In 2018," I said. I counted out the years on my fingers. "So she's seven years old."
"No, I'm not. I'm eight," Ariana argued.
I counted out the years again, confirming something I'd been suspecting for a long time. When we'd moved in, she'd said she was seven, but she'd actually been only six. "You are definitely seven years old. You just turned seven."
Ariana handed me the plate of cake, and Sediqa handed me some peach yogurt that they wouldn't eat because it was haram (forbidden for Muslims). Little Safya cheerfully carried the yogurt down for me while her mother waited at the top of the stairs.
I told the whole story to my mom and Amy when I got back inside, shuddering over the part where Ariana used her shirt as a towel. "So I don't know if we'll want to eat it," I concluded.
"Oh, I guess we can eat it," Mom said. And I suppose we will. You can hardly refuse birthday cake--even if we will all be eating some more tomorrow night.
*Names changed to protect privacy
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