13.

13. A number history has taught us to fear.

A legend in Norse mythology tells of a banquet for twelve in Valhalla, where the trickster god Loki, uninvited, made himself the 13th guest and brought death upon a more favored god.

In the biblical story of the Last Supper, twelve apostles dined with Jesus, 13 men in total, seated at a table of betrayal.

Friday the 13th. Not just a superstitious day of bad luck, but the inspiration for a series of horror movies built on its depravity.

She didn’t always find the number 13 so deplorable. It held no meaning beyond what pop culture told her, just another set of digits on an infinite line.

When she was twelve, 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 she knew better, before she knew how hard it could be, how overrated it was. Before the number, the age, turned on her. Became ugly, tragic. An integer heavy on her heart.

One she grew to hate.

At 13, she hosted a dance party for her birthday.

She arrived early to tape brightly colored streamers and balloons to the Scout Cabin’s faded yellow cinderblock walls. Nothing would stick.

Oh well. In truth, she only cared about the music. Her older brother would be the DJ; no one knew better music than him.

Her girlfriends arrived first. They took turns retreating to the bathroom to smooth their hair and apply gloss to lips that hadn’t filled in yet, their borrowed maturity assuring them they were ready for the evening.

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.

No one wanted to 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!

Look down. Pretend you’re busy.

Tired of the charade, the boys made their way outside to the basketball hoops that beckoned to them. The girls, relieved, danced together, free from the pressures of adolescence. They spun in circles and laughed like the girls they still were.

At 13, she begrudgingly put away her dollhouse.

She boxed up the handheld characters who had been her secret companions behind her bedroom door, sticking them in her closet, unable to part with them any further than that. None of her friends played with toys anymore. They’d outgrown their imaginations.

Instead, they took quizzes in Teen magazine. How Good of a Kisser Are You? Is He Interested in You? Your Ideal Date. They listened to boy bands on their boomboxes, claiming members they fantasized about marrying.

She pretended to love it all, wanting to fit in, but privately she mourned who her friends used to be and the make-believe world they once shared.

At 13, she idolized her brother.

He took her for cruises, 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 Old Blue along small-town roads. The gnarled oaks lining 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 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 paired 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. After an argument with their mom, the two-minute drive with her felt insufferable.

He pulled into the school’s semicircle parking lot, 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 one at the time. He was only sixteen and still bore the title of her brother’s best friend.

She hadn’t seen him during the two days her brother was missing and felt relief when she heard he’d finally stopped by their house.

She found him sitting on the back deck, elbows resting on his knees. His face, his tears, were hidden in the palms of his hands. She wrapped her arms around him and made naive promises, ones he knew she couldn’t keep.

“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 for the sheriff’s words.

Her small living room was crammed with people, all fearing what he had to say. He knocked on the front door timidly. No one wanted to answer.

He walked in slowly, his steps lumbering. He hated what he had to do.

He approached her mom.

“Will you have a seat?”

“No. I won’t. Just tell me if it’s him. Is it my son?”

Stares went blank. Breaths were held.

“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 swirling inside her. She was in shock. Confused. Lost. Instead of missing her brother, she resented his absence.

His death—that friend—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 around her more 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. Like she deserved awards for bravery and resilience.

No one could see her loneliness.

At 13, the number stopped being superstition.

It became her life.

This piece was inspired by a prompt from Reedsy.com: "Include a number or time in your story’s title." and was approved for submission to their online contest.

An absolute dream come true.