What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath1 the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your Mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling2 inside me like pennies in a tin3 Band-Aid4 box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
“Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. “Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month.”
“Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.”
“It has to belong to somebody,” Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched5 out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.
Maybe because I'm skinny6, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that all raggedy7 and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
“That's not, I don't, you're not ... Not mine.” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.
“Of course it's yours,” Mrs. Price says. “I remember you wearing it once.”Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden8 I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze9 them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing “Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.”
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine,not mine. In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch10 it up into a little ball and toss11 it in the alley12. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that's enough,” because she sees I've shoved13 the red sweater to the tippy14—tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.
“Rachel,” Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”
“But it's not—”
“Now!” Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy15 and full of germs that aren't even mine.
That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown16 sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups17, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber18 than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers. I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.
Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing “Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel,” only it's too late.
I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven. Because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny that you have to close your eyes to see it.
人们都不懂生日意味着什么，他们也决不会告诉你，当你11岁的时候，其实你同时也是10岁、9岁、8岁、7岁、6岁、5岁、4岁、3岁、2岁和1岁。你在11岁生日那天醒来，希望自己有11岁的感觉，但其实并没有那种感觉。你睁开双眼，一切如旧，惟一的不同是这是今天。你一点11岁的感觉都没有，觉得自己依然还是10岁，反正不到11岁。
比如说不准哪天你可能会说些傻话，就是你10岁时说的话。或许又说不准哪天你又想坐在妈妈的腿上，因为你害怕了，那可是你5岁时做的事。也许等你长大后，突然有一天你却像3岁小孩似地痛哭，其实这很正常。妈妈想要哭时，我就是这么对她说的。没准她当时真的是3岁时的感觉。
这是因为成长的方式有点像是洋葱，或是像树干的年轮，或是像我的玩具套娃，都是一层裹着一层，每一岁都包含在下一岁里面。11岁也不例外。
你不会有11岁的感觉，不会立即感觉到。你得在几天，几个星期，有时甚至几个月之后，当别人问你多大时，才会说你已经11岁了。等到12岁时，你才觉得刚满11岁。事情就是如此。
只是在今天我希望自己不只11岁，像是只有几分钱在放邦迪创可贴的锡盒里蹦跶。我真希望自己今天是102岁，而不是11岁。因为要是那样的话，当普赖斯太太把那件红毛衣扔到我课桌上时，我就会知道该如何作答了。我就该知道怎样跟她说那件毛衣不是我的，而不是呆坐在那儿，一脸委屈，却无言以对。
“这是谁的？”普赖斯太太问道，她把那件红毛衣举得高高的，好让全班人都看见。“谁的？这件衣服在衣帽间里已经放了一个月了。”
“不是我的，”每个人都这么说，“不是我。”
“它肯定是谁的。”普赖斯太太继续说道，可是没有一个人能想得起来。这件毛衣非常
难看，上面有几个塑料扣，领子和袖子拉得不知有多长，简直可以做跳绳了。而且看上去像是有一千年了，即使是我的，我也不会说。
或许因为我骨瘦如柴，或许因为那个傻西尔维娅·塞尔迪瓦不喜欢我，她回答说，“我想这是雷切尔的。”这样一件又破又旧又难看的毛衣会是我的，可普赖斯太太居然相信了她。普赖斯太太拿起毛衣扔在了我的课桌上，而我只是张开嘴，却什么也说不出。
“那不是，我没有，你不是 ……不是我的。”最后我小声说道，像是4岁小孩。
“当然是你的。”普赖斯太太说，“我记得你穿过一次的。”因为她年纪比我大，因为她是老师，她说的就是对的，我说的就不对。
不是我的，不是我的，不是我的。但是普赖斯太太已经翻到32页，开始讲第四道数学题了。不知怎么的，我陡然感到内心一阵恶心，好像3岁时的那部分东西要从眼睛里溢出，我只好双眼紧闭，牙齿使劲往下咬，并努力提醒自己今天已经11岁了。晚上妈妈会为我做蛋糕，等爸爸一到家，每个人都要唱“生日快乐，祝你生日快乐。”
但是当恶心的感觉过去了，我睁开眼睛，看见那件红毛衣依旧在那儿，仿佛一座红色的大山堆在那儿。我用尺子把它推到桌角，又把铅笔、课本和橡皮移到尽可能远的地方。我还把椅子往右挪了挪。不是我的，不是我的，不是我的。我满脑子想的是要等多久才到午餐时间，要等多久我才能把这件红毛衣甩到学校围墙外，或是把它挂在停车计时器上，要么把它揉成一小团扔在小路上。我的思绪被普赖斯太太下课时当众的一声喊叫打断了，“行了，雷切尔，够了。”因为她看见红毛衣已经被我弄到了课桌的边角，像条瀑布似地悬在桌边。但是我并不在乎。
“雷切尔，”普赖斯太太发疯似地说道，“你马上给我把毛衣穿好，别胡闹了。”
“但这不是—— ”
“马上。”普莱斯太太说。
就是在这时我希望自己不是11岁，因为我体内的每一岁——10岁、9岁、8岁、7岁、6岁、5岁、4岁、3岁、2岁和1岁都一齐涌到了我的眼睛后面。我一只胳膊穿过毛衣的一只袖子，闻起来像小木屋里奶酪的味道，另一只胳膊穿过另一只袖子，然后双臂分开，就那么站着，好像那件毛衣弄疼了我，其实确实如此。这件毛衣痒痒的，到处都是细菌，而这一切根本就不属于我。
也就是在这一时刻一切都结束了。自打早上普赖斯太太把毛衣放在我的课桌上那一刻起，被我压抑的所有情感终于全都释放了出来。突然间我在众人面前失声痛哭。我多么希望能隐身，但却做不到。我11岁了，今天是我的11岁生日，而我却在全班面前痛哭。我低下头伏在课桌上，把脸埋在那件可恶的，难看的毛衣袖子里。我满脸通红，嘴里流着口水，却无力阻止那动物般的哭声，直到最后眼泪哭干，身体不住地发抖，像在打嗝，头疼得厉害，就像牛奶喝得过快时的感受。
最糟糕的时刻在午餐铃声敲响的前一刻来临。那个又蠢又笨，甚至比西尔维娅·塞尔迪瓦还要蠢的菲利斯·洛佩兹突然说她记起来了，那件红毛衣是她的。我立刻脱下衣服递给了她。只有普赖斯太太装作什么事都没发生。
今天我11岁。晚上妈妈会给我做蛋糕，爸爸下班回来后我们就吃蛋糕。还会有蜡烛和礼物，大家会唱“生日快乐，雷切尔，祝你生日快乐。” 但这一切都太晚了。
我今天11岁。我是11岁，同时也是10岁、9岁、8岁、7岁、6岁、5岁、4岁、3岁、2岁和1岁。然而我希望是102岁。除了11岁外，我什么都愿意当。因为我希望今天离我远去，像气球一样飘得远远的，像天空中的一个小圈，小得你必须眯上眼睛才能看到。
1. underneath prep． 在…下面
2． rattle v． 发出咯咯声
3． tin [tin] n． 锡
4． Band－Aid n． 邦迪（创可贴商标名）
5． stretch v． 被拉长
6． skinny adj． 皮包骨的，极瘦的
7． raggedy adj． 有些破的
8． all of a sudden 突然地，冷不防
9． squeeze v． 挤
10． bunch v． 使成一束（一捆等）
11． toss v． 扔，抛，掷
12． alley n． 小径
13． shove v． 推
14． tippy adj． 倾斜的
15． itchy adj． （发）痒的
16． clown [klaun] n． 小丑，丑角
17． hiccup n． 打嗝儿，打呃
18． dumb adj． 笨的，愚蠢的