John Hughes died. Sixteen Candles is my all-time favorite movie, even more than Roman Holiday or anything that Cameron's been in. I remember the first time I saw it: I was ten. I usually had old women as my baby-sitters, but Dad had hired this high school girl that Mrs. Thomas had recommended; well, not so much recommended, but Mrs. Thomas said that Laura was nice, made sure everyone had their homework before TV time, did the dishes, and didn't burn the house down.

And she was nice, she did make sure I had all of my homework done, though there wasn't much. And the house...well. Anyway. I had taken my copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which was my favorite book at that time, since I would discover Wuthering Heights and Jane Austen the next year, and curled up in a chair. Laura turned on the TV and pulled out a VHS tape, put it in, and grabbed the phone, saying she had to quick call her boyfriend.

I meant to ignore her, but I couldn't: I was transfixed, I couldn't stop watching what was on the TV. And she talked for an hour with her boyfriend, and then called her best friends after that, and I just watched the movie. The exotic and exciting and scary party, the awkward dance, the wedding. Samantha, jaded and yet so vulnerable; Samantha, who was overlooked and forgotten, but so special. And Farmer Ted, geeky yet totally confident...and Jake Ryan. Jake, who was the golden boy who didn't want a girl like Caroline. Without talking to her or even knowing her, Jake knew that he wanted a girl like Samantha. I felt so much like her, in Kristy and Claudia's shadow, in Dad's, seeing Sixteen Candles wasn't just a glimpse into High School. It was this little whisper that said, There's hope. Someone like Jake would see me. And I'd see myself.

Then what happens: the first day of eighth grade, I got a Jake...and I still have him. I go to dances and feel awkward, too. I still feel weird and unsure and scared and lost, even though I know I have something in me that...is something. I always cry at the end of the movie, when Jake tells Samantha to make a wish, and she said it's come true, and they kiss, lit by the glow of the candles. It's so perfect, it's so perfect, I can hardly breathe.

I always felt like the movie knew me, before I knew myself, and now, it knows where I'm going. Am I really Samantha? Do I get my happy ending, too? When should I breathe?

My mother died before I said my first word. Which was Mama, my grandmother told me that.

My mother died before I took my first step. Which I took on the porch of the Iowa farm because my father had sent me away.

My mother saw me smile, at least. At least she saw that.

Sunny's mother...Sunny's mother got to see her daughter talk and walk and dance and date and have crushes and get her heart broken. She saw Sunny surf and swim and baby-sit and ride a bike. She bought Sunny pads when she got her period, she was there after Sunny got her first kiss when she was eleven. She took Sunny to Disneyland and heard her scream with delight on roller coasters. She bought Sunny hats with mouse ears on them that matched her own, and their family took a photo of three happy people together, with thirteen year old Sunny that I remembered from her bedroom when we went out to California.

I know why she grieves, I know. But if I were her...I'd be so grateful that I had all of that time. I'd slit my wrists if that meant one day with my mother. Just one stupid day where she and I could quilt together or read together, her favorite book which nobody seems to remember. Or bake cookies that Dad could eat. Or something, just something, just her and I. Why didn't I get one more day? Why didn't I get the thirteen years? Why didn't I get the best friend so loyal that she drifts away from her sister, even after Hawaii and the promises we made, it's just like it was. Dawn and Sunny. Me alone. Sunny hasn't even wanted to be in the same room as me since I yelled at her...I've spent every night at Barbara's, I can't bear to be there. I can't take them anymore, the Should-Be Sisters. And empty me, in the shadows.

Why didn't I get the thirteen years. Why did she. My mother didn't even know that my second word was "want." Want Mama. I used to hold on to the railing of my crib and scream that.

My mother had died two months before.

I had forgotten her by the time I turned three.