Angela’s birthday was coming and when her mother asked her what she wanted, she had to think about it.

It wasn’t that Angela didn’t know what she wanted. She knew. But she also knew her mother wouldn’t be happy with her request so she tried hard to find something else.

She laughed as she flipped her desk calendar to her new word-for-the-day. C-O-N-U-N-D-R-U-M  —  A confusing and difficult problem or question.

“What’s so funny,” her mother asked as she entered Angela’s room.

“Just my new word for today. Conundrum. It’s funny sounding, that’s all.”

“Sort of rhymes with humdrum, which is what housework is to me,” she said as she opened Angela’s clothes hamper and scooped the contents into a laundry basket. “With your wild imagination, I bet you could use them both in a quirky little poem. Maybe get some extra credit with that crazy teacher you like so much.”

“Miss Smythe’s not crazy, Mom. She’s creative and fun.”

“Dramatic and outlandish, you mean. Does the woman even own a normal piece of clothing. In my day, teachers were respectable role models. They dressed like serious educators. They weren’t afraid to look feminine in simple suits or dresses or twin sweater sets and skirts. They didn’t float around in baggy silk pants and loose fitting smocks with chunky jewelry and dangling earrings and layers of brightly colored scarves fluttering around them.”

Angela stopped listening. She knew the diatribe by heart.

Finally, the hamper cover dropped with a thud as her mother hefted the laundry basket onto her hip. “I need your birthday request. I’m not a mind reader.” And as she bounced out of the room, she tossed a familiar phrase over her shoulder, “And, I’m not made of money.”

Angela sighed.  Her conundrum had worsened. Her mother had just squashed any chance of asking for what she really wanted. And now that was the only thing she could think of. She dug out her sketch book and the flyer she’d seen in the recycle bin, and began to draw.

At dinner, her mother had set a pile of catalogues and a fashion magazine at her place setting. Models with artificial smiles looked up at her as she flipped through the pages. They wore sweet dresses and casual slacks with cute cotton tops and pastel hoodies. Nice girls from nice homes. Sweet girls who did what their mothers wanted them to do. Girls of good taste.

“I thought you might circle the ones you like. Surely, that can’t be too difficult.”

“What about a gift certificate?” Angela ventured. “That would be easy for you. There’s a new little shop down town called Funky Fa—”

“You know I don’t like impersonal gifts!”

“But, a gift certificate to a place I like is personal.”

“End of subject, Angela May!” her mother said as she plunked the casserole down on the table.

“Hey, Pumpkin,” her father said as he joined them.  “Birthday’s coming up,” he added with a wink.

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered.

“You’re way too young to be grumbling about a birthday. What’s up, Kiddo?”

“She can’t give me a simple answer when I ask her what she wants,” her mother snapped.

Angela sighed. “I’d like a new backpack. This green one,” she pointed at a photo in the nearest catalogue.”

“Well, that was easy enough,” Dad said as he dug into the casserole with a smile.

Her mother looked over at her, frowning, but said nothing.

On Saturday, Angela was greeted at breakfast by a bulging plastic bag cinched at the neck with red ribbon.

“Surprise!” her parents shouted as she pulled out the backpack.

She rolled her eyes, thinking,  Yeah, right.  Big surprise!

“Well,” her father coaxed, “aren’t you going to open it?”

Oh,whoopee! Angela thought. Can’t wait to check out the interior of an ordinary backpack.

“Ah, the card,” she said, knowing it would be their typical sweet we-love-you-daughter sort of card.

As she opened it, a plastic rectangle fell out. Gift Certificate — Funky Fashions

Through happy tears, she saw two sweet we-love-you-daughter faces grinning back.