When I broke Mum’s mirror, Georgi said, ‘That’s seven years bad luck, you know.’
I didn’t know.
Seven years is a lifetime when you’re little. It was a shadow looming over me. An unspoken curse. Every day, I’d look out of our window, mine and Georgi’s, and pretend I was a princess under a dark spell. As the days ticked by, however, it became a part of me. Soaking into my skin like one of Dad’s tattoos.
Today is the seventh anniversary. I’ve bought a cupcake and stuck a candle in it. Georgi is Georgina now. Too old for nicknames, apparently. She walks in, her shirt untucked and her tie fashionably short in a way I’ve never quite managed.
‘What’s that for?’
‘My curse is over.’
She rolls her eyes, picks up her bag, and leaves.
I think about the past seven years. What I’ve achieved. What I haven’t. Being under a curse has been quite relaxing, in a strange sort of way. It was a soft pillow to fall back on when I didn’t get the grades I wanted, or when James asked Donna out instead of me.
Everything that went wrong was the mirror’s fault. Everything that went right was me succeeding against the odds.
It’s not an anniversary, I realise suddenly. It’s an ending. A divorce.
I blow out the candle, take Georgi’s mirror out of her makeup bag, and crush it under my heel. Tucking into my cake with a smile, I wonder what the next seven years will have in store.