Connor rolled over and smacked the alarm clock, trying to hit the snooze button. Missing by several inches, he instead knocked the clock to the floor, where it continued its loud beeping. Not wanting to actually get up out of bed, Connor grabbed a pillow and buried his head in it, trying to drown out the noise. It was no use. His mom had bought him an industrial-strength alarm, knowing that he hated waking up in the mornings.
Of course, this morning should have been different. After all, it was Connor's 13th birthday; his first day as a teenager. Most kids look forward to that, counting down the days one by one, barely able to hold in their excitement of the magic "-teen" suffix. Almost all of his friends in school had big parties on their 13th birthday.
Not Connor. It may have had a little to do with the fact that, being the youngest in his class, he was thus the last one celebrating this milestone, and the big "1-3" didn't hold much weight among his peers. It may have been because his parents refused to throw him a party or any real celebration. "You're a big man, now," his dad had said, "and you'll have to do what all other men do on their birthdays: work." Why, oh why couldn't this day have fallen on a weekend?
But the big reason that Connor wasn't celebrating this day was that he knew that it would change nothing. He still had to go to the same crummy school and live in the same crummy house with the same crummy family in the same crummy town in the same crummy country in the same crummy planet. Thirteen was just a meaningless number, no different from Twelve or Fourteen, really.
Of course, that's what he thought at the beginning of the day. But at the end, well, he had an entirely new perspective.
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