Just before my first Gwiffin Party, my mother told me that back in the homelands and old countries where Littles still held sway, these kinds of revelries didn’t exist. Littles over there didn’t have to live under the constant threat of adoption. A good Gwiffin Party is a pressure release, a celebration of retained freedom, and an act of rebellion.
It’s not immature. It’s just all the things that Amazons (and to a lesser extent, Tweeners) allow themselves to do and take for granted on a daily basis packed into one single night. It’s as simple as that.
“Happy birthday, Clark.” Catherine leaned into me and kissed me on the cheek. “I knew you’d like this.”
I returned her kiss and added one on the lips for good measure. “My birthday isn’t for another week.”