Home for the Holidays

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  She frowns. “Girls, you’re not planning to watch that silly old thing, are you?”

  Megan’s mom gets kind of nuts this time of year. She hates what she calls the “headlong rush toward Christmas.” I agree with her at least partly, because I can’t stand it when stores start playing holiday music at Halloween either. But what with the snow and everything, Rudolph seemed like the perfect choice for tonight. Jess and I have watched it together every year since we were practically in diapers. We love everything about it—the clunky animation, the goofy songs, Yukon Cornelius and that ridiculous Abominable Snowman, and especially Hermie, the elf who wants to be a dentist.

  “Of course not,” I tell her, whisking it out of sight. “The twins got it out, didn’t you, boys?”

  I give them Winona eyes, and for once they get the message.

  “Yeah, it was us,” says Dylan, managing to look a little hangdog. Ryan nods too.

  “Thanksgiving is a time to be grateful for all the good things in our lives,” says Mrs. Wong.

  “I’m grateful for Rudolph,” says Ryan with a mischievous smile, and I see the corners of Jess’s lips quirk up.

  “Thanksgiving is a wonderful noncommercial holiday,” Mrs. Wong continues, warming to her topic. “It’s not just the welcome mat to the Christmas season.”

  “You mean we shouldn’t wipe our feet on it?” asks Dylan, wide-eyed with feigned innocence.

  “That’s my point exactly, boys!” exclaims Mrs. Wong. “Savor it, don’t step on it.”

  Megan looks like she’s counting to ten under her breath. She gets embarrassed by her mother, but we all just think she’s funny.

  Especially the twins, who chase each other around the room shouting, “Savor it, don’t step on it!” This gets Sugar and Spice all riled up, and they race around in circles, barking, until Mrs. Delaney shouts at them all to knock it off. As the boys charge out the door, the dogs hop back up onto the sofa next to Jess again, panting.

  “Lily, why don’t you join me in the kitchen while I heat up some more cider,” suggests Mrs. Delaney.

  Mrs. Wong isn’t done being Mrs. Wong, though. She reaches into the backpack she uses for a purse and produces a small amber bottle. Holding it up, she says, “You might add some of this to Jess’s food while her leg is healing. It’s flaxseed oil. Very beneficial. It has lots of vitamins and omega-three oils—fifty percent more than fish oil, in fact, and no fishy aftertaste.”

  “Ah,” says Mrs. Delaney politely. I can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Yes, that fishy aftertaste is off-putting, isn’t it?”

  Behind Mrs. Wong’s back, Jess is waving her arms wildly at her mother and mouthing the word NO. Becca and I are doubled over in silent laughter. By now, the muscles in Mrs. Delaney’s jaws are twitching as she struggles to keep her composure.

  I take pity on her and change the subject. “How was Boston?” I ask Megan and Becca.

  They flop onto the chairs across from Jess and me.

  “Amazing,” says Becca. “We spent most of our time hunting for vintage at Sweet Repeats—you know, that consignment shop on Newbury Street we like? And then Gigi and my grandmother took us to tea at the Four Seasons.”

  “Fancy,” says Mrs. Delaney. “How did it compare to the Pump Room in Bath?”

  “Nothing compares to the Pump Room, but it was still pretty awesome,” Becca replies. “And they had their holiday decorations up already too. See?” She pulls out her cell phone and taps on the screen, then passes it to Jess and me.

  “Wow,” says Jess, looking at the picture. “Cool tree.” I nod in agreement.

  Mrs. Wong shakes her head. “Two whole days of shopping,” she says mournfully. “Whatever happened to spending a quiet Thanksgiving weekend with your family?”

  Mrs. Delaney winks at us. “Come on, Lily, bring your flaxseed oil and your lovely self out to the kitchen and I’ll fix you some hot cider.” She shuts the door firmly behind them, and the four of us explode with laughter.

  “Flaxseed oil?” Becca gasps. “That’s disgusting!”

  “Tell me about it,” says Megan, who’s been pretty quiet since she got here. “She’s sneaking it into everything at our house these days. I caught her drizzling some on my cereal this morning.”

  Jess shudders, and I look over at her. “Maybe you should drink a little before Darcy gets here. You look like you could use a few vitamins.”

  “Darcy’s on his way over?” Becca’s voice rises an octave. “We need to do something fast—you look awful!”

  It’s true. Jess’s face is pale, there are dark circles under her eyes, and her hair is kind of matted down on one side. She could really use a shower. Still, I wouldn’t be quite so blunt. Not that a little thing like that ever stopped Becca.

  “Thanks a bunch!” snaps Jess. “In case you forgot, I just broke my leg!”

  “Quit whining,” Becca replies. “This is your boyfriend we’re talking about. We need to get you fixed up.” She gives Sugar and Spice a stern look and points to the floor. “Move, doggies.”

  Jess’s shelties obediently hop down off the sofa. What is it about Becca that makes everybody—dogs included—jump to do her bidding? Is it some queen bee thing? Or former queen bee thing?

  “The first thing we have to do is get you out of that hideous outfit you’re wearing and into something prettier,” Becca orders, frowning at Jess’s old green turtleneck. It’s the same one she had on earlier today when we went tobogganing. “I know we can’t do anything about those sweatpants, but you must have nicer tops.” She looks over at Megan. “Fashion intervention time. Go see what you can round up in Jess’s closet. And maybe bring down some accessories, too.”

  The minute Megan leaves the room, Becca lowers her voice to a whisper. “Simon broke up with her last night,” she tells us.

  “What?” I gape at her. “Really?”

  Becca nods. “She’s trying to hide it, but she’s really upset. Be extra nice to her, okay? And don’t tell her I told you—she doesn’t want a whole lot of people to know yet.”

  Jess and I exchange a glance. Poor Megan! No wonder she’s looking subdued. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Stewart did that to me.

  Becca cocks her head and gives Jess a once-over. “Bring me Jess’s hairbrush, would you, Emma?” She wrinkles her nose. “And better bring a toothbrush, too.”

  “Hey!” Jess says again. “Cut me a little slack!”

  Becca smiles and reaches for her purse. “You’ll thank me when it’s over,” she says, pulling out a small zippered bag full of makeup.

  Upstairs, Megan is rummaging in Jess’s closet. She takes one look at my face and sighs. “Becca told you, didn’t she?”

  I nod guiltily. “I’m so sorry, Megan.”

  She turns away. “It’s hard, you know? He told me in an e-mail, Emma!”

  I cross the room and put my arm around her shoulder. She leans her head against mine for a minute. “I really, really like Simon,” she says softly. “And I’m really, really mad at him for doing this to me.”

  “I understand.” Sometimes that’s all you can say when a friend is hurting.

  “I keep thinking maybe he’ll change his mind,” Megan continues.

  “Maybe he will.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe. But probably not.” She straightens up. “No point stewing about it tonight, right? We’re supposed to be here to cheer Jess up, not the other way around.”

  “There’s plenty of cheer to go around,” I tell her. “Feel free to take your share.”

  That gets a hint of a smile. “Thanks, Emma.”

  Back downstairs, Becca doesn’t even turn around to look at me, just snaps her fingers and holds out her hand. I slap the hairbrush into it, of course. Like I said, there’s something about Becca that commands obedience. Her mother’s the same way. My dad says Mrs. Chadwick was an army general in a former life.

  “Take off that revolting thing you’re wearing and put this on,” Becca tells Jess, nabbing the fresh top from M
egan. “You should never wear that shade of green—it makes you look like you’re nauseous. Hurry! I think I hear a car in the driveway.”

  Jess does as she’s told too, naturally.

  “Much better,” says Becca approvingly.

  The pink sweater that Megan picked out gives Jess a little color, and so does the blush that Becca’s already applied to her cheeks. Jess’s hair, which she usually wears in a thick braid down her back, is loose, and Becca brushes it so that its soft waves fall over her shoulders, then hands her the toothbrush, which I’ve already spread with toothpaste.

  “Spit bowl!” Becca orders, and I dart into the kitchen.

  When Jess is finished, Becca takes the toothbrush and bowl from her and hands them to me.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask grumpily, holding it at arm’s length.

  She ignores me and passes Jess the earrings that Megan brought downstairs—a pair of silver hoops with pink beads threaded on them. As a final touch, Becca reaches over and adds a sheer layer of pink lip gloss. “What do you think, girls?” she asks, leaning back and surveying her handiwork.

  Jess bats her eyes at Megan and me. She hardly needs mascara, because she has amazingly long eyelashes. I’m as envious of them as Betsy Ray is of her little sister Margaret’s. Some people have all the luck.

  “Puny,” I tell her, which is the Ray family’s hired girl Anna Swenson’s favorite word of praise. “Very puny.”

  “Definitely puny,” says Becca, smiling at me. For a moment I’m surprised that she picked up on the literary reference. But then I remember that Becca read the Betsy-Tacy books first. I guess sometimes I underestimate her.

  There’s a knock at the back door, followed by the sound of male voices in the kitchen, and a split second later the keeping room door opens and my brother comes in. To my surprise, Stewart is with him, along with Ethan and Third.

  “It looks like the Crowd is gathering,” says Mrs. Delaney, who comes in behind them with the twins. She whisks the spit bowl out of my hand and levels a glance at Jess, whose cheeks are glowing even pinker now that my brother is here. “I guess I don’t have to ask how you feel about the extra company. Well, the more the merrier, right? There’s certainly plenty of cider to go around, and I’ll make another batch of popcorn.”

  “Don’t forget the flaxseed oil!” I add, cracking Jess and Megan and Becca up again.

  The boys don’t get the joke, but they’re too busy hovering around Jess to care. Darcy lowers himself gingerly onto the couch beside her and gives her a hug, and then he and the other boys take turns signing her cast. When they’re done, my brother whispers something in her ear—I can’t hear what—and she nods and smiles up at him. He puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close, kissing the top of her head.

  That’s the most PDA I’ve ever seen between the two of them, and it gives me an odd feeling. It’s still kind of weird to think of my brother as my best friend’s boyfriend. I know Becca feels the same way when she sees me and Stewart together—I’ve seen the look on her face.

  The boys beg to hear about the ambulance ride, and then they take turns telling us all the gross details about the times they’ve broken their arms or legs or collarbones or fingers or whatever, and then we bring in more chairs and pillows for the movie. Stewart settles into the oversize armchair next to me. We’re a little squished, but I don’t mind. It’s not a hardship being close to Stewart.

  We let Dylan and Ryan watch the movie with us, which is a mistake because they’re so wound up from the day’s excitement that they can’t sit still, and they keep jumping up and showing off. We have fun anyway, singing along as loudly as we possibly can to drown them out, and saying all the lines we can remember, and my brother does his hilarious “NOBODY wants a CHARLIE in the box!” impression when Rudolph and his friends get to the island of misfit toys.

  I’m so glad to be home again! Living in England last year was amazing, and I loved every minute of it—staying in Ivy Cottage, with its stone walls and thatched roof; riding the red double-decker bus to school every day in Bath; all the trips we took, to places like the Lake District and London and Scotland and everywhere else; and especially the friends I made. Even Rupert. But Dorothy is right, there’s no place like home. Concord is where I belong. It’s my Deep Valley, and this is my Crowd!

  The phone rings out in the kitchen just as the movie is finishing.

  “It’s for you, honey,” says Mrs. Delaney, bringing the receiver in to Jess. “It’s your aunt Bridget.”

  “Hey, Aunt Bridget,” says Jess. I can tell her aunt must be worried about her, because Jess keeps saying, “No really, I’m fine,” and then she’s quiet for a bit, and then—

  “MOM!” she hollers, bringing Mrs. Delaney running from the kitchen.

  “What is it?” she cries. “Is it your leg? Are you okay?”

  “Aunt Bridget wants us to come to New Hampshire for Christmas!” Jess tells her, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you nearly—here, give me that phone.” Her mother takes the receiver out to the kitchen, and we hear the low murmur of her voice. She reappears a minute later in the doorway.

  “Well? Can we?” begs Jess.

  “I have to check with your dad when he gets back in from the barn, but I don’t see any reason why not. Since Josh took Thanksgiving off, he’s scheduled to work that weekend, and I think he’s ready to try handling things all by himself around here.” She smiles. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it? I can’t think of a better place to spend Christmas than with your aunt and uncle and your cousin Felicia.”

  Jess looks over at me and pretends to stick her finger down her throat. She’s not particularly fond of Felicia.

  “Besides,” her mother continues, “I don’t think we’ve taken an actual vacation over the holidays since we inherited the farm.”

  “See? Who needs Switzerland?” says my brother, tousling Jess’s hair.

  Trust him to be supportive. Mr. Perfect Pants is making me feel like a big Grinch for feeling so deflated. Jess won’t be here in Concord with me for winter break after all. I don’t say anything, of course. After all she’s been through today, Jess deserves a little happiness.

  “I hate to break up the party, but I think it’s time to call it a night,” says Mrs. Delaney. “You all have a big day tomorrow, and Jess needs to get her rest if she’s going to make it to Clementine’s filming.”

  We mill around for a while finding our coats and saying good-bye to Jess and the Delaneys and one another, then head outside to the cars. Stewart must have worked some sort of magic or made a deal ahead of time with my brother, because everybody else piles into our family’s station wagon for the ride home, and I end up with Stewart all to myself.

  “Milady,” he says, opening the door of his father’s sedan with a sweeping bow.

  “Stop it!” I protest. “You’re acting like Rupert Loomis.”

  He grins. I still can’t believe that Stewart thought I liked Rupert. That only lasted until he actually met him, fortunately.

  “How come you’re driving your dad’s car?” I ask. Stewart usually borrows his mother’s car when we hang out.

  “Um,” he says, a funny look on his face. “I guess—that is—my dad needed the SUV. He had this thing he had to go to.”

  “Oh,” I reply. “Okay.” It’s not like Stewart to be evasive, but I figure he has his reasons. Mrs. Chadwick’s birthday is coming up, so maybe it has something to do with that.

  We drive along in silence for a while, the headlights revealing snow piled up in drifts on either side of the nearly deserted streets. It feels strange, not like Thanksgiving at all.

  “So have you written your column yet?” I ask him. Stewart is the editor of our school newspaper this year, and the editor always gets to write a column on any subject that strikes his or her fancy. Stewart’s having fun with it, and it turns out he’s really good at writing humor.

  “Uh-huh,” he sa
ys.

  “What’s it about?”

  “The pitfalls and perils of filling out college applications.”

  “Sounds good,” I tell him. “I can’t wait to read it.”

  He smiles at me. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow to take a look at.”

  Stewart and I always edit each other’s work. We can trust each other to be honest without being harsh. My dad says you have to have at least one person, besides your editor, who’s willing to be straight with you about your writing. Stewart’s that person for me, and I’m that person for him.

  As he pulls into our driveway, I snicker.

  “What?” he says.

  “Remember that night a couple of years ago when we were standing here, and my brother and Kyle Anderson drove in and aimed the headlights right at us, then honked and cheered?”

  Stewart gives me a rueful grin. “Yeah. I’d finally worked up the courage to try and kiss you that night, and Darcy scared me off for months.” He shuts off the engine and turns to face me. “I’m not too scared now, though.”

  His lips are cold, and I know mine must be too. Plus, my nose is starting to run. We break away and both of us start to laugh.

  “So much for romance,” says Stewart, reaching into the glove compartment for a tissue.

  “It’s freezing out here!” I reply in mock indignation, taking it from him and wiping my nose. “Sorry, but it’s way too cold for spooning.”

  “For what?”

  “Uh, spooning. It’s from—”

  “Let me guess. Betsy-Tacy, right?”

  I nod. Stewart shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He gets the way my mind works, because his works the same way. We’ve talked about it, and both of us agree that we can’t help it—when we read a book, it’s like we’re actually living in the world that the author has created, and we start viewing our lives from the point of view of the characters.

  That’s what’s so great about books, though, the way a writer can make a character seem so real to you. And that’s what’s so great about having a boyfriend who really understands that.

  Stewart leans over and gives me another quick kiss. “See you tomorrow at Cassidy’s.”