Megan’s dark eyebrows nearly take flight. “Is that what you’re sulking about?”
“I’m not sulking.”
Megan sighs. “Fine. But you like Zach, remember? And in case you forgot, Simon broke up with me a month ago. Gimme a break, please, this is the first time in weeks that anyone’s even noticed I’m alive.”
“At least someone’s noticing! I might as well be invisible these days.”
“It’s not as bad as that,” she says. She gives me a mischievous smile. “Third likes you.”
I let out a snort. “Great. Just what I want to be—a Third-magnet.”
“I think he’s kind of cute.”
“You take him, then.”
“C’mon, Becca! There are tons of guys our age on this ship. And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. I’ve seen you checking them out.”
I have to smile at this. I guess I’m not as sly as I think I am.
“How about that guy from Texas we met at the barbecue—Brock or Bryan or something like that?”
“Brody?”
“See? I knew you noticed him.”
I lift a shoulder. “Well, it’s not like he’s noticed me.”
“Time to trot out the la de da, then,” Megan says.
“La de da?”
“You know—what Julia Ray calls pouring on the charm. Using your womanly wiles. Remember?”
I make a face. “I don’t think I have any.”
“Sure you do. All girls do. What do you think I’ve been doing with Philippe?”
“Looking at his cute face while trying not to hear what’s coming out of his boring mouth.”
Megan looks shocked.
I grin at her. “You have to admit it’s true.”
The walkie-talkie in my purse crackles before she can reply. I pull it out and press the transmit button. “Yes?”
“Mom to Becca.”
I roll my eyes at Megan. “Yes, Mom?”
“Just thought you’d want to know that your brother and grandfather advanced to the semifinals in the Scrabble competition!”
I hold up my index finger and circle it in the air. Megan giggles. “Wow, Mom, that’s great.”
“Are you girls having fun getting bee-yoo-ti-fied?”
“Yup.”
“Well, we’ll see you at dinner. Over and out.”
I turn to Megan. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. With the la de da, I mean.”
“Go, Becca! That’s more like it. Brody won’t stand a chance.”
“You can start by calling me Rebecca,” I tell her.
“Huh?”
“I need an alter ego,” I explain. “An alias. ‘Becca’ just doesn’t cut it in the la de da department.”
“But you hate it when your mother calls you Rebecca!” Megan protests.
“That’s because it’s always attached to my middle name, which means she’s mad at me.” I lean back in my chair and sip my smoothie thoughtfully. Rebecca. Yes. It’s perfect. “It’ll be like playing a part onstage,” I explain to Megan.
She shrugs. “If you say so.”
The attendant comes in and beckons to us, and two minutes later we’re settled into our spa chairs with our fingers and toes soaking in warm, bubbly water. There’s nothing like a mani-pedi to cheer a person up.
“Would you girls like to choose your nail polish?” asks the manicurist, holding out a tray. “We have some fun holiday colors.”
Megan goes for a brilliant red called Fun Fun Rudolph. My hand hovers over a sparkly green that would go perfectly with the outfit I’m planning on wearing this evening, until I turn it over and look at the name: Wintergreen with Envy. No, thank you. Don’t need that reminder. I’m having enough of a struggle with what my mother calls “the green-eyed monster” as it is.
Torn between Santa’s Baby, a really pretty pink, and Making Spirits Bright, a festive plum, I ultimately choose Making Spirits Bright. It sounds like something I could use a jolt of right now. Besides, Rebecca is nobody’s baby. She’s a woman of the world.
My brightened mood—and fingers and toes—quickly sour again the minute Megan and I return to our stateroom, though. Two packages are waiting for us, one on the end of Megan’s bed, and the other on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Looks like our Secret Santas stopped by,” Megan says.
“Whoopee.” So far, my Secret Santa has been a complete dud. I know exactly who it is, too. Who else but Jess would give me a book about stargazing (like maybe she thought I’d be doing that on the ship instead of hanging out in the teen disco?), a CD of some stupid opera singer, and stationery with horses on it? Nothing I’m ever in a million years going to use again. I gave most of it to Stewart. But even he didn’t want the stationery.
Megan’s presents haven’t been so bad. Mostly stuff anybody would be glad to have, including a pair of really pretty beaded earrings, some Motor Mouth lip gloss, and bubble bath. No wonder she’s so eager to unwrap the latest offering.
“Nice,” I tell her, as she rips the wrapping paper off and holds up a really cute stuffed bear dressed as a cheerleader. I almost bought one just like it for myself a couple of weeks ago when I saw it in the window of the Concord Toy Shop. Megan sets it on the shelf above the desk with all our towel animals and takes a picture.
The towel animals have been one of the best parts of this cruise. Every night when we come back to our room, there’s a different one waiting for us. Our steward makes them out of twisted and folded towels, and they’re really amazing. So far we’ve found a dog, a swan, a mouse (made from a washcloth), a pig wearing Gigi’s sunglasses, and a monkey. The monkey nearly scared me half to death. It was hanging by its little towel arms from the ceiling, and I wasn’t paying attention when I came into our cabin and walked right into it.
“Open yours,” Megan urges.
Reluctantly I pick up my present and unwrap it. “Are you kidding me?” I blurt when I see what’s inside.
“What is it?” asks Megan, craning to see.
“Nothing.” I crumple the wrapping paper and toss it into the trash, wadding the present in beside it.
“Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“Really?” I snap. I fish it out and hold it up. “My Secret Santa gave me a framed photo. Of a goat.”
Megan starts to laugh.
“It’s not funny!” I yell, which makes her laugh even harder.
I toss the picture into the wastebasket again. If this is Jess’s idea of getting even with me for calling her “Goat Girl” back in middle school, all I can say is, it’s pretty lame. Not to mention mean.
Our stateroom door opens, and Gigi breezes in. My grandmother is right behind her.
“Hello, girls!” she says. “How was the spa?”
Megan displays her glowing fingers and toes.
“Ooh,” says Gram. “Very nice. Let’s see yours, too.” I show them off, and she nods. “Positively puny, as Anna Swenson would say. You both look very Christmasy.”
Christmasy is the last thing I’m feeling at the moment. Murderous is more like it. Jess Delaney is going to get an earful from me when I get back to Concord. Rebecca isn’t the type of person who puts up with stuff like that.
“We have mail, ladies,” says Gigi, passing out sheets of paper. “From Phoebe Hawthorne. Fun Facts to Go.”
My grandmother sits down on the sofa and beckons to me. “Let’s look at them together.”
Forcing myself to smile, I join her. Time to try and shake off my sour mood. There’s no point in spoiling everybody else’s evening. Gram and I scan the list, then look at the photos that Mrs. Hawthorne attached.
“Oh, wow,” says Megan, who’s sitting on the end of her bed next to Gigi. “Look at that white dress Maud is wearing! Don’t you just love the collar and those lacy sleeves? The big hat, too. I’d kill for an outfit like that!”
“I’d kill for the guy beside her,” says my grandmother.
“Gram!”
She laughs. “I’m ser
ious—look at him! Delos Lovelace was a catch.”
“Don’t you think he looks like Zach Norton?” Megan asks me.
“Maybe, if Zach had a mustache and a crewcut.” Megan’s right, though, Maud’s husband does look a lot like Zach.
“So which character was based on him again?” asks Megan. “Was it Tony or Joe?”
“It was—”
“Shhh!” my grandmother puts her hand over my mouth. “No spoilers, please. Remember? Megan hasn’t read Betsy’s Wedding yet.”
Gigi points to the pair of pictures at the bottom of the page. “I like these two best,” she says. “Maud and Bick are adorable as ten-year-olds, and even more adorable at my age, don’t you think?”
I have to admit they are pretty cute, for a pair of older ladies. And they sure look happy.
“You can just tell they love life, can’t you?” says Gram.
“Look at the detail on their dresses!” says Megan. “They’re so stylish!”
“What, older ladies can’t be stylish?” Gigi teases.
Megan swats her. “You know what I mean. Don’t you love that black crisscross ribbon at the neckline, and the single big black button on their jacket pockets?”
Gigi nods.
“What’s that stuff on their hats?” I ask, squinting.
“Netting,” Gram replies. “It’s like a little see-through veil that you could pull down to make a fashion statement. My mother used to have hats like that, and gloves like they’re carrying too. No self-respecting woman went anywhere without gloves back in those days. Right, Gigi?”
Megan’s grandmother nods.
“How come Maud never got that gap in her teeth fixed?” I muse. “I sure would have.”
“Oh, I think it gives her character,” says Gram. “Plus, it gave her something to pass along to Betsy Ray.”
“It just adds sparkle,” says Gigi, who has plenty of sparkle herself.
My grandmother reads Mrs. Hawthorne’s question for us aloud: “Maud Hart Lovelace immortalized her lifelong friendship with Bick Kenney in her Betsy-Tacy stories. If you had to pick a best friend to honor in that way, who would you choose?”
Megan and I look at each other and grin.
“Ha!” says Gram. “I thought so.”
“What’s this?” asks Gigi, leaning over and plucking the goat picture out of the trash.
My grin fades. “Um, nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Don’t you want to keep it? Such a nice frame.” I take it from her wordlessly and set it on the coffee table, and the four of us head off to join up with the others. But between the stupid goat picture that will not die and the fact that Philippe and Megan can hardly take their eyes off each other, dinner is pretty much ruined. And Brody is nowhere in sight. So much for Rebecca. I’m feeling so sorry for myself by the time dessert is served that I’m seriously considering just going back to the cabin and spending the rest of the evening by myself, watching a movie or something.
“You’re missing out on the best cake ever,” says Stewart, shoving his plate closer to me. “It’s chocolate volcano torte with raspberry drizzle. Try a bite.”
“No thanks.”
“Stop moping and be nice to yourself. It’s Christmas Eve!”
The fact that my dorky older brother is feeling sorry for me and trying to cheer me up makes me even more depressed than I already am. I take a grudging bite.
“Good, huh?”
I nod.
“Told you so.”
Like my mother, Stewart is convinced that chocolate has magical properties, and maybe it’s true, because I’m feeling a teeny bit better by the time we all get to the atrium for the caroling party. The uptick in my mood doesn’t last long, though.
“Isn’t this fun?” says Megan, slipping her arm through mine. Her dark eyes are sparkling and her pale skin is flushed, but I’m not sure if her obvious excitement is because of the holiday spirit or because of Philippe, who’s standing across the expansive open area with his father and the other ship’s officers, but whose gaze keeps straying back toward her. How can he help it? She looks fabulous in her red silk sheath dress.
Fun for you, maybe, I think, not bothering to reply. I tug at the hem of my own dress, which is made of navy velvet with spaghetti straps. It’s a bargain-basement special, which is all I could afford this year. It’s okay, but it pales in comparison to Megan’s.
I make a halfhearted attempt to spot Brody-from-Texas and maybe try and unleash some la de da, but it’s impossibly crowded in here, and I quickly give up.
A steward comes by with a tray of eggnog. I sip mine, gazing upward at the crowded balconies. All four stories of the atrium are encircled by balconies, each one filled to the brim with passengers eager to join in the singing. Captain Dupont steps forward and makes a few welcoming remarks, then signals the jazz combo by the Christmas tree. As they strike up “Deck the Halls” and everyone starts to sing, I can hear the voices above us drifting down.
Something else drifts down to us too.
“Whoa,” cries Stewart, delighted. “Snow!” He sticks out his tongue and grabs a flake with it, then makes a face.
“It’s fake, you moron,” I tell him. “We’re in the Caribbean.”
“I knew that,” he retorts, stung.
The snow is pretty, but it doesn’t do much to improve my mood, nor does the Christmas “Extravaganza,” which is glitzy and peppy in a Rockettes kind of way. It’s not the music and dancing so much as the fact that toward the end I see Philippe reach over and take Megan’s hand. She looks really happy, of course, but what about me? I stare down at my fingernails. I should have gone with Wintergreen with Envy.
“See you at the rink,” says Philippe as he drops us off at our stateroom afterward.
“He seems like a nice boy,” says Mrs. Wong, watching him stride away down the hall. “I like him.”
Of course she does. Philippe probably gave her his lecture about the Calypso Star’s environmentally friendly incinerator.
“Time for presents!” says Gigi.
Thinking maybe this will finally jolt me out of my gloom, I grab the pile I wrapped earlier and head down the hall to my parents’ cabin.
Due to my dad’s job situation, I know not to expect much—we actually sat down before the trip and talked about it, and decided just to do stocking stuffers for one another this year—but still, it’s hard not to get my hopes up. I still have my fingers crossed for a car of my own. Christmas is the time of year for miracles, right? Maybe my dad got a job and didn’t tell us.
He didn’t.
My parents really tried. Our stockings are bulging, and my mother wrapped each of the little gifts in our stockings individually. I like absolutely everything they got me, from the fancy soap and candles to the silver hoop earrings and lip gloss and gift card for music downloads. Stewart stuck in a small box of my favorite chocolates, which was really nice of him, and Gram managed to find all sorts of Betsy-Tacy stuff: refrigerator magnets and bookmarks and Post-It Notes and stationery and stuff like that. She gave us all joke gifts, too, in honor of the Ray family’s tradition in the Betsy-Tacy books. Mom gets a beautifully wrapped onion, just like Mrs. Ray used to get every year, and for Dad and Stewart and Grampie, there are lumps of fake coal. I find mine near the bottom—a yo-yo with a gift tag that says, “From Yo-Yo.”
“Is this a joke, too?” asks Stewart, holding up the card he got from Mrs. Wong. I pull one out just like it. Megan’s mother gave us each a certificate that says she donated a flock of chickens in our name to some kids in Cameroon.
“Stewart!” scolds my father. “That was very generous of Lily, and you need to be sure and thank her.” But his lips are quirked up in a smile. It’s really hard not to poke fun at Mrs. Wong sometimes.
Stewart grins. “Sorry.”
Finally, there’s just one thing left—the bulge in the toe. I already know what it is, because Mom always puts chocolate oranges in our stockings at Christmas. But when I reach
down to fish it out, my fingers close around another small envelope. Out of the corner of my eye I see my grandmother watching as I open it.
I see the money first. “Thanks, Gram!”
“You shouldn’t have,” says my mother, frowning at the crisp bills. “This cruise was present enough.”
Grampie winks at me. “It’s just a little pocket money, Calliope. No need to get your knickers in a twist. Your mother and I thought the kids might like to buy some souvenirs to bring home to their friends.”
“Thanks,” Stewart tells them. He got a matching envelope too. Mine is a little different, though. In addition to the bills, there’s another piece of paper. I pull it out. It’s a handwritten gift certificate that says: GOOD FOR ONE SPRING BREAK TRIP TO DEEP VALLEY!
“Now that you’re finally a Betsy-Tacy fan too, I thought you might be curious to see where it all started,” Gram says, beaming. “I’ve got it all planned out. We’ll both fly to Chicago, then take the train to Minneapolis. It may not be quite as glamorous as Betsy’s train trip to Milwaukee, but it will still be fun. From there, we’ll rent a car and drive out to Mankato.”
I manage a smile, even though Mankato, Minnesota, is not exactly at the top of my list of dream spring break destinations. “Thanks, Gram,” I tell her again, giving her a hug.
Afterward, I head back to my own cabin with my haul. Megan is twirling around the room, or as much as a person can twirl in a cruise ship cabin.
“You’ll never guess what I got for Christmas!” she says.
“Philippe had himself gift-wrapped,” I reply sourly.
“Becca!”
“Rebecca,” I correct her.
She flaps a long slim envelope at me.
“Fine. What did you get?”
“Gigi’s taking me to PARIS for spring break! My parents finally agreed to let me go!”
Tears spring to my eyes. Paris? I’m going to Minnesota, and she gets to go to France?
“Awesome,” I say flatly, and turn away.
Megan stops twirling. Her smile fades. “Did you hear me? I’m going to Paris! It’s what I’ve dreamed of my entire life!”
Home for the Holidays Page 18