Home for the Holidays

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Yup.” I know I’m being unfair to her, but I can’t help it. It’s been a roller coaster of a day, and this feels like the last straw. Why did my father have to lose his stupid job, anyway? And why did we have to come on this stupid cruise with the stupid Wongs? Being with them is like getting my nose rubbed in the fact that my family is broke. The Wongs have absolutely everything. Especially Megan. A new crush, talent bursting out her ears, and now a trip to Paris. This is the worst Christmas ever.

  She takes a step toward me, then hesitates. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “I am, okay? Quit bugging me.”

  “Fine,” she snaps. “Be that way.”

  She stomps off to the bathroom to get changed, leaving me to stew in my own juice. Green-eyed monster juice. I feel absolutely miserable right now. Grabbing a tissue, I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, then cross the room to the mirror over the dressing table and give myself a good talking-to.

  “You stop this right now!” I whisper, sounding scarily like my mother. “Megan is your best friend. She deserves every speck of happiness she gets, and you know it.”

  My reflection looks back at me, chastened.

  I hear the bathroom door open and turn around. “Megan, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s great you’re finally getting to go to Paris. I’m happy for you, really.”

  “You don’t look all that happy,” she says, sounding somewhat mollified.

  I sigh. “I am. It’s just—”

  “Just what? Please tell me this isn’t about Philippe.”

  “No, it’s not that,” I reply, shaking my head. I sit down on the sofa. “I mean, it sort of is, but it’s more than that. I guess because it’s Christmas and everything. Maybe I was hoping for a miracle, I don’t know. The thing is, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I shake my head. “My dad lost his job a couple of months ago.”

  Megan stares at me wide-eyed. “Omigosh, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You know my mom. She doesn’t want Concord to know that a pillar of the community and our perfect family might have a problem. She and my dad asked Stewart and me to keep it quiet, until after the holidays at least.”

  “That totally explains why your father hasn’t seemed like himself lately,” says Megan.

  “Partly it’s because he’s tired,” I tell her. “He’s been job hunting all day, and delivering pizzas at night for Pirate Pete’s to help tide us over.”

  “Really? Eye patch and everything?”

  I nod. “Really. It’s humiliating.”

  Megan laughs. “No, it’s not—they have great pizza. Besides, it’s just temporary.” She sits down on the sofa beside me. “Is there anything we can do to help?” she asks softly. “I have some money in the bank from Bébé Soleil, and—”

  “No,” I say sharply. Sheesh, like I’d take money from her college fund.

  “At least let me tell my parents. I know they’ll want to help.”

  I shake my head.

  “It seems kind of silly not to let your friends know,” Megan continues. “They’re the people you most want standing by you when there’s trouble. You’d stand by me, right?”

  She’s got a point. “At least wait until we get home before you say anything,” I tell her. “My parents don’t want to spoil the trip for everybody, you know?”

  Megan gets up and goes over to the dresser. Opening one of the drawers, she takes out a present. “Maybe this will help cheer you up.”

  I open it. “A Wong original!” I exclaim, holding up the pale blue silky top that’s inside and regretting my uncharitable thoughts earlier. “I love it!”

  “I thought maybe you’d like to wear it to the party at the rink tonight,” she says. “It’s got these really full sleeves that will billow out while you’re skating. They’re very—” she gives me a mischievous look—“Rebecca. Loads of la de da. I think it would look supercute paired with that white fleece vest of yours.”

  “I have something for you, too,” I tell her, pulling my suitcase out from under the sofa and fishing out a small, brightly wrapped box.

  “They’re perfect!” she exclaims, holding up the pair of silver snowflake earrings it contains. “Especially for tonight. I’m putting them on this instant. Thanks, Becca—I mean Rebecca.”

  I give her a hug. “And thank you—for putting up with me today, and for listening to me just now.”

  “What are best friends for?”

  We change, then stop by my parents’ stateroom to pick up Stewart. As we pass the Internet café, Megan pauses.

  “You guys go on ahead, I need to send an e-mail real quick,” she says.

  “Simon?” I ask.

  She gives me a mysterious smile and shoos us off to the rink, where we find Philippe waiting for us. His face falls when he sees that Megan isn’t with us, but he brightens again when I tell him she’ll be along shortly.

  “Shall we go ahead and get our skates, Becca?” he asks me.

  “Um, it’s Rebecca actually.”

  “Ah oui, bien sûr, Rebecca.” Philippe inclines his head.

  Stewart gives me a funny look. I haven’t sprung my new, more glamorous self on my family yet.

  “Excusons-nous,” says Philippe, cutting in front of a group of kids about my age. One nice thing about hanging out with the captain’s son is that you always get to go right to the head of the line.

  One of them has his back to us, and when he turns around I see that it’s Brody from Houston. I give him a dazzling Rebecca smile.

  “Hey!” he says, sounding annoyed. “No cuts!”

  “VIP guests,” murmurs Philippe, ushering Stewart and me forward.

  There’s an excited buzz behind us as everyone starts speculating who we are. I stand up straighter, hoping I look like a celebrity. Rebecca the glamorous and mysterious. We collect our skates, and as we go over to one of the benches to put them on, I spot Brody watching me curiously. I waggle my fingers at him. He reddens, then waves back.

  Hooked!

  Now to reel him in.

  “You are having an enjoyable Christmas Eve, I hope?” Philippe asks politely, as we step out onto the ice.

  “Oui,” I reply, trotting out one of the few words in my French vocabulary.

  Philippe smiles and rattles something off in rapid French. I stare at him blankly for a second, then take a deep breath. You can do this, I tell myself. It’s time for Rebecca to make her grand entrance. I’ll practice on Philippe before springing some la de da on Brody. No harm in that. Philippe can be my guinea pig.

  I laugh a tinkling little laugh. Stewart gives me another odd look, but I ignore him. I put my hand on Philippe’s arm. “I just adore French accents,” I tell him.

  He looks a little startled as I tuck my arm through his. “Uh, merci.”

  We start to skate, and my eyes flick over to Brody.

  “Did you know that this space doubles as a nine-hundred-seat arena?” Philippe asks me, gazing lovingly around the rink. “It’s a remarkable feat of engineering.”

  “Really?” I reply, aiming for Megan’s tone of breathless fascination. “Tell me more.”

  Philippe seems taken aback at my sudden interest, but quickly recovers. As he launches into a detailed inventory of the rink’s many features, including the control room beneath it, I pretend to hang on his every word. Out of the corner of my eye I see Brody. He’s still watching us. I hold my arm out, letting my sleeve billow.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” my brother asks, swooping by.

  I drop it hastily, scowling at him. I glance over at Brody again, but now he’s talking to some girl with a strawberry-blond ponytail. How dare he ignore Rebecca! What would Julia Ray tell me to do if she were here? I wonder. Try again, most likely. You can do this, Becca, I tell myself again. I’ll need to borrow Philippe, though. Assuring myself that it’s for a good cause and that Megan won’t mind—it’s just a role in a play, right?—I stee
r him in Brody’s direction. As we skate by I say loudly, “Any chance you could give me a private tour of the rink’s control room?”

  That definitely gets Brody’s attention.

  Philippe frowns. “Tonight? But the skating party is just starting and—”

  “Just a quick one? We’d be back in a few minutes. No one would even know we were gone.”

  “But I—”

  Suddenly, as if a switch has been flipped deep inside me, Rebecca takes over. My mouth opens of its own accord, and her words come out. Words I didn’t even know I knew. “S’il vous plait, Philippe?” she says. “Please?”

  Rebecca speaks French?

  Philippe inclines his head politely. “How can I resist when you ask so charmingly?” he replies. “As you wish.”

  We take our skates off again and stash them under the bench. I glance over my shoulder as we start to leave and waggle my fingers at Brody again, feeling the power of Rebecca. I’ll bet he thinks I’m some Hollywood starlet, I think. He’ll be falling all over himself asking me to skate when we get back.

  Conscious of Brody’s eyes on me, and using the swaying of the ship and my teetering heels as an excuse, I take Philippe’s arm again as we exit the rink. Just as we pass through the door, the ship gives a lurch and I stumble. Philippe reflexively reaches out to steady me, putting his arms around me as he pulls me back to my feet. We stand there for a split second in a close embrace, so close I can feel the thud of his heart. Before I can step back, I hear a sudden, sharp intake of breath behind me.

  I turn around.

  Megan is standing there, a stricken look on her face.

  Philippe releases me instantly. I almost fall over when he does, and have to grab the handrail against the wall.

  Megan doesn’t say a word; she just turns and runs.

  “Megan!” cries Philippe, and jogs off down the hallway after her.

  Stewart comes up behind me. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Where did you guys run off to?”

  “It’s nothing,” I tell him sharply. “Nothing happened.”

  I follow him back to the rink, but the skating party has lost its sparkle. Trying to ignore the terrible pit in my stomach, I lace my skates back on and glide halfheartedly around with Stewart. I don’t even look at Brody. Rebecca seems to have vanished.

  “Can I ask you something?” says my brother after a while.

  “Sure.”

  “What would you think about me deferring college admission and doing a gap year instead?”

  I stop in my tracks and gape at him. “What?” All Stewart’s talked about since he was in elementary school was going to college.

  He shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal. The thing is, I overheard Mom and Dad discussing things, and it turns out she’s planning to drop out of the landscape design program.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “I don’t think she should have to do that, do you? I mean, she’s so close to finishing and everything.”

  I’m too stunned to say anything, still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of Stewart not going to college. “What would you do?” I ask finally.

  “I don’t know. I can live at home and get a job or an internship or something.” He grins. “Maybe Flashlite will hire me full-time.”

  My brother does some occasional modeling work for the teen fashion magazine.

  “It’s okay, really. I’m sure it will be fine,” he continues, but it sounds to me like he’s trying really hard to convince himself of that fact.

  All of a sudden I feel terrible. The only person I’ve been thinking about through this whole layoff situation is myself. I didn’t worry about how my dad felt when he started delivering pizza, I worried about what people would think of me. Here’s my brother, facing the biggest disappointment of his life, and is he thinking about himself, and whining and complaining? No. He’s thinking about Mom, and what’s best for her.

  I am a selfish pig.

  “Stewart, everything’s going to be fine,” I tell him. “You’ll see. I bet you end up winning an amazing scholarship or something.”

  He looks over at me. “You think?”

  “Of course! Colleges should be falling all over themselves to get you. You’re smart, and you’re talented—you’re one of the best people I know.” It feels weird to be giving my brother a pep talk, but seeing the way he perks up, it also feels really right.

  “Thanks.”

  We circle the rink again, and my thoughts return to Megan and Philippe. All of a sudden I hear Rebecca’s voice whispering inside my head: You didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t what it looked like. Besides, you and Megan talked about this—you were only playing a role for a few minutes, that’s all. Philippe was just your guinea pig.

  But Rebecca’s explanation sounds suspiciously like an excuse.

  My stomach tightens as I wonder how I’m going to explain everything to Megan. I keep waiting for her and Philippe to reappear, but they don’t.

  “I’d better go,” I say to my brother finally.

  “What about the midnight buffet?” he protests. “I went up earlier to scout it out—they’ve got these amazing sculptures made out of chocolate.”

  I shake my head. I couldn’t eat anything. Not now. “I’m going to bed,” I tell him. “It’s been a really long day.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says, pulling out his walkie-talkie. “I’ll see if Grampie wants to go.”

  It’s dark inside our stateroom. I tiptoe in, using the night-light in the bathroom to guide me.

  “Megan?” I whisper.

  There’s no answer. I can tell she’s there, though, because I can see the lump under the covers on her bed. There’s no sign of Gigi. She’s probably at the chocolate buffet with everyone else.

  “Megan?” I repeat.

  “Go away,” she mumbles.

  “Nothing happened,” I tell her. “Remember that guy from Texas? Brody? Well, I was just practicing a little—you know, like we talked about in the spa, playing a role onstage . . .” I falter, my voice trailing off. Rebecca’s explanation sounds feeble as the words come out of my mouth. “It’s not what you think,” I finish lamely.

  “It’s exactly what I think and you know it, Rebecca. Go away. I hate you.”

  I flinch, feeling like I’ve been slapped. Fine, I think. Be that way.

  If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I don’t want to talk to her. I slip into the bathroom to change into my pajamas, then cross the room to the sofa, which the steward remade into my bed while we were gone. There’s something on my pillow. I freeze when I see what it is: a towel coiled up to look like a snake.

  Crawling under the covers, I lie there miserably in the dark, listening to Megan sniffle. I don’t move, and I don’t say a word. I can’t. What could I possibly say that would make her feel better? She wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  On the other hand, what kind of a horrible person lets her best friend cry herself to sleep?

  The same kind of person who thinks only of herself when her family is in trouble, that’s who.

  A snake.

  Emma

  “As early twilight gathered outside the windows she thought of the Christmas Eve ritual at home going on without her . . . and was swept by homesickness.”

  —Betsy in Spite of Herself

  “All aboard!”

  The conductor waves to the engineer, and the old steam locomotive whistle blows as we start chugging out of the North Conway station.

  “Wouldn’t Clementine love this!” says Mrs. Delaney, leaning out the window and snapping a picture of the little building. Built in 1874 with towers and turrets and lots of Victorian gingerbread trim, the station looks like it would feel right at home in Cassidy’s backyard.

  “Mom!” Jess protests. “Close the window! It’s freezing out there!” The whistle blows again, and we all settle back in our seats. I love trains. I’ve never ridden on one like this before, though. Mostly just the commuter rail from Concord to Boston, or Amtrak to New York, althoug
h last year in England we traveled by train a lot. But there’s something special and terribly romantic about an old steam locomotive.

  Speaking of romantic, my gaze wanders across the aisle, where Jess is sitting next to Jonas. They’re deep in conversation, and as I watch the two of them I feel my temperature rise again. I can’t believe she’s doing this! Jess, of all people!

  Last night was the closest the two of us have ever come to an out-and-out fight, and even though I’m still mad at her, I woke up feeling a little guilty. The thing is, I was so tired from all that skating at Nestlenook that I could barely keep my eyes open, and I wasn’t in the mood to try and talk things out. And by the time I got up this morning, Jess was already dressed and gone. Later, when I saw her at breakfast, she was so stiffly polite to me we might as well have been total strangers, which really hurt.

  Still, she’s my best friend, and I probably should make an effort to find out from her what’s going on. I want to be willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Not that there’s much doubt any longer, I think, glancing across the aisle again. Felicia is right; there’s something going on between Jess and Jonas.

  Felicia didn’t join us for the excursion today. She’s back at the inn with Jess’s aunt, helping prepare for tonight. Everybody keeps telling me that Christmas Eve is a big deal at the Edelweiss. It’s a big deal at my house too, and right now I’m beginning to wish I’d stayed home.

  “See ya later, North Conway!”

  Jess’s little brothers are sitting across from me, kneeling on their seats with their faces pressed against the window. They can barely contain their excitement. North Conway’s Christmas tree train is not exactly the Polar Express, but it’s a pretty good runner-up.

  “Lovely countryside, isn’t it?” says Mrs. Delaney, leaning over the back of my seat.

  I nod.

  “Bridget told me they started taking their guests on this excursion a few years back, and it was such a big hit that it’s become an annual event.”

  I nod again. “I can see why.”

  When we first got to the Edelweiss, I wondered why they didn’t have a Christmas tree up. There were plenty of other holiday decorations, including the big nutcracker soldier who stands guard over the candy dish on the reception counter in the lobby. But no tree. Jess explained that the inn has a lot of German traditions, and when her uncle was growing up in Germany, people didn’t put their tree up until Christmas Eve. His parents always kept it as a big surprise for him and his brothers, and he likes to do the same thing for his guests.