by Wendy Loggia
But my moment of bliss is interrupted by his next text.
Should I drop it off at Winslow’s?
No! They might lose it I speed-text back. And then in a moment inspired both by my Christmas wish and every seize-the-day inspirational movie I’ve ever seen, I type, We’re having our annual holiday cookie swap at my house this Thursday. Briggs family tradition and all. You should come. Also…question. What’s your last name?
There is also a number of perfectly logical reasons why inviting him is a bad idea and all of them pop into my brain as I wait for him to reply. Liam and Karolyn could embarrass me, not to mention Mom. It might be awkward. We might have nothing to talk about. Our neighbors might ask weird questions. He’s dairy- or gluten-free. He is a weirdo who hates cookies. He—
Travers.
And I’d love to
And just like that, the annual Briggs Family Cookie Swap got a whole lot merrier.
Like every year, the last weeks of school before winter break are always a blur, and this week is no exception. School, homework, bookstore shifts, holiday shopping. “Blink and it will be Christmas,” my mom calls out as I rush out the door this morning. “Don’t forget to stop and smell the poinsettias!”
I haven’t heard from Charlie since our text exchange on Sunday, which probably isn’t anything to read into…but it’s Wednesday, and I was secretly hoping that by now we’d be sending each other witty texts and memes and be, well, closer. I haven’t been able to find his Insta account, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to send him a request anyway since I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. I did text him the address to my house and he liked the text, so…I guess that will have to do.
“Did Mrs. Edmunds not get the memo that assigning math homework that takes over two frustrating hours to complete each night is not cool, especially when it’s a week until winter break?” Caitlin asks, jarring me from my thoughts. She and Mellie and I are sitting at our usual table in the lower-level cafeteria for fifth-period lunch. While Mellie and I chat and eat, Caitlin is flipping manically through a binder stuffed with handouts. “The woman is unreal.”
“Maybe that’s the point—assigning all the things this week so we can have next week off,” I say chirpily. I’m extra cheerful because I love when our school does anything themed, and today is one of my favorite theme days—Ugly Sweater Day. The powers that be at Bedford High came up with it a few years ago as a way to spread holiday cheer no matter what your belief system, and there’s a ballot box outside the main office where you can cast your vote for categories like Student with the Ugliest Sweater and Most On-Brand Attire.
Caitlin stabs a piece of romaine and shoves it into her mouth. “Tell that to Mr. White, who assigned us a five-page paper where we’re supposed to express ourselves as independent thinkers while discussing the diversity of experience and ideology that characterizes American literature.”
Mellie blinks. “That is…a lot.” She peers into her lunch bag and pulls out a fruit strip. “And so is that.” She waves the fruit strip in the direction of the sandwich station, where Jess Jara is waiting in line for her usual egg salad on wheat. She’s wearing a long-sleeved minidress in a red Fair Isle pattern with faux shearling trim with bells. Knee-high black boots and a high genie-style ponytail complete her look.
“I’d kill for that confidence,” Caitlin mutters as all the boys in Jess’s vicinity stare in awe. Ozzie Mendoza even appears to offer to buy her sandwich, bottled water, and bag of chips.
“Well, it’s supposed to be Ugly Sweater Day,” I say primly, rolling my eyes. “At least we follow the rules.” Caitlin’s wearing a navy blue sweater with a snowman face, including pom-pom eyes. Mellie’s sporting a light-up sweater with a Christmas tree that says GET LIT. And I’m in a white sweater with candy-cane-striped sleeves and sequined candy canes on the front.
Ezra Daly and Tyler Chu stop by our table on the way to throw out their trash. They’re seniors and think they know everything. “Ladies,” Ezra says, looking down at us with a smug expression. He’s wearing a sweater with a rooftop Santa in a questionable position—I don’t want to look too closely. Tyler grins beside him—he’s wearing a bright green pullover with an actual garland on it. He pulls up his pant leg to reveal a pair of Christmas socks with cat faces on them; they say MEOWY CHRISTMAS.
Caitlin gives them a cursory nod. “Fellow Ugly Sweater wearers.”
Tyler leans in. “I’m hoping to get Best Accessories,” he says, lifting his chin. “I’m even wearing holiday boxers.”
“That’s hard-core,” Mellie says. “We admire your commitment.”
Most everyone at school is wearing an ugly sweater today—and some people have taken it to the next level. Kanbe Lopes has a green reindeer sweater with his own smiling face on it, and Emma Goldberg made a cropped top out of wrapping paper that looks like something off a designer runway. My chemistry teacher, Mr. Hull, even got into the spirit with a sweater showing the periodic table of elements alongside the words OH CHEMISTREE.
“I think we have a contender for Most On-Brand,” Caitlin says as Ezra and Tyler mosey off. She points across the caf. My eyes follow her finger and land squarely on Jacob Marley. I push her hand down.
“Mmmm. He’s gotten a lot cuter since last year,” Mellie says, sipping from her S’well bottle. “In all the right places.”
“What?” I say, shooting her a surprised look. Mellie thinks Jacob Marley is cute?
“I don’t like, like him,” she hastens to add. “I’m still hoping Spencer will realize we’re meant to be.” Spencer Raba transferred to our school a year ago, and Mellie has had a crush on him from the moment she laid eyes on him in her graphic design class. So far they’re still “just friends,” but Mellie is working on that.
“I mean, I didn’t think you liked him,” I say, my voice coming out a little sharper than I intended.
“Wait, why so intense about Jacob, Double B?” Caitlin asks, her eyes narrowing. “Bailey Briggs, is there something you’re not telling us?”
I blow out my breath, bracing for the storm that’s coming. “Fine. Jacob and I went out for coffee on Sunday after my shift at Winslow’s.”
“Say what?” Mellie says, her eyes widening. She puts her water bottle down on the table with a loud thwack.
“And you’re telling us this now? Three days after?” Caitlin frowns. “Way to keep a secret.”
“Yeah, we are your best friends,” Mellie says grumpily, as if I don’t already know this. “At least, I thought we were.”
Both of them are pouting now, making me groan. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. It was nothing,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Jacob bought some books and asked me if I wanted to hang out. We just got lattes. That’s it.” I shrug. “And he told me about his dog that died a few months ago. Wags.”
“That’s sad,” Caitlin says.
I nod. “I think…I think he just needed someone to talk to, maybe.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mellie says, a suspicious look on her face. “But listen, if you go out for lattes again, feel free to tell your best friends about it.” She points to herself and Caitlin.
I put my hand on my ugly sweater. “I swear on Santa’s reindeer.”
“But wait, did you see Jacob’s sweater?” Caitlin asks. “Very bro.” Our heads all swivel in his direction even though I already snuck a peek at him. He’s got on a black sweatshirt that says BAH HUMBUG in large block letters. Even if he’s kidding—which I don’t think he is—I don’t like it. I’m a holiday purist. Anything too negative goes against every fiber of my Christmas-loving heart.
Mellie shrugs. “Yeah, he doesn’t fit in with your Santa-and-bunch-of-elves lifestyle, but you gotta admit—the boy is hot.”
“Hmph,” I say, finishing my sandwich. “If you say so.”
“Oh, lookie look, he’s coming o
ver,” Caitlin says.
Mellie gives me a sharp kick under the table.
“Hey, saw you guys checking me out,” he says, causing Caitlin and Mellie to laugh and me to freeze. His brown hair is in its usual unkempt state, and he’s wearing work boots that add at least an inch to his already tall frame.
“Bah humbug, it’s a whole vibe,” Caitlin tells him, gesturing to his sweater.
“Speak for yourselves,” I say to them, then turn to Jacob. “We’re more fa-la-la-la-la over here.”
Jacob shrugs. “I wanted to go really ugly, but this was the best I could do. Besides, with my name, it’s kind of the obvious choice.”
He has a point. It hasn’t been lost on me, a walking encyclopedia of Christmas, that his name is the same as Scrooge’s business partner in A Christmas Carol. I admire Jacob’s parents for the bold holiday name choice, which clearly has gone over my friends’ heads.
Mellie taps her chin thoughtfully. “Well, what’s in bad taste is debatable, for sure.”
Jacob glances at me, a slight smile on his lips, and it’s making me nervous. He’s lingering way too long at our table and I’m getting worried about what he might say. I didn’t tell my friends about our “date” at Ben’s because I didn’t want them teasing me and making stories out of nothing. But now that they know, I’m a little concerned that he might bring it up and then I’ll really never hear the end of it.
I decide the best plan of action is a quick getaway. So I stuff my trash back in my lunch bag and start to get up from the table.
“Wait, Bailey, did you tell Jacob about the cookie swap?” Caitlin asks sweetly, but there’s a devilish glint in her eyes.
“Cookie swap?” I repeat faintly, as if I’ve never heard of such a thing. My underarms are starting to sweat. What is she doing? I give her my best death glare/fake smile combo. I’m pretty sure Charlie is still going to come, even if he hasn’t texted me since he agreed to. How awkward is it going to be if Jacob shows up?
Mellie clasps her hands, oblivious. “Oh, yes, Jacob. It’s a lot of fun.” She proceeds to tell him all about it as I stand there, wordless as a carnival mime. “You should totally come!” She lowers her voice. “But no Scrooge faces allowed.” I shoot a glance at her. Maybe his name hasn’t gone over her head after all.
He laughs. “Sounds fun. But I don’t think Bailey wants me to.”
Caitlin lets out a loud “HA!” and pokes me. “Sure she does. Right, Bailey?”
I swallow. “I mean, sure. If you want to. But you don’t have to. Don’t let these two losers talk you into it.”
“I’m pretty good about not getting talked into things,” he says, and there’s something about the directness in his voice that makes my heart flutter. The warning bell rings and the four of us walk toward the cafeteria doors. I’m trying to think of a way to undo this, to tell him that I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to come to the cookie swap, but we’re at the door and I don’t know how to say it without sounding incredibly rude—or like I’m lying.
“I didn’t figure you for a rule breaker,” Jacob says as we reach the exit. Caitlin and Mellie speed-walk toward the math wing, which is on the other side of the building. You have to practically be an Olympian to make it there before the second bell rings. My French class is just a few doors away.
I frown, not sure where he’s going with this. “I’m…not?”
“I mean, it’s just, for an ugly sweater…you look pretty cute.” He gives me a smile and merges into the crowd, leaving me clutching my notebooks and iPad, my brain swimming.
What am I going to do?
“Now, don’t be intimidated by a cookie. Anyone can make these,” my across-the-street neighbor Mrs. Yamano says, tapping the white platter of confectioners’-sugar-dusted linzer cookies she brought. Finally it’s Thursday night, and the cookie swap is in full swing. I’m standing next to Mrs. Yamano at our kitchen island, where I’ve claimed a spot next to the eggnog punch bowl. On my other side is Mrs. Johnson, who lives next door to the Yamanos. She has made a gigantic tin of almond biscotti that tastes like heaven, especially when you dip it in the eggnog. I’ve learned from experience to pace myself, but it’s hard, as everything looks delicious and Christmassy.
“And anyone can eat them,” my dad says, plucking a linzer cookie with a perfect center of jam off the dish as he squeezes past us. He’s smiling, wearing a crisply pressed red shirt and dark denim jeans, holding a cup of nutmeg-swirled eggnog. You’d never know that three hours ago he was severely unshaven, in frumpy sweats, frantically sweeping off our front steps, taking out the recycling, and getting fires started in the living room and family room fireplaces while my mom raced around fluffing pillows and lighting candles that smell like pine cones.
The day before the cookie swap was a mad dash to get our house looking like the After version of an HGTV home reveal. The floors are mopped and the rugs vacuumed. The bathroom sinks and toilets are scrubbed, all kitchen surfaces are wiped and dusted, and even the inside of the refrigerator has been cleaned in case anyone takes a peek—goodbye, mystery leftovers and random condiments no one ever uses.
Now our kitchen looks, sounds, and smells like Santa’s bake shop. There are meringues and pizzelles, key lime bars and Swedish spritz cookies, candy-cane sticks and striped icebox cookies—all kinds of yum. Everyone labeled their cookie platters with their names and the names of their cookies, using small place cards my mom had put out, calling out which treats contain nuts and which ones are gluten-free, and there are holiday treat bags and baker’s twine so everyone can bring cookies home.
It seems like our entire neighborhood has shown up. People are so happy to be together this year, and it shows. Every square inch of our kitchen and dining room is covered with holiday serving platters and cake stands, and everywhere you look, people are eating cookies. It’s such a cozy scene. I catch Mom’s eye as she goes to answer the door and she winks at me. Another Briggs Family Cookie Swap success story.
“Now, how much jam do you use?” Mrs. Johnson asks, nibbling on a snowy white meringue.
Mrs. Yamano taps her chin, thinking. “Mmmm, usually a half teaspoon per cookie. This year I did raspberry, but Keith insists strawberry is better. You just need to let them sit for a few hours after you press them together.” She laughs. “That is, if your family doesn’t devour them first.” The two moms move on to talking about nut flours and the benefits of the toasted or untoasted version of each. My cue to leave.
I’m having fun trying all the different cookies and seeing the happy faces of my family and our friends and neighbors talking and laughing in the way people do when they’re caught up in the holiday spirit—but I’m also feeling a little sick to my stomach, and it isn’t because I’ve had too many rum balls.
All I can think about is Charlie and Jacob each showing up—possibly at the same time—and the awkwardness that is sure to follow. After school yesterday, I’d told Caitlin and Mellie that I really wished they hadn’t invited Jacob to the swap, but they blew me off, telling me that I was being silly and that I should give Jacob a chance—that it was obvious he liked me. Caitlin went as far as telling me not to be a Grinch. I’m not angry with them—I know they aren’t trying to upset me. But they don’t know about my inviting Charlie and that’s why my stomach is currently curled up in knots.
Some neighbors just walk into our house. Others ring the bell. Each time the chime goes off, I jump.
I don’t like keeping things from my closest friends. But I don’t want to be embarrassed if Charlie is a no-show. I don’t want any more texts from Caitlin joking about how we were meant to be together. It isn’t fun to joke about something I’m secretly hoping might happen.
“Have you tried the lemon ricotta cookies? Sooooo good,” Mellie says in my ear, coming up behind me. She and Caitlin are both wearing matching reindeer onesies. I have one too—we ordered t
hem online together—but since I am figuratively and literally sweating, I opted out of the onesie and went with my gray pants and a lacy white sweater I bought with my birthday money. Phoebe texted to say she’s running late, but that she would be bringing the “Rudolph Spirit” when she arrived.
“Wait, there’s cheese in those?” Caitlin gasps, wrinkling her nose as if I’d just told her I had farted in gym glass. She stares at the offending dessert. “In a cookie?”
“Yup. Karolyn made them.” The cookies are like little lemon cakes—puffy, moist, delicious. “The ricotta is what makes them so good. You have to like lemon, though.” Which I do.
“Seriously one of the best cookies I’ve ever had,” Mellie says, patting her tummy. Her eyes flit around the kitchen. “I should find your little sis and tell her.” She bites into a mini black-and-white cookie. Tiny bits of icing drift onto the floor. “Is Jacob here? I haven’t seen him.”
I catch her and Caitlin exchanging knowing smiles. “I haven’t seen him either,” I say breezily, taking a slow sip of eggnog punch. “It is a school night. Maybe he has a lot of homework or cross-country practice or something.” Will Jacob come? Will Charlie? Will I pass out? I glance down the crowded hallway toward the front door.
“Seriously, these are so good,” Liam says, coming over with a plate of cookies and a tall glass of milk. He’s wearing a Boston University sweatshirt—red is one of the school’s colors, so he’s able to represent his school and look festive all at once. He’s been hanging with a couple of his friends in the family room watching clips from The Office. “This is so fun.”
I nod. “One of my favorite holiday traditions.”
“Do you think we’ll do this when we’re older? Like, when we have our own houses and stuff?” my brother asks, a worried edge to his voice.
“Of course!” I assure him. “We can’t let a family tradition like this end.”
He grins, then reaches over and gives me a tight hug. “Love you.”