Get Real

by Betty Hicks

  And … Food. Is. Everywhere.

  Beautiful, yummy, catered, and completely different every year. Plus, kids under ten get to take home gifts wrapped in shiny white paper with red satin bows. The last year that I got one, before I aged out, it was a box filled with Hershey’s Kisses, each one wrapped in red foil. I know it’s the same candy that comes in ordinary plastic bags from Eckerd’s, but when you nestle a bunch of kisses in a box with crisp white tissue paper, they taste better.

  Toward the end of every party, Mrs. Lewis, looking like a movie star, always plays the piano while everyone circles around her and sings Christmas carols.

  On December 23, going to the Lewises is as good as it gets.

  I don’t mean to sound bratty and horrible, because I love Christmas at my house, too. But the differences are staggering. There’s no pine smell here because our tree is fake and stays in the attic, decorated all year. When it comes out, it takes me all day to pick away dust balls and pieces of pink attic insulation that get on everything. I have to wear those thick yellow dishwashing gloves to protect my fingers from the tiny strands of insulation that act like invisible splinters of glass.

  Our holiday food is the packaged-fruit-cake and pre-cooked-turkey-breast-with-canned-gravy variety, and most of our presents are wrapped in recycled gift bags. We’ve never had a party, except for the Tater T-shirts kind, and Dad has definitely never asked anyone under twenty if he could take her coat.

  Jil says my decorations are better, though, and she’s right. They aren’t as beautiful as hers, even after I clean them up each year, but every one has its own story, like the baby-food jar lid with my picture pasted inside that I made in first grade. Or the dangling strand of cheap pink-and-purple beads that Mom and Dad bought from a street vendor the year they met. Denver has a purple-and-yellow turtle that he painted himself. I have a needlepoint St. Lucia—it’s Swedish—that I made when my Sunday school created a Holidays Around the World tree.

  If you ask me, Christmas is one of those times that’s special no matter how you do it.

  So, imagine my surprise when I call Jil, three days before her party, and she tells me that she won’t be there.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to my mom’s,” she says, sounding all bubbly.

  “Your mom’s? Mom-2?”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “Sorry. You’re going to Jane’s? For Christmas?” I exclaim.

  “No, silly,” she says. “I’ll be back by Christmas Eve.”

  I decide she’s kidding. “Yeah, right,” I say.

  “No, really. I am. Mom and Penny are going to have their whole Christmas early. Just for me. It’s going to be awesome!”

  “Wow.”

  It’s not much, but honestly, it’s all I can think of to say. Ever since Jil found her mom, I’ve been excited for her. Maybe even a little jealous. But not going to her own Christmas party? That takes this two-family deal to a whole new level.

  “Kids from divorced families do this all the time,” she explains in the same tone of voice that the TV might say, “Clothes cleaned with Tide are whiter and brighter, every single wash.” It reminds me of her Christopher Columbus voice, the one that’s always been reserved for convincing adults. This is the first time it’s ever been used on me.

  Which bugs me. But then Mom’s friend-in-need warning goes off inside my head.

  “Your mom’s letting me play ‘Jingle Bells’!” I chirp with outward enthusiasm. Inside, I’m not only still annoyed, but I’m also feeling pretty majorly sorry for myself because Jil won’t be there to hear my official debut as an artist. Or to sneak a sip of gross-tasting adult eggnog and make gagging noises with me.

  “I know. I’m really sorry I won’t be there,” she says, not sounding like a commercial anymore, but sad, as if she truly is sorry. “But you can play it for me when I get back. Okay?”

  “Definitely.” I hope I sound convincing. “Have fun. I’ll miss you.”

  “Me too. See ya!”

  * * *

  Three days later, December 23, I arrive at the Lewises with my parents. I’m super nervous because I want to sound good for them on the piano. I only know how to play the “Jingle Bell” melody—no chords—but it’s important that I get it right so they’ll know I’m serious about wanting a piano.

  When I practice alone, I get so excited about the song that’s magically coming out of my very own fingers that I swear I feel icy wind chilling my face. I hear laughing and singing and one-horse-open-sleigh runners gliding across soft snow. I even hear bells on bobtails ring, and I have not one single clue what a bobtail is. But I want my parents to hear it too.

  They’re still calling my piano playing a passing phase, but I know better.

  Mr. Lewis flings the front door wide open and greets my family. “Welcome, Denver! Merry Christmas, Dez! Scott! Linda! So glad you could come.” The aromas of warm candles, hot roast beef, and freshly baked bread fill the foyer while Mr. Lewis ushers us in from the cold as though we’re royalty. He’s wearing a Christmas tie with tiny reindeer on it, and a red handkerchief neatly tucked into the chest pocket of his sport coat. The coat fits him so perfectly, he looks as if he stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. Dad doesn’t have on a jacket, but he is wearing a white dress shirt with a cool bow tie, and even though the shirt’s a little wrinkled, he looks good … for Dad.

  Mom is not in her gray sweats. She does own a dress. Maybe two. This one’s shiny and the color of a dark ruby. I think it would look a lot better if she hemmed it four inches shorter, but she just hugs me and says, “Dez, I’m happy that you care. Really, I am.” Then she adds, “The true meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with fashion.”

  I know that. I’m not stupid. But, still … I doubt that God meant for the whole human race to walk around wadded up in swaddling clothes, either. Despite her no-style statement, Mom’s dangly earrings match her dress, and from the hemline up, she looks good. Better than good, she looks neat. Who knew she owned earrings?

  I’m feeling almost proud of them, which is way better than the usual embarrassment, but I wonder—if they’ve noticed how to dress for the Lewises, why don’t they notice how good a living room looks without mildewed stacks of magazines in the corners? Or Legos and Mr. Potato Head parts covering every inch of the carpet? Or how clean a kitchen counter is when there’s no faded shoe box full of old batteries and rusty nails sitting on it? Or how fantastic a real Christmas tree smells?

  “May I take your coat?” asks Mr. Lewis, bowing slightly from the waist.

  I feel like a princess.

  Except that the coat in question is my bulky quilted nylon jacket with a rip in one sleeve—torn while assisting in the attempted-but-unsuccessful theft of a street sign.

  That’s okay, though. Underneath, I’m wearing a dynamite outfit. Slinky black pants that flare at the bottom, tiny hot pink heels, and a silvery scoop-neck top. For the first time ever, I feel confident that tall looks good.

  Mr. Lewis reminds Denver and me that all the kids are in the downstairs rec room. “You know the way,” he says cheerfully, then turns to talk to my parents.

  Denver sprints for the basement, and I follow. There’s a lady there who snags Denver immediately and herds him off to a corner where all the under-fives are busy coloring candy-cane pictures. Silently, I wish her luck.

  Glancing around, I’m not surprised to find food, games, and even a miniature version of the upstairs Christmas tree. I hang out, nibbling chips with dip and tender, juicy chicken chunks skewered on little sticks of bamboo. I play one game of Ping-Pong, sip homemade eggnog from a plastic Santa cup, and miss Jil.

  Feeling the jitters of my “Jingle Bells” performance beginning to creep over me, I wander back upstairs to stare at the piano—for calming purposes. And to make sure all the keys are right where I left them.

  “Dez!” exclaims Mrs. Lewis. “You look amazing!”

  “Thanks,” I say, admiring the simple black silk
dress that she’s accented with a string of white pearls. A pair of fantastic-looking high heels tells me that her feet are covering a New York designer label with a name I can’t pronounce. “You look pretty amazing too.”

  She gives me a quick hug, then takes me by the hand. “Follow me.”

  Expertly, she guides me through four groups of people and into the dining room. Grown-ups are standing around talking about what they found on sale at the last minute, who’s coming to their Christmas Day dinners, and why they really shouldn’t eat any more little tarts filled with crabmeat, while they scarf down two more anyway.

  Mrs. Lewis takes the Santa cup out of my hand and reaches for one of the crystal cups beside the adult eggnog bowl.

  She’s going to give me alcohol? No way!

  I’m speechless.

  Then she takes my Santa cup and pours its kiddy contents into the beautiful cut-crystal cup. “Performing artists should not have to drink out of plastic,” she says.

  The cup is heavy in my hand. It feels extravagant and solid. I don’t mind that she didn’t put whiskey in it. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. That would mean that she was a crummy parent, and then what would I say to convince Jil?

  “These cups were my great-grandmother’s,” she says. “She brought them with her all the way from Italy, wrapped in a patchwork quilt.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Lewis.” I take a sip of my eggnog. “It tastes better!”

  I have just graduated from feeling like a princess to queen status. I’m also thankful to know that Jil does have Christmas things with stories.

  I wander into the living room and eye the piano. It’s even shinier than normal. I bet I could pluck my eyebrows in the reflection—if I plucked my eyebrows. The whole room is elegant. White-blooming poinsettia plants and twinkling lights everywhere.

  Being careful not to make eye contact, I slip through two groups of people so I can work my way into the corner with the Christmas tree and not have to answer a dozen neighbors, who will all ask, “How’s school?” I scan all the awesome ornaments, looking for my favorite. The glass piano. It’s so tiny, maybe it’s tucked behind—

  “Attention!” Mr. Lewis shouts into the crowd. “May I have everyone’s attention, please?” He raps a spoon against his crystal eggnog cup to quiet the roomful of party people.

  My mind screams, Don’t! You’ll break the great-grandmother’s cup!

  Eventually, the room quiets, and Mr. Lewis clears his throat. “Thank you all for coming. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without each and every one of you.” Then he bows his head and begins a prayer: “Bless this house on this very special night. May we all keep this spirit in our hearts.…”

  I bow my head with the rest of the people in the room, but I don’t hear the whole prayer. My brain gets stuck on the it wouldn’t be Christmas without each and every one of you part.

  If Jil were here, I would hit her.

  Stupid—if Jil were here, I wouldn’t need to hit her.

  “Amen.”

  “And now,” says Mrs. Lewis, clapping her hands together. “Who wants to sing?”

  Everyone makes a move to circle the piano.

  “But first”—she beams across the room at me—“we have a promising new pianist in our midst, who, after only two weeks of lessons, is going to play ‘Jingle Bells.’”

  My gut seizes up like a fist.

  “Ladies and gentlemen”—she gracefully unfolds her arms in my direction—“I give you Destiny Carter!”

  Chapter Nine

  I sit at the piano and stare at my hands.

  Don’t look up, I warn myself. Don’t look at the ocean of expectant faces. Just play. Plunk out the notes. You can do it.

  So I plunk some notes. Dashing through the snow: plink-plink, plink-plink-plink. I sound like a toy piano. Suddenly, I wish I knew chords.

  But then I get the single notes to flow better. And, miraculously, I am on a one-horse open sleigh, o’er the fields I go, laughing all the way.

  The next thing I know, there’s applause, and Denver is shouting, “That’s my sister,” and some man is yelling, “Once more time from the top!”

  So I start over and everyone sings along, which is way harder because of the timing, but somehow I do it, only hitting one wrong note. Amazingly, no one seems to notice.

  Mrs. Lewis slides in next to me and adds chords to my notes. Wow. Now I sound really good, but the timing is impossible—staying in sync with her chords and with fifty booming voices! I want out of here! Now!

  Mrs. Lewis, mind reader, leans over and whispers, “Dez. You were wonderful. Ready to take a break?”

  Gratefully, I slip off the piano bench and leave it to Mrs. Lewis, who somehow segues from “Jingle Bells” straight into “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” The entire room belts out the words with mega-decibels and joy.

  You wouldn’t believe how many people in our neighborhood actually know the second verse to “Away in a Manger.” And all four verses of “Silent Night.” Half of them pat me on the back and whisper things like, “Good job, Dez,” “You’re a natural,” or “Imagine—you learned that in only two weeks!”

  Apparently, the Carter family is multiskilled—Dad is the only one in the room who can sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful” in Latin. Every single verse. Right now I feel as if that’s a pretty cool talent, but I’ll need to be ready to take some serious junk about it when school starts again in January.

  I sing.

  Between “Away in a Manger” and “The First Noel,” I sip more eggnog from my beautiful crystal cup. I feel like I just won American Idol.

  I’m still floating on air after Mr. Lewis has retrieved my coat, and both he and Mrs. Lewis have waved good-bye to me and my family with choruses of “Merry Christmas! So happy you came! Thank you for playing, Dez! Great Latin solo, Scott! Brilliant purple candy-cane picture, Denver!”

  At the last minute, Mrs. Lewis sneaks a small box wrapped in white paper and tied with red satin ribbon into my hands.

  “But I’m too old,” I protest.

  “You’re just old enough,” she whispers, gives me a nudge toward the door, then turns to say good-bye to the Paulo family.

  At home, we all gather in the den. Dad unsnaps his bow tie and slides it off through his shirt collar. I pick a handful of Denver’s fairy-tale puzzle pieces off the sofa and put them in their correct slots. Then I flop down. “The Lewises are so much fun,” I say.

  “Especially their eggnog,” says Dad, shooting me a meaningful look that has no meaning to me at all.

  “What? You don’t drink alcohol,” I say, puzzled.

  “And from this day forward, neither do you, young lady.”

  “Huh?” When Dad calls me young lady, it’s bad.

  “Dez,” says Mom. “Come on. We saw you drinking from the nice cups. I certainly didn’t want to make a scene there, but—”

  “Wait! No! No way. That was the kiddy stuff. Honest.”

  After I explain what Mrs. Lewis had done, they both react with such relief you’d think they’d just learned that I wasn’t an ax murderer after all.

  “Thank God,” says Mom. Her words shoot out in one giant super-sigh of relief.

  Dad says, “I was afraid you’d be too drunk to play the piano.”

  “You thought I was drunk?” I shriek.

  “Dez drunk,” says Denver. “Drunk. Drunk. Drunk.” His hands beat the coffee table like a drum in time to his chant. Then he looks up and says, “What’s drunk?”

  “Young man,” grumbles Dad, “it’s time for you to go to bed.”

  Yay. Denver is young man now, which takes the heat off me being young lady. Then it hits me. They actually thought I was guzzling alcohol at a neighborhood Christmas party! Can you believe that? Okay. I admit, I did taste the spiked eggnog a couple of years ago, but just a taste. And it was terrible. And, I sneaked it. I’m not stupid!

  “I’m not going,” Denver announces, standing up and jamming his hands on his hips.

 
; “Oh, but thou art,” says Dad. “It’s way past your bedtime.”

  “Not ’til Dez plays ‘Jingle Bells’ again,” Denver pleads. “Pleeeeeze.”

  I’d be a fool to say what I’m thinking now, which is, “I’d love to play ‘Jingle Bells’ again, but we don’t have a piano.” Followed by, “Bless you, Denver.”

  “She was good wasn’t she?” says Dad, clearing a space so he can sit down on his brown leather recliner.

  “You were very good,” Mom says to me as she stoops down to carry Denver bodily from the room.

  “Does that mean we can buy a piano?”

  “No,” she says on her way out of the room. I can barely hear her over Denver’s sobbing, but I do hear.

  No, even when a child is screaming over it, doesn’t sound anything like yes.

  “Why not?” I complain.

  “A piano costs a lot of money,” says Dad.

  I guess I should be grateful that he didn’t answer me in Greek.

  “How much money?”

  “A lot.”

  “More than your fifty million boxes of smelly old books?”

  Dad leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows. Which is my signal to shut up, but I don’t.

  “We could rent a piano. Or buy a used one. I’ll get a job. I’ll—”

  “Dez,” says Dad. “Your mother and I aren’t convinced that this new passion of yours will last. Remember the vio—”

  “But it will, Dad, I know it will. What do I have to do to convince you?”

  Dad pops his recliner into lie-back position and reaches for his Journal of Dead Poets, or whatever boring magazine he’s got handy.

  “You’ll have to stick with it. ‘’Tis known by the name of perseverance in a good cause—and of obstinacy in a bad one.’”

  Good grief.

  When Mom finally rejoins us, wearing her gray sweats, she shoves a bunch of newspapers onto the floor and lies down on the sofa. As she props her sock feet up onto a pillow, she switches to the Weather Channel.

  “About the piano,” I say.

  “Not now, honey. Besides, you need to show some interest for a lot longer than two weeks. You know, keep your nose to the grindstone, stick to your guns—”