by Alyson Noel
With the paparazzi still on my tail, I take a spill so epic it sends me sliding halfway down the street as the trolley shrinks smaller and smaller, fading into the distance.
I drop my head in my hands, unable to watch as my last shred of hope dissolves before me and the paparazzi gather around, taking pictures and shouting my name.
I struggle to my feet, left with no choice but to face an inconceivable future entirely of my making, when my ears fill with the squealing of metal on metal, followed by the repetitive beep of an oversized vehicle backing up, the sound of “Jingle Bells” trilling nearby.
“Heya, kid!” The trolley driver sticks his head out the window, white dreadlocks swinging. “Ya comin’ or wha?”
I turn toward the shocked photogs, grinning as I say, “Tell Ezer thanks for the opportunity, but it’s time for me to go home.”
Stealing a last look at Plum, wanting to savor the memory of her swirling in the snow and waving back at me, I limp toward the bus, heave myself up the steps, and hand over the dirty, crumpled, torn, but hopefully still valid ticket.
“Sorry ’bout that,” the driver says, his crazy glasses spiraling in and out as he palms the ticket and shoots me a gap-toothed grin. “Jus’ a li’l insurance on my part. Had to make sure you’re serious about returnin’.”
“Oh, I’m serious,” I say, making my weary way toward the last row. “I can’t wait to go home.”
DECEMBER 25 DECEMBER 19
MAGIC OF THE SEASON
Just like the last time, the snow goes into full-on blizzard mode, slamming the trolley from side to side. The movement makes me so queasy I close my eyes and try to settle into the ride, only to open them again when the trolley comes to a halt. “Careful out there,” the driver says. “Big storm’s a-comin’. Looks like we’ll get that white Christmas after all. If it can hold a week.”
A week?
“What day is it?” I heave my bag over my shoulder and make my way down the aisle.
“December nineteenth. Five days to go, so we’ll see. Might wanna zip up that hoodie yer wearin’. It’s toasty in here, but it’s cold out there.”
I gaze down at my clothes. My Greentree clothes. Including the Christmas sweater my mom knit for me.
“So it’s like it never happened? I won’t have to explain anything to my parents?”
He pushes his glasses onto his forehead and peers at me with eyes that nearly disappear between thick layers of bushy white brows and red cheeks. “Course it happened! Everything happens! Only it happens all at once—on all different levels, with all different outcomes. I thought you understood that?”
“Dougall’s always been better at understanding that stuff,” I say. “Even so, there’s only one level, one dimension, and one outcome I’m interested in.” I make my way down the steps, pausing a moment to enjoy the feel of my feet firmly planted on Greentree soil.
“Merry Christmas!” the driver calls in a blur of flashing eyes and gold teeth. Shutting the door behind me, he pulls away from the curb and vanishes into the wintry swirl as I make my way down a series of familiar streets piled with snow.
Only instead of hating on it like I usually would, instead of complaining about the long walk from the bus stop and wishing I was on a tropical beach, I take the time to truly appreciate it.
As it turns out, constant sunshine is overrated.
It’s only when I’ve reached Plum’s house and notice the soft glow of lights coming from inside that I realize I passed Tinsley Barnes’s and Mac Turtledove’s streets a few blocks ago and didn’t even notice.
I consider that progress.
When I reach my house, even though I’ve spent my whole life there, it’s kind of like seeing it for the very first time. With the red and green lights hanging from the roof, the oversized candy canes lining the path, the wreath made of holly berries and pine needles hanging from the door, and my dad’s old white truck parked in the drive, well, it’s pretty much the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.
No big iron gate.
No paradise pool.
No oversized flat-screen, weird art, and scary chandeliers that could just as easily kill you.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hey,” my dad calls. “You just getting home?”
“Bus never came, so I walked.” I quicken my steps and help him unload his truck.
“That’s weird.” He swipes a hand across his forehead, keeping the snow from his eyes. “I decided to cut out early. Drove right by the stop and didn’t see you. You didn’t have to walk, Nick. Why didn’t you call me instead?”
I take a deep breath, wishing I could tell him the whole surreal story, but instead I just say, “My phone stopped working.”
He looks me over carefully, as though he senses something different. “You sure about that?” He motions toward my bag, where my cell phone chimes from inside. Only instead of the usual ringtone, it’s the sound of bells ringing, and when I look at the screen, I gape in complete disbelief.
There’s a message from Plum.
The Tinsel Hills Plum.
I know because there’s a picture of her, and just under that a message that reads:
Always remember, Nick, you’re never invisible to your true friends.
PS – Thanks for the wings.
“Everything okay?” My dad stares at me for a long, steady moment.
“Yeah.” I watch the message fade, and when I go back to retrieve it, it’s gone.
Still, I saw it, and that’s proof enough for me.
I mean, while I could never explain how any of this stuff works, sometimes it’s enough to just know that it does.
“So what do you think—you up to the task?” My dad points toward the tree in the bed of his truck. “Not as big as that last one you helped move, so it should be a cinch.”
I know why he says it—he says it for me. So I won’t feel like our family, our life, our stuff, pales in the shadow of the Turtledoves.
Like I could ever feel that way again.
“May not be as big,” I say, “but it’s definitely better.”
He tugs on either side of his beanie so it covers his ears. “How do you figure?”
“Well, for starters, the branches lift higher, and the needles are springier. Clearly it’s relieved it doesn’t have to spend the next two weeks held hostage by the Turtledoves.”
My dad grins in a way I haven’t seen in a while and grabs hold of the trunk as I lift the tree from the top. The two of us haul it to the door, where Sir Dasher Dashaway waits not so patiently, before entering a house that smells like peppermint candles, freshly baked cookies, and the air freshener we use to mask my dog’s farts.
We place the tree in the stand we’ve used for as long as I can remember, my dad on one side, me on the other, while my mom stands before us, hands on her hips, instructing us which way to tilt it until it’s more or less straight, as Holly makes her way down the stairs.
“Your lame friend Dougall called.” She scowls at the tree as Sir Dasher Dashaway inches toward it like it’s a suspicious intruder he has not yet approved of. “Said you weren’t answering your cell. As if that’s my problem.” She rolls her eyes, trying her best to bait me, but I’m Teflon, and Holly’s words no longer stick.
“Dougall’s not lame.” I drop to my knees and pull Sir Dasher to me, happy to see he’s as sweet and funny-looking as I remember him being.
“Yeah, in what universe?” She rolls her eyes again, having no idea what she just said. And once I start laughing, it’s nearly impossible to stop. Especially when Sir Dasher Dashaway gets so worked up he starts barking and farting alongside me.
“As far as I know, just this one,” I say, calming down enough to reach for one of the cans of air freshener we keep in every room. “Though that’s not to say there aren’t others.”
My parents glance between us, both of them waiting for the moment Holly and I explode into one of our shouting matches and they’ll be forced
to break it up. But those days are over.
No matter how hard she tries, Holly can’t get to me.
Not after seeing the alternative.
She shakes her head and storms into the kitchen as my mom looks to me and says, “Well, I guess I’ll get started.” Which normally serves as my cue to start making excuses in an attempt to get out of helping, but this year I’m playing it differently.
“I was thinking I’d help,” I say. “If that’s okay?”
My parents exchange a questioning look, as though they know something’s up but they’re not sure just what.
“I was thinking we could even turn it into a tree-trimming party.”
“Count me out,” Holly says, having returned from the kitchen to glare at me while she gnaws on one of the freshly baked sugar cookies.
“We could make hot chocolate, invite some friends over, and then everyone can help decorate.”
“I don’t know, Nick.” My mom runs a self-conscious hand over her hair. “The house isn’t ready for guests….”
“But that’s kind of the point. They’ll help us get it ready.”
“I’m game.” My dad slips an arm around my shoulder in a show of solidarity.
“I’m not.” Holly scowls. “My friends are on their way over, and trust me, they’ll want nothing to do with your lame-o tree-trimming party.”
Again I just shrug. Who knew she was so easy to deal with?
When Holly’s friends see the kitchen counter covered in freshly baked cookies in need of decorating, despite what she predicted, they can’t wait to get started.
One of them even referred to it as a supercool edible-art experiment.
“You can’t be serious?” Holly says when she sees them fighting over tubes of colored frosting. Then, seeing that they are, she sighs and joins in.
In the den my dad spots my mom on the ladder as she places some of the ornaments near the top of the tree. Their usual worried whispers are now replaced with the sound of reminiscing and laughter, as though they’ve forgotten all about the back taxes and year-end financials.
Not like those things have gone anywhere. But maybe, just for tonight, those worries can take a backseat.
When the doorbell chimes, I race to answer it, relieved to find Plum and Dougall standing on the stoop, looking exactly the same as I left them, Dougall with his crazy Einstein hair and Plum wearing another one of her mom’s Christmas creations, yet to me they’ve never looked better.
“Nice sweater,” I say without a trace of mockery.
“Yours too.” Plum grins in a way that makes her eyes go all sparkly, her cheeks flushed and pink, and I can’t help but realize how pretty she is.
I study her for a moment, wondering if she has any idea of the chain of events she set off with her magical birthday cupcake, but it’s not like I ask.
“I tried calling you.” Dougall pushes in front of her. “Did you know there’s a blue moon happening soon? Which not only is the very rare event of a second full moon within a calendar month but is also said to act as a portal to other dimensions!”
He waits for me to respond, but my first instinct is to look at Plum, whose face betrays nothing.
“Apparently there are all kinds of rituals to go with it. We’ll have to get a hold of some candles and stuff, but how hard can that be? I was thinking we should definitely do it. But first we need to decide where we want to go, because you don’t want to end up just anywhere.” Then, remembering Plum standing behind him, half outside, half inside, he says, “Oh, you can come too if you want.”
Plum looks at me, but I just shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “My mom made cookies, my dad made hot chocolate, we’re decorating the tree, and, of course, there’s always the appeal of Sir Dasher Dashaway’s farting sprees. I can’t really think of anywhere I’d rather be.”
Dougall’s face drops in disappointment.
Plum’s face lifts in relief.
And as I lead them inside, I swear I hear Plum whisper, “Welcome home, Nick.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe big, huge, sparkly thanks to my editor, Krista Vitola, for her unerring guidance, smarts, and enthusiasm; my agent, Bill Contardi, for being the awesome person he is; my husband, Sandy, for sharing the same idea, at the same time, the second that song came on the radio; and lastly, to the Who, for writing and recording that song.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alyson Noël is the number one New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of twenty-three novels, including the series the Immortals, Riley Bloom, the Soul Seekers, and the Beautiful Idols. Born and raised in Orange County, California, she has lived in both Mykonos and Manhattan and is now settled back in Southern California. Visit her at alysonnoel.com.
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