by Jake Burt
“All set!” I exclaim, the words puffing forth in a cloud of steam. I shove my hands beneath my armpits and slide off the front steps, joining Jackson as we watch Jonathan finish up.
“How did we do?” I ask, peering down at Jackson’s phone, where he’s got the attachment from Janice’s e-mail open.
“No more than one hundred feet of lights. No major religious ico … icorn…”
“Iconography.”
“Uh-huh,” Jackson mumbles.
“We’re allowed to have a wreath, right?”
Jackson shrugs. Just like I’m not allowed to dress in all black and mope my way through the holidays, our happy home has to meet the median of comfort and joy. Apparently, in response to my e-mail, they used satellites to find images of our neighborhood from the last five Christmases, and they ran some sort of algorithm that deduced the exact size, color, and obnoxiousness of everyone’s holiday displays. We’re expected to be right in the middle of all of it.
“Oh yeah. There it is,” I say, pointing to his screen. “One wreath. Front door only. Maximum diameter: three feet.”
“I’ll take care of the wreath,” Jonathan offers as he climbs down. “You two go get ready for school. Harriet should have breakfast on the table.”
When we get in, there’s a box of Rice Chex open on the counter, along with two empty bowls. Harriet is leaning up against the fridge, the landline phone pressed to her ear.
“Yes, I’ll wait.” She sighs. Then she mouths to me, “Caller I.D.”
“Again?” I whisper back. She nods, and then says into the phone, “What do you mean the number’s untraceable? Really?”
She hangs up the phone and presses her forehead to the freezer door for a moment.
“They think it’s someone using a burner phone, or maybe a robocalling service that’s glitching. I’ll let Janice know.”
I shake my head as I fill my bowl. “Another thing to add to the list.”
Harriet rolls her eyes and says, “Tell me about it. What I wouldn’t give for a quiet, normal Christmas.”
“It can’t be normal without Grandma and Grandpa, or without Bryant Park,” Jackson murmurs. Then he shoves his hand straight into the cereal box, grabbing a dusty handful and cramming it past his lips.
“Tell me you’re not going to pour milk directly into your mouth,” I say warily.
I cringe as he inverts his head over the sink and lifts the jug. He ends up pouring most of it into his nose.
As Jackson sputters and coughs, Jonathan comes in, his own phone in hand.
“Just got the call from Quincy at work. He confirmed that our boss expects us at the holiday party Friday night. Got to go.”
Harriet frowns. “That’s the same night as mine.”
“I already asked Janice about it. She said we really should go. Can’t turn ourselves into total hermits.”
“What do we do with Jackson, then? Charlotte has her own…” Harriet trails off, her gaze slowly swinging from Jonathan to me. He follows suit, and soon they’re both staring at me, sheepish smiles playing across their faces. I put down my spoon, my eyes widening as I realize …
“No. Ohhh no,” I say, shaking my head. “Holly’s party is for seventh graders only. Girls only. Those are her mom’s rules. Besides, what’s weirder? One of you begging off your work party, or me dragging…” I pause, looking at Jackson. He’s still blowing milk out of his nose into the sink. “… him to Holly’s house?”
“Please, Char. You two have been getting along so much better the last few weeks. He can just bring his phone and play games in the corner. I’ll call Holly’s mom and work out the details.”
I can feel a good and proper tantrum coming on; my hands are gripping my bowl, and they’re shaking so badly that the spoon leaning against the edge is chiming its very own rendition of “Jingle Bells.” I set the bowl down slowly. Then I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and force a grin.
“Mother. Father,” I begin, using my most diplomatic voice. “It may have come to your attention that I have endeavored in significant fashion these few months past to keep our family’s secret well hidden. I have received the appropriate grades. I have gone to unforeseen lengths to ensure my positions in two extracurriculars. I successfully grounded Jackson’s brief flight of Facebook fancy. In doing so, I believe I have earned a certain amount of leverage vis-à-vis how I sculpt my own social situation. I feel at this time that taking my younger brother to Holly’s party would constitute a significant threat to the delicate network I have painstakingly built. As such, having him there may very well endanger us every bit as much as one of you missing your own holiday party.”
“Why are you talking like that?” Jackson says, twin wads of paper towel now blooming from his nostrils.
I set my jaw, pointing at him for emphasis.
“Char,” Harriet says softly. “That was very well-spoken, but I’m afraid this is where I’ll need to put my foot down. We’re stuck here. We cannot allow a babysitter into our home, and we cannot take Jackson to our parties. We also can’t afford to miss another event. I’ve run out of excuses to give, and Jonathan has as well.”
A lump of pure protest starts clawing its way up my windpipe. I can actually feel my own body rooting for it, too, telling me to just uncork and blow off every last bit of tension and stress. Then, though, the phone rings. Again. We all jump. Harriet looks at the phone screen and sighs.
“Unlisted, of course. Jonathan, can you…”
“On it, love,” he says, taking the phone from her and clicking the button. As he repeats the word “Hello?” I stalk out of the room, going upstairs to finish getting ready for school. Of course I’ll take Jackson to Holly’s party. Of course there won’t be a screaming argument. Not from Charlotte Ashlynn Trevor. She somehow always makes it work.
Somehow.
I notice that I’ve actually swiped my own spoon only when I nearly smear toothpaste on it. I set it down on the sink and pick up my toothbrush. Maybe Holly will understand. Heck, she owes me one for the election. I just didn’t think I’d have to call in the favor so soon.
I’m thinking about it all the way to school, and sure enough, Holly is beaming at me when I slip into homeroom. She beckons me over with an explosion of waves. That, or she’s hyperventilating, which is possible—she’s got a brown paper bag on her desk.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Because…”
“Better than okay! I’m fabulokay!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing,” I say, though her enthusiasm is so infectious that I can’t help but smile.
“It’s time, Charlotte! I’ve got all the names in here for the Secret Santa party. Are you ready to pick?”
My shoulders slump. “Yeah. About the party…”
“Oh, don’t worry! I thought your idea about inviting Brit was great! I’ve always wanted to get to know her better, and she’s, like, your best friend, so of course she can come!”
I momentarily forget about my problem. I scan the room, but Brit isn’t here yet.
“Did she say yes?” I ask hopefully.
“At first, no. She gave me this look.” Holly pauses, her perfect eyebrows angling in mock disbelief. “I don’t know—maybe she thought I was joking? But then I told her that you told me to ask, and Charlotte! Oh my gosh! I’ve never seen her smile so big!”
“Awesome!” I reply. Knowing that Brit will be there makes the news I’m about to drop in Holly’s lap a little easier to deliver. “But Holly, I’m afraid I have a favor to ask. A big one.”
Holly winks at me. “You know I owe you big-time, girlfriend.”
I sigh. “Yeah. You see, though, here’s the problem. Both my parents have holiday parties on Friday night.…”
Holly goes from euphoric to pouty faster than I can blink.
“No, Charlotte! You can’t come?!”
“Worse,” I concede. “Though I wouldn’t blame you if you uninvite me in about five seconds. If my parents go to their parties
, and I come to yours, that leaves Jackson alone at home, and…”
“Bring him along!” Holly exclaims, her pout instabanished.
“Are you…”
“Totally serious, Charlotte! He can hang out with us!” she says, shoving the paper bag at me. “Now pick, silly! Whoever’s name you pull, you have to buy a present for. It can be cute, funny, serious, or whatever. Just not too expensive.”
She holds open the bag, and I reach down. As I’m rummaging, she tries to close it, but I manage to jerk my hand back before she can trap me.
“Hey, you’re supposed to close your eyes, cheater!” Holly scolds playfully.
“I didn’t look!” I retort, turning my shoulder and unleashing a devastating pout of my own.
Holly grins. “I believe you. You picked so fast you couldn’t have read!”
I scurry to my seat as Ms. Millar arrives, surprised to see that Brit managed to sneak in while I was pitching my problem to Holly. I hold up the still-folded slip of paper and catch Brit’s eye.
“You’re coming?” I whisper.
She shrugs, then smiles. It’s every bit as luminous as Holly described.
I hold on to my slip until the end of the day. When I get home, I fish it out of my pocket and smooth it on the kitchen table. I’m relieved to see MZ’s name on there—she’s super easy to buy for. Her favorite sport is lacrosse, she’s obsessed with the Duke women’s team, and there’s a cool place on Ninth Street that sells that kind of stuff. I wouldn’t have minded seeing Brit’s or Holly’s name, too, but I’ve already bought them gifts. In fact, the sweet plushie Companion Cube from one of Brit’s favorite computer games is already wrapped and under her tree; I snuck it in last time I went over. It takes me only a day to round up what I need for MZ’s gift. I have the rest of the week to convince myself that taking Jackson isn’t going to be a disaster.
* * *
On Friday, all three of us cram into the back of Nancie Guthrie’s Honda. As soon as we do, Nancie peppers us with questions, most of which I’m left to answer. I’ve grown used to it these past few months, but keeping up is made exponentially more difficult by Jackson’s presence in the car. When he found out that he was going to a party with seventh-grade girls, he apparently couldn’t decide which deodorant to use, so he settled on all of them. At least, that’s how it smells. I’m forced to lean against Brit, who, in turn, sneaks her pinkie along the door of the car, working it like an inchworm until she reaches the window controls. Then, timing her movements with her mom’s bursts of excitement, she manages to roll the window open. It gives us a few moments’ reprieve, at least, before Nancie notices.
“Y’all are lucky I had this evening off. Most usually, I’m busier than a one-legged cat in a sandbox ’round holiday time. Why, just yesterday I was … hey, why am I freezing my pawtuchus off? Britney Aguilera Guthrie, what are you doing with that window down?”
Cowed, Brit rolls up the window, and we’re still for the rest of the drive. She’s probably embarrassed, and I’m left trying to puzzle through what exactly a pawtuchus might be. Whatever it is, it can’t smell worse than Jackson.
Holly lives in a tall apartment building near East Campus, and Nancie walks us all the way up the stairs to the sixth floor. The entire door of Holly’s apartment is covered in wrapping paper, with a massive red bow stuck just beneath the peephole. When we knock, the door flings wide, and holiday tunes blast out at us, along with the aroma of baking gingerbread. The scent is so heavenly, especially in comparison with what we’ve endured for the past ten minutes, that I instinctively lean in. In fact, I’m so enchanted by the smell that I almost miss a true holiday miracle.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Brit hanging back, one hand at her throat and the other at her heart. Jackson’s staring at her, too, and he dares to whisper, “Hey, are … are you gonna barf?”
It absolutely can’t be the gingerbread, so I slip closer to see if I can figure out what’s going on. Just as I do, it hits me. As a veteran of a visit from the neighborhood welcome committee, I know what’s coming.
Only, it doesn’t.
Nancie Guthrie does manage to wedge herself in the doorway. She stands on her tiptoes and peers past Holly, who is dressed like an elf: green dress, candy-cane tights, and fake Elrond ears. Nancie’s head bobs around as she looks at all the girls who are already in Holly’s living room. Then she breathes deeply, ready to make a grand entrance on behalf of her debutante daughter.
“Oh my! Look at all the friends you’ve got here, Pretty Bri—”
That’s all she can manage, though.
“Wow. Wow! You, like, must be Mrs. Guthrie! Do you even know how big a fan I am of your black forest brownies? You made them for our bake sale last year! They were the first thing gone, and we raised twice as much as we usually do!” Holly gushes. As she talks, she wraps an arm around Nancie’s shoulders and starts leading her down the walkway toward the stairs. “You’re a total legend! And thanks for bringing Brit and Charlotte to our party. Don’t worry—we have a nine o’clock curfew, and my parents are both home. Our number is in the school directory if you need anything. Please enjoy your evening off—you’ve definitely earned it!”
A quick glance at Brit reveals that she’s breathing again, and her color has returned to its normal shade of pale. It’s enough to make me feel positively wretched about my embarrassment over bringing Jackson. I hadn’t even considered how difficult this was going to be for Brit, especially with her mom giving us a ride.
With Holly’s diversion working to perfection, we scoot inside. Tanika, MZ, and a few other girls are hovering over a table covered with flour, cookie cutters, and rolled-thin gingerbread dough. Jackson quickly scuttles to the corner and slinks down between the arm of the couch and the wall, like he’s a mangy cat we just brought home from the pound. Holly rejoins us a moment later. Throwing her arms around our shoulders like she did with Nancie, she leads us to the cookie table.
“We have a hundred more to make, so get to cutting!” Holly says cheerfully.
“Th-thanks,” Brit whispers.
“No problem!” Holly replies. “We’ve all got moms.”
Brit’s sigh of relief is so loud I don’t think anyone notices me wincing.
As if on cue, Holly’s mom sweeps in from the kitchen, followed closely by her father. Both wear heavy oven mitts, and they’re clutching empty baking trays.
“Hello, girls!” Holly’s mom says. “Feliz Navidad, and welcome!”
“Thanks!” I reply. “The cookies smell wonderful.”
“Yes,” Mr. Fiellera says, “and it’s time for another round.”
Brit and I jump in, helping the others to carefully lay the cut cookies onto the trays. There are mittens, trees, angels, and this one mangled sort of spider-looking thing.
“That’s a reindeer,” Jessica Steadman admits. “I had trouble getting it out of the cutter.”
I shrug. “It’s kind of cute.”
“Speaking of cute, is now when we get to talk about boys?” Tanika asks. “Like, for instance, the way Archer Brantley keeps hanging around you, Charlotte?”
I notice that over in the corner, Jackson’s head has popped up over the edge of the couch like a curious, greasy meerkat. I whack-a-mole him back down with a scowl.
“Sorry, Tan,” I say. “Probably not the best time to gossip with my brother here.”
“Or my parents,” Holly adds.
“Another subject, then,” MZ suggests. “Like Brit!”
Brit, who had busied herself cutting out a gingerbread candy cane, freezes. The shape in her fingers slowly wilts down into a sad letter J.
MZ smiles. “Not like gossip, Brit. I just mean that we haven’t talked much.”
“Seriously!” Holly says. “I’m glad Charlotte brought you. It’s nice to see you outside of school.”
Brit blinks, then remembers to exhale. “You … you, too, Holly. And MZ. And everyone.”
“So we were talking earlier about holida
y shows. What’s your favorite?” Jessica asks.
“I … you mean … like TV shows?”
Jessica nods. Holly says, “Yeah, like A Charlie Brown Christmas.”
Brit shrugs. “I guess I have one. We watch it every year, but it’s silly.”
“Mine’s The Year Without a Santa Claus, so the bar’s set pretty low, unless you can beat the Heat Miser dancing around while his little fire dwarfs use shovels as pogo sticks,” I say.
“I love that one!” MZ and Holly exclaim simultaneously.
Brit says, “Well, I’m a Jim Henson fan. You know, like Kermit and everyone, so…”
Tanika gasps. “Are you gonna say Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas?”
Brit’s eyes widen, and she nods.
“Mine too!” Tanika squeals. “It’s the cutest thing ever!”
“I love that, too!” Jessica adds.
Soon Brit and I have scored invites to Tanika’s house to watch her dad’s VHS recording of the original airing—the good one that actually has Kermit in it. Even better, Brit opens up after that, and she truly relaxes. In truth, though I’m happy for her, I’m also more than a little jealous. How much would I like to tell everyone about Christmas with my grammy? About sucking our candy canes down to points and sword-fighting with them? Or even about holidays at the Center, where we’d eat advent calendar chocolate and light a candle in the menorah every night? I don’t say anything, though, of course.
When the cookies go in the oven, Holly declares it’s time for the Secret Santa presents. We wash the cookie dough off our hands and gather on the carpet of her living room, our gifts in hand. Jackson crawls up onto the couch to watch, and he even nods when I press my finger to my lips. Holly has us sit down in order of who bought for whom. MZ is to my right, and to my surprise, Brit is to my left; she must have drawn my name out of the bag. I bump shoulders with her softly, and she smiles.
“Okay,” Holly declares. “Let the Secret Santa’ing commence! Pass your gift to the right and receive your present. Then, we open them one at a time. Go!”
I give MZ the lacrosse ball I bought, which was signed by six members of the 2014 Duke tournament team. It’s wrapped as best as I could manage, which isn’t well, but at least the signatures are hidden. Brit sets in front of me a green-and-gold gift bag with a pouf of bright red tissue paper bursting out the top.