by Jodi Kendall
“Whatever, Dragon Face,” Sarah said, scowling back.
“Why don’t you go hang out with Trisha with that attitude?” Ellen countered. “And besides, you’d like the dragon book if you gave it a chance.”
“Sarah! Don’t call your sister names,” scolded Mom. “And Ellen, this is Tree Day. Of course we want Sarah here with us.”
“And we’re not buying an artificial tree,” added Dad, scratching his chin. “So let’s see. Douglas fir, or blue spruce?”
Dad moved to circle the Douglas fir, bumping right into me. “Oh! Sorry, Josie. Didn’t see you there.”
“Typical,” I muttered, crossing my arms in front of my chest. It was a miracle they remembered to invite me to Tree Day.
“Both are lovely trees,” chimed in Mom. “It’s a tough decision. . . .”
Amelia leaned forward to give the spruce needles a good whiff, but ended up getting too close and pricking her nose on a branch. “Ow!” she cried. “The needles aren’t soft either. I like Ellen’s tree better.”
“I rest my case,” Ellen said. Sarah sighed, let go of the tree branch, and wrapped her arms around her waist in defeat.
Dad watched my older sisters closely. “Be kind to your sister, Ellen.”
“We bought a Douglas fir last year, too, Dad, remember?” Ellen said. “It’s not only tradition, it makes more sense.”
“Let’s vote!” said Amelia.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Tom’s not here so we can’t vote. No fair.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “Doesn’t anyone care what I think?”
Ellen gave Sarah’s tree a once-over again. “That one’s too tall for the living room, anyway. It’ll scrape paint off the ceiling.”
Maybe Ellen was right about the trees, and maybe Sarah had a permanent attitude problem, but still. My heart ached a little as I watched Sarah weave through the rows of tree varieties, disappearing from view.
“Stay close, Sarah!” called Mom. “It’s dark out!”
Dad waved down one of the workers to help him chop down the Douglas fir. Ellen untwisted the price tag off one of its branches while she told Amelia other facts about the tree, like how old she thought it might be and how it reminded her of this magical evergreen forest that housed elves in a book she read once.
“I’m going to walk around,” I said, and before Mom could remind me, I added, “I know, I know, I won’t go far!”
I broke into a run without knowing exactly where I was going—only who I wanted to find. I finally spotted Sarah’s ponytail swishing a few yards ahead. My sister didn’t stop walking, but she kicked snow high up in the air with every step, so it only took me a minute to catch up with her.
“Hey! The spruce was pretty,” I offered. Sarah didn’t look at me. Stomp, stomp. I tried again. “Did you try Mom’s cider yet?”
Sarah sighed and reached for my thermos. She took a sip and then licked her lips. “Tastes more like watered-down cookies, shortcake.”
“There’re cinnamon sticks on the bottom, okay? Sheesh!” I grabbed for it back, but Sarah broke into a grin. “And stop calling me ‘shortcake.’ Maybe we don’t like your mean nicknames, okay?”
“Can’t you take a joke?”
Sarah didn’t understand that sometimes her sarcasm was exhausting. I looked toward the angled glass rooftop of a nearby greenhouse. It practically glowed in the darkness. “You can’t blame Ellen for the tree thing, you know,” I said. “It’s not like you’re the easiest person to get along with. Sometimes it’s hard to know how to talk to you.”
Sarah glared at me. “I didn’t ask your opinion.”
I waved my arms around me. “You have such an attitude problem! You’re ruining Tree Day!”
“I’M NOT TRYING TO RUIN ANYTHING!”
Her anger caught us both off guard. I took a step backward, and Sarah’s eyes met mine. Hers had turned almost glossy, like cat eyes. She was about to cry, I suddenly realized.
Sarah.
My older sister, who never cried about anything.
I drew in the crisp, fresh air and exhaled slowly. “You don’t need to be mad all the time,” I whispered.
“Ha. Easy for you to say.” The words choked up in her throat. “You’re not the invisible one in the family.”
I couldn’t help it, but I busted out laughing, even though Sarah was barely holding it together, and she never opened up to me, ever, ever, ever.
“I feel like I am!” I told her. “Trust me. All the time.”
She clutched the thermos in her hands. “You do?”
“Totally. Mom forgot I was in the room like twice today.”
Sarah cracked a smile, but something caught her eye and it quickly faded from her face. “Josie,” my sister gasped. “Your hands. What happened to your skin? They’re all raw and busted up.”
“Oh. That.” I slipped my cold hands into my coat pockets and shrugged off her comment, pretending that my palms hadn’t been burning fire for two days and I hadn’t been applying wound-healing cream on them every night before bed. “My grips wore out so I started wearing Lucy’s old ones. They’re just a little small, that’s all. Now come on, Douglas fir or not, it’s our tree and it’ll be great no matter what. Let’s go!”
Sarah stood for a second in silence, just staring at me. Finally, she reached down to the ground and scooped up a handful of powder snow. She chucked the snowball at me, hitting me square in the chest. “Bet ya can’t hit me back!” she cried gleefully, breaking into a sprint in the other direction.
Usually I’d be really careful about running through the darkness and throwing snowballs. I mean, what if I sprained an ankle, or broke a finger? I’d be doomed. And I wasn’t even wearing gloves!
But it was Tree Day, and Sarah was actually talking to me like a real person and not just an annoying little sister, and snow began to fall from the night sky, and that made everything just a teeny bit different.
So I bolted after her through the trees.
It was the only time I’d ever had a snowball fight in the middle of a tree farm, and with Sarah of all people. When the powdery snowballs burst against the branches above us, it was like watching a cascade of shooting stars.
Chapter 8
IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS
Someone thrust the front door wide open just as we were carefully unwrapping all the Christmas decoration boxes.
“Tom!” Mom cried, waving a popcorn garland. The family cheered. “I didn’t think you could make it this weekend!”
“Got a ride after class with an old high school friend,” Tom said with a grin. “They’ll take me back in the morning for the home game. I got your message on the answering machine. You didn’t think I’d miss Tree Day, did you?”
“Of course not.” Mom gave him a big hug. “And look at our beautiful tree! It’s a Douglas fir.”
Tom nodded in approval. “Yeah, a nice big fluffy one. Last year’s was like crunched on one side, remember? It had sad branches.”
“Here—we’re just getting started.” Dad offered Tom an unopened cardboard box. My brother took a seat next to me on the couch and peeled back the aged masking tape.
“Nutcracker dudes! Love these guys.” Tom ripped off the bubble wrap, handing it over to Amelia, who we all knew would never pass up the chance to pop bubble wrap. Snap! Snap!
“The Little Drummer Boy” blared through the radio speakers. Dad untangled a box of string lights while Tom caught us up on the latest college and football news. Ellen updated everyone on her Georgetown University application and how she met the criteria for three scholarships, and Sarah shared that she couldn’t wait for the PSAT to be over. Amelia told us about how yesterday she and Lou were throwing tennis balls out back, and they got Hamlet to catch one with her mouth, just like Sugar could, and I asked her three times if she’d put Hamlet on a leash, like she knows she’s supposed to. She even promised that she’d park her bike by the gate after the snow melted.
“So, J
oJo. How’s gymnastics going?” Tom asked, turning to me. I unwrapped a sparkly mermaid ornament from a ball of newspaper while “Silent Night” played in the background.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Really?” Tom’s voice rose in pitch. “I hope you thought long and hard about what we talked about—”
“Shhhhh!”
I shot my brother a scolding look. That conversation was just between us. I wasn’t ready to broadcast all my gymnastics problems to the whole family. Not yet, at least.
Dad’s cell phone rang from the side table, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he kept a firm grip on the tree trunk as he tightened it into the tree stand. “Sarah, can you grab a cup of water to feed the tree?”
Mom and Sarah helped pour a jug of water into the tree stand and tightened up the screws around the trunk until the tree was straight and secure. Ellen handed Dad the lights, helping him thread the wire around the tree branches.
“Josie nailed a back tuck a few days ago,” Amelia piped up, hanging a pinecone ornament on a tree branch.
I felt my cheeks burn with heat. “Who told you that?”
“Lucy.” Amelia glanced my way. I must’ve been scowling because she said, “What?”
Dad peeked through the pine needle branches. “You can do a back tuck, Josie?”
You would’ve known if you watched my practice, I wanted to say.
“Yeah,” I said instead.
“Wow, Josie. That’s really impressive!” Dad grinned. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Will we get to see you do it at your gymnastics meet in two weeks?” asked Mom.
I shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Yeah.”
“Can’t wait.” Dad’s voice was muffled from behind the tree. “It’s been on my calendar for months.”
I didn’t realize he even knew about my gymnastics meet, or that he’d written anything about me on his calendar ever.
Dad twisted the lights around another branch and belted into song, “In the meadow you can build a snowman . . .” I felt a slow smile creep over my face. Sarah stared at me like she wanted to say something but was holding back. I didn’t press her on it, either. Because for the first time in a long time, us Shillings were actually talking to each other. And not just talking—listening.
Dad’s cell phone rang again. “Don’t you need to get that, Stephen?” Mom’s eyebrows pinched together. “It could be—”
“No work on holidays, remember?” Dad broke in with a smile, popping his head out from behind the tree again. “Hey, who wants eggnog?”
“I do!” Ellen and I said in unison.
“Ohhhh, the Popsicle ornament!” Amelia cried out in surprise. “I want to hang this one in front.”
Mom hummed along to “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree,” and my brother said, “Tree dude needs a name, guys.” Tom leaned back on the couch as if he was exhausted after just opening a few ornaments. I caught the sparkle of his stud earring in the light. “I can’t call him Tree anymore. It just doesn’t feel right. He’s one of us now.”
“What about Doug?” Sarah suggested. “Or Fur?”
Tom pinched his eyebrows together in thought. “He does look like a Doug.” Sarah laughed, and even Ellen cracked a grin.
“Awww, look at Hamlet and Sugar!” Amelia cooed, pointing.
We all turned to see the two animals snuggled up in front of the crackling fire. I hadn’t realized that Hamlet wasn’t in her Cave. Someone must’ve let her out, because she’d never gotten out on her own before. But there she was, snoring quietly next to Sugar.
They were lying side by side on the living room rug, and Hamlet rested her pink snout on top of Sugar’s reddish-brown back. Light from the fireplace cast shadows across the pig’s and dog’s bodies. Their eyes were closed. Hamlet’s chest swelled with a big breath and slowly deflated as she exhaled a relaxed sigh. Seeing her little hoof next to Sugar’s furry paw brought a smile to my face.
Sticking out from under Hamlet’s body was something blue. My pulse skyrocketed. Dad’s blue slippers! Oh no! Not today, on Tree Day, of all days! I bolted upright from my seated position by the tree and started toward the fireplace.
“Let her be, Josie,” Dad said gently, stopping me in my tracks.
“But—um—Dad—”
He reassured me with a smile. “It’s Tree Day, honey. I’ll cut Hamlet some slack. We’ll wash them tomorrow.”
I nodded, feeling a warmth radiate in my chest. “Sure, Dad.” My brother flashed me a lazy grin, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as me.
Anything can happen on Tree Day.
We decorated our little city townhouse until twinkly garlands stretched across the drapes, the fleece Santa blanket was splayed across the back of the couch, praying ceramic angels lined our living room windowsill, each stocking hung from the fireplace, a star rested on top of the tree, and the very last ornament, a shiny green glass pickle, waited on the coffee table. I picked it up delicately and handed it to Sarah.
“Pickle always goes last,” I said. “It’s tradition.”
“You can do it,” Sarah said, but I could tell in her eyes that a piece of her wanted to receive the greatest honor of Tree Day.
I looked around at my family, and they all watched me with eager eyes. I shook my head. “You should do it,” I said.
Sarah grinned and took the pickle from me. As she moved toward a branch on the tree, Tom waved his arms in protest.
“Wait! Wait!” Tom said. “This is my favorite Christmas jam! Turn it up. We need an appropriate soundtrack for this.”
Ellen spun the volume dial on the radio until “Dominick the Donkey” blasted through the speakers so loudly that Mrs. Taglioni was probably grumbling into her hot tea next door.
“Jiggety jig, it’s Dominick . . . the . . . Donkey!” Tom sang at the top of his lungs.
“This is your favorite holiday song?” Mom laughed.
“Figures,” said Sarah with a laugh.
Amelia joined in singing, pretending her clenched fist was a microphone. Sugar barked, and Hamlet sprung to her hooves, wriggling her way next to me to lick my arm. Mom jingled her house keys like sleigh bells, Dad and Ellen clapped their hands, and I laughed until my belly ached. Sarah studied the tree and finally grabbed a branch, sliding the wire loop of the pickle ornament onto the Douglas fir, all while my brother chanted “Hee haw! HEE HAW!” until he was red in the face.
It was only when Dad turned off the lights and we stood there in the darkness of the living room, staring at our Christmas tree lit up in red, blue, green, and white lights, that someone turned off the music. My brother unwrapped a candy cane and sighed happily, “Doug looks good, guys.”
Snow danced outside the window, but it felt like that winter calm had come inside the house, too, even if just for one night.
Chapter 9
THE THREE-WEEK RULE
The letter burned a hole in my pocket.
Okay. It didn’t really burn a hole, but the knowledge that it was there, just waiting to be handed over to my parents, ignited something like a fire inside of me.
I’d opened and read it, of course. My name was on the envelope so it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong. The letter was from the gymnastics center, reminding my parents that my team registration fee was due by January 1st. Two hundred whole dollars.
I walked home from the library, slowly inhaling and exhaling, like I do at practice when trying to visualize a goal. The fee was a lot of money, but I had saved $76.02 in allowance just for this moment. Plus, I was this close to winning the vegetarian bet with Lucy, which would be another forty dollars if I pulled through. Grandma usually gave me some money for the holidays, so hopefully I’d only have to ask my parents for fifty dollars or so. Still a lot of money, but not so bad. If I could show my parents that I made sacrifices on my end, too, that I was saving instead of buying things my friends were buying like apps, leggings, and books, then they’d see how important the team was to me.
With each step I walked, it felt as if the letter seared into my jeans, reminding me of what would happen if I couldn’t pay up by New Year’s Day.
I had twenty-eight days left to figure it out.
I kicked my boots through a slushy puddle as I worked through my thoughts. Yesterday had been so busy with Tom’s football game, playing with Hamlet, and gymnastics practice, I was lucky that no one else got the mail first after it was dropped through the mail slot in our front door.
I’d tell Mom about the letter after the holidays, when things calmed down—definitely not today: Dad’s boss was coming over for dinner.
“Hey, Josie,” said a voice. I stopped in my tracks. Sully was waiting on our stoop, his investigator notebook open.
“Oh, hey!” I said in surprise. We usually met on his front stoop, not mine, and I wasn’t aware of a stoops meeting. “Are you looking for Trisha?” I asked. His older sister had been hanging out with Sarah lately.
Sully shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about your pig problem. . . .”
It felt like my stomach did a somersault. I didn’t like thinking of Hamlet as a problem—but I guess she was. “Yeah?”
“And something came to me. . . .” He tapped the eraser to his chin. “Hamlet’s been with you, what, two weeks now, right?”
I nodded. “One and a half.”
“So I have this theory—I call it the Three-Week Rule. I think that it takes people three weeks to get used to things. Sometimes they even change their minds about stuff, too. Last month the twins’ mom went on this sugar-free diet kick. . . . It was called Paleo Something. Did they tell you about it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “What does this have to do with Hamlet, anyway?”
“I’m getting there! So, Carlos used to complain about it all the time in History class that the only sugar they were allowed from now on was fruit. And since school doesn’t serve cookies or anything at lunchtime, it was like Carlos just couldn’t get his hands on sugar no matter how badly he wanted it. . . . But then last week something weird happened. After gym class, Denny was passing around lollipops, and when he offered one to Carlos, he didn’t want it.”