I hug Stephanie next, careful of her big baby-belly. My sister-in-law teaches middle-school English in the same school district. She is also beautiful, with thick, shiny blonde hair and eyes the color of the ocean. I adore her.
“How’s my wittle niece?” I croon, smoothing my hands over the bulge in her maternity sweater.
Stephanie laughs. “You’re going to be awfully disappointed if this baby turns out to be a boy,” she says.
“We-e-ell,” I drag out the word, not sure how to answer.
Andrew plucks at a strand of my hair. “Better prepare yourself, Tori,” he warns. “According to one source in particular, this baby is a boy.”
My skin prickles in alarm. “You found out?” I gasp. “I thought you both wanted it to be a surprise!”
“Relax,” Stephanie tells me, slipping off her black-wool jacket and draping it over Nate’s outstretched arm. “Nothing’s official yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nate asks, hanging the jacket in the closet.
“She had a pencil test,” explains Andrew.
“A what test?” I shriek.
Stephanie smiles. “It might sound crazy, but one of my coworkers swears by it. She’s given it to every pregnant woman she knows, and she’s been wrong only once.”
“How does it work?” Nate, Gina, and I ask together.
“Double-jinx!” Nate cries.
Gina giggles, but I’m too tense to laugh.
Stephanie explains that the pencil test involves threading a needle, pushing the needle into the eraser end of a sharpened pencil, and dangling the pencil by the thread above the wrist of a pregnant woman. Without anyone doing a thing, the pencil will start to move all by itself. If it swings around in circles, the baby is a girl. If it swings in a straight line, the baby is a boy.
“Sounds like witchcraft,” jokes Nate.
“Apparently there’s science to it,” Andrew replies. “Something to do with the bloodstream.”
I find this incredibly interesting. “So your coworker gave you the pencil test, and it said you were having a boy?” I ask Stephanie.
She wrinkles her nose sympathetically. “It has been known to be wrong.”
“Yeah,” I reply dully. “One time.”
I wander from the entryway into the living room, stopping in front of the fireplace, where the crackling flames seem to leap with hope.
Please, I pray, squeezing my eyes shut tight. Please let that pencil test be wrong.
Chapter Three
As hungry as I am after not having eaten since my big breakfast at Shelly’s Place, I am unable to force down more than a few spoonfuls of black-bean chili, half a square of corn bread, and a small blob of the orange-pineapple Jell-O salad Stephanie made.
My mind is too busy worrying and my heart is too busy colliding against my ribcage. That baby just can’t be a boy!
When the meal is over and the tables have been cleared, we all gather in the living room to decorate the Christmas tree. Dad pokes the fire back to life, and Mom turns on a Christmas CD. The evening is picture-perfect, from the golden glow of the fireplace to the happy laughter of my family members as they set to work untangling cords of colored lights and slipping ornaments from their beds of tissue paper.
Earlier on, I was brimming with holiday spirit. But now, I can’t seem to even muster a smile. If I don’t get a brand-new niece, my biggest Christmas wish won’t come true. And my biggest Christmas wish has always come true, as many years back as I can remember. When I was six, it was a Barbie dream house. Check. When I was seven, it was a kitten. Ebony joined the family. When I was eight, I asked for a karaoke machine. That Christmas, I was the star of the show. Last year, when I was nine, I wanted an MP3 player more than anything. Done.
But babies, I realize, are much more complicated. You can’t just go out and buy one at the store. I’d like a baby girl, please, seven pounds four ounces, with soft brown hair and a rosebud mouth. Unfortunately, you have to take what you get.
I sigh heavily, sit down cross-legged by a box of ornaments, and begin to riffle through it as Dad, Abuelito, and Uncle Gabe string the lights on the tree.
I find the ugly felt angel I smeared with glitter way back in kindergarten, the equally ugly Play-Do cut-out ornaments I made in first grade, and the horrific plastic-spoon Santa Claus Joey made when he was in first grade. I find a ceramic teddy bear holding a sign that says “Baby’s First Christmas” along with the year Andrew was born, the holly-wreath ornament Ben bought for Mom when he was ten, the tiny crystal wedding bells that were Mom and Dad’s first Christmas tree decoration. I find the red glass ball with “Congrats, Grad!” and the date of Nate’s high-school graduation painted below it, the flimsy silver snowflake I discovered lying in the yard one dreary January after our tree had been put out at the curb, the package of plastic candy canes Dad picked up for almost nothing last Christmas Eve.
In some ways, our ornaments are better than flipping through a photo album. I like knowing that they’re packed up safe in the same boxes, year after year, carefully stored on shelves in the basement, until Christmastime, with all its sparkle and good cheer, comes around once more.
But this year, even the ornaments can’t make me smile.
Gina crosses the room and sits next to me. “Don’t be sad, Tori,” she whispers. “I bet anything that baby will be a girl. What does a silly pencil know, anyway?”
At last, I feel an upward tug at the corners of my lips. I’m grateful to my cousin for knowing me so well. “You’re right,” I agree, my spirits lifting. “It’s just a stupid piece of wood!”
When the tree is finally decorated, shimmering with all the colors of the Christmas lights, glittering with garland and tinsel, sparkling with ornaments, and crowned by a lit-up star, Dad flips the light switch, plunging the living room into darkness.
The tree spreads its fairy glow over my family, and I feel a lump of admiration rise in my throat. I know I say this every year, but it’s the most beautiful tree we’ve ever had!
Abuelita scurries into the kitchen, returning moments later with an enormous tray of sliced panettone, dessert plates, and napkins. Mom follows her, carrying a tray of mugs filled with the spicy hot chocolate Abuelita prepared, and Auntie Luz follows her with yet another tray of mugs.
We all sit around, bathed by the glow of the lights, sipping the warm mugs of rich deliciousness, munching panettone, and enjoying the beauty of the Christmas lights inside and the Christmas lights outside, reflected in the glass of the windows.
“I have news,” Abuelita announces suddenly.
Everyone looks at her with interest.
“This year,” she begins importantly, “the entire Salinas family will be together for Christmas.”
“What do you mean, Abuelita?” asks Joey.
Abuelita sets her plate aside, smiling meaningfully at Abuelito. “Today, we received a telephone call. Now it seems that both Javier and Crista will be with us for the holidays.”
Everyone talks at once.
“Crista never comes for Christmas,” says Auntie Luz.
“Where will they all stay?” Andrew wonders.
“That’s wonderful!” cries Mom.
“It’s going to be a big Christmas,” says Uncle Gabe.
“How perfect,” adds Dad, “that this is Javi’s year to come to Chicago. Now we’ll all be together!” Looking at his face, I can see how much he misses his siblings.
I’m as pleased as the rest of the family. Uncle Javi, Aunt Leilani, and my three cousins from California fly out here every other year for the holidays. They spend the in-between years celebrating Christmas on the Hawaiian island of Kauai, where Aunt Leilani’s relatives are.
Auntie Crista, Uncle Kevin, and my seventeen-year-old twin cousins from Ohio typically spend every Thanksgiving here, but never Christmas! Christmas is reserved, for some unfair reason, by Uncle Kevin’s side of the family.
But not this year!
“It’s going to be g
reat!” I exclaim, almost (but not quite) forgetting about the baby for the time being.
Abuelito clears his throat, catching all of our attention. “Andrew asked an important question,” he says, glancing at my oldest brother.
“I did?” Andrew’s eyebrows rise.
“You asked where everyone was going to stay,” Stephanie reminds him.
“That is a good question,” says Ben. “Where are they going to stay?”
“There isn’t room for both families at Abuelito and Abuelita’s,” Gina puts in.
“Claro que sí, nieta (You’re right, granddaughter),” Abuelito tells her. He catches Abuelita’s eye.
She clears her throat. “Because of this, we wonder...” her voice trails as she glances from Auntie Luz and Uncle Gabe to Mom and Dad.
Mom gives her no chance to finish the sentence. “We have room here for one of the families,” she offers generously.
My mouth drops open. As excited as I am to see my uncles, aunts, and cousins from out of town, I don’t necessarily want them staying at my house over Christmas! Running downstairs on Christmas morning with messy hair and p.j.’s to unstuff stockings and open presents is a private, immediate-family type of thing. It just won’t be the same with outsiders there!
I feel mean thinking that, but I can’t help it. “Mo-o-om,” I start to protest.
She clamps a hand on my arm as a warning.
I don’t need to be told twice.
“Are you sure, Susan?” Auntie Luz asks Mom. “Because we’d be more than happy to--”
“I’m absolutely sure,” Mom tells her. “We have more room here.”
“It’ll be a lot of fun!” agrees Dad.
Abuelita smiles warmly. “Gracias, mis hijos. (Thank you, my children.) This will be the best Christmas ever, no?”
My thoughts turn stormy once more. I think about that stupid pencil test and wonder if maybe it was right, after all. I think about sharing my Christmas morning with extended family members who don’t belong there. I, for one, seriously doubt that this will be the best Christmas ever. Bah, humbug!
The days speed into December. On Monday evening, we celebrate Joey’s fourteenth birthday at his all-time favorite restaurant, Gianmarco’s Italian Kitchen and Pizzeria. Unfortunately, he invited along his best friends, a pair of obnoxious eighth-graders named Parker and Bret. The three of them together equal a very unpleasant meal, at least for me.
On Tuesday afternoon, I help Mom decorate and bake a batch of Christmas sugar cookies. I use cookie-cutters to shape the rolled-out dough into reindeer, Santa Clauses, snowmen, stars, and Christmas trees. It isn’t as much fun as it usually is. I have a lot on my mind. I shake green sprinkles over a Christmas tree cut-out and sigh.
Mom glances my way. “What’s the matter, Tori?” she asks. By the tone of her voice, I can tell she has a good guess.
“Christmas,” I grumble. “It’s not going to be any fun this year.”
“Victoria Michelle!” My mother’s voice rises dangerously. “How can you say a thing like that? Do you have any idea how blessed you are, how many people there are in this lonely world who would give anything to be in your shoes?”
I hate that line, probably because I know it’s true. “But, Mom,” I whine, “Christmas just won’t be the same!”
It has already been decided that Auntie Crista’s family will stay with my grandparents and Uncle Javi’s family will stay with us. That means five extra people living, eating, sleeping, and celebrating Christmas under our roof.
“You’re right,” replies Mom. “It won’t be the same.” She wipes her floury hands down the front of the faded Christmas apron she’s had since she was married. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t be just as wonderful.”
“To me, it does!” I argue. “What about Christmas morning, for example?”
Mom opens the oven door and slides out a tray of cookies. “What about it?”
I can’t stand the casual lilt to her voice. “What about it?” I screech. “Don’t you think it will be weird and awkward to have Uncle Javi and Aunt Leilani and Bella and Joy and Ethan sitting around, gawking at us, while we open presents in our pajamas?”
“They won’t be sitting around, gawking,” returns Mom. “They’ll have stockings and presents of their own to open.”
“But I don’t want to share that part of Christmas!” Conscious of the fact that I sound like a two-year-old, I dip a spoon into the sugar bowl, draw it out, and sloppily smother a snowman cookie in a mound of white crystals.
“Watch what you’re doing!” Mom snaps. “If you get too much sugar on the tray, it’ll burn in the oven.”
I drop the spoon, letting it clatter to the counter, spraying sugar everywhere. “Why can’t you understand?” I cry, and then I burst into tears.
Mom watches me a moment, silent and still. Then she comes around the counter and wraps me in her arms. “Oh, Tori,” she says softly, her warm hands rubbing up and down my back. “I know changes in tradition can be hard to accept. But you’ve got to remember that not all changes are bad. I think this Christmas will be a very special one. You can’t imagine how happy Dad is to have his whole family together for the holidays.”
I sniffle. “That’s not all,” I say in a tiny voice.
“What’s not all?” Mom reaches for a paper napkin, which I use to dry my tears.
“I mean, that’s not the only thing I’m upset about,” I confess, blowing my nose.
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
Quickly, I tell her about Stephanie’s pencil test. “It said she was having a boy,” I finish miserably. “Do things like that really work, Mom?”
“I’ve heard that they are scarily accurate,” she replies.
I stare down at my feet, studying the pattern on my snowflake socks.
“But,” Mom goes on, “certainly not one-hundred percent accurate.”
I look up. “I want a niece so badly,” I say, my voice trembling.
Mom smoothes my hair. “I know you do, Tori. But you’ve got to be prepared for the possibility that you may get a nephew.”
“It’s my Christmas wish,” I protest.
“I’m afraid Santa can’t make any promises where that one’s concerned,” returns Mom, making me smile a little. “But I can guarantee you that, girl or boy, you will love Andrew and Stephanie’s baby.”
“That’s not enough,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” Mom insists. “I, myself, wanted a little girl for years. But I had four boys instead, and the moment I held each of them in my arms for the very first time, I knew that I wouldn’t have given them up for the world. After a baby is born, you see, it doesn’t matter anymore what gender it is.”
I twist my mouth at an angle, unconvinced. “What about when I was born?” I ask.
Mom smiles. “When you were born,” she says, “it was a beautiful May afternoon. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the flowers were in bloom, and the moment the doctor put you in my arms, I knew our family was complete.”
I stare at Mom a moment, then rush into her arms. I hug her, and she hugs me back, and we don’t let go for a very long time.
Chapter Four
On Friday, Andrew and Stephanie surprise me by inviting me to spend the night at their apartment. I’ll have to say, that does a lot for my mood. I cheer up considerably just thinking about it, and first thing after school, I rush to my bedroom to pack.
It doesn’t take me long to throw together an outfit for tomorrow, roll my p.j.’s into a sloppy bundle, and fill my zebra-print zipper pouch with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and hair accessories. I jam it all into my overnight bag, wedging my favorite stuffed dragon, Starfire, on top. Then I sling the bag over my shoulder and hurry downstairs to wait for Andrew.
I don’t have to wait a super-long time. Because Andrew teaches at a high school, he gets off work earlier than most adults. Of course, he still has to make the half-hour trip to Forest Grove, but even so, he’s pulling into our twis
ty driveway shortly after five o’clock. He parks his car and comes up to the door to get me. I wait impatiently while he greets Joey and Ben (Nate’s out with some friends) and chats for a few minutes with Mom. Finally, he turns to me with a grin and asks, “All set, Tori?”
“Definitely,” I say.
Mom gives me a hug. “Have fun, honey!”
“I will!” I turn to Ben and Joey. “See you guys later.”
“Not if we see you first!” Joey replies.
Ben snickers.
Rolling my eyes, I reach for my overnight bag and follow Andrew out to his Chevy.
He opens the passenger-side door for me, and I scramble onto the seat, tossing my bag into the back of the car. It’s still warm in here from the heat Andrew used on the way over. I buckle my seatbelt and fiddle with the radio dial.
My oldest brother slides behind the steering wheel, turns the key in the ignition, and throws the car into reverse.
“Do you mind if we listen to Christmas music?” I ask, turning up the volume a notch on The Beach Boys’ “Little Saint Nick.”
“Not at all,” Andrew says good-naturedly. It’s too bad my other brothers can’t be more like him. “How crazy is it that Christmas is two weeks from today?”
“I know!” I cry. “I just wish it would snow. That might make it feel more like the holidays.” I glance outside at the gray-brown world of cloudy skies, bare trees, and dead grass. Though Christmas light displays in many front yards help to brighten the gloom, it somehow doesn’t seem like enough.
Andrew looks over at me. “You don’t think it feels like the holidays?”
I hesitate. “Well...in a lot of ways, it does. But--”
“I know, I know,” says my brother with a laugh. “You’re not exactly thrilled about Uncle Javi’s family staying at the house.”
My jaw drops in surprise. “How did you...?”
“You’re my little sister.” He gives me a playful shove to the arm. “I know how you think.”
Somehow, that’s a good feeling. “Mom tries to tell me it’ll be a wonderful Christmas,” I say. “But I think it’ll be weird. And then there’s the fact that--” Not a moment too soon, I cut myself off, letting the sentence hang in the air.
The Tori Trilogy Page 11