Eight Christmas Eves

by Curtis, Rachel

  They started the movie then and ate their sugar cookies with the cider.

  It was a movie he’d seen too often, and he was watching it with a kid instead of going clubbing with a very desirable date. He’d been caught in a blizzard twice today—once in a car and once in the backyard. Nothing had changed with his father, and nothing seemed likely to change.

  And he was going to have to wear the ugliest Christmas sweater imaginable tomorrow.

  Despite all of that, it was a pretty good Christmas Eve after all.

  Third Christmas Eve

  seven years ago

  The most notorious party at Clarksburg High School was held every Christmas Eve at the house of Doug Wilson, captain of the football team.

  His mother had walked out when he’d been just four, and his father always worked the night shift in the emergency room of the hospital on Christmas Eve, so Doug had no parental supervision until his father got home at six o’clock the following morning.

  Naturally, this meant a party.

  The party had built up a lot of cachet over the last three years, since most teenagers couldn’t get out of family time at Christmas. So only the coolest and most enterprising of them could manage to sneak out of their houses after their families went to bed. To be invited to this party was a social stamp of approval. To actually attend was a claim to popularity that simply couldn’t be beat.

  Helen wasn’t even in high school yet, but she was invited this year, and she was damned well going to attend.

  She didn’t want to spend the evening with Cyrus anyway. She hadn’t spoken to him for months—not since his last visit over the summer. She didn’t even like to think about him anymore, but occasionally she just couldn’t help it.

  She’d been stupid for liking him, for trusting him. She’d been a naïve girl who’d thought he was something special. It embarrassed her now to think of how much she’d looked up to him. She cringed when she remembered all the emails she’d sent him—sometimes daily—rambling on about her day, her thoughts, her feelings, everything in her world. She’d always been thrilled when he replied and ecstatic when he came to visit Clarksburg.

  She’d sometimes cried after he left.

  She’d always thought he liked her well enough—ever since the first Christmas when he found her on the side of the road. He’d never said so, of course, but she’d instinctively believed it. He’d emailed her back sometimes and asked questions like he was interested. It always sounded like he was smiling when he talked to her on the phone. He’d made a point of visiting Clarksburg a few times a year, and he’d always seemed happy to see her.

  She’d been a little idiot. He’d never really cared about her at all.

  She wasn’t an idiot anymore.

  She might have to suffer through dinner with him this evening, but she was not—not—going to watch White Christmas and have hot cider and sugar cookies with him as they’d done for the last four years.

  She was fourteen years old this year. She felt grown-up, sometimes ancient.

  She was no longer a kid.

  Helen didn’t come down from her room until dinner, even though she knew Cyrus had arrived an hour or so earlier. From her bedroom window, she’d seen him drive up in a flashy new sports car. He’d called down her hall, saying he was here, but she hadn’t come out of her room and he didn’t knock.

  She did put on something decent for dinner—a soft green sweater and a long gray skirt—since she didn’t want to make Drake angry. Drake was a fine guardian, and he was easy to get along with. He left her alone unless she caused some sort of ruckus or openly defied him. Sometimes she kind of liked him. Sometimes he made her laugh. Mostly they just did their own thing and were satisfied with that.

  Not dressing appropriately for Christmas Eve dinner was a sure way to annoy Drake, however, so Helen changed out of her jeans and sweatshirt.

  Cyrus pretended to be nice at dinner. He smiled at her with apparent sincerity and asked questions about how she was doing. Helen knew it was fake, though.

  She wanted to ignore him completely, but that would rouse Drake’s curiosity, so she managed to answer Cyrus’s questions as briefly as she could and just didn’t look him in the eyes.

  She thought she was strong, guarded like a warrior who had to steel himself for battle. It had been months since she’d realized who and what Cyrus was, and she’d had plenty of time to get over her previous affection for him.

  It hurt, though. To see him like this. He wasn’t handsome like Doug Wilson. By the afternoon, Cyrus always needed to shave again, so he usually looked kind of scruffy. She'd never thought he was good-looking. But she’d always liked his face and how he looked at her as if he were really seeing her.

  She hadn’t known it was all a lie.

  Over dinner, Drake talked about the long, war-torn provenance of a Persian scepter he’d just acquired, and he asked Cyrus about how he was doing in his MBA program.

  Helen focused on her food and only spoke when she had to. For a moment, over the cheese course, she thought she might start to cry, but she managed to steel herself well enough and didn’t.

  She was relieved when dinner was over. She got up quickly and started to hurry up the stairs to her room.

  Cyrus caught her as she reached the first landing, grabbing her arm to keep her from escaping. “Helen, don’t run away.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes burned with anger. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of having upset her, though, so she kept her eyes down. “I’m not running away.”

  “I know you were angry with me when I visited in August, but I thought you would have gotten over it by now. I was just trying to look out for you.” His voice was a little hoarse. He sounded frustrated, impatient, slightly bewildered. Completely sincere.

  But it was fake. All of it was fake.

  “You don’t need to look out for me,” she said, biting her lower lip so he wouldn’t see it wobble a little. “I do fine on my own, and I don’t need your help.”

  He sighed deeply. She still hadn’t looked up at him, so she couldn’t see his expression. She could smell him, though—the clean, warm scent that was so familiar. She could somehow feel him too, intensity radiating off him. “Someone has to look out for you, Helen. I just don’t understand why you’re so angry.”

  Something inside her started to shake, and it didn’t help when Cyrus reached out to tilt her chin up so her hair wouldn’t hide her face. Feelings swallowed her up, but screaming and raging at him would give him the victory. She wasn’t going to do that.

  “I don’t like that you’re still so angry with me, Helen,” he said, softer now.

  She swallowed and raised her eyes to glare at him, trying to look and sound cool. “And I don’t like that you won’t just leave me alone, but we can’t always get what we want.”

  “Tell me why it was such a big deal. What was so important about that trip that you still can’t forgive me?”

  Helen snorted bitterly. In August, she’d had a trip planned with one of her few friends—Maria, who was sixteen and whose father lived in Paris. Helen had been going to France with Maria for two weeks until Cyrus stuck his nose into the situation and suggested to Drake that there wouldn’t be enough parental supervision, since Maria's father would be at work all day and the girls would be left to their own devices.

  Helen’s trip to Paris had been canceled.

  She’d been furious with Cyrus for that at the time, but it wasn’t what had pulled the blinders off. It wasn’t what she couldn’t forget.

  Afraid she might cry after all, she jerked her arm out of his grip and muttered, “You don’t understand. Just leave me alone.” Then she whirled around and hurried up the stairs to her room.

  She slammed the door and waited for a minute, but Cyrus didn’t follow her.

  She did cry then. A little bit.

  There weren’t very many people in the world she liked and trusted. Cyrus had been one of them. Until four and a half months
ago.

  She didn't let herself sulk, though. She took a shower and spent a long time blowing dry her long hair very straight. Then she added a purple streak in her hair because Doug had said he thought it looked cool when she'd had one last month when he’d seen her and Maria in the coffee shop. She put on more eye makeup than she normally did, trying to use enough liner to look as dramatic as Maria always did.

  Then came the big decision about her outfit. She sorted through her entire closet and then called Maria to ask for some advice. On hearing that Maria was going to wear jeans, Helen was vastly relieved. Sometimes Maria wore very short skirts, and Helen wasn’t sure her hips and thighs were skinny enough to pull off that look. So she wore the dark jeans that made her look the thinnest with her favorite boots, ones with heels high enough to make her look taller. She wore an ivory silk tank top that laced up the front and looked kind of vintage. She’d never been brave enough to wear the top before, since it showed a lot of cleavage, but she already had pretty good breasts so she figured she should show them off. She wore a cropped cardigan over the top since it was chilly and so she wouldn’t feel so self-conscious.

  She could take the sweater off later if she felt like it.

  She was pleased with her appearance—as pretty as she could look and quite fashionable, since she’d seen her boots and her top in magazines recently.

  At almost eight-thirty, she covered up her gorgeousness with her red coat, since it was cold outside, and peeked out of her bedroom. The hall was empty so she hurried toward the back stairs. She made it down and out of the house without encountering anyone.

  All she had to do was jog down the drive to where Maria was waiting in her car to pick her up.

  Helen had never had many friends. She always thought other kids were looking at her strangely, since she didn’t have any parents, was raised by a guardian, and was driven to school in a chauffeured car. The kids who were nice to her didn’t always seem sincere.

  She was mostly resigned to it, but she still dreamed of having friends and being popular. So, when she’d met Maria earlier that year, she’d been thrilled. Maria was two years older and really mature and fun to hang out with, and her father was rich so she didn’t have any ulterior motives with Helen. When she hung out with Maria, people didn’t look at Helen like she was quite so much of a freak.

  It was nice to have a real friend, and Helen was starting to hope that when she began high school next year, she might not be such an outsider.

  And maybe she could even find a boyfriend.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Helen was feeling a little woozy.

  The music was too loud, and there were too many people in the Wilsons’ family room in the basement of the house. She’d been feeling good earlier, after one beer and some definite attention from Doug, so she’d smiled and laughed and taken off her cardigan to show off her top.

  But two beers later Helen wasn’t feeling quite so good.

  Plus, Doug was practically on top of her.

  She liked Doug. A lot. He had blond hair, brown eyes, and movie-star looks. He was nice to her and got good grades and was a football star. She’d had daydreams about being his girlfriend.

  But he was heavy and hot and smelled very strongly of beer, and Helen felt kind of helpless and nauseated sprawled out on the couch. She’d been excited when he first started to kiss her, but it wasn’t exactly like she’d thought.

  He was kind of sucking on her ear now, and he had one hand down her blouse, which felt kind of weird and gropey. She was embarrassed because there were so many people around, although most of them had coupled up and were making out too. She wondered if this was what normally happened at high school parties—just hanging out listening to music, drinking beers, and groping each other.

  It wasn’t really as exciting as she’d hoped.

  She shifted, trying to retrieve one of her arms. She wasn’t sure what to do with it, but she didn’t like it trapped under Doug’s chest.

  She wished she hadn’t drunk the beer. It hadn’t tasted good at all, and it felt like her mind was covered with a layer of fuzz.

  She really wanted Doug to get off her. She didn’t like it when he kissed her on the mouth again. His breath smelled really bad, and his tongue slobbered all over hers. She liked it even less when one of his hands slid between her thighs, over her jeans.

  She was going to tell him she wanted to get up. It would make a scene. He would think she was childish and silly. They all might laugh at her. But she didn’t want him on top of her anymore, and telling him was the only way to get him off.

  He was too heavy, too gropey. And she was too hot, too woozy, too uncomfortable.

  She was going to tell him to get off her. She visualized herself doing it. Maybe she could do it nicely. She could tell him she needed to go to the bathroom. That was what she should do. It was perfect.

  She could get up to go to the bathroom, and he wouldn’t have to know why. She pulled her mouth away from his and started to tell him. She really wanted him off her.

  “Get off her.” The inexplicably familiar voice bellowed out of nowhere, breaking through the din of music and chatter.

  The room fell silent as everyone turned to stare, and someone switched off the music at the discovery of an intruder in their midst.

  Both Helen and Doug had jerked their heads over toward the voice. Through the blur in her mind, it took a minute to realize that it was Cyrus—it was actually Cyrus—standing a few feet away from the couch. He was wearing the same dark trousers and jacket with the blue dress shirt he’d worn to dinner earlier, and he was glaring with icy contempt at Doug.

  Irrationally, her first reaction at the sight of him was intense relief.

  Since he had Doug’s attention, Cyrus’s voice wasn’t as loud as he repeated with clipped authority, “I said to get off her.”

  Doug blinked up at him, uncomprehending. He’d had a lot of beers. Helen wasn’t sure how many, but it had been many more than she’d had. Things finally started to click in his mind, though, and he slowly heaved himself off her.

  Helen scrambled off the couch too, pulling up one strap of her tank that had slid down her shoulder. Her cheeks started to burn as she realized what was happening. Everyone was staring at her. She wanted to sink into the carpet.

  “What are you doing here?” Doug asked, making a failed attempt to retrieve his mastery of the room. He must recognize Cyrus. Everyone in Clarksburg would recognize Cyrus Owen.

  Cyrus arched arrogant eyebrows. “I came to get Helen.”

  “What gives you the right? You aren’t her brother.” It wasn’t the brightest thing in the world to say, but Doug was still endeavoring to reclaim the advantage.

  “My father is her legal guardian. She’s fourteen years old, and we have men in our employ who have developed impressive expertise in breaking bones. Remember that, next time you’re tempted to touch her.”

  For the first time, Cyrus turned to look at Helen. “We’re leaving.”

  She gulped, frozen by confusion and embarrassment. “I came with Maria.”

  “You sure as hell aren’t leaving with Maria, since she looks like she’s about to pass out. We’re leaving now.” He turned away from her and scanned the room. “Since I called the cops when I got here, I’d suggest the rest of you consider leaving as well.

  She wanted to object to his bossiness, but she didn’t have the energy or mental acuity at the moment. She didn’t want to make any more of a scene, and she was suddenly afraid she was going to throw up. So she stepped over toward Cyrus, letting him grab her arm in an unyielding grip and drag her upstairs and then out of the house before anyone else could process his words.

  The cold air hit her like a fist when they got outside. Cyrus had picked up her coat, but she hadn’t put it on. Her bare skin tightened into goosebumps, and she breathed in loud gasps.

  Cyrus’s car was double-parked in the street, since the driveway and curb were already full of cars. Without
speaking, he pulled her down the driveway.

  She was dizzy with beer and confusion and anger, and she yanked her arm away from his hand.

  “Get moving, Helen. I’d like for us to be gone by the time the police come.”

  She glared up at him fuzzily, not able to see him very clearly. “Shut up.” Not the best comeback but the only one she could manage at the moment.

  “Helen,” he warned, reaching out for her arm again.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled, suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of nausea. She breathed deeply, trying to fight it down.

  Cyrus stood still and waited for a moment as she breathed. After a minute, he said, “Well, go ahead.” He sounded almost impatient.

  She glared at him again, snapping her teeth in her outrage, but the anger just intensified the nausea, and she felt her stomach heave.

  Gasping, she turned away from him and vomited on the grass. The second heave forced her to her knees, and by the fifth one she privately vowed never to drink another beer in her life.

  Cyrus had stepped over and reached down to hold back her hair—not gently or sympathetically, just with clinical efficiency. When she was finished, he lifted her to her feet again and kept pulling her toward the car.

  He put her in the passenger seat and walked briskly around to get in the driver side. He accelerated quickly, and they were turning the corner when she could see a police car pull up to the house from the opposite direction.

  She couldn’t say anything on the drive home. She felt too groggy and disoriented.

  By the time they reached the house, however, she’d realized a few important things.

  “Fuck you, Cyrus!” she snapped, glaring over at him by the light of the dashboard. He’d just put his car in park. “You had no right to do that.”

  He didn’t look remotely concerned by her defiance. “Someone had to. You know better than to be so stupid.”

  “You’re actually going to lecture me on drinking and partying? You?”