Carols and Crushes

by Natalie Blitt

  “Um …” Eric hesitates. “I probably can’t stay out much longer.”

  I remember what Eric said, about his family trying to save money now that his dad is out of work. I assume he wouldn’t want Matthew and Renee necessarily knowing about this.

  “Actually,” I say, fake yawning. “I’m suddenly really tired. Maybe we should just wrap up now.”

  “Okay,” Matthew says with a shrug. And I glance at Eric, who smiles at me. I hope he knows his secret is safe with me.

  * * *

  “What was that about?” Renee asks. “You weren’t really tired.”

  Renee had texted her mom, who showed up in her car and insisted on driving us all home.

  Renee waited until Matthew and Eric had both been dropped off before asking the question, which is good, but I still don’t know how to answer. I don’t want to break Eric’s confidence.

  “Is this about Eric’s dad still being out of a job?” Renee asks.

  “How did you know that?” I snap, and I hate that I feel jealous.

  “Eric told me. But he said his dad has an interview next week, so that’s good.”

  After so long feeling cold, my body is overheating now. I shouldn’t be getting jealous. I mean, it’s no big deal that Renee knows Eric’s secret. Or that he told her more than me.

  I flick off my mittens and hat, unzip my jacket, but nothing is making it better. I hate the feeling of overheating. I know it’s dumb, that it’s not like it’s life-threatening or anything. But for some reason, it makes it hard for me to breathe, like my clothing is shrinking.

  It makes my head hurt.

  I can’t help looking longingly out the window.

  “Mom, do you have a water bottle for Charlie? She’s overheating and getting cranky.”

  I can’t believe I snapped at Renee, my best friend who knows me so well. “Sorry,” I whisper to Renee as her mom passes back a water bottle and a couple of bags of mini pretzels.

  I gulp down the cool water and relax, leaning back. “Thanks, Mrs. Levine,” I say.

  We drive on for a few more minutes. Mrs. Levine is listening to a podcast series that I know keeps her totally absorbed.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” I whisper to Renee, closing my eyes.

  “Who?” Renee asks, but I don’t bother answering. It’s obvious. Why would I even care if Matthew Yee didn’t like me?

  “Maybe he doesn’t know you well enough,” Renee suggests gently. “All we need is Operation Get to Know Charlie, and I’m sure …”

  She continues talking about this master plan, but I stop paying attention. I feel so dumb because I’ve been talking about my crush on him forever. But now I don’t feel excited about the idea of Operation Make Eric Like Me.

  But why? Is that because maybe …

  I don’t really like Eric as much as I thought I did?

  That weekend, between rehearsals in Lincoln Square, I focus on a new project: Operation Save Christmas in the Dickens House. It’s much better than Operation Make Eric Like Me.

  When I announce my plan to my parents, they sigh. They insist that we still have lots of time to prepare for Christmas. But I already have a full calendar of events planned.

  I’ve even made a list. And decorated the list, of course.

  I stare at the list for several long minutes as I try to figure out which project to take on first. I know I need to hold off on decorating the house, and my parents will say it’s too early to get the tree. Christmas cookies should probably wait as well since, knowing my mom, it’ll be a one-time thing and I want them around on Christmas itself. Same with the hot chocolate display. And presents? Well, first I need a plan for that.

  So creating the Advent calendar it is.

  I’ve never made an Advent calendar before. But I know I can repurpose the trifold I used for my science project. I head up to my room and start to decorate it with silver and red wrapping paper. I sing along to the PTX Christmas album as I work.

  It’s a good day.

  Especially when “The Little Drummer Boy” comes on.

  “Come, they told me, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,” I start, pausing in my wrapping job to close my eyes and feel the music.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sadie’s voice might have been quiet, but in my mind I was in the video, singing with Pentatonix. It was quiet there, peaceful, as though nothing could pull me away. Until Sadie’s voice.

  “Sadie! I told you to knock!” My heart is racing and there’s nothing quiet or peaceful now. I feel torn between two different places as the song continues on without me, as though the singers didn’t even know I’d left.

  Which clearly, they didn’t. But still.

  “I did knock,” she pouts. “But you were singing so loudly, you didn’t hear me.”

  Advent calendar. PTX. Wrapping paper. Happy place.

  I need to get back to my happy place.

  “I’m making a special surprise for the family.” I try to force a smile as I put myself between Sadie and my project.

  “What is it?” she demands, craning her neck.

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.”

  “Can I help you make your surprise?”

  My instinct is to say no, to tell her that this is my thing, but maybe that isn’t the right idea. Maybe if my parents see how excited Sadie is about Christmas, too, they’ll have to get into it.

  “I’m making a special Advent calendar for our family,” I say, my voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. I pull the giant, slightly garish trifold into the space in front of us, and her eyes widen.

  “What’s that?”

  I take out the packets of envelopes I’ve already started creating. “An Advent calendar is a countdown to Christmas,” I explain, placing the numbered envelopes in order across the paper. “You see them sometimes in stores. They usually have chocolates in them and every time you end a day, you get a little chocolate.”

  Sadie’s eyes widen farther than should be possible. “Chocolates every day?” she whispers.

  I laugh, but then tighten my lips when her face crumples. Sadie hates it when she thinks people are laughing at her.

  “I wish we could have chocolates every day,” I say, “but Mom and Dad would never go for it. So instead, I’m putting secret messages in each of the envelopes for everyone in our family. It’s not as yummy as chocolates but, hopefully, it will build the Christmas cheer.”

  Sadie is clearly not as excited as when chocolates were a possibility. Still, her lips curve upward. “Can I help?”

  I have to remember, it’s the thought that counts, not the way the Advent calendar actually turns out. Though it’s turning out cute. It wouldn’t go on a Pinterest Fail page.

  While I’d collected enough envelopes to fit the trifold so there was an envelope to open every day, it was Sadie’s idea to write the numbers in silver (though I nixed the idea of silver glitter because I’d never hear the end of that from Mom).

  So it looks … fine. A good first try.

  “What are we going to put inside all the envelopes?” Sadie asks.

  “Messages for everyone. Why don’t you help me come up with what to say for Mom, Dad, and Jed’s, and then I’ll do yours.”

  “What about yours?”

  I shrug. “It’s kind of hard to write my own.”

  I grab the different colored papers—green for Mom’s notes, red for Dad’s, yellow for Sadie’s, and orange for Jed’s. I’ve already precut them, so I have the right amount.

  “Huh,” Sadie says, and then gets distracted coming up with cute things to write on everyone’s slip. “We should do funny jokes for Dad, since his are always so bad. And knock-knock jokes for Jed, since he hates them.”

  I glance over at her, lifting my eyebrows, and we burst out laughing.

  Except, it is really hard to think about messages for everyone. Or even messages that can work for multiple people. I throw in a few Smile! notes and a couple of Thanks for being you before I
start to lose my drive. I had this whole plan that it would be some beautiful display and each morning at breakfast, everyone would take a note and we’d all read them out loud just like fortune cookies. And it would make people happy. But I don’t know what to say. And frankly, I’m not sure I’d argue with Mom if she thought this wrapping-paper-covered monstrosity should not be displayed in public. It seemed like such a good idea when I came up with it.

  I abandon it under my desk. It doesn’t need to be the whole month of December, I reason. It will be better if it isn’t so cramped with envelopes anyway.

  Just as I’m about to open my Pinterest board of possible DIY Christmas gifts, my phone buzzes with a text from Renee.

  My mouth waters at the word. As much as I love Christmas, when it comes to food, it has nothing on the culinary yumminess that is Hanukkah. Fried potato pancakes, donuts, and chocolate? It’s basically all my favorite foods in one holiday.

  There’s a faint uneasiness that swirls in my belly. But I can’t back out now.

  * * *

  When I arrive at Renee’s, the Hanukkah party is in full swing. Matthew and Eric are standing in the dining room, rocking the uncomfortable How did I get here? look. But Renee’s family is having a wonderful time. Especially her grandpa, who is in his element in the kitchen.

  “There’s my girl!” he says, giving me a one-armed hug as he flips fried potato goodness with the other hand.

  “Mmm,” I say, breathing in the smell.

  He smiles. “Everyone was poo-pooing my idea of making curry sweet potato latkes, but I knew you’d be in, Charlie!”

  Grandpa Leo looks a bit like Santa Claus, minus the red suit. He’s round, with a big white beard and metal glasses. But he wears a knit skullcap on his head, the only person I’ve ever seen wearing one in real life. But, then, there’s the suspenders he always sports that tip him back to Santa category. And the way he laughs. Exactly Santa.

  “What other kinds have you made?” I ask, trying to peer past his roundness into the galley kitchen.

  “No peeking,” he says, turning to block the counter. “We’re doing a taste test, just like always.”

  I used to feel bad for Renee that she doesn’t celebrate Christmas. But that was before I witnessed what went into their Hanukkah celebration. Renee’s family doesn’t do a Hanukkah bush, or other Christmas-like things. Instead, their traditions are all their own. Grandpa Leo’s family came from Syria, so when he’s in charge, the food he creates smells and tastes completely unlike anything I’m used to. Grandma Anna’s family, on the other hand, came from Russia, where latkes are made from onions, potatoes, and oil. Every year, part of the Levine family tradition is the taste test Grandpa Leo referred to. But it’s not just latke versus latke. They go all out, creating special sauces and dips, and there’s enough food to last the entire holiday.

  I explain the story of the dueling culinary traditions to Matthew and Eric as we help set the table. Just as always, Renee’s mom has taken out all their family’s Hanukkah menorahs, everything from the ones that Renee made in preschool out of clay and sparkly paint, to a cool new one made of shiny glass. For each of the eight nights of Hanukkah, Renee and her mom light their own candelabra, but when guests visit, there are always enough for each of us to get our own Hanukkah menorah. It’s kind of like a modern day Hanukkah miracle.

  “Holy fire hazard,” Eric mumbles, and I laugh.

  “I remember once I was here on the last night, and the only time the candles were left unattended was for five minutes. We all traipsed outside to see the candles lit from that angle. It was beautiful.”

  There’s a lull in the conversation as I get lost in the memory, and not for the first time, I wish my family had the love of tradition that Renee’s had … even if it’s a totally different tradition.

  “Are we ready to light?” Grandma Anna asks. She hands out cards with transliterated Hebrew words. She lights the candles, and recites the blessing, and we all sing along where we can, even Matthew and Eric. Then the four of us break into a rendition of “Hanukkah, O Hanukkah.” It’s fun.

  “Now let’s get the table ready for the contest,” Grandpa Leo exclaims. “I don’t want Anna to claim she didn’t win because hers got overcooked.”

  He winks across the room at me, and I laugh. He always makes the same statement, and the best latke award always goes to Anna. I’m not sure what she puts in hers, but she’s able to pull ahead no matter what spices he puts in his. I think it might be because Grandpa Leo votes for hers instead of his own.

  “If I don’t like mine, can I give them to you?” Eric whispers to me as we’re given a sample of each latke.

  “You’ll like them,” I whisper back. My stomach flips at how close we are to each other.

  “I need a backup plan just in case,” he insists. Our faces are so near, it’s almost like we’re breathing the same air, except I’m not really sure I’m breathing at all. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re sitting at Renee’s dining room table and her whole family is around us, I’d wonder if maybe he was going to kiss me. Except … we are at Renee’s dining room table with her whole family in the middle of Hanukkah dinner, and Eric is eating his latke and exclaiming how much he likes it. And everyone is talking and there’s music playing and I’m just … in shock?

  I go through the motions of eating and smiling and writing down a vote, but inside, my brain is swirling around and around.

  Does Eric want to kiss me?

  “So which did you vote for?” Grandpa Leo interrupts my reverie.

  “I—” I startle.

  “Oh, come on, you know she voted for mine,” Grandma Anna says. “Now teach these boys how to play dreidel. They’ve never played! Can you believe it?”

  * * *

  That night, I call Renee just as I’m supposed to be going to bed.

  “Tonight was super fun,” I whisper. “It was exactly what a holiday dinner should be like.”

  There’s a long pause, and Renee yawns. “You know you can come over any night of Hanukkah, right?”

  “I know.” I remember watching Eric and Matthew playing dreidel, how Matthew won (of course), and the look of pure joy on his face. “I just wish my family were more into Christmas.”

  There’s a long pause, and I curl up tighter on my bed. It hasn’t even snowed again, so outside it just looks cold, no snow to soften the outdoors.

  “Is it bad that I like Christmas so much?” I ask, my voice so quiet that I almost wonder what I spoke and what I thought.

  “Of course not,” Renee says. “I think it’s just hard to understand for some people,” Renee continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “Like, is it because of your name, or do you really feel that way?”

  “Hey!” I straighten my body. “You know it’s not because of my name.”

  “I’m not saying it is,” she hurries to add. “Eric asked me that and I told him it wasn’t. But I’m just saying—”

  “Eric thinks I’m obsessed with Christmas because of my name?” All my anger morphs into sadness.

  “We were just talking about it. He didn’t think that’s why you like Christmas. He just asked the question.”

  I don’t know if I’m more upset that Eric thinks I like Christmas because of my name or that he and Renee were talking about it. It makes me wonder when he said that: If it was before we whispered together at the table or after? And if it was before, did it mean he changed his mind about me? Or if it was after …

  Or maybe there was nothing to our heads drifting so close.

  “Okay.” I know I should finish the conversation properly, that Renee is going to be worried, but I can’t deal with anything more. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

  “Are you mad at me?” she asks before I have a chance to disconnect. I debate hanging up anyway, pretending I didn’t hear her, but that’s not fair.

  “I’m not mad,” I answer truthfully. “I’m just tired and a little sad.” And then I do hang up the phone,
because I don’t have anything more to say.

  Luckily, everything feels back to normal the next day. And soon, the four of us fall into a rhythm of practicing. We bundle up and gather in the park to sing again on Monday and Tuesday afternoon. And so long as I don’t overthink any interactions that Renee and Eric have, I’m okay.

  The best part is that we’re actually starting to sound good. People now stop to listen to us, and some even ask us what days we’ll be downtown and come back to hear us again.

  Which is kind of crazy. But also really amazing.

  Singing outside has also helped us find a theme for our spotlight rehearsal. We’ve become The Carolers, and for some reason, the group listened to my suggestion that we should all stand in a line, hands clasped in front of our stomachs as we sing. I only wish I’d taken my grandma up on her offer to teach me to knit last Christmas. Then I could’ve knit us matching scarves so we’d look even more professional. And maybe I could have even made us one of those old-fashioned white muffs to keep our hands warm. Though the boys may have protested that.

  On Wednesday, we’re just about at our regular caroling spot when Renee sees the lights.

  “Charlie! Look!” Her shout is jarring enough to get my attention, but the addition of the sharp poke in my side? I stop abruptly.

  “What?” I have perfected the ability to not get sucked into Renee’s excitement before I know what is fueling it. It could be that there’s a giant concert in the middle of downtown, or a real live movie star walking in front of us. Or a three-legged dog. Renee has two settings: excited and not excited. There’s no gradation.

  “The lights. On the rink. They’re on!”

  My breath hitches. That is excitement-worthy. The outdoor rink in the park was supposed to have opened already, but it kept getting delayed. But the lights on means …

  “There are people skating!” Renee squeals.

  Renee loves to ice skate. She even used to skate competitively, when she was younger. I love it, too.

  Eric and Matthew finally realize that we aren’t behind them, and they backtrack to where we’re standing. If my expression is anything like Renee’s, we look like two puppies at a window.