And finally, to my family. I was lucky enough to grow up celebrating winters in Ottawa with roasted chestnuts and BeaverTails, which more than made up for all the skiing and snow sports. Boundless gratitude to my mom; my sister, Jessica; and brother-in-law, Zane, who made possible a winter vacation so that I could re-create my snowy childhood.
And as always, to my husband, Josh, who is my biggest cheerleader, and to Jonah, Micah, and Toby, who are everything.
Natalie Blitt is the author of Carols and Crushes and the young adult novels The Truth About Leaving and The Distance from A to Z. Originally from Canada, she now lives in the Chicago area with her husband and three sons, where she works at an education think tank. You can visit her online at natalieblitt.com.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Carols and Crushes!
It’s 11:48 p.m. and I can’t sleep.
This is a big problem.
I’ve tried deep breaths. I’ve tried counting to two hundred and counting backward from two hundred (I couldn’t remember which one was supposed to be good for falling asleep). I’ve tried reading. I’ve tried reading really, really boring books.
But nothing is working. My heart is racing and I truly now understand what it means to have ants in your pants, because I can’t stop moving.
I side-eye the paper that hangs above my desk. Even in the pitch-black of my room, I can make out the list of songs we will be preparing for the holiday concert.
Tomorrow is the first day back to school after Thanksgiving break. It’s the day we will officially start rehearsing for the concert. And Mrs. Hamilton, the teacher who heads up our school chorus, will announce how the soloists will be chosen this year.
Don’t think about tomorrow, I tell myself.
I can’t think about how excited I am to finally be in the middle school holiday concert, the same one I attended wide-eyed every year when I was in elementary school.
I can’t think about what it might feel like if I get picked to be a soloist.
Even though, clearly, I can’t think of anything else.
I flip over so I have my back to the song list tacked above my desk. This way I’m staring through the window at the dark sky, inky black with only a smattering of stars.
Silent night. Holy night.
I can’t help it. Even looking at the sky makes me think of the concert and Christmas carols and …
This is ridiculous.
I climb out of bed and grab the sheet of paper that has been taunting me since I got into bed two hours and twelve minutes ago. I’ll look over the list of carols one more time, and then I’ll be able to fall asleep.
Silent Night
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
Walking in a Winter Wonderland
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Let It Snow
All I Want for Christmas Is You
Pure poetry!
I visualize myself onstage, the rest of the chorus standing behind me. I can hear the restlessness in the air, the faint squeaking of chairs in the audience, the unwrapping of candies from noisy cellophane. My heart beats hard in my chest and my hands are clammy. But when my turn comes, I take a breath and the notes drift out of my mouth. The notes are quiet at first, maybe even a little too quiet. The crowd leans forward, as if they know something big is coming.
And then my voice takes root, and I can feel it echoing through my body, through my chest, vibrating my vocal cords, and then bellowing out as the sweetest sound.
The crowd remains quiet. Wrappers have been forgotten, children no longer cause chairs to squeak.
The chorus joins me when it comes to the pa-rum-pum-pum-pums, while the beatboxers mimic the sound of the drums, and it’s magical.
We are singing “The Little Drummer Boy.” Even though it’s not on the list, it’s my favorite carol. The beating of the drum fills my heart, and my whole body vibrates with the energy.
It’s now time for Eric Sosland to step up and join me in the solo. He takes my hand and I feel the energy shooting between the two of us. The audience is mesmerized. My mom has a tear in her eye.
And this is just the first song. Wait until they hear me and Eric do “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” They may need to cancel all further concerts because nobody will be able to compete with this year’s.
The door creaking open makes me jump at least a foot and yelp. Loudly.
“Shhhh,” my sister, Sadie, begs, closing the door behind her. “You’ll wake up Mom and Dad.”
The list of songs is now clutched in my hand, pressed against my racing heart. “You scared me!”
“Sorry!” she says as she walks quietly over to my bed. “I heard you moving around, so I knew you were awake.”
“I could have been sleepwalking,” I growl.
Sadie rolls her eyes. Did I roll my eyes when I was seven? I can’t even imagine. I think I spent all my time reading horse books and fairy tales.
Which I wouldn’t say out loud to Sadie. I feel a flash of guilt. Sadie has trouble with reading.
And also, apparently, with sleeping. (That makes two of us.)
My sister plops onto my bed and scootches over to the window. “Hey, Charlie?” she says.
“Yeah?” I answer, making room for her.
“When are you going to put up your decorations?”
I pretend for a moment not to know exactly what she’s talking about, but she’s no dummy. “Mom said not until December tenth.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.” I sigh. Mom and I got into an epic throw-down fight after Halloween when I brought down the Christmas boxes from the attic. She said we had to wait until at least after Thanksgiving. Then, this past weekend was Thanksgiving, and Mom pushed the date into December. Typical.
I love Christmas. I always have. I love everything about the whole holiday season: the decorations, the songs (of course), the movies, the treats (what’s better than hot cocoa with whipped cream?). I even love winter: the snow and the cold and the big boots and thick sweaters I get to wear.
People sometimes say I love Christmas so much because my name is Charlotte—Charlie—Dickens. Just like Charles Dickens, the author of A Christmas Carol. When my parents named me, though, they weren’t thinking of A Christmas Carol. My dad’s last name happens to be Dickens, and he and Mom thought it would be clever to name their daughter after an author they both love. I’m worried that maybe they were thinking of other Charles Dickens books, like Oliver Twist (which is a super-depressing story) or A Tale of Two Cities (which I haven’t read but I bet is depressing, too) instead of A Christmas Carol.
A Christmas Carol is not depressing. Nothing about the holidays can be, really.
But the rest of the Dickens family is not into the holidays the way I am. I mean, we get a tree (a small one) and exchange presents on December 25. But my parents only put up the tree the day before and then take it down as quickly as possible (Mom complains about all the pine needles falling everywhere). And my parents prefer giving “experiences” instead of actual wrapped gifts—things like cards promising a family trip. They think it’s more meaningful that way and avoids the “commercialism” of the holidays. I get that, but sometimes I wouldn’t mind a big box to unwrap.
And if it were up to me, Christmas would be a two-month-long celebration, not a one-day thing.
I shake my head, pushing Christmas out of my thoughts and focusing on my little sister.
“Sadie, you’re supposed to be asleep.” I tack the song list back up on my bulletin board and slip back under the covers. For a long time, Sadie and I slept in the same room, but when I turned twelve, I put my foot down and insisted I needed my own space. Which means that I’m now sleeping in what used to be the guest room and whenever actual guests come, I have to go back to my bunk bed with Sadie. Which is also why Mom is picky about how messy my room can get, and about the idea of decorations. Apparently, it doesn’t feel like a guest room if there are Christmas lights framing the window
, or wreaths and sprigs of holly all over the place.
I try not to argue because I did technically agree to these conditions. However, I don’t understand why my older brother, Jed, doesn’t need to give up his room to guests and bunk up with Sadie. Though I can’t imagine Jed being able to remove all the sports stickers and posters that decorate every available inch of his wall space.
“I can’t sleep,” Sadie admits. She’s staring out the window, so I can’t entirely see her face. But her voice is sad, which is the only reason I don’t say: Thanks for that, Captain Obvious.
“Are you worried about something?” I ask. I lie back in my bed, pulling my knees up to my chest. Now I’m actually a little tired.
“I’m supposed to meet with the reading person tomorrow,” Sadie says. Her words are so quiet that I almost miss them.
“But Mom said you shouldn’t worry about it. The reading specialist’s job is just to figure out what you need help with so that they can—”
“I don’t need help!” Sadie says, probably a little louder than she’d intended to. “The reading lady is going to tell me I’m dumb and that I’ll have to keep reading these dumb little kid books for the rest of my life. And—”
“Sadie, that’s not what’s going to happen.”
“But what if it does?”
I’m suddenly exhausted. I understand Sadie’s tendency to worry. I’m worried, too—about the holiday concert.
“Do you want to come snuggle with me?” I ask, and almost before the words are out, Sadie’s on the move. I open my arms and Sadie clambers in close, and I smooth down her hair, which is the same dark-blond shade as mine.
While it helps that I have a full-size bed, I also know that within a second of falling asleep, Sadie’s little body will be covering the entire mattress.
Tomorrow, I think as I yawn. Tomorrow I’ll find out exactly what’s happening with the concert.
Copyright © 2017 by Natalie Blitt
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This edition first printing 2019
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e-ISBN 978-1-338-29137-7
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