Page 3 of Winter Break

She shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

“You don’t understand,” I say with a sigh. “Your parents are the coolest people on earth. Lindsey’s right. I just don’t know how to deal with my parents. Her parents worship the ground she walks on, and she’s just as bad as the rest of them when it comes to partying.”

“You expect the Darlings to be your example?”

“What’s wrong with the Darlings?” I ask, sitting up.

“I told you, they’re, like, old money bluebloods,” she says. “They’re probably inbred. If you believe the rumors, their family has been into all kinds of shit through the generations, and they always get away with it because they’re royalty in this town.”

“Maybe her family,” I say, a chill creeping over me when I think about her dad. “But Lindsey’s different. She’s really nice. You’d like her if you met.”

Meghan snorts and shakes her head, leaning over to pull a pouch of tobacco from her knitted bag. “Yeah, right. You see me sipping Dom Perignon out of a crystal goblet and gossiping with the ladies who lunch? They’d pick me apart and leave nothingbut bones, which they’d toss to their little dogs and go on talking about who’s banging the gardener this week like nothing happened.”

“Come on, it’s not like that,” I insist, feeling an instinctive need to defend Lindsey. “At least… She’s not.”

Meghan packs tobacco into a rolling paper with her thumbs. “If you say so. I guess I can see the appeal for you.”

I bristle, scowling at her. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing bad,” she assures me. “You’re just… You know. More uptight and concerned with what the neighbors will think and all that.”

“You think I’m like my mother?” I ask indignantly.

I always looked up to Meghan. We never fight. I can’t believe she sees me like that. I’m not friends with Lindsey to gain social status, and I don’t try to fit in just because she’ll think badly of me. At least not in the way Meghan’s implying. I don’t want to lose her friendship. That’s different.

“Nah, dude,” Meghan says, finishing rolling her cigarette. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off. I guess I did get lucky. My parents let me go to parties, and they’d always come get me if I needed a ride, no questions asked. They just didn’t want me to drive if I’d had even a drop of alcohol or smoked weed, but they didn’t care if I did those things. They said that’s how kids learn. And they put me on birth control the second I got a boyfriend, so I didn’t have to awkwardly ask when I was ready to have sex and get a big talk.”

“God, I have the lamest mother ever. Why couldn’t Dad have married a hippie like your mom?”

“A hippie?” Meghan asks, heading for the sliding glass door that exits onto the tiny private balcony where she can smoke. “You mean a shrink?”

I shudder before standing to follow. “Never mind. My mom’s perfect.”

two

Now Playing:

“Let It Snow”—Boyz II Men

On Christmas morning, I wake to the sound of Lily’s feet thundering down the steep wooden staircase. I’m surprised Mom’s not out their fretting that she’ll break her neck, since the place was built in the seventies, before they cared if people pitched headfirst to their deaths. Probably another reason the parents didn’t want to sell the place—nothing is up to code.

I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t stop thinking about how weird it will be to go downstairs and smile at all the aunts and uncles, pretending we belong here when we don’t. Dad is part of this family. Mom isn’t. Diana is Dad’s sister. Mom inserted herself into their lives, imposing on them by moving us all into their house. And now she’s bringing our sorrow and shame into their Christmas, reminding them of it every time they look at her, and by extension, at me and Lily.

We should not have come. I roll over and shove my face into the too-soft feather pillow to quell the urge to scream into the abyss like Chase London.

I hope Dad is eating rocks for breakfast instead of his traditional contribution to Christmas breakfast.

I punch the pillow with both fists, since that’s quieter than a growl of frustration.

I don’t really hope that for Dad.

What I really hope is that I’ll walk downstairs and find him sitting with Lily on his knee while she tears into her presents. He’ll be holding one of the cringey coffee mugs thathave made their way here over the years, mostly courtesy of Uncle Carl’s students and Uncle Frederick’s travels. He’ll shoot me his crooked grin and give me a hard time about sleeping in. He’ll tell us it was all a mistake, but it’s been sorted now and he’s never leaving again. Then he’ll playfully smack Mom on the backside and tell her we’re back in the south, “so get me a plate, woman.”

And she’ll giggle like they’re not old—gross—and go get him a plate of his famous orange rolls, along with her frittata and whatever random recipe Uncle Seamus found on the road and brought home to share.

I give up on going back to sleep and toss off the blankets. It’s like a furnace up here, thanks to the fact that it’s warm enough to wear jeans and a t-shirt outside but they always insist on lighting the fireplace on Christmas morning. Not to mention the crappy design of the house lets all the hot air go straight to the second floor. I don’t feel like going down in my pajamas, but I know Mom will bitch about it and make me go put them back on for our family pictures if I change.

The moment I step out of my room to head down, the smell of Dad’s orange rolls fills my nostrils. My knees nearly buckle, and my heart starts hammering slow and hard in my chest. I try to breathe, blinking back the sting in my eyes. Am I losing my mind? Did I wish so hard for Dad that I made it came true, like a real Christmas miracle?

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