by Abby Bardi
“Why don't we just clone her?” Roy says when he overhears us. “We need about six of her.” Then he says he'll stay home with Mom and they will sing “Frosty the Snow Man” over and over all night. He says it's his favorite song, and all day long every time we see him, he goes, “Hippety-hop-hop, hippetyhophop, hey, look at Frosty go.” Like that's going to convince me.
Anyway, somehow I drag M.F. along. She's wearing a dark green velvet dress that we got at Kmart and she looks really pretty, like someone in an old movie. I find myself feeling a little jealous of her prettiness for a moment, but I give myself a pinch and tell myself to get over it. I'm wearing a long black velvet skirt with a big slit up the side and a skintight maroon top witha low neckline. I've borrowed M.F.'s Doc Marten–looking boots, though they are a size too big for me, and as we go up the stairs, I make a clomping sound. It feels to me like my thighs are so big that when I walk, I make a booming noise like a giant. “Maybe there will be some cute guys here,” I say to M.F., though I know that the only cute guys here will be five years old.
I manage to find Dad and introduce him to M.F. He says hi to her and gives me a big hug, too big a hug, like he is making up for all the days he hasn't hugged me. Then he says, “Puffy, I'd like you to meet one of my associates,” and he drags me over to some old guy and says that I'm his daughter, leaving M.F. standing back at the food table alone. If there's anything I hate more than being called Puffin it's being called Puffy, but Dad doesn't seem to know this. Maybe I've never mentioned it to him.
When I get back to M.F., she is standing at the food table eating a big hunk of poached salmon with some kind of cold white sauce on it and talking to some old woman who I guess is a cousin of Jemma's. “Here she is now,” M.F. says, introducing us and telling me that the woman, whose name is Helga, is a painter and that she currently has a show at some gallery in town. We talk about this for a while, and I am so bored I think I'm going to just fall right over into a wheel of brie. “Wasn't she nice?” M.F. says when Helga totters away. I'm just stuffing my mouth full of a piece of pizza with green slime all over it when Jemma rushes up, gives me a kiss on each cheek, and says, “This must be your friend Mary Sue.”
“Mary Fred, ma'am,” M.F. says, shaking Jemma's hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Have you met the girls?” Jemma says, like the twins are the only thing of interest around here. “I think they're upstairs with some friends. I'll call them down.”
“That's okay,” I say. “We'll go up and find them.” I actually like the twins, well, at least Kate—Samantha can be a major brat. But it always bothers me when I walk into their playroom and see how big it is, and how it's totally filled up with all kinds of girly crap that they like, shelves full of dolls and stuffed animals and a huge dollhouse that they're not really supposed to touch. Everything is pink and flowery, and their bedrooms are exactly alike except that Kate's is pink and Samantha's is purple. I have a room of my own on the third floor, though I'm almost never there, and it's pretty and flowery too. I hate it.
When we find the twins, they are in the bathroom with about ten other little girls, making a big mountain of foam in the sink with some shaving cream they must have stolen from Dad's bathroom. Some of the kids are rubbing foam on their chins. They think they look like Santa Claus but they just look like a bunch of bratty little kids with shaving cream all over them. Samantha has just finished writing “Fuck” on the mirror. When M.F. sees it, she takes a towel and wipes it off—it's a word she knows well from school, where everyone says it a lot. “Hey, guys,” I say to Sam, “what's up?”
Kate sees me and throws her arms around my waist. Sam just keeps on doing whatever evil thing she is up to at the mirror, but she grins at me, like she's sure I approve. “Hey, monster,” I say to Kate, tugging on one of her pigtails. “What's going on in here?”
“We were making a potion,” Kate says.
“With shaving cream?”
“Yeah.” Kate and Sam are wearing matching velvet dresses except that Kate's is red and Sam's is green. They have lace around their collars and white bows in the back, and they've got matching hair ribbons around their pigtails except that Sam is missing one of hers.
“Cool,” I say. “Hey, this is my friend Mary Fred. Actually,she's my foster sister. So that kind of makes her your sister too.”
Sam looks around at M.F. like someone studying a bug and then turns back to her pile of shaving cream. Kate says hi to her and then says, “How can she be your sister? Your mom isn't married anymore.”
“It's like she's adopted,” I say.
“I thought people just adopted babies,” Kate says, looking worried, like she's afraid Dad and Jemma are going to buy her a whole new set of siblings.
“I'm adopted,” says this Asian girl who is helping Sam with the shaving cream. She squirts the last of the can into her hand and smears it on the mirror.
“It means you're really special, doesn't it?” M.F. says to her.
“Sure,” the girl says, looking at herself in the mirror through a layer of foam.
“We better go downstairs now,” I say, thinking that I really ought to stop them from making a total mess of the bathroom but that I don't feel like it. It's not like I'm an adult or anything, and it's really not my problem.
When we get downstairs, the party has gotten even more crowded, and someone is playing Christmas songs on the grand piano. They sound all jazzy, like the soundtrack to a movie. I feel like a lounge lizard, whatever that is exactly. There is a huge Christmas tree in the living room, pretty near the fireplace, and the fire is lit. I can't help imagining the tree and then the whole house going up in one big conflagration (SAT word: a large and destructive fire). People are crowded into every room, even the kitchen, laughing and talking in what begins to sound to me like a horrible roar. Instead of liking this crowd, I start to think of them as lava pouring from a volcano in the living room. I imagine them all turning to meand instead of applauding, they rush at me and try to eat me, like in Night of the Living Dead. This is not good, I think to myself, and I say to M.F., “Come on,” though I don't know where I want her to go.
We pass through the kitchen and out the back door. It's freezing outside and we have left our coats upstairs on the bed, but I sit down on the top step of the stairs that lead into what Jemma calls the garden, though it is just an ordinary backyard. M.F. sits down next to me. “You hate this, don't you?” she says.
“It's not so bad,” I say. “It's just that—”
“I know,” she says.
“The twins are cute,” I say.
“Yessirree,” M.F. says. “Those are some cute twins.”
“I like the twins,” I say. “And I like Jemma.”
“Things can't stay the same,” M.F. says, looking away. “I figured that out. You might want them to stay the same, but they can't.”
“I don't know if I'd want them to stay the same. I wouldn't want to be in eleventh grade for the rest of my life.”
“Lately, Heather, I've been wanting everything to just stop. Don't you feel like we're about to fall off the edge of time?”
“Roy says it's not really the Millennium. He says the real Millennium is next year and that people are just a bunch of idiots.”
“But the numbers are changing, Heather. It's a sign. Everything will change.”
“Are you talking about that big whatever-it-is thingy?”
“Oh, Heather, I just don't want it to happen. I want us to just stay the way we are.”
“Maybe not right here, though,” I say, trying to peel my skirt off the step, which is frozen and is sticking to me. But I know what she means. “Sometimes I just want to get all my toys outof the attic and play with them,” I say. “As if that would bring everything back. Have you ever wanted to do that?”
“We didn't really have toys. We used to make things out of wood, but they always broke or we threw them into the bonfire.”
“I had all these Care Bears. I loved them. I used to
line them up in rows, and then I'd have them get married and stuff like that. And then they'd have babies—Baby Hugs and Baby Tugs.”
“Really?” M.F. looks interested, like she wants to go play with them now. Then she looks serious, like she's just realized that Care Bears are evil and is about to give me a lecture on them. “This is supposed to be a holy day, you know, Heather. It's not just supposed to be a bunch of cocktails.”
“Well, whatever. It never seems very holy to me. In fact, nothing much seems holy at all. It must be nice to have a real religion. We're just sort of nothings.”
“It is nice, Heather, but it's also—it asks a lot of you. I never knew any other way to be. But sometimes I think well, maybe it asks for things that . . .” Her voice kind of trails off.
“I couldn't even get up in the morning to go to church if my life depended on it,” I say gloomily. Now I'm sitting here wishing I had a religion like M.F., and that I knew exactly what the meaning of life was and what I was supposed to do.
“I just wish the Big Cat wasn't coming. So soon,” she says. She looks out at the line of trees at the edge of the backyard. Then she stands up and starts walking back into the house.
I follow her and when we get to the back door, I say, “Well, maybe it won't happen.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she says. “But I just know it will.”
“I guess we'll find out soon enough, won't we?” I say. We go back into the living room and stand next to the food table.Jemma has put out six big cakes, and we dig into them like we haven't eaten in decades.
When we get home, Mom and Roy are sitting in the living room together watching an old movie. The people in the movie are singing “White Christmas,” a song I happen to hate. I think it reminds me of all the things Christmas is supposed to be like. It never snows here on Christmas, not ever. It will snow the week before, the week after, or in March, but on Christmas, forget it.
When Roy sees us, he starts singing “Frosty the Snow Man.” Mom chimes in, like they have been singing it all evening, and they chant “Hippety-hop-hop, hippety-hop-hop!” as if they have been practicing. “Did you girls have a nice time?” she asks us when they have finished.
“Yes, Alice,” M.F. says, like she doesn't want to give too much away.
“They have a nice house, don't they?” Mom sighs. Sometimes she says she doesn't know what they need with all that space, but mostly she tries to control herself and only say positive things about my dad and Jemma. “And the twins are so cute.”
“Yes, ma'am, they sure are.”
“Did you get enough to eat?”
“We sure did, didn't we, Heather? We stuffed ourselves till we were fixing to burst.”
“Did you see Santa Claus on your way home?” Roy asks.
“Nope,” I say.
“He's probably in a traffic jam somewhere over Alaska. Don't worry, he'll get here.”
“Oh, good.” I can see that Mom has put a bunch of presents under the tree. Even when I was little, I could never understand what it is exactly that Santa is supposed to be bringing.The presents are always already there, and I have always known that Mom bought them because I saw all the bags.
“What's the deal with Santa?” Roy says like he is reading my mind. “I mean, you've got this fat old white guy and he's supposed to make all that stuff in his workshop, but then, it all looks like it comes from Target.” Roy says something like this pretty much every Christmas.
“You're exactly right,” M.F. says, looking excited that someone finally agrees with her about something religious. “He's got nothing to do with Christmas, Uncle Roy. Reverend Thigpen says that Santa Claus is a pagan god. He says we should be careful not to worship at his altar.”
“I guess we should get rid of all your presents, then,” Roy says, laughing at M.F. like he usually does. “I guess you don't want any of those pagan gimcracks.”
“Presents? For me?” M.F. looks surprised, even though she had to know perfectly well that we'd all gotten her stuff, and I know she got presents for us too. “It wouldn't be polite, Uncle Roy, if I refused your hospitality by giving back all those presents. It just wouldn't be right.”
This is the first hint of sarcasm I've ever seen from M.F., and I like it just fine.
When I wake up on Christmas morning, for a split second I feel excited when I remember what day it is. Then I remember that I'm not five anymore, and that it's more or less an ordinary day. But then I remember that I bought M.F. a really cool pink necklace and I can't wait to see if she likes it. I lie in bed for a while just feeling cozy and trying to pretend that I'm in a snowbound cabin in somewhere like Maine, or Canada, and that the only food in the house is the goose I shot out back during the snowstorm and a bunch of Little Debbie snackcakes. I snuggle up in my blankets and am about to roll over into a snowy dream when I hear my door open, and someone plunks down at the foot of my bed.
“Heather,” M.F. says in a keyed-up voice. “It's Christmas morning. Get up! We have to go make breakfast before everybody wakes up.” I look up at her through my slitty eyes and she laughs at me. “You look all rubbery,” she says. “Come on!”
There's something in her voice that makes me feel as excited as I was just wishing I was, like we have some big plan to go bring joy and waffles to those less fortunate than us (that is, Mom and Roy), and we are conspirators (SAT word: n. Those who cooperate in accomplishing some unlawful purpose, only our purpose isn't unlawful). I find myself practically leaping out of bed, like I am ready for my secret mission.
On the way down the stairs, I try to say “Waffles or pancakes?” to M.F. but it just comes out as a mumble. But she understands me and says, “I thought we'd try omelettes with red and green peppers.”
“Great idea,” I mumble. We burst into the kitchen like storm troopers and before long we are chopping, beating, and frying everything in sight. While M.F. tends to the eggs, I set the table with the good china and the special holiday mugs we have had since I was little, though they're all chipped and faded. When we're all finished, I go up to Mom's room and wake her. She's already lying awake in her bed, looking kind of sad, like she's been thinking of all the things I've been thinking of. She seems glad to see me and gets up right away, puts on her bathrobe and slippers, and goes to get Roy. Roy is hard to wake up, but we've made a lot of very strong coffee to pour down his throat once we lure him to the dining room.
Roy is never hungry in the morning, and just wants coffee, but none of us ever has the heart to tell M.F. this. Somehow he managesto drag himself down for breakfast, and we all sit around the table. Roy and I are too sluggish to say much, but Mom and M.F. are chattering away about what we're going to do all day, how we're going to open our presents, then take a walk around town, then watch some TV. (Mom is sure that M.F. will like It's a Wonderful Life, which is on six times today.) At three we'll put the turkey in the oven and then we'll have a big dinner and relax.
“Don't you just love Christmas Day?” M.F. says. Even Roy says yes.
It turns out that everyone likes their presents. Mom loves the art book M.F. and I got her of paintings by women. Roy loves his Jerry Garcia tie, or at least he says he does. I'm crazy about everything. Mom bought me a bunch of sweaters and a black fake leather skirt, some earrings, a necklace, a gift certificate to Best Buy so I can get some CDs, and a book on dreams. She bought similar things for M.F. but all the sweaters are shades of pink, and instead of Best Buy, it's Barnes and Noble, and instead of a book, she got her a Mozart CD. M.F. looks totally thrilled with everything, especially the necklace I bought her. The funny thing is that the whole time I've known Roy, which is all my life, I can't remember him ever giving me a present, but this year he gives Mom some dried flowers and M.F. and me each a box of Belgian chocolates. This is especially amazing because since Roy doesn't have a job, he doesn't have any money, and I can't imagine how he paid for these things. He probably got the money from Mom, but it still counts.
Our hike around town isn't to
o much fun because, although of course there isn't a drop of snow anywhere, it's freezing cold out and the wind is whipping against our faces so I know I'm all purple and snotty. M.F. gallops along like she's just getting warmed up, and I have to dash to keep up with her. Royhas stayed home by the fireplace, and I think that was smart of him, but Mom is hanging in there with us, though she looks like she's shivering. As we walk up and down Laurel Avenue, I look for Dylan Magnuson, but all the stores are closed and I know I won't see him. I'm basically hoping that I won't because I know I look horrible. Someone drives by and honks at us, and when we turn to look we see that it is Danny Fox and his mom. Mom waves at them as they pass by and says in a thoughtful voice, “We should invite them over for hot chocolate, shouldn't we?” As I say “NO” very loudly, I notice that M.F. is saying yes with total enthusiasm (lively, absorbing interest or involvement). Oh GOD no, I think, does she have a crush on Danny Fox? I resolve to talk her out of it when I get a chance.
Luckily Mom gives up on the hot chocolate idea, since she must have remembered that she and Libby Fox aren't friends anymore, and we go have a huge dinner and then a nice quiet evening in front of the TV. Emma calls me in the middle of It's a Wonderful Life to tell me that there is a big Y2K party at Sara's house on New Year's Eve, and by the time I get back, Mom and M.F. are crying hysterically and Jimmy Stewart is hugging Donna Reed for the seventy-zillionth time. Roy is sitting in a chair by the fire watching, but he doesn't seem to have the heart to make fun of them. He's slipping.
Sara is one of those people that you're basically friends with, but you don't really like her. I tried explaining this to M.F. when I told her that we have to go to this party, but she totally didn't understand it. “But if you don't like someone, then you're not friends with them, Heather. I mean, it doesn't make sense any other way.”
“It does make sense, M.F. See, Sara's friends with Emma, and their parents are friends, and they go on vacations together and stuff, and Emma's father defended Sara's father when he got put in jail for refusing to divulge his sources back in the eighties or something like that, so I have to be friends with Sara because I'm friends with Emma.”
