by Anne Dayton
“Hey, hey, here’s where the party is,” says a voice from the hallway, and before I turn to look, I know it’s Dave. Today he’s wearing a bright red Santa hat in addition to jeans, a Grinch tie, and a green T-shirt that says “Genghis Khan is my homeboy.” He has an acoustic guitar strapped to his back. He walks into the room and stands in front of Mrs. Slater, then pulls his guitar off his neck and sets it on her bed.
“Hi, I’m Dave.” He holds out his hand to her. She takes it, and though she doesn’t introduce herself, she smiles and continues to suck on the candy cane. “What’s goin’ on, Dominguez?”
“Hey.” I bite my lip. I haven’t really talked to Dave since the concert—since the youth group workday, really—and it feels a little weird to see him standing here. But he appears to have moved past the awkwardness of that day, and I try to act like it never happened, either.
“So what are you two cool chicks up to?” He walks toward the bookshelf to examine the miniature Nativity scene.
“Did you see my tree?” Mrs. Slater asks, pointing to the tree again.
“Rockin’.” He picks up the figurine of Jesus in the manger and turns it over in his hands. He looks from Mrs. Slater, slurping contently on her candy, to me. I cross my legs and stare back at him. “You ready, Dominguez?”
“Ready for what?” I narrow my eyes at him. A lock of brown hair hangs over his right eye, but he doesn’t bother to push it away.
“The Christmas carols.” He shakes his head at me as if I’m an idiot for not knowing. “You’re leading them.”
“What?” Did I just screech? I think I might have just screeched.
“Sure. I play and you sing. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Slater?” Dave says loudly, turning toward her.
“Oh, yes, certainly.” She nods.
“Hey!” I almost say, “That’s not fair! She’s senile and doesn’t know what you asked” but stop myself before making that horrible mistake. Dave’s smiles. It’s like he knows what I want to say. “I don’t know any Christmas carols,” I say finally.
“Now, Ana.” Dave waves the baby Jesus figurine in front of me. “Lying makes baby Jesus cry.”
“So does manipulating.” But Dave is already putting the figure back and pulling his guitar strap over his head again. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and begins to tune it.
“What, no bass today?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Nope.” And without further explanation he strums a few chords, then hums a bit. “And a one, and a two, and . . .” He turns toward Mrs. Slater and starts playing. It’s only a few bars into the song that I realize he’s playing “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.”
“You’re singing that song?” I hiss. With all these old grandmas here? What is he thinking? Dave just closes his eyes and pretends to be really into the song, in an Elton John kind of way, though the way his lips turn up at the corner makes me think he’s actually about to start laughing.
I stand there sputtering for a moment, thinking of stopping him, but then I notice that Sarah is smiling and bobbing her head along to the music.
“Come on, Dominguez.” Dave opens his eyes just as he gets to the chorus. “Sing.” I start to back up. Oh, no. No way am I getting sucked into this madness. Dave presses on as if it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other, and Mrs. Slater starts to hum along, although she doesn’t quite hit the same tune. I see a movement in the hallway and stop. A couple of residents have clustered around the open door to listen to the music.
And though all I really want to do is bury my head and pretend I don’t know either of them, I have to admit, Mrs. Slater looks happy. And Dave looks so ridiculous, with his hat and his tie, singing as if this song is the most serious and important thing in the world, that I can’t help but laugh.
Dave ends the first song and transitions straight into “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” and one person in the hallway starts calling out “like a light bulb” in the wrong places.
Dave smiles at the crowd gathered in the hallway, then turns to me and nods. I turn away, but not before I see him smile. And though I’m looking out the window again, watching the whispers of fog curl around the branches of the barren trees, I start to sing.
26
The Christmas Eve service at church starts at seven, but we’re all lined up in our pew by six forty-five, because Mom was insistent that we get good seats. Churches fill up at Christmas, and while everyone’s welcome and we’re glad to see new faces in church and all, Mom isn’t going to stand in the back when the pews get full. Papá looks quite handsome in his navy blue suit with his dark hair slicked back, and Mom is wearing a new sparkly red top, which I personally think looks a little too Vegas for Christmas Eve, but then, she didn’t ask me. I’m practically brimming over with great ideas, but no one cares.
Of course, I am grateful that she took me shopping last week, and though picking out clothes that we both agree on is tough (she can dress like a showgirl, but she basically wants me to dress like a nun), I feel good in my new dress. The fabric is clingy but not tight, the strings of the wrap dress tie at the side, and the skirt falls just below my knees. Mom hasn’t said anything about the fact that I didn’t put on the nylons that she always insists I wear. I hate them—I mean, nylons? I’m not eight or eighty—but up until recently, for some reason, it never occurred to me to just not wear them. Either she hasn’t noticed, or she is trying really hard to protect the image of our perfect family by not blowing up at me in church. Either way, I’m not wearing the nylons, so score one for Team Ana.
Maria is here tonight, too. She usually goes to Catholic mass on Sundays, and I can’t remember her ever coming to church with us, even on Christmas, but she wanted to come tonight. I don’t know if she’s still not feeling well or what, but Mom said, “Of course, she’s welcome to join us. She’s part of the family.” Maria’s sitting quietly next to me, looking around the sanctuary as it begins to fill up, and I can’t help but wonder what she thinks of all of it. The church she goes to is ornate and full of dark wood and beautiful paintings and sweet smells. In contrast, our sleek modern auditorium feels a little naked. The only decoration is a wooden cross, but not the rugged, authentic-looking kind. This wooden cross was made by some fancy modern designer, with dark polished wood and a glossy finish.
Music begins to filter in through the loudspeakers, and it takes me a minute to realize that someone is actually playing the piano at the front of the church. I try to focus my thoughts on the meaning of Christmas and prepare my heart for worship, but it’s kind of hard with so much going on around me.
Dear God, I begin, thank you for coming down to earth. Thank you for . . .
Riley’s family files into the pew ahead of us. Her mom, with her perfect blond hair sprayed into place, turns around and begins to chat with my mom. Riley slumps down in the pew and doesn’t turn or acknowledge me, and her brother, Michael, mumbles under his breath and taps on the padded part of the pew next to him. I hear some numbers and realize he’s counting. Riley’s dad looks like a Ken doll, and he puts his arm around Riley’s shoulders. Riley slides into her dad and lets her head lean on his shoulder a little. Papá is staring straight ahead, and I can tell by his eyes that he’s physically here, but mentally he’s somewhere else. I try to focus again.
Please, God, let everything be okay with Papá’s business, I pray. Let him relax tonight and focus his thoughts on what Christmas really means, and . . .
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a group of people walk into the sanctuary all wearing green. It’s Dave and his family. They file into a pew on the right side of the sanctuary, and I almost choke when I notice that all five of them—Dave, his parents, and his two younger brothers—are wearing matching sweaters. Matching light-up reindeer sweaters, to be exact, all of which are definitely lighting up. Dave even has a light-up reindeer tie to match. Mom notices, too, and clucks her tongue, but I can’t help but laugh. Everyone else here is wearing their very best clothes, but the Bre
cht family is acting as if there’s nothing weird at all about their attire.
The lights of the sanctuary dim, white projection screens lower from the ceiling, and soon we’re all watching a video about the first Christmas. It feels a little weird to me to be watching a movie at the Christmas Eve service, but everyone else seems pretty into it, so I try to imagine what it must have been like for Mary and Joseph to be strangers, alone and out of place, far from home among people who didn’t know them and didn’t care. I can relate, but—I don’t mean to be sacrilegious or anything here—I think this might have been a little more compelling for me a few months ago.
These days, I can’t help but wonder if Jesus ever had to tell little white lies to Mary and Joseph to keep them from breathing down his neck all the time. Probably not, since he was perfect. I wish I knew his secret.
The lights come up, startling me out of my thoughts. I glance down the row, and Papá gives me a little smile. I smile back and feel very peaceful all of a sudden. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him smile that this simple gesture fills me with hope. Maybe everything will be okay after all.
“They showed Mary twenty-three times, but they only showed Joseph twelve times,” Michael says loudly in the pew in front of us, and I hear a few people chuckle.
The choir gets up to sing, and I lose myself in the music. In this crazy world, we really can have hope for the future because of what happened in Bethlehem so long ago. I thank the Lord that we can hope for better things to come.
It isn’t until the service is almost over that I realize Tyler isn’t here.
27
“There’s nothing to do around here,” Zoe moans, draped over her bed on her back. She places her arm over her eyes dramatically, like she’s starring in some lame TV drama. Two weeks without school always seems like a really great idea at the beginning, but the truth is, Christmas break gets kind of boring. Once all the excitement of the holiday is over, there’s just not that much to do.
“This town is so boring.” Christine is splayed out on Zoe’s beanbag chair. We’re all munching on stale candy corn that Zoe pulled out from under her bed, and the tasteless waxy candy only adds to our malaise.
“So there’s no big town celebration or anything?” I ask, but Christine shakes her head. Her cherry-red hair fans out. It didn’t used to bother me to spend New Year’s Eve at home, watching the ball drop on TV with Maria, but I’m not a baby anymore. There has to be something better to do in this town.
“Nothing. This place is so dull.” She tosses a handful of candy corn into her mouth and makes a face. “Your church isn’t doing anything, Ana?”
“No.” I sigh. Though that would have been perfect. “The youth pastor is away visiting his in-laws, and we don’t even have youth group over the Christmas break.”
I stare up at the ceiling, which has those ugly sparkly bits in the cottage-cheesey plaster. The uneven brown carpet is pressing into my back, but I can’t bring myself to move.
“Zoe? What about your church?” I ask out of desperation.
“No way. They do some weird service out under the redwoods, but trust me, we do not want to go to that.” She tosses a candy corn into the air and tries to catch it in her mouth, but it bounces off her cheek and lands on the lavender bedspread. She leaves it there and tries again. “There’s chanting involved.”
“We could hang out at my house with The Bimbo and The Bimbot,” Christine laughs. “You know, make macaroni necklaces and stay up until nine.” Zoe and I both know she’s not serious, so we don’t even bother to answer. It seems like too much work.
“If only one of us could drive.” Of course I don’t know where we’d even go, but still, driving around would be better than this. How can a whole town have nothing going on? “What’s everyone else doing? It’s not like we’re the only three highs-schoolers in Half Moon Bay.” I reach my hand into the candy bag.
“Everyone else is skiing,” Zoe says. I realize she may be right. With some of the best skiing in the country only a few hours away in Tahoe, many families take off for their mountain cabins this time of year. It was the same in San Jose, but my parents aren’t exactly the outdoorsy type, so I’ve never been. Zoe’s never said anything about it, but I kind of suspect money is tight for her family, which explains why they’re sticking around, and Christine . . . well, she’s always the wild card. “We could hitchhike to Mexico.” Zoe grabs some more candy corn.
“We could order takeout and watch Molly Ringwald movies all night,” Christine says.
“Who?” Zoe looks around, but neither Christine nor I have the energy to explain who Molly Ringwald is.
“We could fly to the moon,” Zoe says.
“We could eat Taco Bell until we puke.” Christine smiles.
“We could sleep on the beach,” I say.
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, since they both turn and look at me. Okay, I’ll admit it was strange, but I didn’t think it was any weirder than suggesting we fly to the moon.
“That’s it!” Zoe pushes herself up to a sitting position. “We should go camping on the beach.”
“Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head. “That was a joke. You know, like hitchhiking to Mexico?”
“But we could.” Zoe stands up and starts pacing. “My parents have all this camping equipment we never use. We totally could.”
“Beats Taco Bell,” Christine says, shrugging.
“Seriously?” They both nod. “You guys, my parents would never let me. Never in a million years. I’m sorry.”
“Hm,” Christine says. I kind of like her new hair color. It makes her look dangerous. “Well, would they let you camp out anywhere else?”
“We could do it in the backyard,” Zoe says. This idea might sound lame if it were my backyard, which is a perfectly manicured patch of grass bordered with pansies and impatiens in tasteful pots, but Zoe’s backyard is the forest. It would be like really camping. “My parents would totally let us camp there, and we could make a fire and roast marshmallows and stuff out there. They wouldn’t care.” She turns to me. “Would your parents let you do that, Ana?”
If Dreamy and Ed were in the house, we’d technically be supervised even if we were in the yard. I’m not sure Mom and Papá would go for the sleeping outside bit, but I could just tell them I’m sleeping at Zoe’s, which is technically the truth.
“Oh, come on,” Christine says, her eyes pleading. “It would be so fun.”
Zoe nods. “It would be really cool. We have the sleeping bags and everything, too, so you wouldn’t need to bring anything, if that helps.”
“I’ll ask.” It’s the best plan we’ve come up with so far. They have to say yes. They just have to.
***
You can tell a lot about a person by how they roast their marshmallows. Christine is the kind of person who sticks the whole thing straight into the fire and lets it ignite, then eats the blackened gooey mess in one bite. Zoe is impatient. She lets each marshmallow get warm and a little golden, then plops it in her mouth and quickly moves on to another. I like to take my time and let each marshmallow get perfectly and evenly brown.
Zoe’s parents don’t know we’re even roasting marshmallows. They don’t approve of marshmallows, since they’re made with gelatin, which comes from animal hooves, apparently, but Christine, always a forward thinker, brought a bag along just in case. Zoe’s parents did provide tofudogs and rice pilaf for us to cook on their camp stove, and for the dessert they gave us chunks of spiced pineapple to roast. I don’t think I have ever tasted anything so good in my entire life—it’s sweet and hot all at the same time. But there’s something about marshmallows. You need them when you’re camping. And illicit ones taste even better.
“You guys, I think I’m going to ralph.” Zoe clutches her stomach as she finishes a marshmallow. She reaches for another one anyway.
“Ha,” Christine cries. Delight registering on her face as another marshmallow goes up in flames. “Take that, sucker.” S
he waves it around until it is extinguished, then blows on it until it’s cool.
I nibble on my own marshmallow and sigh. This is so perfect. The only thing that would make this more perfect would be if someone male were here, holding my hand, but since that’s likely never to happen, I’ll settle for this. I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in ages. The air is cool and moist, and we’re all wrapped in layers of clothing and big, thick blankets. We’re surrounded by towering trees, and you can just make out a few stars up there through the branches. God, you sure make some cool stuff. I take a deep breath of the pure sweet air. The night is so still and peaceful, it almost seems like we really are somewhere out in the middle of the woods, and though Zoe’s house is only a few hundred feet away through the woods, we’re so decked out that we could survive out here for weeks, if we needed to.
It shouldn’t have surprised me that Zoe’s family takes camping seriously, but I’m still kind of in awe. I’ve never seen a tent so big. This thing has three rooms. Rooms. In a tent. I can stand all the way up in here without hitting my head. It’s crazy. And of course they have high-tech sleeping bags and air mattresses, and they’re even letting us use their camp stove and lanterns.
Even if we owned these things, my parents would never let me use an open flame, but Zoe knows about all of this stuff, so her parents let us be. She knew how to pick a good spot for the tent—she found a place where the ground was flat and not too rocky. She instructed us on how to set the tent up, and we had it up in no time. She knows how to work all of the equipment. It’s nice to see Zoe in control, not just because Christine and I are so useless we’d probably die out here on our own, but also . . . it’s just nice to see Zoe in the role of a capable leader. I don’t know that I’ve ever really seen that before, and it’s cool.
