Five Days of Famous

by Alyson Noel

  I hit the bend in the walk that leads to my drive, escape finally within reach, when she tugs hard on my sleeve. “Don’t you think you should change?” She uncurls a bony finger to point at my Greentree hoodie, but I have no idea what she’s talking about. “The Christmas sweater. The one your mom made you wear. I saw you shove it into your backpack just before school. You should put it back on before she sees.”

  She says it so openly. Like she’s not the least bit embarrassed to admit she was watching me without my consent.

  Still, there’s no doubt she’s right. My mom would be really hurt if she ever found out I was so embarrassed by the sweater she knit, I hid it in my backpack.*

  For once, Plum’s obsession with me did me some good.

  I yank the sweater over my hoodie, which makes it look a little bulky and strange, but I’m in a hurry to get away from Plum, and my mom will be so happy to see me wearing it, she won’t even notice the lumps. As soon as the sweater’s in place and I’m more or less situated, I try to leave again, but Plum steps before me, wearing this weird expression (weirder than usual), and then she shoves a red-and-green box into my chest.

  “Happy birthday!” she cries, her face turning so red I’m tempted to run away and never look back.

  “Today’s not my birthday,” I tell her, trying to keep from frowning as I push the box away. I don’t want to be rude, but there’s no way I’m accepting that. It’s like the final insult on a complete failure of a day.

  Had things gone as I’d fully imagined, Tinsley would be standing here instead.

  But Plum refuses to take it, even going so far as to bend my fingers around it. “Your birthday’s on Christmas, I know.” She smiles brightly, too brightly, as though she refuses to acknowledge how desperate I am to be rid of her. “I just thought I should give it to you now.” She tucks a chunk of blond hair, the color of a bowl of soggy Cheerios, behind her ears, but the curls won’t be tamed and spring right back again. “I know how sometimes your birthday gets overshadowed by all the holiday stuff, and I wanted you to know I didn’t forget.” Her voice is shaky, her face wild and flushed. It’s the same look I’ve seen during the backstage meet and greets on the Josh Frost show. The look every girl who goes before him gets when she imagines the day they’ll be married with little Frost babies of their own and time can’t move quickly enough.

  I turn away, eager to put this whole mess behind me. But of course she insists on following me all the way to the top of my drive. “I made it especially for you,” she says, as though it adds some kind of value, when the truth is, I’m not the least bit curious as to what waits inside. “You don’t have to open it now, of course. But don’t wait too long. It won’t last forever.”

  “Got it,” I say, hoping this is it and she’ll finally move on. I mean, how much longer does she plan on beating this horse?

  “I even made the candle.”

  I close my eyes, imagining myself as the stallion she insists on whipping long past the moment I’ve heaved my last breath.

  “It was really fun to make. Oh, and there’s a small box of matches too, so don’t forget to make a wish. And make sure it’s a good one. There’s power in a wish—don’t waste it on the mundane.”

  I frown in a way that takes over my face and make no attempt to hide it.

  If wishes came true, I wouldn’t be standing here now.

  I’d be in a limo with Josh on one side and Tinsley on the other, speeding down the highway toward fortune and fame.

  Plum’s lips start to spasm as her eyes go all squinty and tight. But even though I’m sure it’s my fault, I’m already feeling crummy enough. I don’t have room for Plum’s crummy stuff too.

  “Hope you have a good birthday,” she calls as I race for my door, desperate to be rid of her. “And remember, choose your wish carefully—sometimes they really do come true!”

  * * *

  * Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I had to include this part. I was only trying to give an honest account of how I felt then. Clearly I don’t feel that way now. Please keep that in mind as you continue to read. Also, I’m sorry that because of my decision to accept a ride from a crazy person, the sweater you knit will end up spending the rest of eternity in an evidence locker.

  2:43 P.M.—4:41 P.M.

  TINSEL MADNESS

  After ditching Plum’s gift on the kitchen counter, I head upstairs to my room, where I immediately get started on the First Order of Business, which is to rip the Josh Frost poster from my wall and shred it into tiny, unrecognizable bits.

  Not that I actually blame Josh.

  Or at least not entirely.

  While it’s nice to know he saw my potential, it clearly wasn’t enough to get him to override Ezer. And as much as I once admired him, turns out Josh isn’t the hero I thought.

  He let me down.

  And now it’s time to move on.

  “What’s all this?” My older sister barges into my space. She doesn’t even bother to knock, despite the sign on my door with these clearly stated instructions. “Oh no—did you and Josh break up?”

  I glare at the space on my wall where the tape that once held the poster has removed four rectangles of eggshell-colored paint and wait for her to leave.

  “Does it have anything to do with that sweater you’re wearing?” She laughs way too hard at her own dumb joke. She always thinks she’s funnier than she is. “Please tell me you didn’t actually wear that to school.” Her voice is kind of loud, like she doesn’t even care if our mom overhears.*1

  “Get out of my room, Holly.” I keep my back turned. No point in looking when the image of her long dark hair, smirky face, and dumb ironic T-shirt is practically tattooed on my brain.

  “I’m not in your room,” she says, which means she’s hovering just shy of the doorway. The usual game.

  “Get out of my proximity, then,” I say. My usual reply.

  “Happily. But not until I fulfill my sisterly duty and tell you that Mom needs your help hanging the garland and wreaths and whatever else she needs to get ready for the tree. Dad’s bringing it home tonight. You’re supposed to help with that too.”

  Inwardly I groan. I’m not really feeling the holiday spirit. I mean, why does it always have to be me? Why can’t Holly do something for a change?

  I’m about to ask exactly that when she says, “Not only am I older than you, but I’m also smarter than you, which means I figured out long ago how to recuse myself from Mom’s annual bout of Christmas craziness. This one’s on you, Nick.”

  Typical Holly. Using a word like recuse and pronouncing it in a big-deal way to show off her fancy vocabulary.

  I turn, wanting her to see my eyes purposely rolling. And that’s when I confirm that her hair really is hanging in her face, her expression is the dictionary definition of smirky, and today’s T-shirt reads DEAR SANTA, THE NAUGHTY LIST STARTS HERE, with an arrow pointing up toward her chin.

  “Nice.” I roll my eyes again, watching Holly bob her knees into a fake curtsy.

  Even though my mom is pretty much annoy-proof during the holidays, even though she’s used to Holly’s politics and protests, she still has her limits. Which is why I’ve been tapped as her go-to child from December 19 to January 2.

  Everyone’s mom has a thing. Plum’s mom is really into cooking and knitting. Dougall’s is really into her new family to the point where she often forgets about Dougall. And my mom practically lives for Christmas. I mean, who else names their kids Nick and Holly? Also, she loves to tell the story of how she convinced her doctor to induce my delivery a few days early so I’d be born on Christmas Day—like she expects me to thank her or something.

  Back when I was little and didn’t know any better, I thought it was cool to be born on Christmas. I actually believed that the lights and decorations and trees all over the neighborhood were put there to celebrate me.

  By the time I hit kindergarten, I’d learned the harsh truth. And the thing is, it’s just like Plum s
ays—when your birthday falls on Christmas, it tends to get overshadowed by a much bigger birthday.

  Still, just because Holly has trained my mom into thinking she’s unable to help out during the holidays, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to play along. I’ve come to dread this time of year for much better reasons than hers.

  “Come on, Holly,” I say. “Why can’t you do something nice for a change and help Mom instead?” My voice sounds a little whinier than I’d like, but really, I’m so desperate it’s not like I care.

  “Because she specifically asked for you.” Holly has an answer for everything. “Besides, you know I don’t participate in manufactured Hallmark holidays.”

  “Christmas is a Hallmark holiday?” I roll my eyes a third time. It’s become the only expression I’m capable of around her.

  “It is now.” Her mouth twists to one side as her eyebrows do that thing where they shoot halfway up her forehead. “It’s all about shopping and spending—it’s mass consumerism at its worst.”

  “And yet, you still have no problem cashing Nana’s annual Christmas check.”

  “Only so I can donate half the proceeds to Unicef.” She turns away, as though I’ll actually let that one slide. As if I don’t know better. Holly is quite possibly the most selfish person I’ve ever met.

  “And the other half? What’d you do with that? Is that how you bought the charming T-shirt you’re wearing?”

  Holly glares and heads down the hall, her voice trailing off as she says, “Like I said, Mom wants you downstairs.”

  “Nick—there you are—just in time!”

  My mom tips her head in a way that causes her to teeter even more precariously from the top of the stepladder. With a length of garland gripped between her teeth and a Christmas wreath looped around her neck, she looks like she’s putting on some kind of bizarre Yuletide performance.

  “Can you help me out here? Just hold the ladder steady and let me know if the garland swoops are equally spaced.”

  She hitches onto her toes and reaches toward the ceiling in a way that makes me fear for her safety, but when it comes to decorating for Christmas, my mom’s all too willing to test the theory of gravity.

  Other than a few minor edits, it’s pretty much the same decor every year. And while I guess it looks nice enough, I’ve never understood her insistence on the fake snow and icicles when there’s usually no shortage of the real thing right outside the front door.

  “How was school?” she asks, the words muffled by the tack she’s now placed between her front teeth, sharp side in. Another dangerous move, but to my mom, it’s all about the craft.

  “Terrible,” I say, mostly to see if she’s really listening.

  “That Josh Frost was there today, wasn’t he?” she asks, proving she’s not really listening, just making small talk. Her voice brightens when she adds, “How’d that go?”

  “Awful.” I free up a length of garland, watching as one of her feet completely loses contact with the ladder as she stretches along the wall, veering way past my comfort zone.

  “That must’ve been exciting for you.” She rights herself again and climbs back down to survey her work, pulling at the sleeves of a Christmas sweater that’s more embarrassing than mine, then pushing a hand through a cloud of shortish dark hair that’s best described as practical.

  “Mmmm” is the best I can manage. No point in saying anything more when, yet again, we’ve come to that most wonderful time of the year, when I, Nick Dashaway, my mother’s very own Christmas miracle, am rendered invisible.

  I glance around the room, taking in the three red felt stockings hung by the chimney with care, including one for our dog, Sir Dasher Dashaway*2; the jars crammed full of chocolates and candy canes; the tinsel draped over just about every surface that’s not covered with a garland, a poinsettia, or an icicle; all the way to the enormous plastic bins stuffed full of ornaments, all lined up and ready to go, just waiting for the tree to arrive.

  Oh, and did I mention the continuous loop of Christmas carols that plays in the background? It’s pretty much the Dashaway sound track until January 2.

  Tinsel Madness. That’s what this is.

  Everything in my life leans to the extreme.

  My sister is extremely annoying.

  My mom is extremely Christmas obsessed.

  My dad is extremely stressed over his business ever since The Depot opened in the town next to ours.

  My dog has an extremely bad case of flatulence.

  My friends are extremely nerdy.

  And the extremely cool life that I dreamed of is extremely over before it could actually get off the ground.

  “So, what do you think?” My mom looks between her holiday masterpiece-in-the-making and me.

  “Looks like you’ve done it again,” I say, not wanting to hurt her feelings. When I see the way she grins in response, I feel better for trying. Just because my day sucked doesn’t mean I need to take hostages and make everyone else miserable too.

  While my mom fusses with decorations that don’t require the use of a stepladder, I eat a microwaved dinner alone at the counter. The table is reserved for decorating the hundreds of cookies the oven will begin regurgitating on a regular basis within the next hour so my mom can package them as gifts for neighbors, the postman, and pretty much everyone we know, including people we barely know. Then I grab the microwaved meal my mom packed for my dad and head out for the first night of my unofficial (and officially unpaid) holiday job at the Dashaway Home and Hardware.

  Even though I sometimes complain about not getting paid, for the most part I really don’t mind. I’ve been hanging around the shop since I was a kid, though it wasn’t until last summer that my dad gave me an actual schedule and taught me how to run the cash register. My dad’s a good guy, and I like spending time with him when he’s not totally stressed, which these days is practically never. Then again, it’s always kind of hectic around the holidays. Christmas is the busiest time of year on account of the Christmas tree lot my dad runs in the back, so it’s good that I’ll be there to help if he needs me.

  The usual routine goes like this: I ride my bike to the shop, showing up more or less on time, then I hand over the food and cover the register while my dad eats in his office. Then, when it’s time to close up shop, we toss my bike in the back of his truck and he drives us both home. It’s an okay arrangement, I guess, but this year I’m hoping we can change it up a bit.

  For the longest time I’ve been begging to help out on the Christmas tree lot, which is so much cooler than ringing up lightbulbs and toilet plungers for the parents of the classmates who refuse to acknowledge me.

  The lot is where the action is. But until now, my dad said I was too short and scrawny to be of much help.*3 So instead he always hires one or two kids from the local high school.

  But my growth spurt last summer also resulted in seven additional pounds, some of which is genuine muscle. Not to mention the two inches tacked on to my height. And if my dad’s been too stressed to notice, then I guess I’ll just have to show him.

  * * *

  *1 Mom and Dad, if you’re reading this, then maybe you’ll finally see what I’ve been telling you all along: Holly is not a nice person. This is just one example of what I’ve been forced to put up with for the last almost-thirteen years.

  *2 In defense of his name, Holly and I were very young when we got him, and we thought it sounded distinguished.

  *3 Okay, so maybe he didn’t say those actual words, but trust me, it was implied.

  5:25 P.M.—7:45 P.M.

  THREE TURTLEDOVES

  “Hey, kiddo,” my dad calls the second I walk through the door.

  I pause. Telling myself, not for the first time, that I really need to ask him to stop calling me that. I’m older now. The nickname no longer fits.

  Problem is, right before he saw me, I saw him. And with his hair all gray and his face all creased, well, he looked so tired I can’t bring myself to do it. So I
head into his office and deposit his dinner on his desk before joining him in the aisle where all the sealants and glues are displayed.

  “How was school?” he asks, and I’m just about to answer when Sir Dasher Dashaway, the store’s unofficial mascot, runs over to greet me, farting the entire way.

  “Aw, Dash.” I plug my nose with one hand and pet him with the other.

  “He’s getting old.” My dad reaches for a can of holiday-themed air freshener, practically nuking the place with a cinnamon-and-clove-scented cloud.

  “Is that what’s gonna happen to you?” I joke, just as two cars pull up to the front of the store, headlights blazing so brightly through the window that we’re temporarily blinded.

  “Think they’re here for a new sprinkler system?” my dad asks. Though, unfortunately for him, his poker face is as bad as mine, and well before he can get the words out, he’s already grinning.

  It’s a game we play. We try to guess what a customer will ask for by picking one of the store’s more obscure or off-season offerings, only to see if we’re right.

  One time I guessed a stack of beach towels in the middle of a snowstorm, and dang if Plum’s mom didn’t come in on her way to her sister’s house in Florida, looking for precisely that.

  The win earned me a crumpled ten-dollar bill plucked fresh from the register, which I put toward the latest Josh Frost CD. But this time, before I can guess, the engines cut, the lights dim, and the Turtledove family, including Mac, springs into view.

  Mr. Turtledove climbs out of his customized truck, pushing through the door with a hearty “Hello!,” while Mrs. Turtledove and her lovely son, Mac, continue to sit in her big fat Mercedes, cell phones glued to their ears.

  They’re probably fielding calls from Hollywood agents who heard about the latest Greentree sensation.