by Anne Dayton
“I’m sorry. I didn’t go about that right.” Dad rolls in his bottom lip. “But I would like to meet your . . . the guys . . . who are your friends.”
I pick a fuzz ball off my black mittens, then roll my window down a little more, hoping to let the awkwardness leak out of the car. I can’t believe we have to talk about Andrew. “Okay,” I mumble, hoping he heard it because I don’t know if I can say it again.
Dad’s shoulders relax. “Okay.” He fidgets with the radio dial. “Good.” He finds a talk radio station and sits back. “He seemed very nice. I think I know who his father is.”
I nod. There’s got to be a way to change the subject. Let’s see. Candace. There’s got to be something I can say about Candace.
“Are you at all worried about Candace’s ex-husband?” I blurt out. I’m kind of proud of myself, actually. This might be just the thing to raise doubts. “They were married for a long time. Are you sure she’s ready for this whole marriage thing again?”“I’m not worried.” Dad shakes his head. “Are you?”
“I don’t know. They got married pretty young. She must have loved him a lot.” I study his face to see how he will react. Maybe I’m onto something here.
Dad gives me a shy smile. “We’ve had plenty of long talks about this, and aside from Emma, they don’t have anything in common anymore. There’s no need to be concerned.” He bobs his head a little bit. “Don’t worry. She’s not going anywhere.”
His smile is so genuine that . . . He thought I was actually worried she might leave! Is he that dense? How can this man be genetically related to me?
As I’m sputtering, trying to come up with a response, Dad takes a sharp exit off the highway and we careen down the frontage road, turning onto a small dirt path between two fields. Unlike most of the fields around our town, which are empty in the winter, these fields are bursting with green trees in neat rows.
“We’re here.” Dad sounds about as uncomfortable as I feel.
“What is this place?” Outside my window, cheery people decked out in flannel are stomping around in a muddy field. “Isn’t this where Cabbage Patch Kids are born or something?”
“No,” he coughs. “It’s one of those Christmas tree farms.”
I turn to my dad and see that his face is filled with hope.
“We need a tree, and I thought it’d be fun to cut our own this year.” He musses my hair, and somewhere deep inside my memory bank I recall him doing that years ago.
He waits for a moment to see how I will react. I could run, end this ridiculous outing now. Or I could grab the keys and wrestle my way into the driver’s seat. He’s watching me carefully, and I sigh. Okay, if he’s going to try, I guess I have to try too.
“Let’s go kill a tree.”
We climb out of the car and stroll over to a guy wearing one of those big Elmer Fudd-looking hunting caps and a name tag that reads Buddy.
“Hi, we’d like to get a Christmas tree.”
Buddy eyes my dad’s expensive haircut, manicured nails, and J.Crew wool coat. “The precut trees are right behind me,” he says through a wad of something in his cheek and gestures over his shoulder.
“We want to squeeze the life out of it all by ourselves.” I mimic chopping it down.
My dad laughs quietly, but Buddy is not exactly into the holiday spirit. His nostrils flare. “Cut yer own trees are right there.” He turns around behind him and grabs a saw from a rack. “Here’s your saw.”
Dad reaches for the saw slowly, as if Buddy might try to bite his hand, then we hightail it out of there.
“What is his deal?” Dad says, nearly tripping over a hole in the ground. His use of slang sounds so foreign that it makes me laugh.
If I were with the Miracle Girls, or even Emma . . .
But you’re not, Christine. You’re with your dad, and he’s trying.
“I think he was a disgruntled Santa’s helper.”
We walk over to a field with long rows of Christmas trees in all shapes and sizes. Dad wanders through the closest row, running his hands over the needles. “They look kind of funny like this, don’t they? I’ve only ever seen them after they’ve been domesticated.” This is about as close to roughing it as the Lees get.
I kick the trunk of a big Scotch pine. “Ow! They’re vicious in the wild.” He smiles, and I begin to relax. This isn’t so bad. We wander up and down the aisles, hunting for the perfect tree. At one point, he stands behind a particularly small tree and frowns. But once he pronounces it “Tiny Tim” and gets a dirty look from another cranky worker, I know he must really be related to me. It’s funny, I look like my mom, and my dad couldn’t even draw a stick figure, but I guess I am like him in some ways.
“What about this beaut?” I slap my hands together and puff out my chest like a logger.
Dad leaves a particularly sad evergreen specimen and comes over to inspect my tree. He nods and strokes his chin thoughtfully, as if appraising it carefully.
I run my hand over it like Vanna White. “It’s tall, green, and, um, I think it’s straight, and—,” I lean in and take a huge whiff, “it smells piney.”
Dad shrugs, making me worry about that saw in his hand getting a little too close to his knee. “Works for me.”
“Then let’s chop this sucker down.”
Dad pretends to crack his knuckles and loosen up his neck. “Okay, I’m going in.” He hands me the saw, lowers himself very slowly, and then says to me, “Scalpel!” I hand the tool back to him.
It takes him quite a while to saw through the trunk of our tree. I watch many families pass us, their fathers shouldering their trees or showing off by helping the workers tie them to the top of their SUVs, but Dad does eventually get our tree to fall over. Well, he sort of pushes it over, but I cheer anyway.
25
“On your mark.” Fritz wiggles his eyebrows. “Get set. Sculpt!”
At the sound of his voice, thirty teenagers squeal in delight and begin to cover paper plates with piles of whipped cream. On my left, Ana is carefully squirting the whipped cream into precise spots. Riley, on my right, is going for a tall tower of cream and sculpting it with her hands.
When Ana invited me to the big youth group Christmas party, I kind of put her off. Things are still weird with all of us. I’ve seen Ana and I’ve seen Riley, but this is the first time I’ve seen them together since the big spat over Tom, or school, or whatever their problem really is. They haven’t said a word to each other all night.
When Fritz told us we’d be sculpting winterscapes out of whipped cream, I wasn’t even surprised. Every time I darken the doors of this place, Jell-O, whipped cream, marshmallows, or eggs are involved. I’m just glad nothing is being squirted on me tonight.
“There’s a huge prize at stake.” Fritz walks through the rows of competitors and tries to act like this is a serious event. He looks down at my blank red plate as he approaches us. “Christine, not into dairy?”
“I’m lactose intolerant.”
Fritz chuckles and walks over to inspect Zoe’s piece. “Is that a stable?”
“I’m trying to do a whole manger scene,” she says, sculpting a fairly impressive cow.
I take the cold can of whipped cream and draw a smiley face on my plate. I set the can down, then sit back and squint at it.
At least Three Car Garage is singing cheesy Christmas classics for us. Dave is wearing a bright red necktie and an amazing Santa sweater that made Ana laugh hysterically, so that alone has made my time here worth it.
“Okay, five minutes left.” Judy, Fritz’s wife and partner in crime, is taking notes on a clipboard.
Next to Andrew, Tyler seems like such a cheese ball. I don’t know how I ever thought he was so wonderful. It’s funny how crushes blur your sense of judgment.
“And, STOP!” Fritz screams as the timer on Judy’s watch beeps.
“Okay, I want to see all hands on the tabletop as Judy and I come around to score your masterpieces.” Fritz and Judy whisper to each ot
her and make notes on their boards, trying to act very serious, as they walk down the line, judging each “sculpture.”
“Hey, Ana. Christine.” We turn to the sound of Riley’s voice, and I see something white flying through the air. I duck, but a tiny glob of whipped cream lands on Ana’s hand, and Riley howls in delight.
I stand up, grab my can of whipped cream, and give it a good shake. “That was really stupid, Riley.” I point at my mostly empty plate. “As you can see, I have the fullest can here.”
I hold the can over her head, wiggling my finger over the trigger. “I wonder how you’d look with a nice hat?” I shake the can again.
Riley looks up. “Don’t do it! I’ll get you back!”
While she’s distracted, Ana seizes the opportunity and shoots whipped cream toward Riley. It lands on her face, and people around us hush and stare. I back away, slowly. Uh-oh. Riley grabs a wad of napkins and runs them over her face, then tosses the napkins down.
“I can’t believe you did that!” She grabs her own can, but hesitates.
Ana cocks her head to the side. “You going to cry about it, cheerleader?” She puts her finger on the nozzle of her can. “Can’t take a joke?”
Uh-oh. Wait. Was that a joke?
“Oh, I can take a joke,” Riley says, laughing. She keeps a smile pasted on her face as she calmly makes a Z across Ana’s fancy Banana Republic top.
Ana looks down in horror, then lifts her head carefully, and a slow smile spreads across her face. “It’s on.”
“Guys?”
Zoe is at my side in a moment, but she’s too late. Ana and Riley are spraying each other with whipped cream as everyone else in the gym runs for cover. Ana and Riley are screaming stuff at one another, but I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, nor can I tell whether they’re joking or serious. Maybe a little of both.
They fall to the ground in one wet mass and begin to roll around, spraying each other with whipped cream, and Zoe and I step farther away. I’m happy to stop them from killing each other, but not if they’re covered in whipped cream. There is a line.
“Ladies, ladies!” Fritz shouts above them, but they don’t seem to hear him. Ana screams, and Riley fills her mouth with whipped cream. Fritz walks around to the other side of them. “Stop it!”
And then an ear-splitting whistle peals through the gym. The girls stop rolling around and look up. Judy has her arms crossed. “That’s enough.”
Riley seems stunned that everyone is watching them. She laughs a little and stands up, then helps Ana up awkwardly.
“How about a hug?” Ana says quietly. Riley eyes her skeptically, but they embrace, getting more whipped cream all over each other. I can’t tell if they’re smiling or not.
***
I never knew you could take a bath with nothing more than a little hand soap, paper towels, and a sink, but Ana and Riley have managed to do just that. They’re still eyeing each other warily, but at least they’re not throwing things at each other. Maybe that means they got the tension out with their little stunt. Maybe this whole crazy thing was just good ol’ fun. Right? I mean, that’s what it has to be about.
We locked the door, so it’s only the four of us in this tiny little church bathroom that smells like diapers. The least modest of all of us, Riley just peeled her shirt off and stuck it under the faucet, and now she’s drying it with the hand dryer.
I clear my throat to break the silence, trying to think of something to say. Ana glances at me, then turns back to her shirt. I meet Zoe’s eye, and she grimaces.
Well . . . this is kind of the perfect opportunity to get their take on Andrew. With all this other weirdness going on, I haven’t really had a chance to ask them about it. Should I bring it up?
I hesitate, and Zoe jumps in. Bless her.
“Guys?” Zoe is boring her eyes into the industrial-grade tile floor as if there were a hole opening up in it. “I have to tell you something.”
Ana waits expectantly, and Riley smiles. “You okay, Zo?”
Zoe gives her a dopey grin. “Maybe?” She takes a deep breath. “Marcus tried to kiss me.”
“What?!” Ana screams.
Zoe glows red from head to toe. “And I kind of let him.”
“You did?!” My own loud voice startles me.
“I didn’t really mean to. And it was just a peck on the lips. It doesn’t really count.”
Ana claps her hand over her mouth, and Riley swoops in to hug Zoe. They fall on her with a hundred questions while I stay perfectly still.
Zoe got her first kiss?
Great. Now I’m officially the only Miracle Girl who’s never been kissed. I swallow back the urge to tell them about Andrew. It’s too embarrassing now.
The cheese stands alone again.
26
The house is dark and blissfully quiet. I adjust the cushion behind my head, lean back on the couch, and sigh. It’s so peaceful when no one else is here. Candace went out to the studio hours ago, and Dad and Emma have been quiet for long enough that I know they must be asleep. The only light in the house comes from the white lights Candace strung up on the Christmas tree, and the room smells like fresh pine. Everything else is in the shadows, and familiar pieces of furniture look foreign and new. It’s funny how things you’ve seen every day of your life can change when you look at them differently.
It’s one a.m. Andrew and I have been talking for four hours. I’ll be tired tomorrow, but I don’t care. And maybe because it’s late, or because of the strange lighting, or because he’s worn me down, somehow, a little while ago, when he asked me about my mom, I forgot to stop myself from telling him about her. I told him about how she would disappear into her studio for hours and come back into the house with paint all over her hands, and I could tell what she’d been working on based on the colors smeared across her clothes.
And I told him about how much she loved Christmas, and how she would hang wreaths and fresh greenery all over the house, and how she loved to play Christmas carols while she painted.
“Yeah, Christmas is a big deal at the pastor’s house too,” Andrew laughs quietly. “It’s show time. It’s when you fill the seats with all those people who don’t have time for God all year long. You play a few sappy songs, make ’em cry, and they give money—then you’re set for the year. It’s a sacred tradition.”
Being a pastor’s son has warped Andrew in a lot of ways. Things that normal people cherish as special events—weddings, funerals, religious holidays—only mean that his father will be working harder than usual. It’s weird to realize that the pastor has a family he’s neglecting when he’s attending to you.
“Oh come on. Even you can’t be so cynical that you don’t like Christmas music.” I pull a crocheted blanket that Mom made for me when I was a child during her hippie phase up around my neck. I can only assume Dad hasn’t gotten rid of it because of its functionality and warmth. Does he even know where to buy blankets?
“I do like Christmas music! I’m not Scrooge. I just don’t like the kind of sappy stuff that puts butts in the pews on Christmas Eve.” Andrew sings a few bars of “The Little Drummer Boy.” “I like the old stuff.”
“Ooh, you’re so retro and original, what with being misunderstood and all.”
“No, really. ‘Silent Night’ makes me want to vomit. But there’s a lot of great stuff out there. In fact,” he says, a jingle in his voice, “that’s why I called.”
“You had a point four hours ago?” This phone call marks some kind of personal record for me—never have I talked for so long.
“I did, as a matter of fact.”
“Do tell.”
“My whole family is going to see the Messiah on Saturday night in San Francisco. My parents said I could invite someone, and I wondered if you want to go.”
“The Messiah?” Wow, his family really does like Jesus. I always assumed pastors took their families to R-rated movies and Hooters and stuff when no one was looking, but Andrew’s family goes to h
ear people sing about God. I should just say no now. This family is way too holy for me.
“Yeah. It’s by this guy Handel, and it’s performed by a huge choir every year in the opera house.”
“Hey, I know what the Messiah is. My dad’s not a pastor, but I’m not a Satan worshipper either. My mom loved the Messiah.” There’s this famous chorus she liked to play over and over. I loved sitting in her studio with her, watching her paint with the music playing in the background.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I let out a long breath. “She was pretty religious actually.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Saturday?” I don’t have anything going on, but . . .
“It’s at the San Francisco Opera, so wear a dress. My mom is making me wear a tie.”
“With your family?” How’s he going to kiss me in front of his family?
“I can’t wait for you to get to know them. Can you be at my house at six?”
“Um . . .”A dressy night with his family. Is that a date? It’s not not a date. Hanging out with the family is a serious step that you’d only bring a girlfriend along for. “Sure.”
“Good.” He lets out a long, deep yawn, and I snuggle down under my mom’s blanket. Saturday night. My stomach flips a little. “I’m beat.”
“Yeah, I should probably go to bed too.” I’m not going to bed. I’ll never be able to fall asleep now, but I pretend to yawn anyway.
“Cool. See you at school tomorrow. And don’t forget about Saturday.” The line goes dead. As if I could forget about Saturday.
The Messiah. My eyes travel out the big sliding glass door toward the studio. In the darkness there are no signs of life, and it looks exactly the same as the last day I saw her. If I squint a little, it might be two years ago.
I roll onto my side and adjust the pillow under my head. It’s late and I should get to bed, but I’m kind of mesmerized by the tree. Candace’s lights really do make it look nice. Maybe I’ll stay here a little while longer. There’s something so strange about being awake in the middle of the night. It feels like this living room is all that’s real—like there’s no one else in the world. I try to pretend I’m an adult living in Manhattan all by myself.
