by Anne Dayton
“They made it, Supergirl,” Ben says, elbowing me. My eyes fly open to see two surfers in black wet suits gliding in toward the shore. The guy caught in the wave seems to be struggling, but his head is above water as he bobs up and down, holding onto his board.
I say a quick prayer of thanks. I’m not here to see anybody die. I look up and something clicks at me. Ben squats near me and quickly snaps shots from behind his camera. I turn so he can’t see my face. “Do you carry that thing with you everywhere?”
Another wave comes in toward the shore, and a guy pops up on his board.
“No. Just sometimes.”
I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes. He snaps a picture.
I bat at the camera playfully while he takes a few more, then plops down next to me again. “I don’t want to go in the dark room next week and find a million embarrassing shots of myself.”
We both go silent while we watch the horizon, seeing the thunderous waves build and build and build and then explode with the power of ten storms. But somehow, as if the wind has changed, the mood darkens.
I turn to Ben and study his odd, almost angry expression. “Is everything okay?”
He leans into me, so slowly I almost don’t notice, but then his shoulder brushes against mine. I swallow a lump in my throat. We’re from very different circles at Marina Vista. What am I doing here now? Are we both lost and scared and lonely and drawn together out of desperation?
“Asha decided she wants to keep the baby. Keep him. We found out it’s a boy.” He shakes his head angrily.
“Oh wow.” I fumble for the right words to say. “Ben, I’m . . . You’re worried about her?”
He rearranges to sit cross-legged, his knee touching mine, his hands resting there, just millimeters from mine. “She’s too young to raise a child. She could make sure he was adopted into an amazing family, and then she could go to college, but she won’t listen.”
“It’s not really your decision, I guess.” Either way, it’s going to be a tough road for her, and I don’t know if I’d have the strength to make it in her place. “She has to do what’s right for her and her baby.”
“Yeah.” He moves his hand, and I can feel the heat coming off of it.
“What do your parents think?”
Ben shuts his eyes and just breathes for a few minutes in silence. “They’re pretty much in denial about everything right now. They’re moping around the house giving her the silent treatment, pretending it’s not happening.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He opens his eyes and trains them on the horizon. “It’s like they don’t want to see what’s really going on. It’s easier to pretend than to deal with the fact that things have changed, I guess.” Ben’s fingers brush against my knee. “It’s tough when you realize your parents don’t always know what’s best, you know?”
I nod and stare at the ocean as another wave breaks.
22
They brought in live camels. Where do you get live camels? Sheep, sure. You’d be surprised how many farms are left in the Bay Area, but camels you have to import. The whole lawn smells like poop.
I try to block out the stench and Tom’s hand holding mine and focus my eyes on the holy family nestled together around the manger. What was it like for Jesus, stuck right there in the middle of all that? Did he ever wish he’d never come down here to begin with? I step closer to the action. Did he ever feel like the pressure to be perfect was too great?
Just as I am zeroing in on the tiny baby’s angelic face, the mother of God bursts into perfectly pitched operatic song, and I lose my concentration. I can see the wireless microphone hidden in her hair, and I wish that everyone would go away. How is anyone supposed to ponder the real meaning of Christmas when it’s all happening in surround sound?
I squint at the crowd and make out Ana on the other side of the manger, illuminated against the dark night by the light from the Star of David. “See you,” I say to my parents and drag Tom away before Michael can beg to come with us. Tom wanted to hang out tonight, and he wasn’t even put off when I told him Mom insisted we come to the living nativity. He’s never come to church with me before, though I asked him a million times, so I know I should be excited that he’s here. But for some reason, it’s kind of weird to actually be here with him. He’s never been interested in this part of my world, and now that he’s here, I’m almost not sure what to do.
“Where are we going?” he asks, dodging a bundled-up toddler that stumbles into his path.
“Let’s say hi to Ana.” I think I see a guy with dark hair across the lawn and try to drop Tom’s hand, but he has a tight fix on it. The man turns around, and I realize it’s not Ben, thank goodness. He probably wouldn’t be here anyway. The Nayars seem to be overwhelmed lately.
“There you are!” I finally squeeze my way into the tight spot between Ana and some old guy.
“Happy Three Days before Christmas!” Ana hugs me.
“But who’s counting?”
Tom makes space for himself next to me, and Ana moves over. “Oh. Hey, Tom,” Ana says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“This thing is insane.” He laughs, as the shepherds finally make their way, after much wandering, to the side of the baby Jesus, played by Curtis Watkins, who was born last month. The choir launches into a rousing rendition of “O Come Let Us Adore Him.”
“Welcome to Seaview. Improving on Jesus’ birth since 1989,” I say, and Ana stifles a snicker, but the joke seems to sail over Tom’s head.
“I think it’s cool,” Tom says, and the weird thing is, he actually seems to be enjoying this. Maybe if you’ve never seen it before, it is kind of cool.
“Don’t you think it’s a little”—I wave my hand toward the scene—“much?” When I was a kid, Seaview’s Living Nativity was a couple of volunteers in bathrobes holding a doll. But when Pastor Jandel came along, he saw an opportunity to turn a quaint tradition into an “outreach opportunity,” and now it’s a fully staged drama in three acts, complete with moving sets, professional actors, a full choir, and an army of volunteers ready to hand out tracts and pray with you by the parking lot. There’s even a cherry picker to hoist the Angel of the Lord into the sky. They had to have an intense audition in the 4–6 grade Sunday school class because all the girls wanted to be the angel.
“Oh, don’t be such a Grinch. It’s Christmas.” Ana laughs, and I try to smile. Tom reaches his hand around my waist and grins down at me. I fidget, pretending to fuss with my coat.
“Do you want me to let you go?” Tom glances at my parents and Michael.
I blush. It feels weird to be out in public with him, and I wonder why. Has it been that long since we hung out with my friends? “Of course not.” I don’t even convince myself with my unsure tone. I try to recover. “You’re an excellent human blanket.”
This seems to satisfy him, and he locks his fingers into place.
“Where’s Zoe?” I scan the crowd, not really looking for Zo.
“She left for her grandmother’s this morning. Christine’s got babysitting duty so she’s at home.” Ana looks sad. I know Christmas has been hard for her ever since Maria left.
I turn back to the lawn, where the miracle of Christ’s birth is being projected onto a movie screen. I guess I can see how it might be a pretty good show if you don’t remember back when the choir was half a dozen moms clutching handbells. There was something so beautiful and simple about it all then. Now it just kind of seems like a carnival. Whatever happened to plain old “Silent Night”? How am I supposed to find any sliver of wonder in all this?
And then the worst possible thing happens. Across the lawn, just as the wise men move to present the baby Jesus with huge plates of gold spray-painted rocks, I see him. The whole Nayar family is bundled up in their winter coats and staring intently at the nativity scene.
“Hot chocolate,” I say quickly and break free of Tom’s hands. I bend over, dig in my purse, and find a wadded up bill. “
Can you get me a cup of hot chocolate? I’m freezing.” I press the bill into Tom’s hand.
“Sure.” He shrugs. “Ana?” She gives him her order while I stare at the ground. Could Ben see us standing there like that all along? Tom walks away, fading into the crowd, and I finally dare to look back at the Nayars. Is Ben’s angle better than mine?
“Come on, Riley. Clap for the angel choir,” Ana says as a dozen girls in shining gold robes, including Cecily Vandekamp and Maddie Barrow, are raised into the air on a hydraulic lift.
As the choir belts out a mighty chorus, I stare across the crowd, my heart pounding in my chest. Finally Ben turns in my direction, and we lock eyes. I hold my breath, but his face is blank. I raise my hand and give him a small, tentative wave. He rolls his eyes.
23
“Go to bed soon or Santa will skip our house.” Dad lingers in the doorway for a moment, his eyes misting. Down the hall, I hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. Mom is not going to skip her elaborate evening beauty regimen, even on Christmas Eve.
“Dad,” I groan as he tousles my hair.
“Yeah, Dad.” Michael parrots my tone exactly, and I smile. I’m sure Christine would pummel Emma if she did that, but at our house, it’s the sign of a good night. Michael’s had a brutal few weeks. As much as he hated attending school, skipping it has been even harder on him because it messed up his routines.
Dad smiles at us again, gives a small wave, and disappears down the long hallway in the direction of the master suite. He shuts off five different lights as he goes.Michael yawns, and Christmas tree lights bounce off his shiny, über-blond hair. In this light, he looks almost angelic. It reminds me of when we were little. I shake my head and turn to go to bed, but then I turn back.
“Want to play tennis?” I raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t notice. He’s staring at something across the room.
“We have to play Wii Tennis. It’s dark outside.”
Never in our entire lives have we played real tennis, and I’m not sure where the closest public court is, but that’s not his point. What I said is slightly inaccurate, and he can’t tolerate that.
He gets up and walks to the gaming console, not waiting for my response. Michael pulls both Wii remotes off the charging base and goes through his routine to get them ready. Finally, he hands me my remote.
“Are you ready for me to school you at tennis, little brother?”
“Ha ha,” he laughs loudly, oddly. I almost shush him, worried about waking up Mom and Dad, but can’t bring myself to. “I have beaten you forty-five times at Wii tennis. You have beaten me zero times.”
The game starts, and Michael volleys a super serve at me, though he knows I can’t return them.
“Skunked it!” he says, and I frown. That’s one of those stupid expressions Tom taught him.
“Okay, okay. We have to do something to level the playing field.” I ready my stance for his next serve, crouching low and holding the wand in front of my body. “No super serves.”
“All right.” He lifts his arm like he’s going to screech the ball down the court again at me.
“Promise?”
“Promise. But I’m still going to serve it pretty fast.” He brings the remote down, serving the virtual tennis ball to me on the screen, and somehow I’m able to return it. We even get in a good volley back and forth for a few minutes, but eventually Michael hits the ball inside the line and my Mii can’t get there in time.
“Yes!” He pumps his arm in the air again, and I fight the urge to sweep him into a hug. Why don’t we do stuff like this more often? It shouldn’t take a major religious holiday to slow down and get back to doing a whole lot of nothing together. Time like this is important. I need to enjoy it. I can worry about everything else tomorrow.
“Ready?” Michael turns to me and stares at the space above my head. That’s his version of eye contact. His face is calm and beautiful.
Tomorrow I’ll really dive into my applications. Once I fill out the Common Application, I just have to do supplements for most schools, but even if I started my applications right now and never once slept or ate, I’d have to eliminate a few of the schools on Mom’s list. For some reason, something Ms. Moore said sticks in my head. Yale, MIT, Hopkins—those are all part of my parents’ dreams for me. I’ve never really wanted to go to those schools anyway.
“I’ll let you win this one if you want.” He rocks back and forth rhythmically, getting faster and faster. The motion starts at his head and moves down the whole length of his body, a bit like Grandma Davis’s old bird Baby.
I shake my head, trying to get Ms. Moore’s face out of my mind, but something she said in that horrible meeting in her office keeps coming back to me.
“Michael, do you like Marina Vista?” I bite my lip.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, serves the ball gently, and I return it.
Well, maybe it’s best not to spoil the night anyway. We volley back and forth for a little while, but it’s clear that he’s distracted. Eventually, I manage to bounce the ball off the net so it rolls onto his side of the court. The avatar crowd hops and cheers for me.
“No,” he finally says. “I don’t like school. I miss Dr. Matt.”
I turn to him, holding the remote in my sweaty hand. “But don’t you think your teachers are nice?”
He shakes his head vehemently. “They hate me.”
I move toward him, and he takes a few steps away. The only way to comfort him is with words, so I pray for the right thing to say. “Ms. Moore and the other teachers love you as much as Dr. Matt does. And this way you get to live with us. We missed you when you lived in San Francisco.”
Michael rocks back and forth, back and forth. “I like it here, but I hate school. I want to stay home, away from those jerks.”
I pinch my lips together, my eyes welling up with tears. There has to be a way to get him the help he needs without sending him back to UCSF. I love this kid ferociously.
“Dr. Matt was smart.”
I flick a tear off my face and serve the ball to him gently. “We’ll figure everything out.” He rockets the ball back at me mercilessly. I laugh. This is how I know God is really out there: because I know that it is possible to love someone so much that everything they do is beautiful.
As we settle into a good rhythm again, I pray for Michael to have a smooth return to Marina Vista. I pray that the kids will learn to understand him like I do. I pray for the wisdom and strength to help my brother, and I thank God for these few quiet moments together. Ben, Tom, applications, all the stupid noise of the world. It all fades away when you have a gift as precious as tennis.
24
I stand on Christine’s front porch, my hand poised over the doorbell. What if the baby’s sleeping? Maybe I should go around back to Christine’s studio and see if she’s in there first. I lower my hand and start to turn away when the door flies open.
“RILEY!” Emma bounces up and down and claps her hands together. Shhhing comes from the background.
“Come in,” Emma says in a slightly quieter voice. “I saw you through the window. What’s that? Cookies? I made Santa cookies with my dad last weekend. He’s really good at that stuff.” I follow her down the hallway, padding across the worn wood floors. “We made the beards out of coconut, and the hats were red sprinkles. . . .” We enter the living room, and Christine smiles at me. “And for the pom-pom at the end of Santa’s hat you use a miniature marshmallow. It’s sooooo adorable.”
“Hi,” I say sheepishly. It’s almost tradition now that I show up at the Lees over Christmas break unannounced, but I’ve got a mission today. Of all the girls, Christine is the most likely to understand, so I’m starting with her.
“Couldn’t take it anymore?” Christine is sitting on the couch, holding Ellis. He’s seven months old now, a full-on toddler who pulls up on everything and scoots across the floor like a little turtle, but at the moment he is quiet, his head resting on her shoulder.
“T
he excitement was too much for Michael.” I let the words hang there, not entirely true, but not really false either. Candace bustles around the room, picking up a stack of empty boxes from under the tree, but Christine meets my eye and nods. She can read me better than just about anyone.
“We’re gonna head out to the studio,” she says, pushing herself up, careful to keep Ellis as still as possible.
“I’ll go with you!” Emma runs over to the back door. I wince.
“Emma, I need you in the kitchen,” Candace says as she carries the stack of boxes toward the counter.
Emma shakes her head. “You just said we were all done with the cooking.” Candace mouths something to her, and Emma’s eyes goes wide. “Ohhhhh. Right.” She winks dramatically across the room. “You need help with that other thing. The one we haven’t finished yet. Duh!”
Christine shifts Ellis to her other arm and slides the glass door open.
“Do you want to leave him here?” Candace asks, reaching out her arms for the baby.
“Naw.” Christine pokes Ellis in his tummy gently. “After this morning, he’d sleep through the Second Coming.”
“Christine, you’re totally hogging him again,” Emma says as Christine steps outside.
“You get him next. I promise, twerp.” Somehow when Christine says ‘twerp’ it feels more like ‘sis,’ and Emma beams back at her.
Christine walks slowly across the soft, wet grass, and I smile at Emma, then follow a few steps behind her. Christine opens the studio door and settles down on the floral couch. I lean against the counter.
“So?”
I don’t flinch at her abrupt approach. That’s Christine’s way.
“I . . .” I cough and rest my hands on the counter behind me. I remind myself that this is my friend, one of the people who cares most about my happiness. “I don’t think I want to go to USC.”
