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I also want my red notebook back,
so leave it, with your memory included,
in my stocking on the second oor.
I opened to the rst available blank page in the Moleskine and started to write.
My best Christmas was when I was eight. My parents had just split up, and they told me I was real y lucky, because this year I was going to get two
Christmases instead of one. They cal ed it Australian Christmas, because I would get presents at my mom’s place one evening and at my dad’s place
the next morning, and it would be okay because they would both be Christmas Day in Australia. This sounded great to me, and I honestly felt
lucky. Two Christmases! They went al out, too. Ful di
list down the middle, because I got everything I wanted, and no duplication. Then my father, on the second night, made the big mistake. I was up
late, way too late, and everyone else had gone home. He was drinking something brown-gold—probably brandy—and he pul ed me to his side and
asked me if I liked having two Christmases. I told him yes, and he told me again how lucky I was. Then he asked me if there was anything else I
wanted.
I told him I wanted Mom to be with us, too. And he didn’t blink. He said he’d see what he could do. And I believed him. I believed I was lucky,
and I believed two Christmases were bet er than one, and I believed even though Santa wasn’t real, my parents could stil perform magic. So that’s
why it was my best Christmas. Because it was the last one when I real y believed.
Ask a question, get the answer. I gured if Lily couldn’t understand that, there wasn’t any reason to continue.
I found the spot on the second oor where they were sel ing the personalized Christmas stockings, making a wide berth around the Santa stand
and al of the security guards. Sure enough, there was a hook of Lily stockings, right before LINAS and LIVINIA. I’d leave the red notebook there …
… but rst I had to go to the AMC to buy Lily a ticket to the next day’s 10 a.m. showing of Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.
four
(Lily)
December 23rd
I have never gone to a movie by myself. Usual y when I see a movie, it’s with my grandpa, or my brother and parents, or lots of cousins. The best
is when we al go at once, like an army of interrelated popcorn zombies who laugh the same laughs and gasp the same gasps and aren’t so germ-
phobic with each other that we won’t share a ginormous Coke with one straw. Family is useful like that.
I pla
responsibility to take me, since they started this whole thing. I woke them up promptly at 8 a.m. to let them know and to give them enough time
to gure out their ironic T-shirts and tousled I-don’t-care-but-actual y-I-care-too-much hairstyles before we headed out for the day.
Only Langston threw his pil ow at me when I tried to get him up. He didn’t budge from bed.
“Get out of my room, Lily!” he grumbled. “Go to the movies by yourself!”
Be
and during Christmas break, when it’s like the law to sleep in til noon? Ay, mamacita … GO BACK TO SLEEP!” Be
stomach and placed his pil ow over his head to get started right away, I guess, on dreaming in Spanglish.
I was pret y tired myself, since I’d got en up at 4 a.m. to make my mystery snarly friend a special present. I wouldn’t have minded taking a nap
on the oor next to Langston like when we were kids, but I suspected if I suggested such a thing on this particular morning, in this particular
company, Langston would repeat his standby refrain:
“Did you hear me, Lily? GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”
He actual y did say that. I wasn’t imagining he might say it.
“But I’m not al owed to go to the movies by myself,” I reminded Langston. At least, that was the rule when I was eight. Mom and Dad had never
clari ed whether the rule had been amended as I’d aged.
“Of course you’re al owed to go to the movies by yourself. And even if you’re not, I’m in charge while Mom and Dad are gone, and I hereby
authorize you. And the sooner you leave my room, the sooner your curfew gets bumped from eleven p.m. to midnight.”
“My curfew is ten p.m. and I’m not al owed to be outside alone late at night.”
“Guess what? Your new curfew is no curfew, and you can stay out as long as you want, with whomever you want, or be alone, I don’t care, just
make sure your phone is turned on so I can cal you to make sure you’re stil alive. And feel free to get wasted drunk and fool around with boys
and—”
“LA LA LA LA LA,” I said, my hands over my ears to block out Langston’s dirty talk. I turned around to step out of his room but leaned back in
to ask, “What are we making for pre–Christmas Eve di
“GET OUT!” Langston and Be
So much for day before the day before Christmas Eve cheer. When we were lit le, the Christmas countdown began a week in advance and always
started with either Langston or me greeting each other at breakfast by saying, “Good morning! And happy day before the day before the day before
the day before Christmas!” And so on until the real day.
I wondered what kind of monsters lurked in theaters to prey on people sit ing by themselves because their brothers wouldn’t get out of bed to
take them to the movies. I gured I’d bet er get mean real fast so I could be prepared for any dangerous scenario. I got dressed, wrapped my
special present, then stood in front of the bathroom mirror, where I practiced making scary faces that would ward o any movie monsters preying
upon single-seated persons.
As I practiced my meanest face—tongue wagging out, nose crinkled, eyes at a most hateful glare—I saw Be
bathroom hal way. “Why are you making kit en faces in the mirror?” he asked, yawning.
“They’re mean faces!” I said.
Be
Quinceañera Gone Batshit?”
I looked down at my out t: oxford uniform school shirt tucked into a knee-length lime-green felt material skirt with a reindeer embroidered on
it, candy-cane-colored swirled stockings, and beat-up Chucks on my feet.
“What’s the mat er with my out t?” I asked, smiling upside down into a … *shudder* … frown. “I think my out t is very festive for the day
before the day before Christmas. And for a movie about a reindeer. Anyway, I thought you went back to sleep.”
“Bathroom break.” Be
go al out. C’mon.”
He took my hand and dragged me to the closet in my room. He perused through the heaps of Converse sneakers. “You don’t got no other types
of shoes?” he said.
“Only in our old dress-up-clothes trunk,” I said, joking.
“Perfect,” he said.
Be
princess slippers, platform shoes, and an alarming number of Crocs, until nal y he grabbed for our Great-aunt Ida’s retired tasseled majoret e
boots, with taps stil on the toes and heels. “These t you?” Be
I tried them on. “A lit le big, but I guess.” The boots spiced up my candy-cane-colored stockings nicely. I liked.