Bittersweet

I open my eyes. Will and Josh are gone. I’m no longer underwater. And the polar bear has turned into my brother, wrapped up in his silver-and-white astronaut-themed snowsuit.

“Why is it so cold in here?” I sit up, stretch, and pull the blankets to my neck. “It’s like there’s no heat.”

“Mom wants you in the kitchen.” Bug’s got this weird, you’re-pretty-much-dead warning in his tone that’s rather off-putting, especially since he just yanked me out of a potentially good dream about number seventy-seven and/or fifty-six.

“But it’s freezing in—” Oh no. No no no! My stomach drops as the red warning strip from the gas bill—shoved somewhere in the bottom of my backpack and forgotten—flashes in front of my eyes.

I throw off my blankets, bolt out of bed, and yank a sweatshirt over my head, almost flattening Bug. In our tiny kitchen down the hall, Mom’s on the phone, pacing, one hand wrapped around a mug. The steam from her coffee is so thick it looks like her hand is boiling the liquid on its own.

“How soon before it can be turned on?” she asks. “I realize that, but it’s Christmas Eve. No. I’ve got two children here. I already—yes. I’ll hold.”

I make for the coat closet and dig out my boots. Strolling down to the service center in my pajamas is not high on my Christmas Eve priority list, but if I don’t kick into proactive overdrive before Mom gets off that call, I might not be alive to see another holiday.

“I c-c-c-can’t believe you didn’t p-p-p-pay the bill.” Bug’s teeth chatter as he tucks his hands inside his snowsuit.

“You’re the one who tried to throw it out,” I remind him.

“Anthrax detection is an imperfect science.”

“You’re not helping.” I pull on my gloves and avoid Mom’s stare. The gas company—and Mom—knows we’re always late, but I’ve never totally missed a last-chance payment before. Not like this. They don’t usually shut off service in the winter. If the pipes freeze, they could burst, and dealing with burst pipes is way more expensive for them than chasing down a few late payments.

They must be really mad at us this time.

“I’m still here,” Mom says into the phone. “Oh, thank God. No, we’ll make the payment today. Okay, Thursday then. Do I need to do anything else? Thanks again—you have no idea—right. Merry—bye.” She sets the phone back into the receiver and lets out a gust of breath. “Should be back on in an hour or two. They’ll call later to make sure it’s working.”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’ll go now. I had the bill in my bag and I totally forgot. I was busy with—”

“It’s okay.” She downs her coffee, shoves a few things from the counter into her purse, and grabs her keys. “Go on Thursday as soon as they open. And please let me know if you don’t have the cash. I don’t want to find out like this again.”

“Sorry. I won’t—”

“Since you have your coat on, run and get some milk? We’re out, and Trick needs help with the Christmas Eve specials, and—”

“When are you coming home?” Bug’s bouncing up and down like—well, like a kid on Christmas. “Are we go

“I’ll probably be pretty late,” Mom says. “Hudson will help you.”

The bouncing stops. I fight off a shiver.

Mom kneels in front of him. “The good news is that Hurley’s is closed tomorrow, and we’ll have the whole day together. Just the three of us.” She looks at me to confirm. I was pla

“Great. Trick’s coming for di

“What about pumpkin pie?” Bug asks.

“We don’t have pie, sweetie. Maybe your sister can do pumpkin cupcakes?” Mom looks at me with the same anguish that flooded her voice with the gas company. It’s quickly becoming her signature scent. What’s on everyone’s holiday wish list this year? Desperation, the hot new fragrance line by Beth Avery.

“Whatever you want,” I tell Bug. And I mean it, too, because if one lousy batch of cupcakes is all it takes to give my brother a merry merry and atone for practically freezing out the whole family on Christmas, well … deck the halls with boughs of frosting, fa la la la la, la freaking la.

They’re showing a retro Smurfs Christmas special on TV, so I leave Bug in front of the electronic babysitter with Trick’s box of robot parts and an extra wool blanket and head out for Operation Find a Store That Isn’t Closed. No way I’ll get anything nearby—all the local mom-and-pops are locked down for the holiday, except of course for Hurley’s. The world could be in the final throes of the apocalypse and Mom would find some way to keep the coffee on in that joint.

“No room at the i

Stupid.

As I crisscross from one side of town to the other, I scan the radio. All the stations are doing that 24-7 Christmas cheer crap. I don’t feel very ho-ho-ho today, but I hum along with Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” anyway, searching in vain for milk. The sky is still for now, and the crisp white sheets left by last night’s flurries have gone gray, mottled and muddied by plows and salt trucks. The houses on this side of town are bigger than the one we share with Mrs. Ferris, but they’re older, more weather-beaten. They remind me of the old people at the diner, carrying the collective failure of this town in the slump of their shoulders, in the weariness of their steps.

I downshift as I cross a snow mound pushed into the intersection by the plows, tires digging through the slush, and then, without thinking, I turn onto Sibley Court.

The house is easy to find.

In three years, the place from the outside hasn’t changed—green-gray with white trim, badly in need of a paint job. A wreath hangs solidly on the front door, tied with a red velvet bow, and through the windows, the warm glow of the living room radiates into the icy cold day. Inside, behind the gauzy curtains, a woman drapes a strand of blinking colored lights over the tree. They put it in the same spot we used to, right in front of the big bay window.

We were pretty Norman Rockwell-y back in the day—at least, I thought so. Dad would take the week off, and even Mom skipped a few hours at Hurley’s on Christmas tree day. While we waited for Dad to do the lights, Mom made ci

The woman inside stretches on her toes to hang another ornament, and I put the truck in gear and drive on through the slush, all the way across town, all the way back to Blake Street without the milk.

“I wish we could get a real tree,” Bug says. “Then at least we’d have one real tradition, since that whole Santa thing’s a bust. I mean, if parents are go