“You have a lot of favorites,” I point out with a wry smile.
“Let’s turn in early,” he says, feverish with determination. “Wake up to watch the sunrise and get to work on this list. Your soul needs to bake cookies so badly.”
“I have never seen a sunrise in my entire life.”
Hall claps a hand over his heart. “Are you serious?”
I shrug, gathering up my nightclothes and toiletries to lug into the bathroom. “Probably.”
“Bettie, that’s awful.”
“Why is that awful? It’s just the sun coming up. Does it every day.”
He throws himself flat on his back on the mattress, groaning. Satin candy cane pillows materialize over his face, burying him.
When I return from the bathroom, he’s adding more activities to his list, mumbling under his breath. I can’t help but think that Hall is wasted here, with the Watson-Hughes clan. Our Christmas traditions consist of sniping at each other, exchanging gifts for the sole purpose of one-upmanship, and complaining. Complaining around the dinner table. Complaining around the fireplace. Complaining at the airport about all the complaining everybody did. Hall deserves one of thosenicefamilies, who smile sincerely at each other while flipping pancakes and sing carols without rolling their eyes. Every time I see pictures of families inmatching Christmas pajamas, I laugh derisively while admittedly getting this small pang of something disturbingly close to envy. What would it be like to be part of a functional family? Sounds like a myth.
My genetic pool doesn’t rise early to admire the dawn. If we rise early, it’s because there’s a limited number of Krispy Kreme donuts. Hall’s going to be so disappointed tomorrow when he watches us all slip off to different rooms to stare at our respective screens until dinnertime, when we meet to argue, then go to bed angry. It’s how the week up until Christmas is spent. Christmas Day is the angriest of them all. Someone always gets somebody else a gift that they find belittling or offensive; someone always threatens to go home early; the family bonds by ganging up on someone (me) and making them sorry they came along. Last year I swore I’d never return.
I climb the ladder, lie down, and close my eyes, listening to small footsteps clattering above. Muffled warnings from parents to get in bedright now. Laughter, televisions, bickering, doors closing. A hair dryer. The dishwasher. Kaia strumming her guitar. We’re a house full of reluctant acquaintances who get together once a year to tear each other apart.
I allow myself to imagine a What If world. Maybe we would stay up late in the living room, tipping our heads onto one another’s shoulders, fuzzy socked feet in other laps, reluctant to go to bed because we enjoy each other’s company so much. We’d still be up right now, sharing stories. Making each otherhappy. I wouldn’t find it embarrassing if anyone caught me peering out the window at sunrise for the pure interest of seeing it unfold. I wouldn’t be teased for it.
I roll over. It’s stupid to roam around in What If world—it makes the real one look so much worse when I come back.
“Hall,” I whisper a while later. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah. What do you need?”
“Is Dracula in the public domain?”
He sighs. “Good night, Bettie.”
*
Chapter Seven
Countdown to Christmas:
7 Days
I STRAGGLE OUT OFbed at eleven in the morning, finding the room empty. Hall’s carefully made his bed, an outfit draped across it that I presume is for me: a gold sweater dangling with dozens of jingle bells, black leggings with a snowflake pattern, and a loud pair of socks. I mean that literally—every time I take a step, the socks start singing the song about hot chocolate fromThe Polar Express. I peel them right back off.
I open the door, ducking before paper snowflakes swinging inward on strings can bump me in the forehead. They’re strung all down the hallway, toward the staircase, where I can’t put my hands on the banister because it’s encased in half a forest’s worth of evergreen boughs with fake snow clinging to the needles. When I went to sleep last night, there were a few decorations here and there—a few sparkly baubles, a tastefully decorated tree in the living room, a wreath on the front door.
Now, there’s a Christmas tree in every single room. Garland borders the signed portraits of Hollywood legends Grandma looksup to—Anna May Wong, Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, and dozens of others who’ve adorned the walls of this house for decades. There are giant, solid glass peppermint candies propped in corners. Model trains whizzing along the baseboard trim, passing through miniature winter villages. Bows and holly and candles and stockings. The couch that is bound to impregnate somebody has six different throws on it now, and so many decorative pillows that there isn’t room to conceive. The house smells powerfully of peppermint. When I sit down on the toilet to do my business, I’m met with the wide-eyed stare of a realistic North Pole elf mannequin, standing in the bathtub.
The family is in chaos.
“Who did this? What is the meaning of this?” Grandma cries, pointing at the fireplace. It used to be gas, but now it’s wood-burning, and the flames are cartoon-animated.
“Sorry, that was supposed to be live-action,” Hall mutters in my ear, sliding past. I whirl to watch him, and next thing I know, the hearth blazes with ordinary fire.
“Morning, Bettie!” my grandfather exclaims, curling an arm around my shoulders. “What a nice surprise! No wonder you slept in late. You were awake all night setting up this fantastical display for us.”
I try to shape my mouth into a smile. “Y—es. That’s. What I was doing.”
“Even the cups,” Kaia’s remarking from the kitchen, prompting me to wander along. Sure enough, every cup in the cabinet has been replaced with a hand-painted mug in the shape of a snowman, a nutcracker, or Santa Claus. My gaze falls on Hall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other along the wall and watching us all excitedly. When his eyes flit to mine, my pulseskips. I frown at myself and my strange pulse-skipping. I need to cut back on sugar.
