“NONE OF YOU UNDERSTAND ART!”NYT Writer Kelly Frederick Claps Back.
TONIGHT AT 11: INTERVIEW WITH DISGRUNTLED DWTS FOURTH-PLACE CONTESTANT, WHICH REMARKABLY ISN’T LUCAS DORMER.“Do you KNOW who my father is?”
“This is excellent,” I snicker, scrolling through trending remarks on every social media platform. “Rot in social backlash hell, you dumb son of a bitch.”
Hall shows his dissatisfaction today by wearing a sweater with Heat Miser’s face knitted on it (I am also wearing a knitted sweater, made by request, which says BETTERIE THAN REVENGE). Last night after we went to bed, he was going on about how much he was looking forward to wrapping presents (A different bow for each box! Little sprigs of evergreen to look like miniature Christmas trees! Bells! We can get scented glitter!), to which I replied that most of us don’t wrap our gifts, we simply slip them into bags. Mom wraps, because she’s cute, but the rest of us don’t bother with fancy packaging. What counts is the fancy present inside.
“Hall, come look at this one. Lucas is a meme.” I’m joyscrolling through pictures of cats with bicorne hats Photoshopped on. Lucas has a song called “Exile” and Historical Twitter is having a field day with the lyrics.
When Hall chooses to ignore me, carefully pressing down the corners of his origami Kermit (he’s making the cast ofThe Muppet Christmas Carol), I lower my phone with a frown. “Oh, come on, don’t be mad about the present-wrapping. There’s nothing wrong with using bags.”
“I’m not mad,” he says airily. “Just disappointed.”
“What if I build a peanut butter bird feeder thing with you?”
He scowls. “A pity bird feeder.”
“I mean, yes. I don’t make a recreational activity out of smearing peanut butter onto pine cones, personally.” I can’t take him like this, in his Heat Miser sweater and pile of paper Muppets, hair magnificently rumpled from shoving his hand through it infrustration, not even humming Christmas classics under his breath. The full, sulky mouth and tense jawline that I certainly do not think about in a salacious way. “Do you want me to wish for a million rolls of gift wrap? We’ll wrap up the kids like mummies, it’ll be hilarious.”
Hall shrugs, not taking his eyes off his project.
I exhale a sigh. “How does a white elephant gift exchange sound?”
He tosses Fozzie over his shoulder and stands abruptly. “It only sounds like the most incredible thingever.”
“Okay, calm down,” I say, but I’m smiling.
“But it’s got to be a proper white elephant,” he tells me, pacing now. “No conjuring. We’ve got to get the presents ourselves, properly. No magic.”
“Wait, what?” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “Never mind. I’ll go get the peanut butter.”
“Too late.” His eyes sparkle, and an ominous sensation slides through me. “Bettie, do you know what this means?”
“I’m truly afraid to ask.”
Hall spins, magicking himself up some sunglasses and a neon-green fanny pack. “Holiday road trip!”
*
Hall’s insisting we do this theproperway, buildingpropermemories of the warm/fuzzy/hijinks variety, by forgoing magic for the entire day. Including teleportation. Sounds ridiculous to me—if one is capable of teleporting, why would one ever not teleport? “Use it or lose it,” I intone ominously as we shut the front door behind us. “Think about that, Hall.”
He smiles sweetly. “No.”
We pick our way over patches of ice to the red pickup. He doesn’t know how to drive it, but boy does he love sitting in front of various windows in the house with his forehead pressed to the glass, staring at that big, old-fashioned red truck with a Christmas tree poking out of the bed. Grandpa, who loves cars (he drives a ’56 Bel Air, blue as a tropical summer sky), can’t get over the fact that there’s no indication of the make and model anywhere.
“Kinda miss the onion carriage,” I muse, sliding into the driver’s seat. The carriage, along with the unicorns, evaporated on our first day here. My family believes I hired the horses and carriage for an elaborate stunt, all except for young Honeysuckle Lou, who climbed on one of the unicorns and flew on its back for six whole minutes. (“But Mom! I wasflying!” “Sure you were, sweetheart.”) “Jeez, Hall, the smell in here.”
He sniffs. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I feel like I’m snorting candy cane dust every time I breathe.”
“New York Peppermint Patties,” he corrects. “This engine runs on them.”
“It’s justYorkPeppermint Patties, not New York. And of course it does.” I blast the heat, but even when our vinyl seats are nice and toasty, the air retains a sharp bite.
Hall carefully buckles himself into his seat, spreading a new scrapbook open across his lap. He will be documenting the day’s journey, writing our names in calligraphy across paper with foil swirls.Holiday ro-oa-oa-oa-oa-oad triiiip!
“I wouldn’t really call this a road trip,” I caution, wary of bursting his bubble. “We’re just going to go park in town and walk around. Where to first? There isn’t much local shopping, but we’ve got Jackson County Hunting and Fishing Depot, Teller CityMarket, Shahad’s Toy Shop, Gold Rush Bookshop, and Teller City Trading Company. Or if you’re in the mood for outdoorsy equipment, there’s Ski You Later and Keziah’s Snowmobile Rental.” I remember sledding on these hills when I was younger and involuntarily smile. Felix, Athena, Kaia, and I had fun together, once upon a time.
