“Uh, sure.” I was betting that she’d ask for Kaia’s autograph. I start digging in my purse for a scrap piece of paper to sign.
“Actually.” She blushes to the roots of her hair, then begins to unzip her jacket with unsteady fingers.
“Whoa, whoa,” Kaia begins, but the jacket’s already unzipped, and when we get a good eyeful of the girl’s shirt, my jaw hits the floor. It’s four Raisin Creme Pies, in neon colors, overlapping like an Andy Warhol painting. The caption initially curdles the coffee in my stomach, but then I read it again. And again. #RespectForBettieIsOverdueParty
Surprise plonks me on top of the head, but it’s a delighted surprise.
“I got a Sharpie,” Kaia announces, riffling through her bag. “Hold up, let me find it. Where’d you get that shirt? Is that custom-made?”
The girl tells her where she ordered it from, and by the time she’s finished with her sentence, Kaia’s already ordered the shirt for everyone she knows. “Team Bettie, always,” she says.
With my signature emblazoned over the hot-pink Raisin Creme Pie, the girl rushes back to her friend, squealing. They jump up and down. Before Kaia and I are out of earshot, the girl’s friend shouts after me, “You’re her hero, you know!”
Kaia nudges me, grinning. “Can you sign my shirt, too?”
“Only if you sign mine.” I think about how my little sister pulled me back from the grips Lucas Dormer had me in. How, even though we weren’t particularly close, and I didn’t want to listen, she knew enough to know I needed help.
Backlash has finally arrived for the previously untouchable Lucas Dormer. It seems that his stint onDancing with the Starssoured his image, so now it’s acceptable for Lucas’s girlfriends who came before and after me to tiptoe through, brave enough to speak out now that they feel they might be listened to. I’ve been trying to curtail the attention I pay to this news, but it’s not looking good for him. Even his ex-bandmates have put out a statement saying theyare shocked and appalled to learn of this behavior, as if they didn’t try to silence me when I told my story. But at least the tide is turning now, so more women will have warning. Even though no one wanted to believe me back when my voice was the only one, I’m proud that I spoke up. And as for my closure, I keep a rubber snake on top of my microwave at home—I smile every time I pass it.
“Can I just say? And I’m not even kidding—you’re my hero, Kaia. I’m so lucky to have you as a sister.”
She makes a “pfhhhshhhaw” sound, turning away so that I don’t catch her wiping a misty eye. Then she tackles me with a noogie, because that is how she expresses her affection aside from creating music. Gratitude for my family, even when we drive each other up the wall with our collective obnoxiousness, brings an irresistible lilt to my heart. And so, by the time I’m back behind the counter at Mary Had a Little Boutique, dreaming of new cards I’m going to create, that light shining through the curtains of my heartbreak is a mile wide and forever long—a searchlight that will never stop looking out for me.
*
This is how I spend my New Year’s Eve: curled up on the sofa with a platter featuring every type of cheese the market deli offers, glittery extensions pinned to my hair because maybe looking cute will solve all my problems, watchingHis Girl Fridaywith mascara tracking down my face. Perhaps I am a masochist. Perhaps I’m hoping to re-create a feeling.
Hildy the hamster is passed out next to me, her small stomach bloated with blueberry yogurt treats. She’s living her best life. “Good for you, Hildy,” I tell her, then swing my gaze to the television. The movie’s barely started.What did you just say?the other Hildy’s asking.
Her fiancé, who won’t be her fiancé by the movie’s end because she belongs with Walter, of course, replies,What?
Go on. She smiles encouragingly, and I mouth her next line:Well, go ahead.
Well, I just said, “Even ten minutes is a long time to be away from you.”
I glance down at the Kinollghy record player, which has turneditself on and lit up green. I halt the movie to go shut it off. As soon as I sit back down, though, it lights up again.
My focus sharpens on that dial as I slowly get up off the couch and float over. I shut it off. It turns itself back on, quicker this time.
I lift the lid, peering suspiciously at the redMerry Christmasrecord still housed inside even though it stopped working thirty attempts ago. Now all it gives me are scratchy squeaks.
I remove the album, gingerly mopping up sticky wine stains with a wet washcloth, then forage for the record sleeve. I locate it behind the player, tipped against the wall; and just behind that one is the second album I’d forgotten Marilou gave me as well:Merry Christmas II You, Mariah Carey’s second collection of holiday hits.
“Next year,” I promise Mariah, since I’ve listened to enough Christmas music during the past month to last me for eternity. But then my gaze falls to track 12: “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” The same magic song fromMerry Christmas, but on a new, unspoiled record. I slide it out of its sleeve and decide to give this one a try, because what do I have to lose?
I mess with the arm, skipping around the track, reversing it once we’ve reached the end. I sweep the room for signs of what happened last time, but the lights don’t dim or intensify, and a man doesn’t appear from thin air. The only sound in my house is Mariah, singing forward and backward and performing magnificently either way. The version on this album is more upbeat, a little faster. It should make me feel bubbly and positive, but the lyrics only serve to highlight that awful feeling I’ve been struggling to keep at bay. Because all I wanted for Christmas was Hall, and now he’s gone.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to no one. “I’m trying to keep my spiritsup. I really am.” I begin to twist the volume knob counterclockwise to shut the record player off.
The television remote, which I left hanging precariously on the edge of the couch cushion, somersaults to the floor, smashing the play button.
Startled, I go, “Agh!” and look at the hamster, as if she’s the one who turned it back on. She’s passed out cold in my fuzzy slipper, which I’ve made into a bed.
I heard you the first time, Hildy says in the background.I like it. That’s why I asked you to say it again.
I repause the movie, glowing numbers on the cable box below my television flashing from 11:59 to 12:00, one year to the next, and over on the Kinollghy, the song number rolls over right along with it. Goose bumps race along my arms.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, Mariah sings. The machine rattles, dial colors flushing from standard blue to vivid green to yellow-gold. A voice that is definitelynotMariah Carey’s crackles from the speakers, cutting her off. “Operator. You have unlocked your New Year’s Resolution.”
