“Well, committee…” Wrung out, I sit cross-legged on my rug in front of the whiteboard. “The Holiday Season Summit is now in session. Please keep your comments and suggestions until the end.”
‘I’ll try,’Ivy chirps, her vines twisting like clasped fingers in excitement.
‘I’ll TRY to stay awake.’Basil vibrates on the windowsill, leaves tilting toward the last ray of the afternoon sun.
Fern just cackles, swaying in her pot.
‘Why does she get to be in the swing and have all that fun?’Ivy asks.
“Focus team!” I point to the first red-inked square. “Friendsgiving.”
‘Was that the party where you cried in the bathroom last year?’Fern asks dryly.
“Those were happy tears,” I lie. “I think I will try that cinnamon-infused apple stir fry.”
‘Cinnamon-infused because you gave Minty away,’Basil grumbles.
“Moving on to wardrobe: Santa Sweater, red leggings, and boots.”
‘Not the sweater that makes you look like you mugged a pumpkin spice latte,’Fern sasses me, competing with Basil.
“Focus, greenies.” I point to a cluster of gold stars in early December. “Bryant Park Holiday Market. That’s where all the hard work throughout the year lets me shine.”
The plants rustle their approval.
I breathe in relief, considering the uproar last year when Ivy cried after finding out her friends from the garden were trimmed like show poodles and then sold off ascenterpieces.
On a roll, I finish going over the chart without interruptions until I get to the final event of the season.
My eyes land on the bottom square outlined in gold foil washi tape:
Christmas at Daddy’s.
The Hunger Gameswith tinsel. Each year, I try to survive and get out of there alive.
Not literally. I’m just relieved when he lets me leave Ashbourne and go back to my life here in Manhattan.
The plants go silent, every leaf stiff like they’re holding their breath.
Except Basil.
Always Basil.
‘Is Kosta still in jail?’he bravely asks when no one else will.
Dread turns my stomach to ice as I slog to my desk and take out his letters, all banded together with a dirty rubber band. No nice ribbon for him.
I didn’t want to read them, but it physically hurt not to.
Phones must be answered.
Mail must be opened.
I stare at the top one, the last letter. Shaking, I slide the paper out.
Fallon,
I’m up for parole again.
