I wiggled the toes of my peppermint stockings at her. “My ‘silly costumes’ are empowering. They give me energy.”
“It’s fine as a hobby," she said.
I rolled my eyes and closed the drawer with my hip. “What if itcouldgive me stability? Why can’t I try to use that stupid business degree and do something that actually makes me happy?”
“Because classes start up again in January. If you don’t apply by–”
“Mom.” I rubbed my face. Why wasn’t she hearing me? What else could I do? Tears pricked the back of my eyes.
She rubbed circles on my back. “I can help. Would you like me to make you some tea?”
“No thanks.” It was so much easier to handle stress as a mall elf, solving problems and keeping people happy on behalf of Santa. Sugarplum was a bright, wise, ageless being. Mom saw me as old enough to take care of everybody except myself, a naive, stubborn teen in need of guidance and growing up. “I wish you could’ve seen me at work," I said, defeated.
Mom stilled. “I do too.”
Maybe we could fix that. I pushed my hair back. “There’s still time."
She widened her eyes and backed up. “You want me to come by? But the cousins have already seen you. We’re also working overtime for the holidays. People want to make a good impression on their families and guests.”
“I get it,” I said.
She didn’t have a good enough reason to try again.
I reached for my comfiest pajamas. “Well, I’m off to bed.”
“Yes, yes…” She patted my back and walked to the door, then turned around. “Shelby? I’ll see what I can do.”
I smiled and hugged my pajamas. “Okay.”
This was a season for miracles. It wouldn’t hurt to hope for a few things, like my mom finally recognizing I could make myself happy.
***
The next day, I woke up to the sound of a wet smack followed by a scrape. Mom was mopping the entryway.
I shuffled over in my Santa-stocking-inspired slipper socks and rubbed my eyes. Everything smelled like lemons and bleach instead of cookies. “How long have you been cleaning?”
She studiously worked along the lines of our flooring. “Not long. Just getting rid of the salt buildup here.”
It probably reminded her of glitter. Her obsession with cleanliness was part of why we never had a tree that could drop nettles, real or synthetic. No clutter in the basement with a box for an artificial tree or ornaments, either. At least we had waffles.
I grabbed the last one and put on the kettle. “I’m making tea, do you want any?”
“Yes, please.” She turned on the television in the other room for background noise.
Ugh, it was the news. Way too depressing.
“Didn’t you say public access had holiday movies going?” I called.
“Yes. Let me see. Oh, it’s one of the black and white ones," she cheered.
I carried our mugs out on a tray and nodded at the TV. “It’s rare I get to watch any of these. Want to join me?”
Her eyebrows arched in perfect crescent moons. “Y-yes. Let me…” She rested the mop against an empty corner, keeping her hand up at it as she walked away to command it not to move. It probably worked better on inanimate objects than kids, although I remember she used to try it on me. She stopped somewhere around the time I turned thirteen. Maybe shecouldchange the way she treated me. I had to do some changing too.
Mom sat at the edge of the cushion and rested her hands on her knees. “I like old movies.”
“Me too.” Although my go-to films often had a lot more animation and singing. “What are some of your favorites?”
