Page 105
Mom held out her hand. I stared at it, confused.
“Your phone,” she said. “You’re grounded.”
“Grounded?” I asked. “It’s winter break. Christmas is in a few days.”
“I guess you should’ve thought of that.”
“I guess you shouldn’t hate the neighbors for no reason!” I said, anger over how unfair this all was coursing through me.
Momma sighed. “Jasmine, you know we have many reasons.”
“Do you?” I returned. “Or are you just holding on to something that happened forever ago? Are you really still angry about losing a race in high school?”
“It’s time to go to bed,” Mom said.
“Gladly,” I said and, after handing over my phone, I marched upstairs.
Marcus followed me up.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” I told him sharply.
“What happened to my best last Christmas?”
“I ruined it,” I said and shut my bedroom door in his face.
Chapter 37
It was almost Christmas Eve, and I stood alone in my room, staring at my still-stark-white canvas. All the supplies I’d gathered for the art project were littering my desk—the straws to replicate the PVC pipe, the plastic for the globe, the glitter to replicate the snow. I’d picked all this up last week, before our snow globe was destroyed, and now I wasn’t even sure this was what I wanted to create. Was this really the thing that inspired me the most? Christmas decorations? I loved them, of course. I always would. But it didn’t feel right.
We hadn’t reconstructed the snow globe out front because that thing had taken weeks to put together when we first made it. We weren’t going to win the competition. Not with that large open space in our yard. And … I didn’t care about that. I cared about the fact that my family wasn’t happy with me, that we were fighting, that I’d deceived them, that I’d been selfish about everything. Because that was why I loved the decorations, the season, this holiday, wasn’t it? Because I had so many good memories associated with it. Memories of spending time with my family, of making new decorations, of trimming the tree, of cooking and baking and laughing … and everything we did as a family.
That’s what I needed to paint, I realized. A family portrait.
A knock sounded at my door.
“Come in,” I said.
The door cracked open, and Marcus poked his head inside, seeming to gauge my mood. “Is it safe to enter?” he asked. We’d been avoiding each other for a couple days. I’d pretty much been avoiding everyone.
“Do you even want to?” I asked, worried he was still mad at me. I’d shut my door in his face the other night after he told me I ruined Christmas.
My eyes stung. I had.
Marcus stepped into my room.
I glanced down at the carpet. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. Me too.” He sat on the edge of my bed and looked at my canvas. “Why is it still blank?”
“It was supposed to be Christmas—the lights—but I changed my mind.”
“What’s it going to be now?”
“Your face,” I said.
“Ha ha. Nobody wants to see that.” He thought I was kidding, and I let him. He’d see it when it was done.
“Where has Fiona been?” he asked.
