I reckon they look good with my black leggings and the chunky jay-colored cable-knit sweater that almost skims the tops. Even Delaney had looked me over appreciatively, for the split-second before she caught herself.
“I have an idea,” my father says. “How about I drop them off at the party, and you two ladies can visit, perhaps have a cup of tea?”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Charles. What do you say, Amy?”
Pixie grins, looking from me to her mom and back again.
“I think that sounds lovely.”
My father takes Amy’s coat and hangs it on the peg where mine used to be.
“After you, ladies,” he says to us, with Pixie hanging on his every word.
It’s obvious she’s never had a father, either. I puff up like a Christopher robin. I don’t mind sharing at all.
Pixie giggles as my father gives us the lowdown before letting us out of the SUV. We’re parked in Marie’s driveway, the birthday girl, one of Delaney’s closest friends. The whole sophomore class has been invited. From the looks of things, almost all have come.
“No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. Got it, girls?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pixie pulls a serious face, but she can’t keep it up.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Blackburn. I’ll keep Carey out of trouble.”
My father and I exchange glances, but neither of us corrects her. That’s when I realize she doesn’t know about Delaney and me.
The winter air is exhilarating, when you’re snug in a puffer coat. I pause in the driveway, squinting into the headlights as my father honks once and then backs out onto the road.
Marie’s house is at least the size of one million of our campers put together.
“Scared?” Pixie says, reading my face.
Two freaks out past their bedtime, I think, like Delaney had cracked earlier, cackling like a Halloween witch.
“No,” I say, drawing myself up taller. “Contemplative.”
“ ‘Contemplative’? What is this, a funeral? You’d better file away those SAT words for tonight, Blackburn. It’s time to par-TAY.”
Pixie dances crazy, and I grab her arm before she slips on the sleekness coating practically everything. Even though Melissa says everyone uses salt. Salt, to melt ice from steps and walkways. And no, not the kind we use on our chicken or steak.
“That woulda sucked. Thanks, Carey.”
I think of Mrs. Macleod, who looks just like Pixie, red hair and all.
“You look just like your mom, you know.”
“Everyone says that. Probably because she looks so young. She got pregnant with me in high school. She was fifteen. I’m not supposed to say or anything.”
I think of Ness. “It’s hard to raise a baby when you’re that young.”
“I know. I told my mom how you used to take care of your sister all the time, before you moved here, and she said I could go tonight, if I went with you. I still can’t believe she said yes!”
“Yup, that’s me.” I smile wryly. “Old reliable.”
“You kinda are, though. I guess we both are,” she adds, sighing.
“But not tonight. I reckon we’re going to guzzle pop and eat unnecessary snacks with the best of them!”
“You don’t get out much, do you, Blackburn?”
“Like you should talk.”
We stand side by side, admiring the house. It’s breathtaking, draped in Christmas lights, both clear, twinkling bulbs and long strings that mimic icicles. I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole life. Lights on houses and spiraled up the trunks of trees, even. The lights sketch the dark into a fairy world, like straight out of one of Nessa’s picture books.
“By the second week of December, whole neighborhoods will be decked out. We’ll take some drives so you girls can see the lights,” Melissa had promised, and it was a promise she’d kept.
I knew a little about Christmas from before the woods, although I was so young, I don’t remember much. Jenessa, on the other hand, has spent her life Christmas-free. We’d been too busy surviving to celebrate.
Pixie pulls on my coat sleeve. “Let’s go in. I don’t want to spend my whole first party shivering in the driveway!”
I hold her up all the way to the front door.
“You’ve got some heels on those shoes, huh?”
She blushes with delight that I’ve noticed.
“No tiptoes. See?” She rings the doorbell.
“I think we’re supposed to just go in,” I say nervously.
But then the door opens and Marie peeks out, regarding us with lofty amusement.
“If it isn’t Pixie Macleod and Fiddle Girl,” she purrs.
Pixie gives a little hop in place and Marie smiles.
“Oh hell, if you’re that excited, come on in.”
“Thanks,” Pixie gushes, pulling me in behind her.
The noise is like an assault—the house vibrating with laughter and music and chatter. My heart thumps sideways, out of rhythm with the driving beat.
“Look!”
Pixie drags me into a room off the hall. There’s actually a whole separate room for coats.