Wreck the Halls

“Okay! Okay, I’m going to do it.”

Melody took a deep breath and rolled the red wooden ball across the hard-packed sand. It came to a stop at the farthest position possible from the jack. It wasn’t even remotely close.

Their opponents cheered and clinked pint glasses, the home team bar heaving a collective sigh of disappointment. They probably thought an underdog-to-hero story was unfolding right in front of their eyes, but no. Not with Melody in the starring role.

Savelina approached with a sympathetic expression on her face, squeezing Mel’s shoulder with an elegant hand. “We’ll win the next one.”

“We haven’t won a game all season.”

“Victory isn’t always the point,” her boss suggested. “It’s trying in the first place.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Savelina’s tight brown curls shook with laughter. “Two weeks from now, we have the final game of the season, and I have a good feeling about it. We’re going to head into Christmas fresh from a win and you’re going to be a part of it.”

Mel didn’t hide her skepticism.

“Let me clarify,” Savelina said. “You must be a part of it. We only have enough players if you show up. You’re not taking off early to visit family or anything, are you?”

As a rare book restoration expert, Mel’s work schedule was loose. She could take a project home with her, if needed, and her presence in the store largely depended on whether or not there was even a book that currently required tender loving care. “Uh, no.” Mel forced a smile onto her face, even though a little dent formed in her heart. “No, I don’t have any plans. My mother is . . . you know. She’s doing her thing. I’m doing mine. But I’ll see her in February on my birthday,” she rushed to add.

“That’s right. She always comes to New York for your birthday.”

“Right.”

Mel did the tight smile/nodding thing she always did when the conversation turned to her mother. Even the most well-intentioned people couldn’t help but be openly curious about Trina Gallard. She was an international icon, after all. Savelina was more conscientious than most when it came to giving Mel privacy, but the thirst for knowledge about the rock star inevitably bled through. Mel understood. She did.

She just didn’t know enough about her mother to give anyone what they wanted.

That was the sad truth. Trina love-bombed her daughter once a year and once a year only. Like a one-night sold-out show at the Garden that left her with a hangover and really expensive merch she never wore again.

Melody could see Savelina was losing the battle with the need to ask deeper questions about Trina, probably because it was the end of the night and she’d had six beers. So Mel grabbed her kelly green peacoat from where it hung on the closest stool, tugged it on around her shoulders, and looked for a way to excuse herself. “I’m going to settle my tab at the bar.” She leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Savelina’s expertly highlighted brown cheek. “I’ll see you during the week?”

“Yeah!” Savelina said too quickly, hiding her obvious disappointment. “See you soon.”

Briefly, Mel battled the urge to give her friend something, anything. Even Trina’s favorite brand of cereal—Lucky Charms—but the information faltered on her tongue. It always did. Speaking with any kind of authority on her mother felt false when most days, it seemed as though she barely knew the woman.

“Okay.” Mel nodded, turned, and wove through some Friday night revelers toward the bar, apologizing to a few customers who’d witnessed her anticlimactic underdog story. Before she could reach the bar, she made sure Savelina wasn’t watching, then veered toward the exit instead—because she didn’t really have a bar tab to settle. Customers who recognized her as Trina Gallard’s daughter had been sending her drinks all night. She’d had so many Shirley Temples she was going to be peeing grenadine for a week.

Cold winter air chilled her cheeks as soon as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The cheerful holiday music and energetic conversations grew muffled behind her as soon as the door snicked shut. Why did it always feel so good to leave somewhere?

Guilt poked holes in her gut. Didn’t she want to have friends? Who didn’t?

And why did she feel alone whether she was with people or not?

She turned around and looked back through the frosty glass, surveying the bargoers, the merry revelers, the quiet ones huddled in darkened nooks. So many kinds of people and they all seemed to have one thing in common. They enjoyed company. None of them appeared to be holding their breath until they could leave. They didn’t seem to be pretending to be comfortable when in reality, they were stressing about every word out of their mouth and how they looked, whether or not people liked them. And if they did, was it because they were a celebrity’s daughter, rather than because of their actual personality? Because of who Melody was?

Melody turned from the lively scene with a lump in her throat and started to walk up the incline of Union Street toward her apartment. Before she made it two steps, however, a woman shifted into the light several feet ahead of her. Melody stopped in her tracks. The stranger was so striking, her smile so confident, it was impossible to move forward without acknowledging her. She had dark blond hair that fell in perfect waves onto the shoulders of a very expensive looking overcoat. One that had tiny gold chains in weird places that served no function, just for the sake of fashion. Simply put, she was radiant and she didn’t belong outside of a casual neighborhood bar.

“Miss Gallard?”

The woman knew her name? Had she been lying in wait for her? Not totally surprising, but it had been a long while since she’d encountered this kind of brazenness from a reporter.

“Excuse me,” Melody said, hustling past her. “I’m not answering any questions about my mother—”

“I’m Danielle Doolin. You might recall some emails I sent you earlier this year? I’m a producer with the Applause Network.”

Melody kept walking. “I get a lot of emails.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” said Danielle, falling into step beside her. Keeping pace, even though she was wearing three-inch heels, her footwear a stark contrast to Melody’s flat ankle boots. “The public has a vested interest in you and your family.”

“You realize I was never really given a choice about that.”

“I do. During my brief phone call with Beat Dawkins, he expressed the same.”