And now it’s time to move on.
“What’s all this?” My older sister barges into my space. She doesn’t even bother to knock, despite the sign on my door with these clearly stated instructions. “Oh no—did you and Josh break up?”
I glare at the space on my wall where the tape that once held the poster has removed four rectangles of eggshell-colored paint and wait for her to leave.
“Does it have anything to do with that sweater you’re wearing?” She laughs way too hard at her own dumb joke. She always thinks she’s funnier than she is. “Please tell me you didn’t actually wear that to school.” Her voice is kind of loud, like she doesn’t even care if our mom overhears.*1
“Get out of my room, Holly.” I keep my back turned. No point in looking when the image of her long dark hair, smirky face, and dumb ironic T-shirt is practically tattooed on my brain.
“I’m not in your room,” she says, which means she’s hovering just shy of the doorway. The usual game.
“Get out of my proximity, then,” I say. My usual reply.
“Happily. But not until I fulfill my sisterly duty and tell you that Mom needs your help hanging the garland and wreaths and whatever else she needs to get ready for the tree. Dad’s bringing it home tonight. You’re supposed to help with that too.”
Inwardly I groan. I’m not really feeling the holiday spirit. I mean, why does it always have to be me? Why can’t Holly do something for a change?
I’m about to ask exactly that when she says, “Not only am I older than you, but I’m also smarter than you, which means I figured out long ago how to recuse myself from Mom’s annual bout of Christmas craziness. This one’s on you, Nick.”
Typical Holly. Using a word like recuse and pronouncing it in a big-deal way to show off her fancy vocabulary.
I turn, wanting her to see my eyes purposely rolling. And that’s when I confirm that her hair really is hanging in her face, her expression is the dictionary definition of smirky, and today’s T-shirt reads DEAR SANTA, THE NAUGHTY LIST STARTS HERE, with an arrow pointing up toward her chin.
“Nice.” I roll my eyes again, watching Holly bob her knees into a fake curtsy.
Even though my mom is pretty much annoy-proof during the holidays, even though she’s used to Holly’s politics and protests, she still has her limits. Which is why I’ve been tapped as her go-to child from December 19 to January 2.
Everyone’s mom has a thing. Plum’s mom is really into cooking and knitting. Dougall’s is really into her new family to the point where she often forgets about Dougall. And my mom practically lives for Christmas. I mean, who else names their kids Nick and Holly? Also, she loves to tell the story of how she convinced her doctor to induce my delivery a few days early so I’d be born on Christmas Day—like she expects me to thank her or something.
Back when I was little and didn’t know any better, I thought it was cool to be born on Christmas. I actually believed that the lights and decorations and trees all over the neighborhood were put there to celebrate me.
By the time I hit kindergarten, I’d learned the harsh truth. And the thing is, it’s just like Plum says—when your birthday falls on Christmas, it tends to get overshadowed by a much bigger birthday.
Still, just because Holly has trained my mom into thinking she’s unable to help out during the holidays, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to play along. I’ve come to dread this time of year for much better reasons than hers.
“Come on, Holly,” I say. “Why can’t you do something nice for a change and help Mom instead?” My voice sounds a little whinier than I’d like, but really, I’m so desperate it’s not like I care.
“Because she specifically asked for you.” Holly has an answer for everything. “Besides, you know I don’t participate in manufactured Hallmark holidays.”
“Christmas is a Hallmark holiday?” I roll my eyes a third time. It’s become the only expression I’m capable of around her.
“It is now.” Her mouth twists to one side as her eyebrows do that thing where they shoot halfway up her forehead. “It’s all about shopping and spending—it’s mass consumerism at its worst.”
“And yet, you still have no problem cashing Nana’s annual Christmas check.”
“Only so I can donate half the proceeds to Unicef.” She turns away, as though I’ll actually let that one slide. As if I don’t know better. Holly is quite possibly the most selfish person I’ve ever met.
“And the other half? What’d you do with that? Is that how you bought the charming T-shirt you’re wearing?”
Holly glares and heads down the hall, her voice trailing off as she says, “Like I said, Mom wants you downstairs.”
“Nick—there you are—just in time!”