He pushes his glasses onto his forehead and peers at me with eyes that nearly disappear between thick layers of bushy white brows and red cheeks. “Course it happened! Everything happens! Only it happens all at once—on all different levels, with all different outcomes. I thought you understood that?”
“Dougall’s always been better at understanding that stuff,” I say. “Even so, there’s only one level, one dimension, and one outcome I’m interested in.” I make my way down the steps, pausing a moment to enjoy the feel of my feet firmly planted on Greentree soil.
“Merry Christmas!” the driver calls in a blur of flashing eyes and gold teeth. Shutting the door behind me, he pulls away from the curb and vanishes into the wintry swirl as I make my way down a series of familiar streets piled with snow.
Only instead of hating on it like I usually would, instead of complaining about the long walk from the bus stop and wishing I was on a tropical beach, I take the time to truly appreciate it.
As it turns out, constant sunshine is overrated.
It’s only when I’ve reached Plum’s house and notice the soft glow of lights coming from inside that I realize I passed Tinsley Barnes’s and Mac Turtledove’s streets a few blocks ago and didn’t even notice.
I consider that progress.
When I reach my house, even though I’ve spent my whole life there, it’s kind of like seeing it for the very first time. With the red and green lights hanging from the roof, the oversized candy canes lining the path, the wreath made of holly berries and pine needles hanging from the door, and my dad’s old white truck parked in the drive, well, it’s pretty much the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.
No big iron gate.
No paradise pool.
No oversized flat-screen, weird art, and scary chandeliers that could just as easily kill you.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hey,” my dad calls. “You just getting home?”
“Bus never came, so I walked.” I quicken my steps and help him unload his truck.
“That’s weird.” He swipes a hand across his forehead, keeping the snow from his eyes. “I decided to cut out early. Drove right by the stop and didn’t see you. You didn’t have to walk, Nick. Why didn’t you call me instead?”
I take a deep breath, wishing I could tell him the whole surreal story, but instead I just say, “My phone stopped working.”
He looks me over carefully, as though he senses something different. “You sure about that?” He motions toward my bag, where my cell phone chimes from inside. Only instead of the usual ringtone, it’s the sound of bells ringing, and when I look at the screen, I gape in complete disbelief.
There’s a message from Plum.
The Tinsel Hills Plum.
I know because there’s a picture of her, and just under that a message that reads:
Always remember, Nick, you’re never invisible to your true friends.
PS –?Thanks for the wings.
“Everything okay?” My dad stares at me for a long, steady moment.
“Yeah.” I watch the message fade, and when I go back to retrieve it, it’s gone.
Still, I saw it, and that’s proof enough for me.
I mean, while I could never explain how any of this stuff works, sometimes it’s enough to just know that it does.
“So what do you think—you up to the task?” My dad points toward the tree in the bed of his truck. “Not as big as that last one you helped move, so it should be a cinch.”
I know why he says it—he says it for me. So I won’t feel like our family, our life, our stuff, pales in the shadow of the Turtledoves.
Like I could ever feel that way again.
“May not be as big,” I say, “but it’s definitely better.”
He tugs on either side of his beanie so it covers his ears. “How do you figure?”
“Well, for starters, the branches lift higher, and the needles are springier. Clearly it’s relieved it doesn’t have to spend the next two weeks held hostage by the Turtledoves.”
My dad grins in a way I haven’t seen in a while and grabs hold of the trunk as I lift the tree from the top. The two of us haul it to the door, where Sir Dasher Dashaway waits not so patiently, before entering a house that smells like peppermint candles, freshly baked cookies, and the air freshener we use to mask my dog’s farts.
We place the tree in the stand we’ve used for as long as I can remember, my dad on one side, me on the other, while my mom stands before us, hands on her hips, instructing us which way to tilt it until it’s more or less straight, as Holly makes her way down the stairs.
“Your lame friend Dougall called.” She scowls at the tree as Sir Dasher Dashaway inches toward it like it’s a suspicious intruder he has not yet approved of. “Said you weren’t answering your cell. As if that’s my problem.” She rolls her eyes, trying her best to bait me, but I’m Teflon, and Holly’s words no longer stick.
“Dougall’s not lame.” I drop to my knees and pull Sir Dasher to me, happy to see he’s as sweet and funny-looking as I remember him being.