“Yeah, in what universe?” She rolls her eyes again, having no idea what she just said. And once I start laughing, it’s nearly impossible to stop. Especially when Sir Dasher Dashaway gets so worked up he starts barking and farting alongside me.
“As far as I know, just this one,” I say, calming down enough to reach for one of the cans of air freshener we keep in every room. “Though that’s not to say there aren’t others.”
My parents glance between us, both of them waiting for the moment Holly and I explode into one of our shouting matches and they’ll be forced to break it up. But those days are over.
No matter how hard she tries, Holly can’t get to me.
Not after seeing the alternative.
She shakes her head and storms into the kitchen as my mom looks to me and says, “Well, I guess I’ll get started.” Which normally serves as my cue to start making excuses in an attempt to get out of helping, but this year I’m playing it differently.
“I was thinking I’d help,” I say. “If that’s okay?”
My parents exchange a questioning look, as though they know something’s up but they’re not sure just what.
“I was thinking we could even turn it into a tree-trimming party.”
“Count me out,” Holly says, having returned from the kitchen to glare at me while she gnaws on one of the freshly baked sugar cookies.
“We could make hot chocolate, invite some friends over, and then everyone can help decorate.”
“I don’t know, Nick.” My mom runs a self-conscious hand over her hair. “The house isn’t ready for guests….”
“But that’s kind of the point. They’ll help us get it ready.”
“I’m game.” My dad slips an arm around my shoulder in a show of solidarity.
“I’m not.” Holly scowls. “My friends are on their way over, and trust me, they’ll want nothing to do with your lame-o tree-trimming party.”
Again I just shrug. Who knew she was so easy to deal with?
When Holly’s friends see the kitchen counter covered in freshly baked cookies in need of decorating, despite what she predicted, they can’t wait to get started.
One of them even referred to it as a supercool edible-art experiment.
“You can’t be serious?” Holly says when she sees them fighting over tubes of colored frosting. Then, seeing that they are, she sighs and joins in.
In the den my dad spots my mom on the ladder as she places some of the ornaments near the top of the tree. Their usual worried whispers are now replaced with the sound of reminiscing and laughter, as though they’ve forgotten all about the back taxes and year-end financials.
Not like those things have gone anywhere. But maybe, just for tonight, those worries can take a backseat.
When the doorbell chimes, I race to answer it, relieved to find Plum and Dougall standing on the stoop, looking exactly the same as I left them, Dougall with his crazy Einstein hair and Plum wearing another one of her mom’s Christmas creations, yet to me they’ve never looked better.
“Nice sweater,” I say without a trace of mockery.
“Yours too.” Plum grins in a way that makes her eyes go all sparkly, her cheeks flushed and pink, and I can’t help but realize how pretty she is.
I study her for a moment, wondering if she has any idea of the chain of events she set off with her magical birthday cupcake, but it’s not like I ask.
“I tried calling you.” Dougall pushes in front of her. “Did you know there’s a blue moon happening soon? Which not only is the very rare event of a second full moon within a calendar month but is also said to act as a portal to other dimensions!”
He waits for me to respond, but my first instinct is to look at Plum, whose face betrays nothing.
“Apparently there are all kinds of rituals to go with it. We’ll have to get a hold of some candles and stuff, but how hard can that be? I was thinking we should definitely do it. But first we need to decide where we want to go, because you don’t want to end up just anywhere.” Then, remembering Plum standing behind him, half outside, half inside, he says, “Oh, you can come too if you want.”
Plum looks at me, but I just shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “My mom made cookies, my dad made hot chocolate, we’re decorating the tree, and, of course, there’s always the appeal of Sir Dasher Dashaway’s farting sprees. I can’t really think of anywhere I’d rather be.”
Dougall’s face drops in disappointment.
Plum’s face lifts in relief.
And as I lead them inside, I swear I hear Plum whisper, “Welcome home, Nick.”