Christmas, girls.”
Downstairs, it’s like watching a sheepherding competition in which several sheep think they’re the dog. We’re all wearing our Sunday best: Dad’s red-and-white candy cane tie matches his red-and-white eyes, Crystal’s green knit dress is belted with a gaudy gold belt, and Brianna is decked out in a green corduroy dress with white lace trim and collar. White tights end in white shoes, and a green-and-white bow sits in the orange hair that makes her look more like Dad than we do. She looks like the Christmas leprechaun.
I pat her head and say, “Merry Christmas, lassie.”
“Don’t mess up my hair,” she says.
Deborah’s hair is a darker orange than Dad’s, more red, but not enough for her to look good in the burgundy dress she’s wearing. Winston wears a black suit, white button up shirt that barely contains his hanging gut, and a deep red tie.
How corporately festive.
Their seven-year-old son, Matt, looks uncomfortable in an identical outfit.
Deborah says, “Okay, coats on, everyone.”
“We’ll follow you,” Crystal says.
“There’s no reason to take two cars,” Deborah says. “We’re all family now.” She puts her arm around Crystal’s shoulder and leans in so their faces are close together, their cheeks almost touching. I hide a smile when Crystal cringes.
“I appreciate that,” Crystal says. “But I’d still like to drive. David?” She walks out the door holding Brianna’s hand, and Dad follows, his black Converse high-tops shuffling across the tile entryway. He turns around at the door. He says, “Girls?”
Jaime and I look at each other and know this day will be rough. Dad is rehearsing already and whatever his attention-hoarding show will be—interrupting performances at church, starting fights, prank calling our friends when we spend the night at their houses instead of his are a few previous hits—it’s guaranteed to be embarrassing and unavoidable once it starts.
Jaime and I squish into the backseat of Crystal’s Camaro with Brianna, wrinkling our almost matching blue dresses, Jaime’s with white buttons down the front. We sit on pages ripped from coloring books, Happy Meal boxes, and crumbled Ritz crackers. I pull a plastic Garfield out from poking my butt and Brianna elbows me. On Brianna’s other side Jaime says, “Ow,” so I think she got a sharp little elbow in her ribs, too.
As we’re leaving the Cranleys’ cul de sac behind their shiny tan Explorer, Crystal says, “Is your sister always so bossy?”
Dad says, “She’s trying to include us.”
“I’m not a charity case,” Crystal says. “If she’d wanted to make nice, she could have made the dog sleep outside.”
“She doesn’t know about your allergies.”
“I told her when I got here. I bet if it were Linda”—Crystal nearly spits Mom’s name—“your sister would have spent hours vacuuming and buying pillow protectors just to prevent one tiny sneeze.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
Crystal’s nostrils flare. “I also told her about Brianna’s lactose intolerance and asked her to get dairy-free eggnog.”
“Aren’t eggs dairy?” I say.
“They put eggs in eggnog?” Jaime says. “Gross.”
“Duh,” I say. “Why do you think it’s called eggnog?”
Dad turns to us and says, “What do you think a nog is?” His private Christmas Eve party hangover is fading. His eyes are more open and less red, and he smiles as he says, “A nog is a blow to the head, so a traditional eggnog is really served with an egg to the face.”
“Mommy, can we throw eggs?” Brianna says and looks at me and Jaime with a Cheshire cat grin in baby teeth.
During the church service, Deborah leads the three-member gospel team with her acoustic guitar hooked up to an amp. As she sings, her glasses slide down her short nose. Her hair fans out like an orange dandelion tuft behind her slightly dipped head, and her eyes shoot back and forth from the music stand to her
Downstairs, it’s like watching a sheepherding competition in which several sheep think they’re the dog. We’re all wearing our Sunday best: Dad’s red-and-white candy cane tie matches his red-and-white eyes, Crystal’s green knit dress is belted with a gaudy gold belt, and Brianna is decked out in a green corduroy dress with white lace trim and collar. White tights end in white shoes, and a green-and-white bow sits in the orange hair that makes her look more like Dad than we do. She looks like the Christmas leprechaun.
I pat her head and say, “Merry Christmas, lassie.”
“Don’t mess up my hair,” she says.
Deborah’s hair is a darker orange than Dad’s, more red, but not enough for her to look good in the burgundy dress she’s wearing. Winston wears a black suit, white button up shirt that barely contains his hanging gut, and a deep red tie.
How corporately festive.
Their seven-year-old son, Matt, looks uncomfortable in an identical outfit.
Deborah says, “Okay, coats on, everyone.”
“We’ll follow you,” Crystal says.
“There’s no reason to take two cars,” Deborah says. “We’re all family now.” She puts her arm around Crystal’s shoulder and leans in so their faces are close together, their cheeks almost touching. I hide a smile when Crystal cringes.
“I appreciate that,” Crystal says. “But I’d still like to drive. David?” She walks out the door holding Brianna’s hand, and Dad follows, his black Converse high-tops shuffling across the tile entryway. He turns around at the door. He says, “Girls?”
Jaime and I look at each other and know this day will be rough. Dad is rehearsing already and whatever his attention-hoarding show will be—interrupting performances at church, starting fights, prank calling our friends when we spend the night at their houses instead of his are a few previous hits—it’s guaranteed to be embarrassing and unavoidable once it starts.
Jaime and I squish into the backseat of Crystal’s Camaro with Brianna, wrinkling our almost matching blue dresses, Jaime’s with white buttons down the front. We sit on pages ripped from coloring books, Happy Meal boxes, and crumbled Ritz crackers. I pull a plastic Garfield out from poking my butt and Brianna elbows me. On Brianna’s other side Jaime says, “Ow,” so I think she got a sharp little elbow in her ribs, too.
As we’re leaving the Cranleys’ cul de sac behind their shiny tan Explorer, Crystal says, “Is your sister always so bossy?”
Dad says, “She’s trying to include us.”
“I’m not a charity case,” Crystal says. “If she’d wanted to make nice, she could have made the dog sleep outside.”
“She doesn’t know about your allergies.”
“I told her when I got here. I bet if it were Linda”—Crystal nearly spits Mom’s name—“your sister would have spent hours vacuuming and buying pillow protectors just to prevent one tiny sneeze.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
Crystal’s nostrils flare. “I also told her about Brianna’s lactose intolerance and asked her to get dairy-free eggnog.”
“Aren’t eggs dairy?” I say.
“They put eggs in eggnog?” Jaime says. “Gross.”
“Duh,” I say. “Why do you think it’s called eggnog?”
Dad turns to us and says, “What do you think a nog is?” His private Christmas Eve party hangover is fading. His eyes are more open and less red, and he smiles as he says, “A nog is a blow to the head, so a traditional eggnog is really served with an egg to the face.”
“Mommy, can we throw eggs?” Brianna says and looks at me and Jaime with a Cheshire cat grin in baby teeth.
During the church service, Deborah leads the three-member gospel team with her acoustic guitar hooked up to an amp. As she sings, her glasses slide down her short nose. Her hair fans out like an orange dandelion tuft behind her slightly dipped head, and her eyes shoot back and forth from the music stand to her
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