Cecelia was bustling around setting the table. My sister, Becca, was feeding the baby in his high chair. "The baby" is my brother, Squirt, who is actually a year and a half. (Becca is eight.)
Now, I love big breakfasts. My ballet teacher, Mme Noelle, would faint if she knew this. As a ballerina, I'm supposed to watch my weight. "No one wants to watch zee doncing heepos, except in Fantasia!" she likes to say.
But I don't get too crazy about my weight (yet). I will someday, when I'm a pro. On
Saturday mornings I eat like a pig. And I enjoy every minute of it.
That Saturday morning was different. I might as well have had sawdust on my plate.
"Aren't you eating anything?" asked my mom.
I pushed some of my hash browns into a mound. "I'm not that hungry."
"Huh-gee!" chirped Squirt. He flung a slice of banana on the floor.
"I'll eat it!" Becca volunteered.
"Don't you touch that banana!" Aunt Cecelia bellowed.
"Not that!" Becca said. "Jessi's breakfast."
As Becca scooped my eggs and potatoes onto her plate, Aunt Cecelia shook her head. "When I was your age, Jessica Ramsey, I would have been grateful for a breakfast like that."
"When you were her age," Daddy said, "you must have been full of gratitude, Cecelia. Because half the time you stole my breakfast, too."
"She did?" Becca asked, her eyes lighting up.
"Well, I never — " Aunt Cecelia sputtered.
"That’s what stunted my growth," Daddy went on. (Daddy, by the way, is six feet two and two hundred pounds.)
Aunt Cecelia huffed and puffed and turned away, but I could see her smiling.
Daddy is the only one brave enough to tease Aunt Cecelia. They're brother and sister. (She came to live with us when Mama went back to work.)
"Just one bite before you go?" Mama asked.
I looked at the clock: 9:09. I was supposed to be at Bellair's by ten at the latest.
"No, thanks. I better leave," I said, bolting upward.
"Jessi is going to be a Santa Claus," Becca announced to Squirt.
"San-toss! San-toss!" Squirt began banging his high chair tray. Apple juice sprayed all over the place. Becca started giggling. Aunt Cecelia screamed. Mama hit the floor with a sponge.
"Sorry to leave you in this time of crisis," Daddy said, grabbing his coat.
We were out the door before we heard Mama's response.
Leave it to Daddy. He can make me laugh when I'm feeling awful.
All the way to the store, he kept telling me how great I was going to be. I tried to believe it. I tried and tried. In the mall parking lot, I bravely got out, said good-bye, and walked toward the employees' entrance.
But when I saw Ms. Javorsky waiting there, I nearly dove back into the car. I think I would have, if she hadn't spotted me.
"Ah, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but jolly Saint Nick and her charioteer!" Ms. Javorsky called out.
I could hear Daddy laughing as he drove out of sight.
Me? I tried to laugh, too. But what came out was this sound halfway between a chuckle and a nose blow.
"How are feeling?" Ms. Javorsky asked.
"Fine," I replied.
"Ready for a huge crowd? This is one of the big shopping days before Christmas."
"Yeah."
Ha. What a fib. But what could I say? "Please keep the kids away from me"?
Ms. Javorsky led me into the employee locker room. A few women were freshening up, but none of them seemed to notice me. No one pointed or shook her head. I guess Ms. Javorsky hadn't told them about me.
She opened up a locker. Inside was my costume. "Come see me in my office before you go out on the floor," she said, walking away.
I stared at the big, gaudy outfit. For a teeny
moment I thought of burning it. But I didn't. I put it on — stomach padding, white beard, hat, and all. I took my bell.
I thought I would die on the way to Ms. Javorsky's office. I felt the posters on the wall laughing at me. She insisted I looked great and brought me out onto "the floor."
It was still pretty early. I had come out into the housewares section, so most of the shoppers were adults.
I hung out by the
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