tale, and I think how lucky I am that my cousin lives here. That because we’re family, it’s almost like it’s my house too.
My mom makes a fuss of straightening out my clothes, which she usually never does. She asks me one more time ifI’ll take off the sweater, but I just shake my head. I’ve made it to Juliet’s front door. I’m keeping it on. I know Juliet will love it.
We ring the doorbell, and Lucinda answers. They call her a housekeeper, but she’s really like a great big grandma. I throw my arms around her, and she hugs me around my middle. We call her Lucy, but not around Juliet’s mom. My aunt doesn’t like it.
Lucy leads us through what feels like an enormous maze of marble and glass until we get to a big living room. There are huge floor-to-sky windows on three walls of the room and a television that looks like a movie screen. Then I spot her. Juliet is sitting on the floor, playing with a gigantic collection of stuffed animals. They must be new. I’m never seen them before.
I run and throw my arms around her. I start babbling about the drive and our tree house and how much I’ve missed her. I pull back just long enough to shove my reindeer sweater under her nose.
“Look!” I declare loudly.
Juliet sweeps her short brown hair out of her face. She was always a little bit shorter than me, and now her hair is shorter than mine too. It doesn’t matter, though. I bet we could still wear our matching dresses and look like twins.
Lucy leaves, and Juliet’s mother stands up from the sofa. I didn’t even see her there. Her dress looks like the same print as the couch. “I’m so glad you made it,” she says.
Juliet’s mom calls her over, but she doesn’t go right away. She is looking me over, her eyes on the bells on my sweater. She doesn’t seem impressed, though, and suddenly I wish I wasn’t wearing it. Or that it was gigantic, so I could crawl inside and disappear.
Something is wrong.
“Juliet,” her mother says, a little bit louder, “please say hello to your cousin.”
Juliet makes a fuss of getting up, dragging a stuffed-animal horse by the mane. We’re face-to-face, but she still doesn’t move to hug me. She doesn’t even smile.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
“Can I play with you?” I ask.
“I’m finished.”
How can Juliet be finished playing? We used to play for hours. Outside, inside. In my house, her house, Rob’s house. In our driveways, in our living rooms.
“Jules,” I try, “let’s play.” She turns her head and doesn’t look at me. “Joo Joo?” Still nothing. Then I think of it: She’s mad at me. The problem is, I don’t know what I did wrong.
I’m starving by the time Juliet’s father comes home, and my stomach is making loud growling noises when we all sit down to dinner. No one is really talking. I leave my sweater on because it’s freezing in their house. As cold as it is in the ice cream section of the grocery store.
After dinner my dad says we should open one present tonight. It’s a tradition at our house. One present Christmas Eve, the rest on Christmas.
My mom starts to say we shouldn’t, because we’re driving back tonight and we can do it at home, but my dad convinces her. “Come on,” he says. “Just one.”
Juliet gets to pick hers from under the tree. She chooses a gigantic one. A box so big it takes up the entire left side of the tree. Then my mom hands me my own, and from the way she’s smiling I know she knew we were going to open it here all along. It’s a small, long box, and the wrapping paper is sparkling in the white Christmas lights. I take it from my mom, gently, and turn it over.
Juliet is already tearing at her paper, ripping and yanking. Inside is a dollhouse. It’s beautiful, like a tiny copy of the house we are in. Even the white columns are the same. I’m so enthralled with it, I almost forget to open my own gift. Juliet, however, doesn’t seem remotely impressed. She takes one look at the
My mom makes a fuss of straightening out my clothes, which she usually never does. She asks me one more time ifI’ll take off the sweater, but I just shake my head. I’ve made it to Juliet’s front door. I’m keeping it on. I know Juliet will love it.
We ring the doorbell, and Lucinda answers. They call her a housekeeper, but she’s really like a great big grandma. I throw my arms around her, and she hugs me around my middle. We call her Lucy, but not around Juliet’s mom. My aunt doesn’t like it.
Lucy leads us through what feels like an enormous maze of marble and glass until we get to a big living room. There are huge floor-to-sky windows on three walls of the room and a television that looks like a movie screen. Then I spot her. Juliet is sitting on the floor, playing with a gigantic collection of stuffed animals. They must be new. I’m never seen them before.
I run and throw my arms around her. I start babbling about the drive and our tree house and how much I’ve missed her. I pull back just long enough to shove my reindeer sweater under her nose.
“Look!” I declare loudly.
Juliet sweeps her short brown hair out of her face. She was always a little bit shorter than me, and now her hair is shorter than mine too. It doesn’t matter, though. I bet we could still wear our matching dresses and look like twins.
Lucy leaves, and Juliet’s mother stands up from the sofa. I didn’t even see her there. Her dress looks like the same print as the couch. “I’m so glad you made it,” she says.
Juliet’s mom calls her over, but she doesn’t go right away. She is looking me over, her eyes on the bells on my sweater. She doesn’t seem impressed, though, and suddenly I wish I wasn’t wearing it. Or that it was gigantic, so I could crawl inside and disappear.
Something is wrong.
“Juliet,” her mother says, a little bit louder, “please say hello to your cousin.”
Juliet makes a fuss of getting up, dragging a stuffed-animal horse by the mane. We’re face-to-face, but she still doesn’t move to hug me. She doesn’t even smile.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
“Can I play with you?” I ask.
“I’m finished.”
How can Juliet be finished playing? We used to play for hours. Outside, inside. In my house, her house, Rob’s house. In our driveways, in our living rooms.
“Jules,” I try, “let’s play.” She turns her head and doesn’t look at me. “Joo Joo?” Still nothing. Then I think of it: She’s mad at me. The problem is, I don’t know what I did wrong.
I’m starving by the time Juliet’s father comes home, and my stomach is making loud growling noises when we all sit down to dinner. No one is really talking. I leave my sweater on because it’s freezing in their house. As cold as it is in the ice cream section of the grocery store.
After dinner my dad says we should open one present tonight. It’s a tradition at our house. One present Christmas Eve, the rest on Christmas.
My mom starts to say we shouldn’t, because we’re driving back tonight and we can do it at home, but my dad convinces her. “Come on,” he says. “Just one.”
Juliet gets to pick hers from under the tree. She chooses a gigantic one. A box so big it takes up the entire left side of the tree. Then my mom hands me my own, and from the way she’s smiling I know she knew we were going to open it here all along. It’s a small, long box, and the wrapping paper is sparkling in the white Christmas lights. I take it from my mom, gently, and turn it over.
Juliet is already tearing at her paper, ripping and yanking. Inside is a dollhouse. It’s beautiful, like a tiny copy of the house we are in. Even the white columns are the same. I’m so enthralled with it, I almost forget to open my own gift. Juliet, however, doesn’t seem remotely impressed. She takes one look at the
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