Fred Goldberg glances at his watch. “All right, everyone, places! Time’s a-wasting here. Get ready to eat, drink, and be merry in three—two—one . . . ACTION!”
He points to the cameraman, and as the light on the camera turns from red to green, Zach grabs my hand and pulls me over toward the punch bowl, where Ethan, who like Third also went with a Santa-themed sweater, is standing talking to Megan and Becca. Becca’s face flushes as she spots our clasped hands.
“Hey, guys,” I say coolly, ignoring her as I slip my hand out of Zach’s to serve myself some punch. “How about that Thanksgiving game? Did we send Acton home with their tail between their legs or what?”
That sets the boys off, and I stand there sipping my punch and eating cookies and listening to them go over it play by play. Then, just as my mother and the cameramen get to us, Becca turns to me and says sweetly, “So Cassidy, how’s Tristan?”
The conversation comes to a screeching halt. My face goes beet red. Chadwickius frenemus strikes again! Zach looks at me intently, but this is definitely not the sort of thing I want to talk about in front of him, and especially not on national television.
Behind the cameraman’s back, my mother is gesturing at me urgently, using two fingers to stretch up the corners of her mouth in a smile. I bare my teeth obediently at Becca in a grin. “Fine, thank you for asking.”
She flicks a glance at Zach, then hits me with another zinger. “Are you two still going out, then?”
I hesitate, weighing my response. If I say no, that implies that Tristan and I were dating and stopped, which isn’t true. We never dated, officially, we just kind of hung out. And I’m not sure that last night in England at the dance really counts. Yes, he chased me across the lawn at Chawton House. And caught me. And then—well, let’s just say there was a bit of spooning involved, as Betsy Ray would put it. But I’m certainly not about to tell Becca that. I haven’t told anybody about it. And the truth is, I haven’t heard much from Tristan since. Which is okay, really. I’ve been busy with hockey, and he’s been busy with his European ice dancing competitions.
If I say yes, on the other hand, what will Zach think?
If I’m being honest with myself, I guess my sister is right, and I do kind of like Zach Norton. I’ve spent so many years telling everybody that I don’t, though, and that we’re just friends, that it would be kind of embarrassing to acknowledge the truth.
Especially here, and now. It’s not a truth I’m about to share with Becca, who obviously also likes Zach, and who obviously really, really resents the fact that he’s maybe a little interested in me.
Mumbling something about needing some air, I retreat to the far side of the room, leaving my mother to deal with the fallout.
Courtney comes over. “What’s going on?”
I lift a shoulder.
“Why is she looking at you like that?”
Across the room, Becca is trying to drill holes in me with her glare.
“Who knows?”
We take a quick dinner break—turkey enchiladas, served buffet-style in the kitchen—before filming the next segment. I was sure the Christmas karaoke would be a dud, but it isn’t at all. Ethan and Third and Stewart, who is also wearing a Santa sweater, only his is beyond awesome because it’s just a black sweatshirt with a fuzzy Santa toilet seat cover sewn onto the front of it—bill themselves as the Three Santas and belt out a hilariously off-key “Jingle Bell Rock.” The book club moms plus Gigi and Becca’s grandmother all line up for “Silver Bells,” complete with embarrassing dance moves and a lot of swaying back and forth at the chorus. Darcy Hawthorne, who in my opinion deserves the Most Boring award for his green-and-black plaid sweater with a Scotty dog on the front, manages to coax Kevin into warbling “Frosty the Snowman.” We’re all practically in tears by the time he’s done, we’re laughing so hard.
It’s Jess, though, who really brings us to tears.
I don’t know much about music, but I know a heart-stoppingly beautiful voice when I hear one. The room grows quiet as she stands there on her crutches and sings “White Christmas.” I actually get chills. I know it’s Thanksgiving weekend, but that’s the perfect song for an afternoon like this one, what with the snow outside and everything.
“How come you didn’t sing?” Zach asks me, after Jess is finished.
“Me?” I give him a look. “That would be because I have a voice like Darth Vader with laryngitis. Trust me, you don’t want to hear me sing.”
It’s past Chloe’s bedtime when we finally wrap. Emma just manages to edge Kevin out for the grand prize for ugliest sweater, winning a gift certificate to the swanky Patriot Shoppe (“so you can trade in that horrid thing for something beautiful,” my mother tells her). Kevin is happy with his runner-up prize, though, a sparkly light-up star ornament. He promptly presents it to Jess, who turns beet red. Kevin is so clueless. Darcy just laughs. He likes Kevin, plus he knows it’s not like there’s any real competition there.
There’s a flurry of activity as the crew packs up the equipment and our guests all leave. My book club friends and their moms linger to help with the dishes, and I follow Courtney upstairs to her room, where I plunk myself down on her bed to hang out for a bit while she finishes packing for her flight back to L.A.
“So tell me about Zach,” she says, picking up a shirt from the pile on her bed and folding it.
I shrug. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Becca seems to think there is.”
“Becca is a moron.”
My sister laughs. “She’s a lot smarter than you think—she’s obviously caught on to the fact that he likes you.”
I can feel my face redden. I’m skating on thin ice here. Boys are not a topic that Courtney and I have covered much before. There’s never been a need to. “You think so?” I ask casually, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread.
She gives me a sideways glance. “I know so.” She places the shirt in her suitcase, then sits down beside me. “I wish you could see his face when he looks at you,” she tells me. “He lights up like a Christmas tree.”
I bite my lip. My own face is easily as red as my ugly sweater by now. This is really embarrassing.
Courtney stands up again. “So what’s your game plan?” she asks briskly, picking up another shirt.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Terminology I can deal with again. “Um, I don’t have one?”
“You should. Boys need a little encouragement.”
This is news to me. “Really?”
She nods. “Sure. They’re often surprisingly shy, despite all their macho sports talk. That’s why they stick together the way they do, you know. Sometimes you need to cut them out of the herd and let them know you’re interested.”
I laugh. “You sound like one of those nature programs.” I drop my voice to a whisper and do my best to mimic an Australian accent. “G’day, mate! Today we’re observing the double-breasted seersucker. See how he flocks together with the other males of his species and ducks for cover in the brush. Let’s watch the female as she approaches from his blind side—oh, look! She’s nabbed him.”
Courtney grins. “Exactly! My point is, don’t be afraid to let Zach know that you like him.”
“I’m not,” I tell her, but that’s not entirely true. All this stuff comes easily to her—boys have liked Courtney since she was in kindergarten—but it’s mostly unknown territory to me. That evening at Chawton House with Tristan last summer hardly counts.
“Time to go!” Stanley calls from downstairs.
“You’ll figure it out,” says Courtney, zipping her suitcase shut. “Everybody does. And remember, you can always call me to talk about it, okay?”
“Okay.” I help carry her bags downstairs to the front hallway, where everyone is gathered to say good-bye. “Thanks,” I tell her, when it’s my turn to give her a hug.
Courtney squeezes me back. “You’re welcome. I love you, Cass.”
“I love you, too.”
Aft
er she and Grant and Stanley leave, my mother puts Chloe to bed, then comes into the kitchen to join the rest of us.
“Whew,” she says, stepping out of her shoes and sagging against the doorway. “This has been one long day.”
“What you need is a nice hot cup of tea,” says Gigi. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
My mother crosses the room and perches on one of the island stools next to Jess, who is drying a pile of silverware. “How are you holding up, honey?”
“Fine,” Jess replies. She points to the R on her sweater. “Very merry,” she adds, rolling her Rs.
“Sorry to hear about Switzerland,” my mother continues. “But Concord’s a nice place to be over the holidays.”
“Actually, I’m not going to be in Concord,” Jess tells her. “I’m going to be at my aunt and uncle’s in New Hampshire.”
“How fun!”
“We’re all going,” adds Mrs. Delaney as Gigi sets out a row of mugs on the counter. She picks out a teabag and plops it into one of them. “It’s our first Christmas away from the farm as a family since the twins were born.”
“How about you, Phoebe?” my mother asks, leaning forward to take a mug too. “Does your family have plans too?”
“No, we’ll be here in Concord,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. She pauses, glancing over at Emma, who is suddenly on full alert by the sink, fixing her with Winona eyes. Mrs. Hawthorne smiles. “Yes, dear? Was there something that you wanted?” She turns back to my mother. “All of us will be here in Concord except for . . .”
Emma drops to her knees and clasps her hands dramatically. “. . . my lovely daughter, who’s going to be joining the Delaneys in New Hampshire.”
Emma lets out a squeal. “Really, Mom?”
Mrs. Hawthorne nods. “Really. Your dad and I talked it over, and while we’ll certainly miss you, it’s a lovely opportunity and we don’t see any reason you shouldn’t go.”
Emma starts hopping up and down in excitement. Jess waves her dish towel in the air and lets out a whoop.
“Sheesh, they act like they’re still in preschool,” Becca mutters to no one in particular. I ignore her, still stinging from our run-in by the punch bowl.
Mrs. Delaney takes a sip of tea. “And how about your cruise, Lily? When do you leave?”
“We’ll be flying to Fort Lauderdale on the twenty-first, and sailing on the twenty-second.”
“That sounds heavenly!”
Mrs. Wong nods. “We chose Paragon Cruise Lines for their environmentally sound practices. Their ships are the greenest on the seas and have greatly reduced their carbon footprint. Did you know, for instance, that most cruise ships generate twenty-one thousand gallons of sewage a day?”
This little factoid leaves everybody speechless. And more than a little uncomfortable. Megan looks like she wants to sink through the floor.
“Paragon, on the other hand, has a state-of-the-art wastewater treatment system, and the capacity to dry, sterilize, and offload inert sewage for recycling.”
“Boy, Mrs. Wong,” I tell her, “you sure make the Caribbean sound like a lot of fun!”
Everybody cracks up at this, even Mrs. Wong.
“And how wonderful that you’ll be traveling with the Chadwicks,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, looking over at Becca’s mother.
Mrs. Chadwick’s face goes rigid. “Actually, we’re not—” she begins, but stops as her mother puts a hand on her arm.
“Yes, isn’t it?” says Mrs. Gilman. “We’re all looking forward to the trip so much.”
Mrs. Chadwick blinks. “But I thought—”
Her mother pats her arm, then leans over and I hear her whisper, “A little Thanksgiving gift from your father and me,” just as Becca starts to squeal.
“What was that about preschoolers?” I ask her under my breath, but she ignores me.
“So much for ‘Home for the Holidays,’” remarks Gigi. “Maybe you should call your TV special ‘Gone for the Holidays,’ Clementine.”
My mother laughs.
“I guess you’ll be holding down the fort here in Concord all by yourselves, then,” Mrs. Wong says to her.
“Mmm,” says my mother. “Actually, we may be out of town too.”
I whip around and stare at her. “Really?” She hasn’t mentioned anything to me about it. “Where?”
“We’ll talk later.”
“Ooh, I smell a mystery trip!” says Mrs. Hawthorne.
“So everyone is heading out of town, then?” says Becca’s grandmother. “Life really does imitate art, doesn’t it?”
“What are you talking about, Mother?” asks Mrs. Chadwick.
“It’s just like Betsy’s Christmas trip in Betsy in Spite of Herself.”
“Only, no one’s going to Milwaukee,” says Emma.
I fidget my way through the rest of the party cleanup. Finally everyone leaves, and I pounce on my mother. “So what’s this about a trip?”
She pats the stool next to her. “Come sit by me.” I pad across the kitchen to join her, stepping carefully over Murphy, who’s sacked out in front of the fridge. “Grant has invited Courtney to spend Christmas with his family in Santa Barbara.”
“Is she going to go?” Like the Hawthornes, our family has never spent the holidays apart.
My mother nods. “Of course. It’s important to her. But I’m wondering how you’d feel about flying to California then too.”
I frown. “All by myself?”
“No—all of us. We’d see Courtney, of course, and meet Grant’s family, and maybe spend a few days in Laguna Beach.”
“That sounds like fun.”
My mother gives me a sidelong glance. “There’s another reason that Stanley and I would like to go too.”
She pauses, and I look at her expectantly.
“Stanley’s had a job offer from a big accounting firm in L.A. He’s flying out next week for an interview.”
If she had told me he was booked on the next shuttle to Mars, I couldn’t have been more surprised. I sit there, too stunned to speak. “You mean we might be moving back to California?” I finally manage to ask.
My mother tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a possibility.”
“But I thought he liked his job in Boston!”
“He does,” says my mother. “This is a pretty amazing job offer, though, and he wants to at least check it out.”
“What about your job?”
“I can film Cooking with Clementine anywhere.” She looks at me anxiously. “It wouldn’t be all that bad if we went back, would it? Courtney would be nearby, and you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I stare down at my hands, which are lying limply on the granite countertop. When we first moved here to Concord five years ago, all I could think about was getting back to California. Now, though, Concord is home.
Leave this house, and my hockey team? I’ve just barely gotten into the groove with the Lady Shawmuts. And Chicks with Sticks! I’d miss those little girls so much. I’d miss all my friends at Alcott High, too—especially my book club friends.
And then there’s the whole Zach Norton situation.
Final score: Cassidy Sloane—a big fat question mark.
CHRISTMAS
“Betsy dreamed about going away from Deep Valley, but she didn’t for a moment suspect that around a bend in her Winding Hall of Fate a journey was actually waiting.”
—Betsy in Spite of Herself
Megan
“The trunk stood open in Betsy’s room, and slowly it was being filled . . . not only with clothes. The Crowd brought tissue-wrapped bundles to put in it. And Betsy had to buy or make Christmas presents to take along, as well as to leave behind.”
—Betsy in Spite of Herself
“I hope that’s everything,” says my dad, wedging the last of our suitcases into the trunk of the car. He stands back, shaking his head in disbelief. “How is it that your mother and I managed to get everything we needed into one bag each, and you two have five between yo
u?”
Gigi and I exchange a glance. My parents just don’t understand about clothes.
“We had to put the presents somewhere, didn’t we, Megan?” says my grandmother.
My dad breaks into a grin. “Oh, so your suitcases are full of presents for me, are they? Well now, that’s another story.”
We all climb into the car, and as we pull out of the garage and head down the driveway, I suddenly lean forward. “Dad,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder, “can you hold on a sec?”
“Please tell me you didn’t forget anything, like another suitcase.”
I shake my head. “Nope, I just want to check the mail.” He brakes, and I hop out and run over to the mailbox. Please, please, please let there be something from Simon! But there isn’t; it’s empty.
My mother gives me a sympathetic glance as I slide back into the car. Gigi reaches over and pats my knee. They both know how hard these past few weeks have been for me. I keep going over everything in my mind, trying to figure out what went wrong and what I could have done differently. The whole thing is just so weird, and so not like Simon. Plus, everywhere I go and everything I do reminds me of him, and all the fun we had together last year here in Concord. There’s nobody like him at Alcott High. Heck, there’s nobody like him anywhere. Simon is just about perfect.
Well, except for the fact that he dumped me. Via e-mail.
“You remembered your Secret Santa presents, right, sweetie?” my mother asks as we pull out onto Strawberry Hill Road. It’s pitch-black out still, and the headlights reflect off the snowbanks lining both sides of the road.
“Yup. Got ’em right here.” I point to the brown paper bag at my feet. After we found out that the entire book club was scattering for the holidays, Mrs. Hawthorne suggested we bring our gifts to the bon voyage breakfast this morning. We were supposed to wrap them, put them in a paper bag, and then staple it shut along with a card with the recipient’s name typed on it, so our handwriting wouldn’t give anything away. Our moms are going to be in charge of distributing the gifts while we’re on our trips.