Home for the Holidays

  Smiling at her, a memory flashes to mind of me at her age, or probably a little older. When we lived in Laguna Beach, my father used to drive me over here once in a while as a special dad-and-daughter treat. He had separate rituals for me and Courtney—with her it was always doughnuts. But coming to Balboa was ours, and it always brings back happy memories whenever I visit. Mom tried making frozen bananas at home for me once, after Dad died and we moved to Concord and I was feeling homesick. She thought it might cheer me up, but it wasn’t the same, and she never tried again. There’s something about the sun and the crowds and the ocean breeze and the ferry ride afterward that’s part of the experience, and that makes it about more than just something to eat.

  It’s kind of like going to Kimball’s Farm for ice cream with my book club, something I’d really miss if we leave Concord.

  After giving Stanley a guided tour of the downtown, we take the teeny ferry to the other part of the island. Riding the ferry is one of my favorite parts of going to Balboa. Seriously, it’s like a toy. Only three or four cars at a time can go on it.

  I roll down my window once we’re aboard and stick my head out, sniffing the air greedily as I look out at the familiar harbor. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to live here again. Beside me, Chloe bounces her legs against her car seat, singing her own version of the song on the radio: “Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle BELLS!” The other ferry passengers smile in amusement.

  I pull my head back in and lean over to give her a kiss. She really is the cutest thing on two legs. I can’t believe I ever thought Chloe was—what did Betsy Ray call it when her little sister Margaret arrived?—oh yeah, a “perfectly unnecessary baby.” Our family would not be complete without Chloe. That would be like a hockey team without its goalie. Or its mascot, maybe. Chloe’s our mascot.

  Dad would have loved her too.

  We don’t linger because we still have a long drive ahead of us, and before long we’re on the road north again. My stomach gurgles, rebelling against all the sugar and grease I’ve stuffed into it these last few days. Mrs. Wong would have a fit if she could see me. So would Coach Larson, for that matter. I haven’t been on the ice once all week. I’ve managed to squeeze in a couple of runs, and then there was the boogie boarding, of course, but still, I’m going to be wicked out of shape by the time we get home.

  Chloe and I eventually doze off, although it’s more like a sugar coma in my case, and when I wake up a couple of hours later, my stomach is upset. Plus, my mother’s all in a dither for some reason about meeting Grant’s family, and she gives me the “you’d better be on your best behavior” lecture as we get closer, glancing in the rearview mirror for emphasis.

  “Sure, Mom,” I tell her, yawning. I’m still wondering what she’s all worked up about when we pull into the Bells’ driveway a short time later.

  Grant’s parents seem perfectly nice—they’re older than Mom and Stanley, both silver-haired in that distinguished-but-youthful California way—so I can’t imagine that’s what set her off, and they go on and on about what a great girl Courtney is, so that can’t be it either.

  “Where are the kids, anyway?” my mother asks, as we stand in the driveway chatting.

  Mrs. Bell smiles. “They went for a hike. Grant promised they’d be back by dinnertime. How about we get you inside and settled before they arrive?”

  The Bells live in a beautiful house. It’s set way up on a hill, with views of Santa Barbara and the ocean beyond. It’s made of adobe, with one of those red tile roofs and lots of wrought iron. Spanish Colonial, my mother calls it. Plus, there’s an inner courtyard with a fountain. My mother goes gaga over it. She’s kind of an architecture nut.

  I trail inside with my suitcase behind Stanley and Mr. Bell. They’re talking about Stanley’s job interview, and I strain to listen. I catch only a few words: “great opportunity . . . big upheaval . . . weighing the choices.”

  Since my stepfather flew out for his interview a couple of weeks ago, there have been a lot of closed-door discussions between him and my mother. So far, all they’ve said is that the interview went well and the accounting firm is interested in him, but that they want to think about it some more. Then nothing. Total radio silence. It’s driving me crazy. If we’re going to move, I want to know. I don’t want it sprung on me at the last minute again. When we moved back east, Mom didn’t even discuss it with Courtney and me. We just came home from school one day and found her packing everything up in boxes. I want more time to prepare this time around, to say good-bye to everything—my Chicks with Sticks kids, my school, my house, my friends.

  Especially my friends. Well, except for my lame Secret Santa. Chadwickius frenemus.

  “I’m putting you in here with your sister, Cassidy,” says Mrs. Bell, holding open the door to one of the bedrooms. “And Clementine, you and Stanley and Chloe are right here across the hall.”

  I toss my suitcase on the bed, glance in the mirror to make sure I don’t have frozen banana still stuck to my face the way Chloe does, then head down the hall, following the sound of laughter. Mom and Mrs. Bell are in the kitchen. Their laughter stops abruptly as I walk in.

  “Uh, is there anything I can do to help?” I ask politely, shooting my mother a suspicious glance. I hope they weren’t talking about me.

  “That’s so sweet of you to ask,” says Mrs. Bell, “but Christmas Eve around here is pretty casual. The table’s already set. We’re having oyster stew and salad and popovers, and there might be a treat or two for dessert, you never know.” She smiles at me.

  I smile back. I’m warming right up to Grant’s mother.

  “You can put those presents under the tree,” my mother tells me, pointing to a couple of tote bags that are leaning against the wall.

  “It’s going to be so much fun to have a little one around tomorrow morning!” exclaims Mrs. Bell. “It’s been years since we’ve had a baby in the house.”

  “You say that now, but just you wait,” my mother replies. “Chloe’s a handful.”

  As she and Mrs. Grant start discussing popover recipes, I drift out of the kitchen and head for the living room. I kneel down in front of the Christmas tree by the fireplace and start unloading the presents my mother brought.

  Of course I have to look at the tags. My mother’s handwriting is on most of them, but two that are addressed to me draw me up short. One is from Zach, and the other, surprisingly, is from Tristan. I sit back on my heels when I see it. Tristan’s had a heavy round of competitions the past couple of months, and I haven’t heard much from him lately. Not that we’ve stayed in super-close touch since he went back to England—it’s nothing like Megan and Simon—but between an e-mail now and then and the photos we both post online and the occasional video-chat, we’ve kept up on what each other is doing. To take the time to send a present, though—that seems significant somehow. Hefting it, I can tell it’s a book. The one from Zach is smaller, but still heavy. What the heck did he get me, a hockey puck?

  Now I’m feeling guilty that I didn’t get anything for either of them. Should I have? But what? And why would I, anyway? It’s not like I’m dating either of them.

  Can a girl even date two guys? Would I want to if I could? Suddenly, things feel like they’re getting too complicated. I wish there was a guidebook, or rules listed somewhere about this kind of thing. Hockey has guidebooks; hockey has rules. You can practice for hockey. You can’t practice for real life.

  Glancing over my shoulder to make sure that no one’s watching—Mom and Mrs. Bell are still yukking it up in the kitchen, and Grant’s father and Stanley are out taking Chloe for a walk—I slide my finger under the tape on one end of Tristan’s present and slip the book out of its wrapping paper. It’s a biography of Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean, the British Olympic gold medalists. They’re Tristan’s ice-dancing idols. I glance inside the front cover, hoping he inscribed it.

  He did. It says “To Cassidy, who rocks the ice no matter which skates she’s wear
ing. Fondly, Tristan.” I trace the word “fondly” with my fingertip, feeling a flutter in my stomach. I’m going to have to talk to Courtney about this later.

  Slipping the book back into the wrapping paper, I retape the end and add it to the stack of presents under the tree. Then I pick up the little box from Zach. I sniff it. Nothing. I shake it. Nothing. Double-checking to make sure I’m still safe from prying eyes—Mom hates it when I do this—I wiggle the ribbon off and unwrap it.

  I laugh out loud. Zach really did get me a hockey puck!

  But not the usual kind. This one is made of glass, or crystal maybe, and there’s a diamond pattern cut into the outside edge that catches and reflects the lights on the tree. I hold it in my hand, staring at it. My name is engraved across the surface, along with a single star.

  It’s gorgeous.

  There’s no card, no note, just this simple, stunningly beautiful thing. Hearing the scrape of chairs in the kitchen, I stuff it back in its box and rewrap it as quickly as I can, then stick it way toward the back of the pile under the tree. By the time my mother and Mrs. Bell appear, I’m out in the courtyard sunning myself.

  I can’t stop thinking about the two presents, though. Zach must have gone to a lot of trouble to get that crystal puck made for me. Does that mean something? And what about the book from Tristan? Especially that word “fondly.” It’s not quite “love,” but it’s definitely more than “sincerely” or “your friend.”

  I fall asleep in the sun thinking about it all, and when I wake up, Mr. Bell is lighting a fire in the big adobe outdoor fireplace. There’s still no sign of my sister and Grant yet. Mrs. Bell brings out a tray of eggnog and blankets to tuck around us as we stare at the flames. She must have put some music on too, because a familiar carol melody floats through the open French doors from the living room, soft as a whisper. Mr. Bell plugs in the strands of lights strung through the potted trees. I start to relax. The Bells’ house isn’t Hubbard Street, but everything about Christmas here is simple and perfect, just the way it should be.

  And then my sister and Grant walk in.

  “Hi, everybody!” says Grant. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas!” we all chorus back.

  The two of them stand there by the living room doors, holding hands. Courtney’s face is flushed with happiness. Grant clears his throat.

  “We have something to tell you,” he announces. “I just asked Courtney to marry me, and she said yes. We’re engaged!”

  There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then everybody scrambles up from their seats and rushes over to hug them. My mother is crying. Mrs. Bell is crying. Chloe sees them crying and she starts crying too. Even Mr. Bell and Stanley look like they might cry. I stare at them all, aghast.

  What is wrong with you people? I want to shout. My sister can’t be engaged! She’s only four years older than I am!

  I knew Courtney liked Grant—was fond of him even—but when did that turn to love? How could this happen without me knowing about it?

  I look over at my mother, who is showering Courtney with kisses. Can’t she put a stop to this? Doesn’t my sister have to get permission or something? Then it dawns on me—my mother knew this was coming, or at least suspected it! And so did Mrs. Bell. That’s why my mother was so worked up in the car earlier, and why the two of them were whispering and laughing in the kitchen this afternoon. They must have known something was up.

  My mother should have told me. She knows how much I hate surprises, especially life-altering ones like this. Why did she just let the news come as a shock?

  First a move, now an engagement. I can hardly breathe.

  Final score: How the heck should I know? The only thing I know is that as soon as we get back to Concord, I’m going straight to Dr. Weisman’s office again. There’s only so much change a person can handle in one lifetime.

  Becca

  “‘Life,’” she said, “‘is complicated . . . for a woman, at least.’”

  —Betsy in Spite of Herself

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  Philippe pats the steering console and beams at us. Megan and I both nod, trying to appear enthusiastic. It’s hard, though—the captain’s son has been droning on nonstop about the Calypso Star and her state-of-the-art this and highly advanced that ever since our private tour started two hours ago.

  “She has a GPS navigator, of course,” he continues proudly, “but did you know that she also has two fiberoptic gyro compasses?”

  Beside me, Megan murmurs appreciatively. I stifle a yawn. Not that I really need to hide it. For one thing, Philippe is too busy dragging us across the room—I mean the bridge, which is the proper name for the ship’s control room—to view something called a maneuvering panel. For another thing, when he does manage to pry his eyes off his precious ship, the only one he’s really noticing is Megan.

  Which shouldn’t come as a surprise, after all. Lately it seems I’m practically invisible to guys, except for Third, who doesn’t count.

  It’s not as if I’m desperately in love with Philippe, but it would be nice to think maybe he’s just a little bit intrigued. I can’t help it—when there’s a cute boy around, I like to be noticed. Is that such a bad thing?

  What I really want to know, though, is how someone so good-looking can be so incredibly dull. Philippe is so gorgeous I can hardly take my eyes off him. All that tousled dark hair! Those smoky gray eyes and dimpled chin! He’s a total knockout. Until he opens his mouth, that is.

  The first part of the tour, when he took us down to the galley where the chefs prepare the food for the passengers, was actually pretty interesting. Gigi joined us for that part, because she was dying to get a look at the kitchens. It’s incredible how much food they have stored away on the Calypso Star, and how many people work pretty much around the clock to feed the thousands of passengers onboard. I especially liked getting to go inside the refrigerators—they were about the size of the Wongs’ living room back home—and visiting the dessert station, where there were literally hundreds, if not thousands, of beautiful treats being prepared.

  Gigi about went nuts at that stop, asking the pastry chefs a zillion questions and snapping pictures of everything.

  “Research,” she told us. “I might want to add a few things to the menu at Pies & Prejudice.”

  But all this technical stuff? Honestly, if I never hear another thing about bow thrusters and gross tonnage and engine output it will be too soon.

  I swallow another yawn and glance over at Megan. She must have a serious crush, because she’s still pretending to hang on Philippe’s every word. Even when he gets all excited telling us about how environmentally friendly the ship is, with its garbage incinerators and recycling program, and sounds just like her mother.

  Finally Captain Dupont crosses the bridge to join us. I think maybe he saw my last yawn. “Philippe,” he says, “your enthusiasm is admirable”—he pronounces it in that adorable French way, with the accent on the last syllable—“but don’t you think perhaps it’s time to offer the mademoiselles some refreshments?” He gestures to a table in the corner, where a steward is setting down a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries and sodas.

  Philippe dutifully steers us over to it.

  He tries to make small talk but can’t resist wedging in a few more not-so-fun facts about the ship, including the incredibly exciting news—not!—that there are 810 miles of electric cable in her hull.

  I resist the urge to ask, “What’s a hull?” and instead glance at my watch. “Omigosh, look at the time!” I exclaim, nudging Megan with my elbow. “We’d better get going. We have an appointment in the spa, and I have a few more presents to wrap before dinner.”

  Christmas Eve is a big deal aboard the Calypso Star. For starters, there’s a fancy formal dinner, and our families have been invited to sit at the captain’s table, thanks to Philippe. Afterward there’s eggnog and caroling in the atrium, some big Broadway-style Christmas extravaganza in the thea
ter, a teen skating party at the rink, and a midnight chocolate buffet. Plus, our families are both planning to open presents tonight. That was Gigi’s idea, so that we won’t have to try and cram it in tomorrow morning before disembarking at the cruise line’s private island for a day on the beach.

  “I will escort you to your destination,” says Philippe politely.

  Megan and I thank his father and leave the bridge, heading down the hallway to the stairs leading to the spa deck. Megan and Philippe are chattering away, and I try not to be jealous, really I do, because it’s Christmas and everything and because I am capable of being a mature, sensitive person when I set my mind to it, but it’s hard because it’s obvious that Philippe is really interested in Megan more than he is in me. Probably because she’s pretending he’s the most fascinating creature on the planet.

  I tried to at first, too—really tried, but my eyes glazed over after a while as Philippe droned on about latitude and knots and the electric propulsion plant. Julia Ray would have rallied to the occasion. She always does. One of the questions Mrs. Hawthorne asked us to think about for our next book club meeting on New Year’s Eve was which character we admire the most and would most like to be. I picked Julia. She has the magic touch with boys. They’re always following her around, bringing presents, and proposing. A girl could learn a thing or two from Julia Ray.

  “Until tonight, mademoiselles,” says Philippe when we reach the spa. He’s speaking to both of us, but looking at Megan, of course. It’s been like this all morning.

  “This is the life, isn’t it?” says Megan a few minutes later, taking a sip of her mango smoothie. We’re wrapped in thick terrycloth robes and lying on deck chairs in the spa, waiting for the attendants to come get us.

  “I guess.”

  She looks over at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hey—it’s me. I know when something’s bugging you.”

  I put my magazine down. Might as well get this out in the open. After all, if you can’t talk to your best friend, who can you talk to? “It’s stupid, I know–but it’s just that Philippe obviously likes you better than me.”