CHAPTER TEN
The elevator is almost too small for us to prop the tree straight up. Caleb kicks the button for the third floor and soon we’re rising. When the door opens again, I squeeze out first, Caleb tips the tree forward, and I grab it. We carry it to the end of the hallway, where he knocks on the last door with his knee. An angel cut from construction paper, probably by a young child, is thumbtacked to the peephole. The angel holds a banner that reads Feliz Navidad.
A heavyset gray-haired woman in a floral-print dress opens the door. She steps back in happy surprise. “Caleb!”
Still holding the trunk of the tree, he says, “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Trujillo.”
“Luis didn’t tell me you were coming. And with a tree!”
“He wanted it to be a surprise,” Caleb says. “Mrs. Trujillo, I’d like you to meet my friend Sierra.”
Mrs. Trujillo looks ready to wrap me in a hug but sees that my hands are fairly occupied. “It is so nice to meet you,” she says. While we lug the tree inside, I catch her wink at Caleb while nodding at me, but I pretend not to notice.
“The food bank told me you would love a tree,” Caleb says, “so I’m glad I could bring it over.”
The woman blushes and pats his arm a bunch of times. “Oh, sweet boy. Such a big heart!” She shuffles in her slippers across the dual living room and dining room. She leans down, her belly straining the floral pattern on her dress, and pulls a tree stand from beneath the couch. “We haven’t even got up the fake tree yet, Luis is so busy with school. And now you brought me a real tree!”
Caleb and I hold the tree between us while she kicks aside magazines and places the stand in the corner. We listen to her go on about how much she loves the smell.
She looks at Caleb, touches her heart, and then claps one time. “Thank you, Caleb. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
A voice calls from the other side of the room, “I think he heard you, Mama.”
Caleb looks at a guy about our age who must be Luis walking out of a narrow hallway. “Hey, man.”
“Luis! Look what Caleb brought to us.”
Luis looks at the tree with an uneasy smile. “Thanks for bringing it over.”
Mrs. Trujillo touches my arm. “Do you go to school with the boys?”
“I live up in Oregon, actually,” I say.
“Her parents own a tree lot in town,” Caleb says. “That’s where this one’s from.”
“It is?” She looks at me. “Are you teaching Caleb to be your delivery boy?”
Luis laughs, but Mrs. Trujillo looks confused.
“No,” Caleb says. He looks at me. “Not really. We . . .”
I stare right back. “Go on.” I would love to hear him explain what we are.
He smirks. “We’ve become good friends the past few days.”
Mrs. Trujillo raises both of her hands. “I understand. I ask too much questions. Caleb, will you bring some turrón to your mother and father for me?”
“Absolutely!” Caleb says. He looks at her like she offered him a glass of water in the middle of the desert. “Sierra, you have got to try this stuff.”
Mrs. Trujillo claps her hands. “Yes! You must take some for your family, too. I made so much. Luis and I are going to take some to the neighbors later.”
She orders Luis to bring her some napkins and then she hands us each a piece of what looks like peanut brittle but with almonds. I break off a piece and pop it in my mouth—so delicious! Caleb’s already devoured half of his piece.
Mrs. Trujillo beams. She puts a few more pieces into sandwich bags for us to take home. Walking to the front door, we both thank her again for the turrón. She hugs Caleb for a long time after he opens the door, expressing gratitude again for the tree.
Waiting for the elevator door to open, turrón baggies in hand, I ask, “So, Luis is a friend?”
“I was hoping it wouldn’t get awkward,” he says, nodding. The elevator door opens, we enter, and he presses the bottom button. “The food bank keeps a list of items where families can mark down things they need. I had them occasionally ask some families if they could use a tree, and that’s where I get the addresses. When I saw theirs pop up, I asked Luis if it was okay, but . . .”
“He didn’t seem that thrilled,” I say. “Do you think he was embarrassed?”
“He’ll get over it,” Caleb says. “He knew his mom wanted one. And I guarantee you, she is the nicest woman.”
The elevator door opens at the ground floor and Caleb motions for me to walk out first.
“She’s so grateful for everything,” Caleb says. “She doesn’t judge anyone. Someone like her deserves to get what she wants once in a while.”
Back in the truck, we drive to the highway and start heading to the lot.
“So why do you do this?” I ask, deciding the trees are a safe way to inch us into more personal areas.
He drives about half a block with no response. Finally, he says, “I guess you did tell me about your trees on the hill . . .”
“Fair is fair,” I tell him.
“Why I do it is similar to why I know Luis will get over it,” he says. “He knows it’s sincere. For a while after my parents divorced, we were in the same boat as the Trujillos. My mom barely made enough to buy us small gifts, let alone a tree.”
I add that to a small but growing list of things I know about Caleb. “How are things now?” I ask.
“They’re better. She’s the head of her department now, and we’re back to having trees. That first one I bought at the lot was for us.” He looks at me briefly and smiles. “She still won’t get excessive with decorating, but she knows the trees meant a lot to us growing up.”
I picture all those one-dollar bills from his first visit. “But you paid for the tree.”
“Not all of it.” He laughs. “I just made sure we got a bigger one.”
I want to ask about his sister. But the profile of his face as he looks through the windshield appears so calm. Heather’s right, whatever’s going on here doesn’t have to last past Christmas. If I enjoy being around him, why mess that up? Asking will only make him shut down again.
Or maybe, to be honest, I don’t want to know the answer.
“I’m glad we got to do this tonight,” I say. “Thank you.”
He grins and then puts on a signal to exit the highway.
Caleb told me he would stop by the lot again later in the week. When his truck finally pulls up, I stay in the Bigtop rather than walk out to greet him. I don’t need him to know how eagerly I’ve anticipated this. I kind of hope that’s why he didn’t come by the very next day; he was hiding the same anticipation.
When more than enough time goes by for him to find me, I peek outside. Andrew is saying something to him, stressing points by jabbing a finger toward the ground. Caleb’s eyes fix in a tense stare somewhere beyond Andrew, his hands pressed deep in his jacket pockets. When Andrew points a sharp finger at our trailer—where Dad is inside on the phone with Uncle Bruce—Caleb closes his eyes and his arms go slack. Andrew soon walks off into the trees and I half expect him to shove one out of his way.
I quickly retreat behind the counter. Several seconds later, Caleb comes into the Bigtop. He doesn’t know I saw the exchange with Andrew, and he acts like everything’s normal.
“I’m heading to work,” he says, and now I know he can fake that dimpled smile. “But I couldn’t drive by without saying hi.”
We’re not alone for more than a minute before Dad sets his work gloves on the counter and then twists off the lid of his thermos. He goes to refill his coffee. Without looking up, he asks, “You here to pick up another tree?”
“No, sir,” Caleb says. “Not right now. I just stopped by to say hi to Sierra.”
When the thermos is full, Dad turns toward Caleb. Holding the thermos steady, he slowly tightens the lid. “As long as you k
eep it short. She’s got a lot of work here to do, and then schoolwork.”
Dad pats Caleb on the shoulder as he walks past him and I want to die of humiliation. We talk for a couple more minutes in the Bigtop and then I walk Caleb to his truck. He opens the driver’s side door, but before he gets in he nods toward the parade poster I hung when I first met him.
“That’s tomorrow night,” he says. “I’ll be down there with some friends. You should show up.”
Show up? I want to tease him for not being brave enough to ask me to meet him there.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
After he drives away I head back to the Bigtop, looking at the ground and smiling.
Before I get to the counter, Dad walks in front of me.
“Sierra . . .” He knows I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say next, but he has to say it anyway. “I’m sure he’s a nice kid, but please be wary about starting something now. You’re busy, and then we’re leaving and—”
“I’m not starting anything,” I say. “I made a friend, Dad. Stop being weird.”
He laughs and then sips his coffee. “Why can’t you go back to playing princess?”
“I never played princess.”
“Are you kidding?” he says. “Whenever Heather’s mom took the two of you to the parade, you wore your fanciest dress, pretending to be the Winter Queen.”
“Exactly!” I say. “Queen, not princess. You raised me better than that.”
Dad bows low, as he should in the presence of royalty. Then he walks toward the trailer and I return to the Bigtop. Inside, leaning against the counter, is Andrew.
I walk behind the counter and push Dad’s work gloves aside. “What were you and Caleb talking about out there?”
“I notice he’s been coming around a lot,” Andrew says.
I cross my arms. “So?”
Andrew shakes his head. “You think he’s a great guy because he buys people trees. But you don’t know him.”
I want to argue that he doesn’t know anything about Caleb, but the truth is, he probably knows more than me. Am I dumb for not confronting Caleb about the rumor yet?
“If your dad doesn’t want any of his workers asking you out,” Andrew says, “there is no way he’d approve of Caleb.”
“Stop!” I say. “This has nothing to do with you.”
He looks down. “Last year I was dumb. I left that stupid note on your window when I should have asked you to your face.”
“Andrew,” I say softly, “it’s not my dad or Caleb or anyone else. Let’s not make working together any more awkward, okay?”
He looks at me and his expression goes hard. “Don’t do this with Caleb. You’re ridiculous to even think you can be friends with him. He is not who you think he is. Don’t be—”
“Say it!” My eyes narrow. If he calls me stupid, Dad will fire him in a second.
Andrew cuts his words short and leaves abruptly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The evening of the parade, I head downtown with Heather and Devon. Heather’s mom is on the parade committee and begged us to arrive early. The moment we show up at the blue canopy marked Registration, she hands each of us a bag of participant ribbons and a clipboard to check off entries. Most of the groups are already accounted for, but every year some new organizations line up and forget to check in. She tells us it’s our job to track them down.
Devon looks at Heather. “Seriously? We have to do this?”
“Yes, Devon. It’s one of the perks of being my boyfriend. If you don’t like it . . .” She motions toward the people walking by.
Undeterred by the challenge in her words, Devon drops a kiss on her cheek. “Totally worth it.” When he pulls away, he looks at me with a subtle smirk. Yes, he is aware that he infuriates her at times.
“Before we find anyone,” Heather says, “let’s grab some coffee. It’s getting cold out.”
We weave our way through a boisterous Boy Scout troop and then down a block and a half to a café off the parade route. Heather sends Devon in and waits outside with me.
“You need to tell him,” I say. “It’s not doing either of you any good to prolong this.”
She tilts her head back and sighs. “I know. But he needs better grades this semester. I don’t want to be the one to distract him from that.”
“Heather . . .”
“I’m the worst. I know! I know.” She looks me in the eyes but then sees something in the distance behind me. “Speaking of conversations that need to happen, I think that’s Caleb.”
I spin around. Across the street, Caleb sits on the back of a bus bench with two other guys. One of them looks like Luis. I decide to wait for Devon to come out with our coffees while I gather up the courage to walk over.
A bus rumbles up to the bench and I worry that I missed my chance. When the bus pulls away, Caleb and his friends remain sitting there, talking and laughing. Caleb rubs his hands briskly together and then shoves them in his coat pockets. Devon comes out and offers me one of the coffees, but I shake my head.
“I’m changing my order,” I tell them. “Will you two check people in without me? I can meet up with you later.”
“Of course,” Heather says. Devon sighs, obviously annoyed that I get to cut out of parade work while he has to stay. Before he can complain, though, Heather looks at him and says, “Because! That’s why.”
When I come out of the café, I carry a hot drink in each hand. I cross the street slowly so nothing sloshes out of the lids. Before I reach Caleb, several yards beyond them, I notice a tall guy in a white marching band uniform climb out of a car. Sliding out next is a slightly older girl in a cheer uniform with the Bulldogs mascot on the chest.
Another band member carrying a flute jogs up to them. “Jeremiah!”
Caleb shifts his attention from his friends on the bench to the band members. Jeremiah opens the trunk of the car and removes a snare drum with a long strap. He shuts the trunk, loops the strap over one arm, and shoves two drumsticks in his back pocket.
I slow down as I get close to the bench. Caleb hasn’t turned my way yet, still focused on the band members and the cheerleader. The car rolls forward and I see the woman driving the car lean over and look up at Caleb. He gives her a hesitant smile and then looks down.
The car drives away and I can hear the flutist talk about a girl he’s meeting after the parade. When they pass the bench, Jeremiah looks over at Caleb. It’s hard to tell for sure, but I see a hint of sadness in both of them.
The cheerleader walks up and grabs Jeremiah’s elbow, moving them on. When Caleb’s gaze follows them, he catches sight of me.
“You made it,” he says.
I offer one of the drinks. “You looked cold.”
He takes a sip and then covers his mouth as he almost laughs. After he swallows, he says, “Peppermint mocha. Of course it is.”
“And not the cheap kind, either,” I say.
Luis and the other guy lean forward to look at something down the street beyond me. At the intersection is a parked pink-and-white stretch convertible. The back door is being held open, and a high school girl in a blue shimmering gown and light blue sash is helped into the backseat.
“Is that Christy Wang?” I ask. Back when I went to elementary school here a few weeks each year, Christy was the one person who never let me feel welcome. I wasn’t a real Californian, she said. She must have turned her personality around enough to win Winter Queen. Or maybe it has more to do with how incredible she looks in that dress.
“It’s a beautiful day for a parade, folks,” Luis says in a weird announcer voice. “Just beautiful! And this year’s Winter Queen is certainly a hottie. I’m guessing Santa placed her at the tippy top of his very, very Nice List.”
The guy sitting next to Luis cracks up.
Caleb jokingly shoves them
into each other. “Dude. Show some respect. She’s our Queen.”
“What in the world are you guys doing?” I ask.
The guy I don’t know says, “It’s parade commentary. Every year there’s a weird lack of TV coverage, so we’re doing this town a favor. I’m Brent, by the way.”
I hold out my free hand. “Sierra.”
Caleb looks at me, embarrassed. “It’s an annual tradition.”
Brent points a finger at me. “You’re the Christmas tree girl. I’ve definitely heard about you.”
Caleb takes a big swig and shrugs, feigning innocence.
“Nice to see you again, Luis,” I say.
“You too,” he says. His voice is soft, perhaps laced with self-consciousness. He perks up after a man with an untied shoe walks by. “Let’s hear it for the Trendsetters Club, everyone. Start by tying one shoelace tight and then let the other hang loose. If you’re cool, it’s bound to catch on. This one? It ain’t catching on.”
“Don’t trip, trendsetter!” Brent says. The man looks back, and Brent smiles and waves at him.
No one says anything for several seconds as they all sit and watch people pass by. Caleb takes another sip and I slowly step back.
“Where are you going?” he says. “Stay.”
“It’s okay. I don’t want to interrupt your announcing job.”
Caleb looks at his friends. Some silent guy communication happens and then he turns to me. “Nope. We’re good.”
Brent shoos us away with his hands. “You children run along and have fun.”
Caleb fist-bumps his friends and then steers me toward the parade route. “Thanks again for the drink.”
We walk past a few stores open late for the parade crowd. I turn toward him, hoping a lighthearted conversation will begin to flow. He looks at me and we smile at each other, but then we both face forward again. I feel so off my game with Caleb, so unsure and awkward.
Finally, I ask the one thing truly on my mind: “Who was that guy back there?”
“Brent?”
“The drummer in the marching band.”