Home for the Holidays Read online

  Mom’s always harping on me to keep my grades up, and they’ve actually improved a lot since I started high school. I had so much going on last year, between elite hockey and coaching Chicks with Sticks and all the ice dancing I did, that it forced me to be really disciplined about homework and studying. The habit stuck, and I’m doing a lot better in school this year. I’m liking it more too. My electives rock, for one thing—especially photography—and my guidance counselor is looking to see if there’s a way I can do an independent study in sports management, and get credit for coaching. That was Stanley’s idea.

  When my mother first started dating Stanley Kinkaid a few years ago, I didn’t like him. I mean really didn’t like him. I did everything I could to bust up their relationship. When I look back on it now, I cringe to think about what a brat I was. I made fun of Stanley all the time and picked fights with him, even when he went out of his way to do nice things for me, like take me to a Bruins game for my birthday.

  Stanley hung in there, though, and gradually we became friends. He may not be all that much in the looks department—he’s shorter than my mother, for one thing, and bald as an egg, although I agree with my mom and Courtney that he has really nice eyes and a great smile—but he’s supersmart, and super supportive. Without Stanley, there wouldn’t be a Chloe, which is impossible for me to imagine now. And Stanley got behind Chicks with Sticks from the start, plus he was the one who talked my mother into letting me try out for the Lady Shawmuts.

  The whistle blows, and we line up for the face-off. The Clippers have the puck, but we have the will to win. In ten seconds flat Allegra Chapman whisks it away from them and sends it over to me. We pass it back and forth between us as we head back down the ice toward the goal, careful not to get overconfident. I’ve made that mistake plenty of times before, and so has she.

  “SHAW-MUTS! SHAW-MUTS! SHAW-MUTS!” chants our cheering section.

  Allegra and I lock eyes. Time for our special double-trouble play. We split off toward opposite sides of the rink, dividing the defense. Then I double back, and a second later so does she. This next part is a little bit tricky—a blind pass. If I cue the Clippers as to what I’m doing, it’s all over. Looking straight ahead and glaring at the defense-man rushing my way, I rely on my peripheral vision to locate Allegra, then fire the puck to her without so much as a glance in her direction. Bingo!

  She receives it handily, and I spring forward. We have the element of surprise on our side now. The Clippers hesitate ever so slightly; they hadn’t anticipated this. They rush over in Allegra’s direction just as she passes the puck back to me. Now we’ve got them on the run, and they’re mad. I surge forward, making it look like I’m driving for the goal. Determined not to let us trick them again, the Clipper defense charges me, leaving Allegra wide open. It’s the perfect setup. One more quick flick of my wrist sends the puck back to her, and we’re home free. She puts it away, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  Our fans leap to their feet, hollering their heads off. My family rushes down to the edge of the rink, and as I skate over to greet them, my little sister’s face splits into a grin from under her white knit hat. She waves her red-and-white pennant wildly, shouting “SHAWMUTS!” at the top of her lungs.

  “Get used to it, monkey-face,” I whisper to her. My mother hates it when I call her that. “You’ll be out here soon too, if I have anything to say about it.”

  I’m going to turn my little sister into a hockey player if it’s the last thing I do. We need another jock in the family.

  Because of our schedule, I have to skip the postgame pizza party, which is lame, but at least I’m going home with a shiny new trophy. Mom already has my stuff packed, so all I have to do is hop in the shower and we’re ready to go. Zach climbs into the backseat of the minivan and plunks himself down next to me. In all the excitement of our win, I forgot he was driving home with us. Coach sprang him from his post-tournament duties so he can make the filming in time.

  “Great game,” he says, giving my knee a squeeze.

  Startled, I pull my leg away. But the press of his warm hand lingers, and I can feel the blood rushing to my face. I flick a glance at his profile. Same old Zach. Same old blue eyes and shaggy blond hair that has driven all the girls in Concord wild since they were Chloe’s age. Not me, though. Never me.

  At least not until now.

  Something about Zach seems different to me lately. But what? The way he looks? I don’t think so. Maybe it’s the way he smells—clean and masculine, with a hint of aftershave, or maybe just deodorant. He smells—well, good. So good that I’m tempted to lean over and take a deep sniff. Except that would be really, really weird.

  I turn to my sister instead and ignore him for the rest of the ride home. Zach doesn’t seem to mind and spends the trip talking to Grant.

  “See you soon,” my mother says when we drop him off at his house. “Don’t forget to wear your sweater.”

  Zach grins. “No way, Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. I have that prize in the bag.”

  He waves to the rest of us, his gaze lingering on me a split second longer than on anyone else. This should annoy me, but instead it makes me happy for some reason.

  Courtney leans over and whispers in my ear, “He likes you.”

  “Shut up!” I whisper back furiously, hoping my mom and Stanley can’t hear. “He does not!”

  She nods at me, her eyes dancing. “Uh-huh. And I think you like him, too.”

  I jab her in the shoulder. My sister still knows how to push my buttons.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m dressed in my Christmas finery and standing in the front hall as instructed.

  “Nice,” says Fred Goldberg, the show’s producer.

  “Thanks,” I reply, flicking one of the jingle bells that dangle from the Christmas tree on the front of my sweater. It’s knit in an eye-watering shade of red, which looks absolutely hideous with my hair. That’s the whole point, of course. It was totally worth every cent of the five dollars I paid for it at Goodwill.

  “I’ll have you know I gave up a perfectly good Thanksgiving weekend to do this,” Mr. Goldberg calls up to my mother as she heads down the stairs.

  I’m actually thinking the same thing, even though I understand why my mother planned it this way. Grant is majoring in film and television at UCLA, and he was really interested in a behind-the-scenes peek at what goes into making an episode of Cooking with Clementine. Between Thanksgiving, my hockey tournament, and the red-eye that he and my sister are catching back to L.A. later tonight, there was really only this one brief window of opportunity.

  “Anything for a ratings boost,” my mother replies. “Which, may I remind you, are higher this season than for any of our other seasons so far.”

  “Show-off.”

  “Grinch.”

  She and Mr. Goldberg tease each other a lot.

  “Be still my heart!” he says as she reaches the bottom of the stairs and he gets a closer look at her sweater. It’s easily the most ridiculous thing I’ve seen so far. My mother looks good in just about anything, but even she can’t rock this one. For one thing, it’s brown, which is not such a great color on her. Plus, who ever heard of a brown Christmas sweater? Basically she’s wearing a giant reindeer head, complete with padded fabric antlers sewn to the tops of the shoulders and an actual lightbulb on the end of Rudolph’s nose, which is located somewhere in the region of her belly button.

  Mr. Goldberg gapes at it, horrified and delighted, as it blinks on and off. “Where on earth did you find it?”

  “Rummage sale,” says my mother smugly. She pokes her head into the living room, which is crowded with TV film crew members, and claps her hands. “Let’s go, people! Time to liven this place up!”

  She crosses to the stereo and puts on some Christmas music to get us all in the mood. The doorbell rings, and I go to answer it. Murphy, who is wearing a Santa hat, follows at my heels, barking furiously. He hates filming days. Too much bustle and confusion, and too ma
ny things to bark at.

  “Ho-ho-ho,” says Third as I open the door. He has on a garden-variety Santa sweater, but there’s such a huge grin on his round face and he looks so pleased with himself that I take pity on him and tell him it’s awesome and that I’m sure he’s going to win the prize.

  Murphy and I escort him to the living room, where Courtney and Grant are setting out platters of cookies. They’re wearing Santa sweaters too—only theirs are matching Mr. and Mrs. Santa sweaters.

  “Awww,” I coo. “How sweet!”

  “Shut up, Cass,” says Courtney, swatting at me.

  I evade her easily, but Grant is quicker. “Let’s ring those jingle bells of yours,” he says, grabbing me and tickling me.

  “Knock it off!” I tell him, squirming away. But I’m laughing—I like Grant. He’s easily the nicest of Courtney’s boyfriends so far. And he likes sports, too. He’s on the UCLA tennis team, which earns him major points in my book.

  “Ta-da!” says a voice behind me. I turn around to see my stepfather making a grand entrance. He’s wearing a white shirt and a neon-red-and-green plaid sweater-vest, plus a bow tie in a clashing black-and-yellow plaid. He looks horrible, and I give him a round of applause.

  He’s got my little sister by the hand, and even though she slept in her car seat almost all the way home, I can tell she’s still a little cranky. She’s rubbing her eyes with her free hand and tugging at the sparkly snowflakes on her white sweater. I reach for her and swing her up into the air, then twirl her around the room.

  “Let it snowy, let it snowy, let it snowy—for Chloe,” I sing along with Sinatra, my improvised riff perking her up a little.

  When my mother first came up with the idea for this episode, I thought it was really lame, but now that things are underway, I can tell we’re going to have fun.

  The Chadwicks and the Wongs arrive next. Mr. Chadwick and Becca’s grandfather and Mr. Wong all took the conservative route, choosing black, gray, and navy sweaters with boring snowscapes and skiers on them. Like Third, they look pleased with themselves, though, so I ooh and aah appreciatively.

  The moms got more into the spirit of things, even though Mrs. Wong somehow managed to find a holiday sweater with a message: a big planet Earth floating on a blue background with PAX written underneath it.

  “That means ‘peace,’” she informs us. “Get it? Peace on Earth?”

  My stepfather is behind her, grinning broadly at me. I ignore him. “Yeah, Mrs. Wong, I get it. Cute.”

  Gigi links her arms through Becca’s grandmother’s and drags her into the living room. “We’re the candy dish sisters!” she announces to no one in particular. Her black sweater has a red-and-white-striped candy cane in some hideously shiny fabric on it, and Mrs. Gilman is wearing a red sweater with huge pouffy silver candy kisses all over it.

  “KISS KISS KISS!” shrieks Chloe when she sees it. Chloe loves candy kisses.

  “Anytime, sweetie,” says Becca’s grandmother, taking her from me. She and Gigi give her tandem kisses, one on each cheek.

  “Are you getting this?” my mother says to the cameraman, who nods.

  “Wait a minute, you’re already filming?” says Mrs. Chadwick, whipping out her lipstick. She’s stuffed into a white mohair sweater that makes her look kind of like a baby polar bear.

  “Not officially,” my mother tells her. “Just some preliminary stuff.”

  I inspect the sequined swirls on the front of Mrs. Chadwick’s sweater and realize that they’re meant to be ornaments. “Cool design,” I tell her.

  “Cool bells,” she replies, and Chloe leans over suddenly, almost toppling out of Mrs. Gilman’s arms as she reaches out to jingle one of them.

  I cast a critical glance at Becca and Megan. Obviously, they spent way too much time on this assignment. The sweaters they’re wearing are only marginally ugly—in fact, they’re almost cute, especially the fluffy little sheep on Megan’s—and I notice that they both made sure to choose really flattering colors. I shake my head in disgust. What exactly about the words “ugly sweaters” did they not understand?

  “Are the boys here yet?” asks Becca, craning to see past me.

  Duh. Of course. It’s not that they didn’t understand the assignment, they just chose to ignore it. I should have known. “Just Third so far,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” Becca replies, not trying to hide her disappointment. “Do you think the others will come?”

  I shrug. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  I’m surprised any of the guys agreed to be involved, actually. For some reason, though, the idea of an ugly sweater party totally hooked them.

  Third comes galumphing over and grins at Becca. “Hey, guys,” he says.

  “Hey,” says Becca, without enthusiasm.

  Poor Third. He’s a great guy, and it’s obvious he’s got a crush on Becca. He’s barking up the wrong tree.

  The doorbell rings again, and I leave them standing there to go answer it. For the next fifteen minutes, a steady stream of friends passes through the door. Soon our living room is aglow with sweaters sporting Santas and sleighs and snow-capped trees and piles of presents. If I never see the colors red and green again, it’ll be too soon.

  Kevin Mullins turns up, even though I’m pretty sure he wasn’t invited. “Is Jess here?” he squeaks. He’s as tall as I am now, but his voice hasn’t changed yet, and if I close my eyes he could pass for Dylan or Ryan. Or Hermie, the dentist-elf from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

  “Nah, not yet,” I tell him. “Great sweater.”

  It’s forest green, and must be a size XXL, which on skinnybones Kevin is hilarious. The thing hangs down to his knees, and he’s rolled the sleeves up so many times to make the arms fit that it looks like he’s wearing life preservers on his wrists. The front has a huge Christmas stocking on it, with an elf peeking out of the top of it.

  “Why don’t you go perch on the mantel,” I suggest. “You’d totally blend in.”

  He blinks at me behind his thick glasses. “Really?” he squeaks.

  “Never mind,” I tell him. “Go get some punch.”

  So far, I’d say the prize should go either to him or to Emma, who showed up in the red snowman sweater she wore to a party we had back in seventh grade. It’s kind of the opposite of Kevin’s, because it looks like she shrunk it in the dryer. The bottom hem barely reaches to the top of her midriff, and the cuffs only come to her elbows. It’s hilarious, actually. Especially since her mother is wearing a matching one.

  “And to think I spent good money on these, thinking they were cute,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, plucking ruefully at the front of hers. “Tuck your turtleneck in, Emma. Your belly button is showing.”

  The Delaneys made their own. They’re wearing matching navy-blue sweaters, and Jess and her mother sewed a big shiny silver letter onto the front of each one. When they all stand in a line, it spells “M-E-R-R-Y.”

  “Now that’s original!” says Mr. Hawthorne, who like my stepfather opted for a vest. His belongs to Mrs. Hawthorne, though, which is really funny. I saw her in it at story time when I took Chloe to the library just last week. She recognizes it too, and toddles over to pat the little angels flying around on it.

  Zach is the last one to arrive. All I can say when I open the door is, “Oh. My. Gosh.”

  “Told you so,” he says smugly, striking a pose.

  His sweater is a truly awful shade of olive green with a wide band of white stretching around the chest. Across it is a line of skating mice, or rats maybe, each one holding a hockey stick and wearing a bright orange Santa hat.

  “It’s revolting!”

  “I thought of you the second I saw it,” he replies.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He reaches over and flicks one of the jingle bells. “Nice job at the tournament today.”

  “You already told me that.”

  “It’s worth telling you again.”

  My mother comes down the hall carrying a tray loa
ded with presents—prizes for the winners. Zach’s sweater stops her in her tracks.

  “Good heavens,” she says. “You weren’t kidding. I actually feel faint.” She leans dramatically against the doorjamb, then grins. “Give me a hand with these, would you?”

  Zach takes the tray and we follow her into the living room. She pauses in the doorway, happily surveying the crowd. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkling—my mother eats this stuff up. I hope someday I have a job I love as much as she loves hers.

  “Okay, everyone,” she says. “Time to take your places!”

  The crew worked wonders this morning getting everything set up. The tree is decorated and lit, glowing in the curve of the front window. There’s a punch bowl on the table to the left of the fireplace, and platters of cookies and appetizers are scattered around the room.

  Out of the blue I feel a pang. I really miss Mrs. Bergson! She would have loved a silly party like this one. It still seems strange not to have her with us at book club meetings, or at my Chicks with Sticks practices. It’s like she just stepped out of the room, and should be back any minute.

  “As you all know, we’re here to tape my ‘Home for the Holidays’ special,” my mother says. “I want you all to act as natural as possible, and just try and ignore the cameras. When we start rolling, I’ll talk a little about how to host an ugly sweater party, and then I’ll come around the room to take a look at each of you. After we award the prizes, we’ll take a quick break and then move on to karaoke. Any questions?”

  Emma’s hand shoots up. I swear she’ll be thirty and still raising her hand to ask a question. She just cannot break the habit. “So you want us to hang out and eat snacks and talk and stuff like we’d normally do?”

  My mother nods. “Exactly. My goal is for us to convey the happy buzz of a holiday party, so everybody just buzz, buzz, buzz, okay?”

  Emma’s eyes slide over to mine at this unfortunate choice of words. “Buzz, buzz, buzz” is what we used to say to each other in middle school, when Becca was in the middle of her queen bee phase. She and her posse, which included Megan back then—we called them the Fab Four—used to make our lives miserable. Becca’s improved a lot, but she’s still not my favorite person in the world. There’s still too much Chadwickius frenemus in her, as Jess would say. That’s Jess’s secret Latin name for Becca, because she’s kind of a frenemy.