How I Saved Hanukkah (6 page)

We put on the tape and took hands, and it seemed like my mom remembered instantly. Her feet turned this way then that and gave a little jump and a kick. And she dragged us stumbling around and around in our circle of giggles.

When the phone rang, we had to stop. But I said, “We can’t talk, Dad. Mom is teaching us to hora.”

“Did you say HORA?” my dad said. “I must have the wrong number. I’ll call back later.”

Ned’s feet got tangled easily, but even he more or less got the general idea. We all jumped and kicked and whirled in a circle and landed in a happy, sweaty heap at the end.

“Voilà. Hora!” my mom panted.

*    *    *

“Sorry about today,” I said when Lucy and I were in our beds that night.

“Me too,” Lucy said. “I always wanted a little brother or sister.”

“You’ve got two sisters!” I said.

“Yeah, but I’m the baby. No one looks up to me
like Ned looks up to you. He’s thrilled if you just sneeze in his direction.”

“I’ve always wanted your big sisters,” I said. “They treat you like a doll.”

“Exactly,” Lucy said. “Which sounds better? To be a doll that’s played with awhile, then left half-dressed with your head facing backward in the dust and dirty socks under the bed—or to be worshipped like a queen?”

“You win.” I giggled. “Maybe Ned isn’t so bad after all.”

7

T
he next day Lucy was brushing my hair on the back-porch swing when she said, “Tonight is Christmas Eve.”

“I know,” I said. “You’re supposed to be eggnogging and singing carols and stuff, right?”

“Hmmm,” Lucy said. “Something like that, but . . . ”

While I was waiting for her to finish her sentence, I remembered her family’s Christmas Eve party last year and my heart started thumping. There had been holly and pretty pine wreaths and stockings on the fireplace. Every inch of Lucy’s house was decorated, even the bathrooms. The tree was gorgeous, lit up and loaded with tinsel and ornaments.

I remember how I’d felt crazy with jealousy that Lucy had all that and I didn’t. I suddenly just had to have something for myself. When no one was looking,
I slipped a teeny gingerbread house off the tree and put it in my pocket.

I’d wanted to have it in my pocket so badly, but as soon as it was there, I desperately wanted it out. I was scared that someone would catch me putting it back on the tree, though, so I just stood there—feeling miserable.

Then Lucy’s sister Yaz came up and gave me a present! It was wrapped in candy cane paper with a silver bow. The tiny card had my name on it, and it wasn’t from the whole family, meaning their mom, but just from Yaz. It was the absolute worst moment of my entire life.

Knowing the gingerbread house was in my pocket while Yaz, the coolest person I’d ever met, was being so sweet to me, had made me dizzy.

“Go on, open it,” Yaz said.

So I did. I stared at it awhile, so busy feeling bad about the gingerbread house that my eyes could barely focus.

“It’s a barrette,” Yaz said. “A hair thing.”

I guess I still looked dumb so she said, “Extra big to hold all your gorgeous thick hair.”

Maybe I said, “Thanks,” maybe not. I’m not sure.

After Yaz shrugged and walked away, I went into
the kitchen. It was mobbed with women laughing and bumping into each other and fixing more and more plates of food. I slipped into the pantry, where the trash basket was, and shoved the gingerbread house deep under the paper plates and other garbage. I’ve wondered a million times since then why I didn’t leave it on a pantry shelf or something.

Just remembering that awful, awful night, even a whole year later, made me sick all over again.

Sitting on the swing I felt my neck prickle and I knew I had better hurry and change the subject. I glanced at Lucy, who was staring off in space thinking I-don’t-know-what, maybe about the same Christmas party. I hadn’t even noticed that she had stopped brushing my hair.

I didn’t want her to ask me why I’d stopped swinging or why my face was beet-red, which it had to be.

I jumped up and said, “Race you to the fence? On your mark! Get set! Go!” And Lucy was on her feet—and racing past me.

*    *    *

“What can we do that’s Christmasy?” I asked as we stood panting after our race.

“I was just wondering the exact same thing,” she said. “Should we break into my house like robbers and have a look around at all the stuff?”

“That sounds creepy.” I was picturing everything dark and empty, with all that dark furniture and Grandma’s weird clocks going off. “My mom won’t let us have a tree or anything
inside
 . . . ” I said. “But outdoors . . . no one could stop us from decorating outside, could they?”

We rushed to my room and rummaged around through drawers and shelves and boxes. We crammed everything into my backpack and a plastic grocery bag. Then we hopped on Lemonade and Misty and took off for the park.

*    *    *

We sneaked around, looking very carefully at tree after tree. It had to be hidden away and it had to be a pine and it had to be short enough that we could reach a lot of branches—and there it was.

We draped my old Barbie doll’s shimmeriest dresses on the branches, and my fanciest barrettes and bracelets, and some brightly colored socks, and a few shiny toys.

We took turns checking for trouble. It was a public park, but we weren’t at all sure that this was okay.

“Look!” Lucy shrieked, pointing at my sparkly sunglasses bobbing on a branch that looked like a giant nose.

When we stood back, clutching each other, to view our creation, Lucy burst out laughing so hard that I couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“What?” I asked, catching her giggles.

“IZZZZ PERRRTSSSSLEEE HEEEEDIUM-PHOUS!” she repeated.

“What?” I cried, trying to pull the laugh cramps out of my face with my hands.

“It’s perfectly hideous! The ugliest Christmas tree ever!” Lucy said.

“Maybe if we squint really hard,” I said, “until our eyes are almost closed . . . .” Then we both laughed so hard we fell over.

*    *    *

But when Lucy’s mom called that night, Lucy took the phone into my parents’ room and closed the door. She came out looking glum. At first I thought maybe Lucy’s grandma’s eighty-one-year-old baby sister in Texas had died. But Lucy said, “No, in fact, she’s out of the hospital and doing better, my mom says.”

“Well, are you mad at me?” I asked her.

She just said, “No.”

“So, what’s wrong?” I asked.

Lucy shrugged. “I’m fine,” she said. “Really.” But she wasn’t fine. That was clear.

I wondered if Lucy could still be mad about the library-Ned thing, but I didn’t think so.

*    *    *

The phone rang again and my mom got it. In a few minutes she called out, “Marla and Ned, Daddy’s on the phone.”

Usually Ned knocks everyone and everything out of his way to get to the phone first, but not this time. So I talked to my dad. “My show will be on in a half hour,” he reminded me.

I did not ask why he was still in Washington if his segment was all finished and ready for TV. Especially California time. But he must have read my mind because he said that he had been editing up until the last minute.

“And now,” he said, “it’s an overly white Christmas in Washington. So white, in fact, that the airport is closed.”

When I was done talking to him, I yelled for
Ned, but he didn’t come, so my mom took her turn. She shooed me away so she could talk mushy. When she was done she called for Ned, but he still didn’t come.

“That was Daddy,” I said, “but Mom hung up.”

“I don’t wanna talk to Daddy,” Ned said. “I hate Daddy.”

My mom, who has X-ray ears for that sort of thing, came swooping into the room. She crouched down next to Ned and launched into one of her helpful lectures. “Now, you don’t mean that, Neddy. I think you’re just mad at Daddy because he’s not here. Daddy loves you and he wishes he could be here, but he has to do his work and now he is caught in a blizzard,” and on and on and on . . . .

*    *    *

After the candles and the song I said, “Some party.” There’s that line in the song, “Let’s have a party, we’ll all dance the hora . . . .” And there we were, whiny Ned, mopey Lucy, me, my mom, period.

“Now it’s parties you want?” my mom asked.

Before I’d even answered, Ned said, “YES!”

“Okay,” she said, “so here’s something to wear to the party.” She gave me an outfit that for once was
only one size too big. And she gave Lucy one to match. “Merry Christmas,” my mom said.

“Can we really have a party?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said again. “The last night of Hanukkah.”

Then it was time for the sextuplets. Lucy and I sat on the white leather couch, Ned lay on the white carpet, and my mom leaned against the white wall. My dad’s “warm-fuzzy” segment was usually on last, but in honor of Christmas tonight’s show was going to be one warm-fuzzy after another. Luckily my dad’s segment was first so we didn’t have to watch all the other ones.

Actually the Raisins were pretty cute and there were some funny parts, like when one of them was eating his Santa hat and another almost pulled the tree down on her head and all six of them burst into horrified tears at the sight of their father dressed as Santa Claus.

Then my mom took Ned, kicking and screaming, off for his bath, and Lucy and I watched an old Christmas movie.

We both cried at the end, but Lucy kept crying.
My mom came in and saw Lucy crying and me sitting like a lump. She sat between us and put her arms around Lucy.

“Even grown-ups get sad being away from their families on Christmas Eve,” my mom said. “Holidays are powerful family stuff.”

I was glad to hear that my mom didn’t think that Lucy’s bad mood was about me.

But my mom’s helpful lecture went on from there, about Lucy’s feelings being natural, and how Christmas is a time to be with loved ones and to appreciate family and so on . . . .

Lucy stopped crying and pretty soon started looking bored and restless. Good, I thought, now we can go back to normal. And we did.

*    *    *

Sometime in the middle of the night I woke up and heard the pit-pit-pit of Ned’s bare feet on the wood floor. Next I saw his face peering over the edge of my bed.

“Can I come in?” Ned asked.

“Go to Mommy, Neddy,” I whispered, but he said, “No.”

I looked closer and saw that he was weepy. I lifted the blanket so he could crawl in, and I asked him what was the matter.

“Daddy,” Ned said.

I figured that he felt guilty for not talking to our dad on the phone, so I said, “You’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Daddy’s caught by a wizard,” Ned said, and started crying for real.

“You just had a bad dream, a nightmare,” I said.

“Mommy said so!” he insisted. “Do you think Superman will come?”

I was so tired, and Ned was so sad. Then it came to me. “Daddy’s caught in a
blizzard
, not caught by a
wizard
!” I said. “A blizzard is a snowstorm. Remember when we were at Bubbi and Poppa’s in Michigan and there was a lot of snow? That’s a blizzard. His plane just can’t take off.”

We must have awakened Lucy, because her fuzzy voice came from the other bed. “And he’s not caught outside in the blizzard. He’s inside a nice warm hotel,” she said, “in a nice warm bed.”