Filed to story: The One That Got Away
Her forehead creases and she looks up from her list. “Did something happen on the ski trip?”
Too quickly I say, “No. Nothing happened.”
“Then why not? I want to get to know him better, Bella.”
“I think he might be going out of town too.” I can tell Alice doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t press me further.
She sends the evites out that night, and right away there are five yeses. In the comments section Aunt D. (not our real aunt, but one of Mommy’s best friends) writes, Alice, I can’t wait to hear you and Dad sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”! Another recital-party tradition. Alice and Daddy sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and I am always commissioned to sing “Santa Baby”. I used to do it lying on top of the piano with my mom’s high heels on and our grandma’s fox stole. Not this year. No way.
When Alice tries to get me to go with her and Kitty to deliver our cookie baskets to the neighbours the next day, I beg off and say I’m tired. I go up to my room to put the finishing touches on Alice’s scrapbook and listen to only the slow songs from Dirty Dancing, and I keep checking my phone to see if Louis’s texted again. He hasn’t, but Josh has.
I heard what happened. Are you OK?
So even Josh knows? He’s not even in our grade. Does the whole school know?
I write back, It isn’t true, and he writes back, You don’t have to tell me – I didn’t believe it for a second, which makes me feel weepy.
He and Alice have hung out once since she’s been home, but they haven’t taken that DC trip Josh mentioned. It’s probably for the best if I go ahead and take the Josh-and-Alice page out of the scrapbook.
I stay up late just in case Louis texts again. I think to myself, if Louis calls or texts me tonight, I’ll know he’s thinking about me too and maybe I’ll forgive him. But he doesn’t text or call.
Around three a.m. I throw away Louis’s notes. I delete the picture of him from my phone; I delete his number. I think that if I just delete him enough, it will be like none of it ever happened and my heart won’t hurt so badly.
Christmas morning, Kitty wakes up everyone while it is still dark out, which is her tradition, and Daddy makes waffles, which is his tradition. We only ever eat waffles on Christmas, because we all agree it’s too much trouble to lug the waffle iron out and clean it and store it back on the cabinet top shelf where we keep it. And anyway it makes waffles more of a special occasion this way.
We take turns opening presents to make it last longer. I give Alice her scarf, and the scrapbook, which she loves. She pores over every page, exclaiming over my handiwork, marvelling over my font choices and paper scraps. Hugging it to her chest, she says, “This is the perfect gift,” and I feel like all the tension and bad feelings between us evaporate into nothingness. Alice’s gift to me is a pale-pink cashmere sweater from Scotland. I try it on over my nightgown and it’s so soft and luxurious.
Kitty’s present from Alice is an art set with oil pastels and watercolours and special markers, which makes Kitty squeal like a piglet. In return Kitty gives her socks with monkeys on them. I give Kitty a new basket for her bike and the ant farm she asked for months ago, and Kitty gives me a book on knitting. “So you can get better,” she says.
The three of us pitched in for Daddy’s present – a thick Scandinavian sweater that makes him look like an ice fisherman. It’s a little too big, but Daddy insists he likes it that way. He gives Alice a fancy new ereader, Kitty a bike helmet with her name on it – Katherine, not Kitty – and me a gift certificate to Linden & White. “I wanted to get you that locket necklace you’re always looking at, but it was gone,” he says. “But I bet you’ll find something else you like just as much.” I jump up and throw my arms around him. I feel like I could cry.
Santa, aka Daddy, brings silly gifts like sacks of coal and water guns with disappearing ink inside, and also practical things like athletic socks and printer ink and my favourite kind of pens – I guess Santa shops at Costco too.
When we’re done opening presents, I can tell Kitty is disappointed there is no puppy, but she doesn’t say anything. I pull her into my arms and whisper to her, “There’s always your birthday next month,” and she nods.
Daddy goes to see if the waffle iron is hot and the doorbell rings. “Kitty, could you get that?” he calls from the kitchen.
Kitty goes to the door, and seconds later we hear her high-pitched scream. Alice and I leap up and run to the door, and right there on the welcome mat is a basket with a biscuit-coloured puppy in it, a ribbon around its neck. We all start jumping up and down and screaming.
Kitty scoops the puppy up in her arms and runs into the living room with it, where Daddy stands grinning. “Daddy Daddy Daddy!” she squeals. “Thank you thank you thank you!”
According to Daddy, he picked the puppy up from the animal shelter two nights ago, and our neighbour Ms Rothschild has been hiding him in her house. It’s a boy, by the way – we figure that out pretty quick, since he pees all over the kitchen floor. He is a Wheaten Terrier mix, which Kitty declares is far better than an Akita or a German shepherd.
“I always wanted a dog with bangs,” I say, cuddling him to my cheek.
“What should we name him?” Alice asks. We all look to Kitty, who chews on her bottom lip in a contemplative way.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“How about Sandy?” I suggest.
Kitty sneers. “Unoriginal.”
So I say, “What about François? We can call him Frankie for short.”
“No, thanks,” Kitty says. Cocking her head, she says, “What about Jamie?”
“Jamie,” Daddy repeats. “I like it.”
Alice nods. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“What’s his full name?” I ask, setting him down on the floor.
Kitty promptly says, “Jamie Fox-Pickle, but we’ll only call him that when he’s in trouble.” She claps her hands and coos, “Come here, Jamie!” and he skitters over to her, tail wagging like mad.
I’ve never her seen her so happy or so patient. She spends all of Christmas Day trying to teach him tricks and taking him outside to pee. Her eyes never stop shining. It makes me wish I was little again and everything could be solved with a Christmas Day puppy.
I only check my phone once to see if Louis called. And he didn’t.
The morning of the party I come downstairs after ten, and they’ve been working for hours. Alice’s the head chef and Daddy’s her sous-chef. She has him chopping onions and celery and washing pots. To us she says, “Bella, I need you to clean the downstairs bathroom and mop and tidy. Kitty, you’re overseeing decorations.”
“Can we at least have some cereal first?” I ask.
“Yes, but be quick about it.” She goes back to scooping cookie dough.
To Kitty I whisper, “I didn’t even want to have this party and now she’s got me scrubbing the toilet. Why do you get the good job?”
“Because I’m the littlest,” Kitty says, climbing on to a stool at the breakfast bar.
Alice spins around and says, “Hello, the toilet needed to be scrubbed anyway! Besides, it’ll all be worth it. We haven’t done recital party in so long.” She slides a cookie sheet into the oven. “Daddy, I’m going to need you to make a run to the store soon. We’re out of sour cream and we need a big bag of ice.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” our dad says.