The Christmas Orphans Club
Becca Freeman
To anyone who has ever been alone
on Christmas: I see you, I love you.
And to the Mangy Ravens:
thank you for giving me the kind of
friendship worth writing books about.
prologue
Hannah
This year, December 24
’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Manhattan, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Scratch that. Manhattan at six o’clock on Christmas Eve is a complete and utter shitshow.
The mice—fine, rats—are frolicking through mountains of day-old garbage bags heaped on the curb. It’s pornographic, really. “Stirring” would be putting it mildly.
As for the people, Grand Central is a pulsing sea of bodies rushing to catch a train to whichever tristate suburb they hail from. At Citarella, the fancy West Village grocery store where a pint of berries starts at $10, the fourth verbal altercation of the day has broken out in front of the prepared-food case as two women spar over the last container of scalloped potatoes. Those who opted to order in aren’t faring any better. Han Dynasty’s delivery estimate is creeping toward three hours.
So I shouldn’t be surprised to be stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, stop-starting my way up the West Side Highway in the back seat of a yellow cab. I’ve given up hopes of doing my makeup on the drive. Winged eyeliner was too optimistic; anything short of puking from motion sickness will be a victory.
“You a city kid?” my sixtysomething cab driver asks in a thick New York accent.
“Nope, Jersey girl,” I tell him, trying to strike the right balance between politeness and making it clear I don’t want to talk.
“You got family in the city, though, right? Aunts? Cousins?” he asks. “Bet you’re heading to spend Christmas Eve with them.”
“Nope. No family, just me.”
He looks at me through the rearview mirror and I see pity in his crinkly gray-blue eyes.
He feels sorry for me, but I feel sorry for everyone else with their boring, conventional Christmases. Some people think it’s sad to be without family at the holidays, but Christmas is my favorite day of the year. And this is poised to be our best one yet. It has to be, after the twin disasters of the last two years’ celebrations. Tonight is only the appetizer.
I consider correcting the driver’s assumptions, but I feel the burrito I had for lunch roiling in my stomach as he taps the brakes for the three hundredth time, and I decide to shut my eyes and fake sleep instead. Let him think whatever he wants.
* * *
? ? ?
When I race into Theo’s apartment, barefaced and vaguely nauseous, Finn yells, ‘‘Hannah, is that you? Finally!”
“Come on, then,” Theo hollers. “If the food gets cold it’s all going to be shite.”
“Cute scarf!” Priya remarks as I make my entrance into the dining room, where three of my four favorite people are seated around a long table.
“I know Hannah didn’t pick it out because it’s not neutral or the color blue,” Finn jokes. “So who’s it from?”
“Hey!” I retort. “But also . . . fair. It was a gift from David,” I say as I finger the bright red cashmere scarf wrapped around my neck.
“For Christmas?” Finn prods.
“No, we’re doing gifts tomorrow morning. It was a ‘just because’ present. He saw it in a store window and thought it would look nice with my hair.”
“I think he liiiiikes you,” Finn sings, stretching out the word like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality. “He wants to kiiiisssss you.”
My cheeks flame at his teasing, but I’m also grinning. David is always bringing home little gifts. I know he likes me—loves me, actually. I’ve never doubted how he felt about me, not even in our earliest days of dating. But the warm thoughts about my boyfriend are chased by a trickle of guilt. For a minute, I think about spilling everything: how off we’ve been, what I found a few weeks ago. But tonight, as an extension of Christmas, is sacred. A time-out from real life. No work, no family, just us. I don’t want to mar it with my relationship woes.
After I strip off my winter layers, gently arranging the scarf on the back of my chair so it doesn’t drag on the ground, I notice the tablescape I missed in my haste. The table is laden with silver trays piled with burgers in paper wrappers. There are crystal bowls with fries of every variety—thin, curly, crinkle-cut, sweet potato, and steak fries. There’s even a bowl of onion rings and another of tots. Each place setting has ramekins of what looks like ketchup, mayo, and special sauce.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I miss the part of the evening where you all got stoned out of your goddamn minds?”
“You’ve heard of the feast of the seven fishes, right?” Theo asks. “This is the feast of the seven fast-food burgers.”
“We’re going to taste them all and pick a winner. He had scorecards made.” Finn points to a piece of cream cardstock beside his plate with Christmas Eve Burger Brawl written across the top in swirly red calligraphy.
With these people I could have fun in an empty room; just being with them is special. But this is delightfully ridiculous. I can’t help but laugh at the spectacle.