The Christmas Orphans Club(2)
“First of all, this is absurd because Shake Shack is definitely going to win, but also, what are you going to do?” I ask Priya, who is vegetarian.
“I’m judging sides,” she chirps. “But you should know, Theo has his money on In-N-Out.”
“There’s not even an In-N-Out in New York,” I begin. But sure enough, one of the platters is stacked with burgers with their signature red-and-white wrappers. “How?”
“He had them flown in from California,” Finn says with an eye roll. I don’t want to know how he did it or how much it cost, but I’m still positive there’s no way they’ll win, especially reheated.
“Shall we?” Theo asks.
I take a seat next to Finn and shake out my napkin. Everyone begins serving themselves, except me. Instead, I click the shutter button on my mental camera. I want to remember everything, sear this night into my mind as a core memory. Because in addition to being our best, it may also be our last Christmas together.
Finn reaches over to squeeze my hand, silently asking if I’m alright. The truth is, I’m anything but alright. I’m devastated he’s leaving, taking half my heart with him, like one of those plastic best-friend necklaces fourth-grade girls trade as social currency. It feels doubly unfair because I only just got him back. A whole year lost to our fight. I’m not ready for whatever comes next. But I paste on a smile and look back at him, pretending to be happy. And I am, for him, but I’m also sad for me. Sad that everything is ending.
Everyone else has something new on the horizon—Priya is still giddy over her new job, Finn has his move to LA, and Theo’s whole life is plane tickets and parties. But all I have to look forward to is less. A Finn-sized hole in my day-to-day life.
“What?” Finn asks, giving me the side-eye, not buying the smile I’ve plastered on.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just happy being here with all of you.”
I swallow the next thought that pops into my mind: I don’t know how I could ever be happier than this. These people are all the family I need.
one
Hannah
Christmas #1, 2008
I, Hannah Gallagher, am kind of an expert on depressing playlists.
Sure, it’s a dumb superpower. I’d much rather be able to fly or read minds or turn into a puddle of metallic goo like Alex Mack, but we don’t get to pick the hand we’re dealt. Don’t I know it.
I add “Brick” by Ben Folds Five to the playlist I’m working on and follow it up with “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver. I throw in “Vindicated” by Dashboard Confessional for good measure. If you ask me, the problem with music today is there are too many songs about being dumped or someone you love not loving you back, and not enough about the disappointing state of the whole damn world.
I’ve spent the past four years honing my craft, and tonight’s playlist is going to be my opus.
I minimize a browser tab to check my LimeWire downloads. Damnit! The progress bar has barely moved, and my laptop’s fan is whirring like it’s about to blast off my lap.
If I really want “Hide and Seek,” I could buy it. But ninety-nine cents is a lot of money for a song, and I’m still mad Marissa Cooper got her pretty, popular stink all over that one. On the other hand, my playlist is a little dude-heavy, and why should men have a monopoly on angst?
Oh, screw it! It’s Christmas. I deserve this, at least.
I hop down from my lofted bed and make the arduous journey—all three steps—to the desk where my backpack is slung over the back of the chair. My wallet is somewhere in the bottom, along with a semester’s worth of dried-up pens and half-finished Spanish worksheets.
Aha!
As I close my fingers around the wallet, there’s a knock at the door.
That’s odd.
It’s not one of my friends, because I don’t have any friends here. And even if I did, they’d be home for winter break, eating ham with their happy, whole families.
When I open the door, I’m face-to-face with a willowy boy with light brown skin, who’s dressed like he escaped a Ren faire. He’s wearing a ruffled tuxedo shirt tucked into slim-tailored trousers, so slim they might actually be girls’ pants. The look—and that’s what this is, a look—is finished off with a green paisley ascot and black velvet cape. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing eyeliner, which, to be fair, he is definitely pulling off.
“Who are you?” I don’t bother being polite because I’m positive he has the wrong room.
“I’m Finn Everett,” he announces like it’s obvious, even though I know I’ve never seen him before in my life. I would remember him.
To punctuate his statement, he throws the cape over one shoulder, revealing a flash of crimson silk lining, and plants a hand on his hip. He stares down at me like he’s waiting for an answer, even though he’s the one who knocked on my door.
“Okay, Finn Everett, what do you want?”
“What are you doing on campus on Christmas? You know you’re not allowed to be here, right?”
I’ve known him for thirty seconds and I’m already exasperated. But I know how to get rid of him: “I’m an orphan.”
I’m gratified to see him flinch at the word. I wouldn’t usually describe myself this way, but I’m keen to get back to my night, and over the past few years I’ve learned nothing kills a conversation faster than the o-word. It sure sent me running for the door when a middle-aged social worker in a lumpy brown blazer sat across from me and my sister and opened with, “Now that Hannah’s an orphan, we’ll have to figure out what to do about her guardianship.”