The Christmas Orphans Club(53)

“No, turn it around!”

He does, but his baffled expression remains.

Priya has her jacket in her lap. “You made these? How neat!” she says with faux cheer, the way you talk to a four-year-old who hands you a crayon drawing of yourself that’s just a green blob.

I did make the jackets. Well, not the jackets themselves. For those, I spent weeks scouring Buffalo Exchange and Beacon’s Closet to find ones that would fit each of them in the same medium-blue wash. From there, I special ordered iron-on letters from Etsy. Not the ones from Joann they use for kids’ soccer jerseys, nice ones. I even found a bedazzling gun on eBay and used it to add studs and rhinestones across the back. There’s no denying the jackets look homemade, but they also look cool.

Theo has his out of the box now, too, and is pursing his lips together. His shoulders twitch like he’s holding in laughter.

“C’mon, guys, I worked hard on these! They’re our members’ jackets. For the Christmas Orphans Club!”

Christmas Orphans Club has too many letters, so instead, I abbreviated the club’s initials: COC.

“Say it out loud, Han,” Finn urges.

“Cee. Oh. Cee,” I spell aloud.

Priya circles her hand in front of her, urging me to put it together.

“The jackets say ‘cock,’ Hannah.” Theo bursts out laughing, doubling over his jacket.

“We’ll look like a gay biker gang that can’t spell,” Finn adds. He’s laughing so hard he wipes tears from the corner of his eyes.

“A crafty gay biker gang.” Priya fingers the rhinestones edging the collar of her jacket.

I pout, but a sardonic laugh slips out, too. So much for my perfect presents.

Finn steals a glance my way. “Well, we have to wear them out today!” he announces. “There is literally no one I’d rather be in a semiliterate gay biker gang with.” He drapes his jacket over his shoulders without putting his arms through the arm holes and glares at Theo.

Theo puts on his jacket, too, and gives a twirl to show it off. It’s a few inches too short and he looks ridiculous. Now I’m laughing in earnest. “I’m wearing mine everywhere. Not just today!” he says.

“I wrote an article about these best-friend leather jackets last year. These are way cooler,” Priya adds as she slips hers on. The four of us are verging on hysterics.

I put mine on, too. Even though the jackets’ message is hornier than intended, I love what they represent. We may not look like siblings, but now we have an outward signifier of what we mean to one another. I want people to see us in a crowded room and know that these are my people. When I look around the circle, I feel lucky. I can’t imagine needing more than this.

“Now that we’re outfitted for the day, it’s time for Toaster Wars,” Theo says.

I don’t have time to question the two seemingly disparate words that came out of Theo’s mouth because Priya says, “Not for me, I’m going over to Ben’s parents’ apartment for a few hours.”

“What?” This is the first I’m hearing about it.

“I’ll meet up with you guys tonight. I’m only going for lunch.”

“But we always spend Christmas together,” I tell her.

“And we’re still spending Christmas together. I’m here now, and I’ll meet back up later,” she says. At my wounded expression, she adds, “Seriously, this is not a big deal. From everything I’ve gathered about this holiday, lunch is like the least important meal. I’ll be back before you know it.” Finn and Theo’s eyes ping-pong back and forth between us as we negotiate the terms of Priya’s departure.

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that she and Ben aren’t even together. They might have been at one point back in college, but now Ben is in his third year of med school at the University of Wisconsin. He keeps her on his bench for when he passes through town.

“Whatever,” I say. If she doesn’t get why this is important, I can’t force her to understand. Finn rests a hand on the middle of my back, which I interpret as his solidarity. Our Christmas isn’t a stopover, it’s the main event.

Priya slips away, still wearing her jacket, while Theo leads us into the dining room.

At each place setting there’s a plate, a mug, a champagne flute, and an individual toaster. In the center of the table are plates heaped with a dozen varieties of Eggos, Pop-Tarts, and Toaster Strudels. I smile at the mental image of Theo in the frozen food aisle at Gristedes, filling his cart with box after box of frozen waffles.

“I’ve never had a Pop-Tart,” Theo announces, “and all the American sitcoms I watched as a child made them look so good, so I figured we may as well remedy that together.” He takes a pink frosted Pop-Tart and deposits it in his personal toaster.

“Dig in!” he urges.

This is my ten-year-old self’s dream come true, but I can’t muster the right level of enthusiasm. Priya leaving dampened the magic.



* * *



? ? ?

?After a lazy afternoon of mimosas and Monopoly (something else American Theo missed in childhood—not because they didn’t have it in the UK, but because his brother was so much older, there was no one to play it with), we head downtown to the West Village. Finn forces everyone to wear their jackets knowing no one will bat a false eyelash at a gang of thirsty gays with a poor aptitude for spelling where we’re going, a Christmas-themed drag show billed as The Ladies of the North Pole.