I knew I was right. Down deep what’s bugging Xandra is not just that she thinks her drama teacher’s a racist; it’s that she also thinks her mother’s a sellout.
SEVENTEEN
Growing up, Christmas in Queens was a five-star affair. The rest of the year, me, Clive, Mom, and Dad lived off the clothing exchange program at church, but no expense was spared for baby Jesus’s birthday. It was the one day a year where we thought we lived similarly to the way other Collegiate and Spence families did. The wings of the angel crowning our tree always brushed the ceiling. Instead of an Advent calendar with stale, flaky drugstore chocolate, Mom made fresh peppermint bark and traded some with an elderly seamstress in our building to make a unique calendar for Clive and me. Each present under the tree was fancifully wrapped and arranged in the order they were to be opened. When Mom died, Dad picked up the Christmas charge to spare no expense when it came to our present exchange. Admittedly, my history of Morgan family Christmases sets an impossibly high bar for Leo.
What’s not overflowing with good cheer this Christmas is Xandra’s attitude. This morning in particular I’m missing the days of rainbow footie pajamas and the two of us waking up early to check under the tree before Graham arose from his overworked slumber. We would select a gift, rearrange the others to fill the gap so it wouldn’t be noticed, and sneak back into Xandra’s bed to open our presents under the covers. This Christmas morning I’m greeted with my daughter grunting for coffee.
“Merry Christmas, Leo,” Xandra mumbles, reaching across me for the freshly brewed pot. Leo beams like the novice parent-to-be that he is, blinded by the inch of headway he thinks he has made with Xandra and fully missing the holiday mom snub delivered to me.
“You, too, Xandra. Again, thanks so much for sharing your mom and granddad with me on Christmas.”
Leo puts his hand up to land a high five with Xandra, and she leaves him hanging. I shake my head and chuckle at his resolve. Though I have warned Leo to slow his efforts to ingratiate himself to Xandra, he can’t help his sweet self. Leo looks adorable in his red plaid flannel pajama pants and scruff, but the Pemberley T-shirt he ordered himself is over the top and possibly crashing headfirst down the other side. I nod at the arrangement of chocolate croissants and then at Xandra while she’s pouring her coffee. Leo hops to, placing the largest one on a napkin, handing it to Xandra.
“Thanks.” Xandra smiles and bites right in. Leo looks like he’s going to pass out from the win.
“I went a little overboard this Christmas, hope you don’t mind,” Leo whispers in my ear, grabbing a growing handful of hip as he sweeps behind me heading right for the bacon frying on the stove.
“I don’t mind at all,” I reply, with a hint of sexy through my mouthful of pancakes. I look over to the tree, trying to make out which box might contain the coal-gray pebbled leather purse I’ve been visiting for months at one of those boutiques that only carries about ten items but every single one is gorgeous. The hints I’ve dropped about it have been endless since December 1, the official date one can start hounding for specific gifts.
“Can I get you some breakfast?” I ask, sitting down next to Xandra with my plate. The entire kitchen table is a blessing of Christmas morning riches. This is the one day a year Dad owns the kitchen with his Jamerican holiday feast, complete with fried plantains, mangos and starfruit, scrambled eggs with ham, the blueberry cornmeal pancakes I’m inhaling, and Xandra’s favorite, chocolate croissants. Dad made sure to spare no sweet tooth.
“I’m not hungry,” Xandra mumbles, then takes the fork I’m holding, stabs herself a chunk of pancake off my plate, and drops it in her mouth. She must not know you don’t take food from a pregnant lady.
It’s been a rough couple of days since the Morgan Clarke family round table, and I feel stuck in the middle. I appreciate, as an immigrant, where my dad’s bias and lack of understanding of Xandra’s behavior at school are coming from. Surrounded by high school students daily, I also see Xandra’s perspective and why she has zero tolerance for language that may smack of bias. Fitzroy knows race and socioeconomic status determined his limited life choices, but nothing could dissuade his belief that education is the gateway to the best possible life. And with Clive off in London and me having worked my way to the tweed mountaintop, we prove Fitzroy’s theory correct.
After our showdown, I tried to play the neutral party, to be the Switzerland of our family. I let Xandra know that I recognize kids her age are growing up with the freedom to oppose authority and to speak out against perceived slights. I want Xandra to have a voice, to question and push for what she believes is right and what she thinks she deserves. She’s playing a young person’s game of raging against the machine, thinking the machine is anyone over thirty. Problem is, when you are raised in a loving family, have a warm home, and attend the best schools in the country, the issues you feel angry about are only an inch deep, and it shows. Xandra is an amateur at hardship, and Dad and I know it.
“Load up your plates and head into the living room,” Dad announces as he drops the last two plantains on Leo’s plate. I can tell Leo is struggling with really wanting those fried perfections and thinking best protocol with your baby mama’s father is to give them to his daughter. I really want those plantains too.
“You’ve made it clear this week you’re no longer my baby bird, so get a plate and feed yourself,” I tell Xandra, grabbing my food before she can dump her favorites onto my plate and stroll into the living room hands free. “Let’s go see if Santa thinks you’ve been naughty or nice.”
“You would love it if I was always nice, yes ma’amin’ everyone, pretending I’m looking forward to having a snowflake for a stepdad.” What is it with Graham and Xandra and the winter weather references when it comes to Leo? And who said anything about a stepdad?
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings on Christmas, but I expect you to be nice today,” I snap back. This teen tantrum is not going to kill my Christmas spirit. Leo mouths “Good one” to me. I internally cringe that he caught that snippy mother-daughter exchange, but I’m happy he’s picking up that he shouldn’t take everything that comes out of an angsty adolescent’s mouth to heart. I blow him a kiss.
“Youngest goes first. Here, Xandra, I got this one for you.” Dad’s been out of sorts these last few days, unnerved by the cold shoulder Xandra’s giving him. His attempts to get back in her good graces have been met with a lukewarm reception. I, however, am better practiced at surviving long stretches of teen banishment. One of the perks of being a highly trained high school teacher.
Dad hands Xandra a package that looks like a hefty book. Nice, Dad. I haven’t seen Xandra do much with her brain since she’s been home, so I’m on board with a good book to soak up some of that sulking.
“NO WAY, Grandpa!!” Xandra rips off the last of the wrapping paper and launches off the couch and into Dad’s outstretched arms before I can see what she got. I know it’s not War and Peace.
“Whaddya get, Xandra?” I ask, excited to see what has turned my sour child sweet.