Disequilibrium

Part 2: Sophomore Year - Scene 8

Christmas isn't really our thing.

Dad told me it used to be when Mom was around. Every year he'd whip out the same photo album and flip through it, telling me stories of past Christmases I can't ever remember. I'd see my mother in her youth, wearing a housedress with her stomach inflated. It was always the same dress in every damn picture—Dad said it was the only thing that fit. She'd either be mixing batter for Christmas cookies, decorating a tree, or simply just smiling for the sake of smiling.

Dad told me she liked smiling. Did it all the time. But then he'd get a little resentful and put away the photo album where it'd stay hidden until next year.

I don't know when Christmas died for us. I mean, even after Mom left, Dad would still bring out the tree and put crappy presents under it. It wasn't great, but he was trying. Then three presents turned into two, two turned into none, and soon enough, the tree went to the landfill.

Nobody came around either. No friends, acquaintances from work, distant relatives—nothing. Dad told me my grandparents weren't dead. They just didn't like him. I don't need them coming around and ruining things for us, anyway, he'd always say when I asked him about it. You weren't a mistake. I don't need them. You don't either.

I pull the covers off my face but don't bother opening my eyes. Instead, I roll onto my stomach and let out a groan. My body's been feeling shitty lately. Dad thinks I'm coming down with something. I think it's because Casper still hasn't called.

I can't help wondering what he's doing at this exact moment. Is he already awake? Or maybe he's still asleep. Are his grandparents stuffing him like the rest of the kids? Is he happy? Is he thinking about me?

My hand shoots to the empty space beside me before I can even think about what I'm doing. I sort of imagine his body there, all warm and wrapped in blankets to fight the outer chill. He'd open his eyes, and I'd open mine, then he'd smile and say something simple like merry Christmas. And I'd hold him because, well, that would be the only reply I could muster. I'd breathe him in—all of him—and we'd just lie there for a while. Holding each other.

Clank. The sound from outside my door shakes me out of my skin. My eyes pop open as I sit up instantly, heart thrumming from the clatter. It sounds like it came from the kitchen. Somebody swears and another person laughs, and then an idle conversation springs up about a pot handle.

It sounds like three doors down. Peeling off the bed sheets, I make my way out of bed and open the door. My room is across the kitchen area, so I peer out and see Dad sitting at the dining table with a mug of coffee in hand, reading something out of the newspaper. I move closer to him, turning to the kitchen to see Nichole standing over the stove, bacon frying on a pan while she attempts to fix the pot.

They both look at me as soon as I enter. Dad lowers the newspaper and raises an eyebrow while Nichole gives a quick smile. "There he is," she says, her voice unusually high. "For a moment we thought you'd never wake up."

I pull my eyebrows together. "What are you doing here?"

"Why don't you get something decent on and join us?" Dad buts in. "No offense, but I'd rather not eat eggs with you in just your boxers."

I'm not listening to him though. I'm too busy staring at her. She wipes her hand on an apron that says Santa's Baby and moves towards the dining table, picking up something from the empty chair beside Dad.

It's a fucking Christmas sweater.

"I got us all a matching set," she says. Her voice wavers. "Maybe when you finish washing up, you can wear it. Your dad said you might not, but I thought I'd give it a shot."