You Are the Shell to My Tortoise | ✓

48

For as long as I could remember, our parents always brought us to Aunt Sharon's house for Christmas Eve. On that day, her meticulously decorated house—she hung up fairy lights along the porch and along the stairway railings inside the house, set up a giant fir tree in the living room with tons of ornaments hanging from it, and lit up hot cocoa scented candles—would always be flooded with relatives.

This year was no exception.

Finishing the cup of punch in my hand, I tipped my head backwards and sighed. The warm and noisy atmosphere inside the house felt so cozy. My parents were socializing with the other adults in another room, and Ryan was in the kitchen looking for something to eat. Everyone around me was chattering so loudly that I could barely hear myself think.

It was wonderful.

Just then, there was a gentle tug at the bottom of my shirt.

"Chelsea!"

My seven-year-old cousin's beaming face greeted me when I glanced down. Celia's soft brown hair was in a French braid, which she kept touching with her other hand. Her hair had been in its natural state just a couple of hours ago, so I stared at it. Where did that materialize from?

"Do you like it? Aunt Rebecca braided it for me!" she said excitedly, reaching up to stroke it with both hands now.

Because she was an only child, Celia particularly loved these family gatherings we had a few times a year. Strangely enough, she absolutely loved me and a few of my other cousins about my age. It probably helped that we usually included her in our activities and games whenever she attempted to join us, but I still couldn't get why she wouldn't rather spend time with the other cousins closer to her own age. Celia's bubbly personality was totally adorable, though, so most of us were happy to entertain her when she came up to us.

"Yeah!" I said, bending down a little as I grinned at her. "It looks super cute!"

The smile on Celia's face grew wider at my compliment. "Do you know how to French braid, too?"

"Um, not really," I said, feeling my grin turn into a sheepish one.

I was never really interested in putting in all that effort into changing my hairstyle just for the sake of it, so I never bothered with any of this stuff. The most I ever did was pull my hair into a ponytail when I had gym class.

"Then let's go and learn together!" she said, grabbing my left hand. "Aunt Rebecca said she can teach us!"

My heart sank as she started pulling me away. Learning how to French braid my own hair would be a perfectly good hour gone and wasted. I had wanted to just relax without thinking about anything, too.

"Actually," I said, racking my brain for an excuse to avoid my seemingly inevitable fate, "I kind of have something I need to do—"

"Hey, Chelsea!"

I never whirled around so fast in my entire life at hearing my name being called.

Deborah was standing there, holding a cup of punch in one hand. She was a year older than me. We usually hung out together in a group with our other cousins at large family gatherings like this.

"I'm about to play Pictionary with the others," she said, brushing aside a stray lock of black hair that had found its way to her face. "Do you want to join us?"

"Yes, please and thank you," I said immediately, and Deborah's casual gaze turned into a confused stare.

"Uh, okay," she said, squinting at me.

"I want to play, too!" Celia said, all thoughts of learning how to French braid hair apparently gone from her mind.

"Alright, let's go! The more the merrier," Deborah said to her. "I like your hair, by the way. Did someone braid it for you?"