Eight Christmas Eves (4 page)

They started
the movie then and ate their sugar cookies with the cider.

It was a movie
he’d seen too often, and he was watching it with a kid instead of going
clubbing with a very desirable date. He’d been caught in a blizzard twice
today—once in a car and once in the backyard. Nothing had changed with his
father, and nothing seemed likely to change.

And he was
going to have to wear the ugliest Christmas sweater imaginable tomorrow.

Despite all of
that, it was a pretty good Christmas Eve after all.

seven
years ago

The most notorious party at
Clarksburg High School was held every Christmas Eve at the house of Doug
Wilson, captain of the football team.

His mother had walked
out when he’d been just four, and his father always worked the night shift in
the emergency room of the hospital on Christmas Eve, so Doug had no parental
supervision until his father got home at six o’clock the following morning.

Naturally, this
meant a party.

The party had
built up a lot of cachet over the last three years, since most teenagers
couldn’t get out of family time at Christmas. So only the coolest and most
enterprising of them could manage to sneak out of their houses after their
families went to bed. To be invited to this party was a social stamp of
approval. To actually attend was a claim to popularity that simply couldn’t be
beat.

Helen wasn’t
even in high school yet, but she was invited this year, and she was damned well
going to attend.

She didn’t want
to spend the evening with Cyrus anyway. She hadn’t spoken to him for months—not
since his last visit over the summer. She didn’t even like to think about him
anymore, but occasionally she just couldn’t help it.

She’d been stupid
for liking him, for trusting him. She’d been a naïve girl who’d thought he was
something special. It embarrassed her now to think of how much she’d looked up
to him. She cringed when she remembered all the emails she’d sent him—sometimes
daily—rambling on about her day, her thoughts, her feelings, everything in her
world. She’d always been thrilled when he replied and ecstatic when he came to
visit Clarksburg.

She’d sometimes
cried after he left.

She’d always
thought he liked her well enough—ever since the first Christmas when he found
her on the side of the road. He’d never said so, of course, but she’d
instinctively believed it. He’d emailed her back sometimes and asked questions
like he was interested. It always sounded like he was smiling when he talked to
her on the phone. He’d made a point of visiting Clarksburg a few times a year,
and he’d always seemed happy to see her.

She’d been a
little idiot. He’d never really cared about her at all.

She wasn’t an
idiot anymore.

She might have
to suffer through dinner with him this evening, but she was not—not—going to
watch
White Christmas
and have hot cider and sugar cookies with him as
they’d done for the last four years.

She was
fourteen years old this year. She felt grown-up, sometimes ancient.

She was no
longer a kid.

Helen didn’t
come down from her room until dinner, even though she knew Cyrus had arrived an
hour or so earlier. From her bedroom window, she’d seen him drive up in a
flashy new sports car. He’d called down her hall, saying he was here, but she
hadn’t come out of her room and he didn’t knock.

She did put on
something decent for dinner—a soft green sweater and a long gray skirt—since
she didn’t want to make Drake angry. Drake was a fine guardian, and he was easy
to get along with. He left her alone unless she caused some sort of ruckus or
openly defied him. Sometimes she kind of liked him. Sometimes he made her
laugh. Mostly they just did their own thing and were satisfied with that.

Not dressing
appropriately for Christmas Eve dinner was a sure way to annoy Drake, however,
so Helen changed out of her jeans and sweatshirt.

Cyrus pretended
to be nice at dinner. He smiled at her with apparent sincerity and asked
questions about how she was doing. Helen knew it was fake, though.

She wanted to
ignore him completely, but that would rouse Drake’s curiosity, so she managed
to answer Cyrus’s questions as briefly as she could and just didn’t look him in
the eyes.

She thought she
was strong, guarded like a warrior who had to steel himself for battle. It had
been months since she’d realized who and what Cyrus was, and she’d had plenty
of time to get over her previous affection for him.

It hurt,
though. To see him like this. He wasn’t handsome like Doug Wilson. By the
afternoon, Cyrus always needed to shave again, so he usually looked kind of
scruffy. She'd never thought he was good-looking. But she’d always liked his
face and how he looked at her as if he were really seeing her.

She hadn’t
known it was all a lie.

Over dinner,
Drake talked about the long, war-torn provenance of a Persian scepter he’d just
acquired, and he asked Cyrus about how he was doing in his MBA program.

Helen focused
on her food and only spoke when she had to. For a moment, over the cheese
course, she thought she might start to cry, but she managed to steel herself
well enough and didn’t.

She was
relieved when dinner was over. She got up quickly and started to hurry up the
stairs to her room.

Cyrus caught
her as she reached the first landing, grabbing her arm to keep her from
escaping. “Helen, don’t run away.”

Her cheeks
flushed, and her eyes burned with anger. She didn’t want to give him the
satisfaction of having upset her, though, so she kept her eyes down. “I’m not
running away.”

“I know you
were angry with me when I visited in August, but I thought you would have
gotten over it by now. I was just trying to look out for you.” His voice was a
little hoarse. He sounded frustrated, impatient, slightly bewildered.
Completely sincere.

But it was
fake. All of it was
fake
.

“You don’t need
to look out for me,” she said, biting her lower lip so he wouldn’t see it
wobble a little. “I do fine on my own, and I don’t need your help.”

He sighed
deeply. She still hadn’t looked up at him, so she couldn’t see his expression.
She could smell him, though—the clean, warm scent that was so familiar. She
could somehow feel him too, intensity radiating off him. “
Someone
has to
look out for you, Helen. I just don’t understand why you’re so angry.”

Something
inside her started to shake, and it didn’t help when Cyrus reached out to tilt
her chin up so her hair wouldn’t hide her face. Feelings swallowed her up, but
screaming and raging at him would give him the victory. She wasn’t going to do
that.

“I don’t like that
you’re still so angry with me, Helen,” he said, softer now.

She swallowed
and raised her eyes to glare at him, trying to look and sound cool. “And I
don’t like that you won’t just leave me alone, but we can’t always get what we
want.”

“Tell me why it
was such a big deal. What was so important about that trip that you still can’t
forgive me?”

Helen snorted
bitterly. In August, she’d had a trip planned with one of her few
friends—Maria, who was sixteen and whose father lived in Paris. Helen had been
going to France with Maria for two weeks until Cyrus stuck his nose into the
situation and suggested to Drake that there wouldn’t be enough parental
supervision, since Maria's father would be at work all day and the girls would
be left to their own devices.

Helen’s trip to
Paris had been canceled.

She’d been
furious with Cyrus for that at the time, but it wasn’t what had pulled the
blinders off. It wasn’t what she couldn’t forget.

Afraid she
might cry after all, she jerked her arm out of his grip and muttered, “You
don’t understand. Just leave me alone.” Then she whirled around and hurried up
the stairs to her room.

She slammed the
door and waited for a minute, but Cyrus didn’t follow her.

She did cry
then. A little bit.

There weren’t
very many people in the world she liked and trusted. Cyrus had been one of
them. Until four and a half months ago.

She didn't let
herself sulk, though. She took a shower and spent a long time blowing dry her
long hair very straight. Then she added a purple streak in her hair because
Doug had said he thought it looked cool when she'd had one last month when he’d
seen her and Maria in the coffee shop. She put on more eye makeup than she
normally did, trying to use enough liner to look as dramatic as Maria always
did.

Then came the
big decision about her outfit. She sorted through her entire closet and then
called Maria to ask for some advice. On hearing that Maria was going to wear
jeans, Helen was vastly relieved. Sometimes Maria wore very short skirts, and
Helen wasn’t sure her hips and thighs were skinny enough to pull off that look.
So she wore the dark jeans that made her look the thinnest with her favorite
boots, ones with heels high enough to make her look taller. She wore an ivory
silk tank top that laced up the front and looked kind of vintage. She’d never
been brave enough to wear the top before, since it showed a lot of cleavage,
but she already had pretty good breasts so she figured she should show them
off. She wore a cropped cardigan over the top since it was chilly and so she
wouldn’t feel so self-conscious.

She could take
the sweater off later if she felt like it.

She was pleased
with her appearance—as pretty as she could look and quite fashionable, since
she’d seen her boots and her top in magazines recently.

At almost eight-thirty,
she covered up her gorgeousness with her red coat, since it was cold outside,
and peeked out of her bedroom. The hall was empty so she hurried toward the
back stairs. She made it down and out of the house without encountering anyone.

All she had to
do was jog down the drive to where Maria was waiting in her car to pick her up.

Helen had never
had many friends. She always thought other kids were looking at her strangely,
since she didn’t have any parents, was raised by a guardian, and was driven to
school in a chauffeured car. The kids who were nice to her didn’t always seem
sincere.

She was mostly
resigned to it, but she still dreamed of having friends and being popular. So,
when she’d met Maria earlier that year, she’d been thrilled. Maria was two
years older and really mature and fun to hang out with, and her father was rich
so she didn’t have any ulterior motives with Helen. When she hung out with
Maria, people didn’t look at Helen like she was quite so much of a freak.

It was nice to
have a real friend, and Helen was starting to hope that when she began high
school next year, she might not be such an outsider.

And maybe she
could even find a boyfriend.

*
* *

Two hours later, Helen was
feeling a little woozy.

The music was
too loud, and there were too many people in the Wilsons’ family room in the
basement of the house.  She’d been feeling good earlier, after one beer
and some definite attention from Doug, so she’d smiled and laughed and taken
off her cardigan to show off her top.

But two beers
later Helen wasn’t feeling quite so good.

Plus, Doug was
practically on top of her.

She liked Doug.
A lot. He had blond hair, brown eyes, and movie-star looks. He was nice to her
and got good grades and was a football star. She’d had daydreams about being his
girlfriend.

But he was
heavy and hot and smelled very strongly of beer, and Helen felt kind of
helpless and nauseated sprawled out on the couch. She’d been excited when he
first started to kiss her, but it wasn’t exactly like she’d thought.

He was kind of
sucking on her ear now, and he had one hand down her blouse, which felt kind of
weird and gropey. She was embarrassed because there were so many people around,
although most of them had coupled up and were making out too. She wondered if this
was what normally happened at high school parties—just hanging out listening to
music, drinking beers, and groping each other.

It wasn’t
really as exciting as she’d hoped.

She shifted,
trying to retrieve one of her arms. She wasn’t sure what to do with it, but she
didn’t like it trapped under Doug’s chest.

She wished she
hadn’t drunk the beer. It hadn’t tasted good at all, and it felt like her mind
was covered with a layer of fuzz.

She really
wanted Doug to get off her. She didn’t like it when he kissed her on the mouth
again. His breath smelled really bad, and his tongue slobbered all over hers.
She liked it even less when one of his hands slid between her thighs, over her
jeans.

She was going
to tell him she wanted to get up. It would make a scene. He would think she was
childish and silly. They all might laugh at her. But she didn’t want him on top
of her anymore, and telling him was the only way to get him off.

He was too
heavy, too gropey. And she was too hot, too woozy, too uncomfortable.

She was going
to tell him to get off her. She visualized herself doing it. Maybe she could do
it nicely. She could tell him she needed to go to the bathroom. That was what
she should do.  It was perfect.

She could get
up to go to the bathroom, and he wouldn’t have to know why. She pulled her
mouth away from his and started to tell him. She really wanted him off her.

“
Get off her
.”
The inexplicably familiar voice bellowed out of nowhere, breaking through the
din of music and chatter.

The room fell
silent as everyone turned to stare, and someone switched off the music at the
discovery of an intruder in their midst.

Both Helen and
Doug had jerked their heads over toward the voice. Through the blur in her
mind, it took a minute to realize that it was Cyrus—it was actually
Cyrus
—standing
a few feet away from the couch. He was wearing the same dark trousers and
jacket with the blue dress shirt he’d worn to dinner earlier, and he was
glaring with icy contempt at Doug.

Irrationally,
her first reaction at the sight of him was intense relief.

Since he had
Doug’s attention, Cyrus’s voice wasn’t as loud as he repeated with clipped
authority, “I said to get off her.”