Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances



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Let It Snow

our word. Also, when on a campaign to convince a stranger that you aren’t a few fries short of a Happy
Meal, throwing around phrases like “tangentially Swedish” is not the best way to go.
“Everyone loves a Smorgasbord,” he said graciously.
It was time for a change of topic.
“Target,” I said, pointing at his shirt. Except I said, “Tar-shay,” in that French way that really isn’t very
funny.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Now you can see why I had to risk my life getting to work. When your job is
important  as  mine,  you  have  to  take  some  chances;  otherwise,  society  doesn’t  function.  That  guy  must
really want to make a call.”
Stuart  pointed  out  the  window,  and  I  turned.  Jeb  was  at  the  phone  booth,  which  was  surrounded  by
about a foot of snow. He was trying to force the door open.
“Poor Jeb,” I said. “I should lend him my phone . . . now that I have a signal.”
“Is that Jeb? You’re right . . . Wait . . . how do you know Jeb?”
“He was on my train. He said he was coming to Gracetown. I guess he plans on walking the rest of the
way or something.”
“It looks like he really, really wants to make a call,” Stuart said, pulling aside the slippery candy cane
on the window to get a better look. “Why doesn’t he just use his phone?”
“His phone broke when we crashed.”
“Crashed?” Stuart repeated. “Your train . . . crashed?”
“Just into snow.”
Stuart was about to press a bit further on the train-crashing subject when the door opened, and in they
poured. All fourteen of them, yelping and squealing and trailing snowflakes.
“Oh my God,” I said.


Chapter Four
T
here is nothing about a bad situation that fourteen hyper cheerleaders can’t worsen.
It took about three minutes for the unassuming Waffle House to become the new offices of the law firm
of  Amber,  Amber,  Amber,  and  Madison.  They  set  up  camp  in  a  clump  of  booths  in  the  corner  opposite
from us. A few of them gave me an “oh, good, you are still alive” nod, but for the most part, they had no
interest in anyone else.
This did not mean that no one had an interest in them, however.
Don-Keun  was  a  new  man.  The  moment  they  arrived,  he  vanished  for  a  second.  We  heard  muffled
ecstatic screaming coming from somewhere in the back of the Waffle House kitchen, then he reappeared,
his face shining with the kind of radiance usually associated with religious epiphany. Looking at him made
me tired. Behind him were two more guys, awed acolytes following in his wake.
“What do you need, ladies?” Don-Keun called happily.
“Can  we  practice  handstands  in  here?”  Amber  One  said.  I  guess  her  basket-toss  wrist  was  feeling
better.  Tough  types,  these  cheerleaders.  Tough  and  crazy.  Who  treks  through  a  blizzard  to  practice
handstands in a Waffle House? I only went there to get away from them.
“Ladies,” he said, “you can do whatever you want.”
Amber One liked this answer.
“Could you, maybe, like mop the floor? Just this bit right here? Just so we don’t get stuff on our hands?
And could you spot us?”
He almost broke his own ankles trying to get to the mop closet.
Stuart had been watching all of this wordlessly. He didn’t have that same glorious look as Don-Keun or
his friends, but the matter had clearly made his radar. He cocked his head to the side, like he was trying to
figure out a really hard math problem.
“Things around here have deviated from the usual,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “You could say that. Is there anywhere else to go? A Starbucks or something?”
He almost flinched when I mentioned Starbucks. I guessed he was one of those antichain types, which
seemed odd for someone who worked at Target.
“It’s  closed,”  he  said.  “Pretty  much  everything  is.  There’s  the  Duke  and  Duchess.  That  might  still  be
open, but that’s just a convenience store. It’s Christmas Eve, and with this storm . . . ”
Stuart must have sensed my despair from the way I began lightly banging my forehead on the table.
“I’m  going  to  get  back  to  my  house,”  he  said,  slipping  his  hand  across  the  table  as  cushioning  and
preventing me from doing myself any more damage. “Why don’t you come with me? At least it’s out of the
snow. My mom would never forgive me if I didn’t ask you if you needed somewhere to go.”
I  thought  this  over.  My  cold,  dead  train  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  My  current  option  was  a
Waffle  House  full  of  cheerleaders  and  a  guy  dressed  in  Reynolds  Wrap.  My  parents  were  guests  of  the
state,  hundreds  of  miles  away.  And  the  biggest  snowstorm  in  fifty  years  was  right  on  top  of  us.  Yeah,  I
needed somewhere to go.
Still, it was hard to unwire the “stranger danger” message that ran through my head . . . even though the
stranger was really the one taking the chance. I had all the crazy cards tonight. I wouldn’t have taken me
home.
“Here,” he said. “A little proof of identity. This is my official Target employee card. They don’t let just
anyone work at Target. And here’s a driver’s license. . . . Ignore the haircut, please. . . . Name, address,


social, it’s all on there.”
He pulled the cards out of his wallet to finish the joke. I noticed that there was a picture of him with a
girl in the picture flap, obviously from a prom. That reassured me. He was a normal guy with a girlfriend.
He even had a last name—Weintraub.
“How far is it?” I asked.
“About a half mile that way,” he said, pointing at what appeared to be nothing at all—formless white
lumps that could have been houses, could have been trees, could have been life-size models of Godzilla.
“A half mile?”
“Well, it’s a half mile if we take the short way. The long way is a little over a mile. It won’t be bad. I
could have kept going, but this was open, so I just stopped for a warmth break.”
“Are you sure your family won’t mind?”
“My mom would literally beat me down with a hose if I didn’t offer someone help on Christmas Eve.”
Don-Keun vaulted the counter with a mop, almost impaling himself in the process. He started cleaning
the floor around Amber One’s feet. Outside, Jeb had gotten into the booth. He was deeply entrenched in a
drama of his own. I was alone.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come.”
I don’t think anyone noticed our getting up and leaving except for Tinfoil Guy. He had his back turned to
the cheerleaders in complete disinterest, and he saluted us as we headed for the door.
“You’re going to need a hat,” Stuart said, as we stepped into the frigid vestibule.
“I don’t have a hat. I was going to Florida.”
“I don’t have a hat, either. But I have these . . . ”
He held up the plastic bags and demonstrated by putting the bag on his head, wrapping it once around,
and tucking it in so that it made a snug but strange-looking turban, puffed up at the top. Wearing a bag on
your head seemed like something that Amber and Amber and Amber would have refused to do . . . and I
felt like making a point that I wasn’t like that. I gamely wound it around my head.
“You should really put them around your hands, too,” he said, passing me a few more. “I don’t know
what to do about your legs. They have to be cold.”
They were, but for some reason I didn’t want him to think that I couldn’t handle that.
“No,”  I  lied.  “These  tights  are  really  thick.  And  these  boots  .  .  .  they’re  solid.  I’ll  take  them  for  my
hands, though.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Positive.”  I  had  no  idea  why  I  was  saying  this.  It  just  seemed  like  telling  the  truth  would  mean
admitting some weakness.
Stuart had to push hard to fully open the door against the wind and accumulated snow. I didn’t know
snow could pour. I’ve seen flurries and even steady snow that left an inch or two, but this was sticky and
heavy and the flakes were the size of quarters. Within seconds, I was drenched. I hesitated at the bottom of
the steps, and Stuart turned around to check on me.
“Sure?” he asked again.
I knew that I was either going to turn right there and then, or I was going to have to go all the way.
I gave a quick look back and saw the three Madisons doing a handstand pyramid in the middle of the
restaurant.
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”


Chapter Five
W
e took a small back road away from the Waffle House, guided only by the traffic warning lights that
blinked on and off every other second, cutting a strobing yellow path through the dark. We walked right
down  the  middle  of  the  street,  again  in  that  postapocalyptic  style.  Silence  reigned  for  at  least  fifteen
minutes. Talking  took  energy we  needed  just to  keep  going,  and opening  our  mouths meant  that  cold  air
could get in.
Every step was a tiny trial. The snow was so deep and sticky that it took a lot of force to withdraw my
foot from my own footprint. My legs, of course, were frozen to the point where they started to feel warm
again.  The  bags  on  my  head  and  hands  were  somewhat  effective.  When  we  had  set  our  pace,  Stuart
cracked open the conversation.
“Where is your family really?” he asked.
“In jail.”
“Yeah. You said that inside. But when I said really—”
“They’re in jail,” I said for the third time.
I  tried  to  make  this  one  stick.  He  got  the  point  enough  not  to  ask  the  question  again,  but  he  had  to
wrestle with my answer for a moment.
“For what?” he finally said.
“Uh, they were part of a . . . riot.”
“What, are they protesters?”
“They’re shoppers,” I said. “They were in a shopping riot.”
He stopped dead in his spot.
“Don’t even tell me that they were in the Flobie riot in Charlotte.”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“Oh my God! Your parents are in the Flobie Five!”
“The Flobie Five?” I repeated weakly.
“The Flobie Five were the topic of the day at work. I think every other customer brought them up. They
had footage of the riot playing all day on the news. . . . ”
News? Footage? All day? Oh, good. Good, good, good. Famous parents—just what every girl dreams
of.
“Everyone  loves  the  Flobie  Five,”  he  said.  “Well,  a  lot  of  people  do.  Or,  at  least,  people  think  it’s
funny.”
But then he must have realized it wasn’t so funny for me, and that that was the reason I was wandering
through a strange town on Christmas Eve with bags on my head.
“It  makes  you  very  cool,”  he  said,  taking  big,  jumping  steps  to  get  in  front  of  me.  “CNN  would
interview you, for sure. Daughter of Flobie! But don’t worry. I’ll keep them back!”
He  made  a  big  display  of  pretending  to  hold  back  reporters  and  punching  photographers,  which  was
tricky choreography. It did cheer me up a little. I started playing the part a little myself, throwing my hands
up over my face as if flashbulbs were going off. We did this for a while. It was a good distraction from
our reality.
“It’s ridiculous,” I finally said, after I almost fell over as I tried to dodge an imaginary paparazzo. “My
parents are in jail. Over a ceramic Santa house.”
“Better than for dealing crack,” he said, falling back in line beside me. “Right? Must be.”


“Are you always this chipper?”
“Always. It’s a requirement for working at Target. I’m like Captain Smiley.”
“Your girlfriend must love that!”
I only said it to make myself seem clever and observant, expecting him to say, “How did you know that
I  .  .  .  ?”  And  I  would  say,  “I  saw  the  photo  in  your  wallet.”  And  he  would  think  I  was  very  Sherlock
Holmes  and  I  would  seem  a  little  less  deranged  than  I  first  appeared  back  at  the  Waffle  House.
(Sometimes, you have to wait a little bit for this kind of gratification, but it’s still worth it.)
Instead, he just whipped his head around quickly in my direction, blinked, and then turned back down
the road with a very determined stride. The playfulness was gone, and he was all business.
“It’s not too much farther. But this is where we have to decide. There are two ways we can go from
here. The down-this-road way, which will probably take us another forty-five minutes at the rate we’re
going. Or the shortcut.”
“The shortcut,” I answered immediately. “Obviously.”
“It  is  way,  way  shorter,  because  this  road  bends  around  and  the  shortcut  goes  straight  through.  I’d
definitely take it if it was just me, which it was up until a half an hour ago. . . . ”
“Shortcut,” I said again.
Standing  in  that  storm,  with  the  snow  and  wind  burning  the  skin  off  my  face  and  my  head  and  hands
wrapped in plastic bags—I felt I really didn’t need any more information. Whatever this shortcut was, it
couldn’t be much worse than what we were already doing. And if Stuart had been planning on taking it
before, there was no reason why he couldn’t take it with me.
“Okay,”  Stuart  said.  “Basically,  the  shortcut  takes  us  behind  these  houses.  My  house  is  just  behind
there, about two hundred yards. I think. Something like that.”
We  left  the  blinking  yellow  path  and  cut  down  a  completely  shadowy  path  between  some  houses.  I
pulled my phone out of my pocket to check it as we walked. There was no call from Noah. I tried to be
stealthy about this, but Stuart saw me.
“No call?” he asked.
“Not yet. He must still be busy.”
“Does he know about your parents?”
“He knows,” I said. “I tell him everything.”
“Does that go both ways?” he asked.
“Does what go both ways?”
“You said you tell him everything,” he replied. “You didn’t say we tell each other everything.”
What kind of question was that? “Of course,” I said quickly.
“What’s he like, aside from being tangentially Swedish?”
“He’s smart,” I said. “But he’s not obnoxious smart, like one of those people who always have to tell
you their GPA, or give you subtle hints about their SAT score or class rank or whatever. It’s just natural to
him. He doesn’t work that hard for grades, and he doesn’t care that much. But they’re good. Really good.
Plays soccer. He’s in Mathletes. He’s really popular.”
Yes, I actually said that. Yes, it sounded like some kind of sales pitch. Yes, Stuart got that smirky I’m-
trying-not-to-laugh-at-you look again. But how was I supposed to answer that question? Everyone I knew
knew Noah. They knew what he was, what he represented. I didn’t usually have to explain.
“Good  résumé,”  he  said,  not  sounding  all  that  impressed.  “But  what’s  he  like?”  Oh,  God.  This
conversation was going to go on.
“He’s . . . like what I just said.”
“Personality-wise. Is he secretly a poet or something? Does he dance around his room when he thinks
no one is looking? Is he funny, like you? What’s his essence?”
Stuart  had  to  have  been  playing  with  my  head  with  this  essence  stuff.  Although,  there  was  something


about how he had asked if Noah was funny, like me. That was kind of nice. And the answer was no. Noah
was many things, but funny was not one of them. He usually seemed relatively amused by me, but as you
may have noticed by now, sometimes I can’t shut up. On those occasions, he just looked tired.
“Intense,” I said. “His essence is intense.”
“Good intense?”
“Would I date him otherwise? Is it much farther?”
Stuart got the message this time and shut up. We walked on in silence until it was just empty space with
a few trees. I could see that far off, at the top of an incline, there were more houses. I could just make out
the distant glow of holiday lights. The snow was so thick in the air that everything was blurry. It would
have been beautiful, if it didn’t sting so much. I realized my hands had gotten so cold that they’d rounded
the corner and now almost felt hot. My legs wouldn’t last much longer.
Stuart put his arm out and stopped me.
“Okay,” he said. “I have to explain something. We’re going over a little creek. It’s frozen. I saw people
sliding on it earlier.”
“How deep a creek?”
“Not that deep. Maybe five feet.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s somewhere right in front of us,” he said.
I looked out over the blank horizon. Somewhere under there was a small body of water, hidden under
the snow.
“We can go back,” he said.
“You were going to go this way, no matter what?” I asked.
“Yeah, but you don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“It’s fine,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt. “So, we just keep walking?”
“That’s the plan.”
So that’s what we did. We knew we’d hit the creek when the snow got a little less deep, and there was
a  slight  slipperiness  underneath  us  instead  of  the  thick,  crunching,  solid  feeling.  This  is  when  Stuart
decided to speak again.
“Those guys back at the Waffle House are so lucky. They’re about to have the best night of their lives,”
he said.
There  was  something  in  his  tone  that  sounded  like  a  challenge,  like  he  wanted  me  to  take  the  bait.
Which means I shouldn’t have. But I did, of course.
“God,” I said. “Why are all guys so easy like that?”
“Like what?” he said, giving me a sideways glance, slipping in the process.
“Saying that they’re lucky.”
“Because . . . they’re trapped in a Waffle House with a dozen cheerleaders?”
“Where does this arrogant fantasy come from?” I said, maybe a little more sharply than I intended. “Do
guys really believe that if they are the only male in the area, that girls will suddenly crawl on top of them?
Like we scavenge for lone survivors and reward them with group make-out sessions?”
“That isn’t what happens?” he asked.
I didn’t even dignify that remark with a comeback.
“But what’s wrong with cheerleaders?” he asked, sounding very pleased that he’d gotten such a rise out
of me. “I’m not saying I only like cheerleaders. I’m just not prejudiced against them.”
“It’s not prejudice,” I said firmly.
“It’s not? What is it then?”
“It’s the idea of cheerleaders,” I said. “Girls, on the sidelines, in short skirts, telling guys that they’re
great. Chosen for their looks.”


“I  don’t  know,”  he  said  tauntingly.  “Judging  groups  of  people  you  don’t  know,  making  assumptions,
talking about their looks . . . it sounds like prejudice, but—”
“I am not prejudiced!”  I  shot  back,  unable  to  control  my  reaction  now.  There  was  so  much  darkness
around  us  at  that  moment.  Above  us,  there  was  a  hazy  pewter-pink  sky.  Around  us,  there  were  only  the
outlines of the skinny bare trees, like thin hands bursting out of the earth. Endless white ground below, and
swirling flakes, and a lonely whistle of wind, and the shadows of houses.
“Look,” Stuart said, refusing to quit this annoying game, “how do you know that in their spare time, they
aren’t EMTs or something? Maybe they save kittens, or run food banks, or—”
“Because they don’t,” I said, stepping ahead of him. I slipped a little but jerked myself upright. “In their
spare time, they get waxings.”
“You don’t know that,” he called from behind me.
“I wouldn’t have to explain this to Noah,” I said. “He would just get it.”
“You  know,”  Stuart  said  evenly,  “as  wonderful  as  you  think  this  Noah  is—I’m  not  all  that  impressed
with him right now.”
I’d had it. I turned around and started walking the way we had come, taking hard, firm steps.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “Oh, come on . . . ”
He tried to make it sound like it was no big deal, but I had simply had it. I stamped down hard to keep
my gait steady.
“It’s a long way back!” he said, hurrying to catch up with me. “Don’t. Seriously.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, like I didn’t really care very much. “I just think it would be better if I . . . ”
There was a noise. A new noise under the whistle and the squeak and shift of ice and snow. It was a
snapping noise that sounded kind of like a log on a fire, which was unpleasantly ironic. We both stopped
exactly where we stood. Stuart flashed me a look of alarm.
“Don’t mov—”
And then the surface beneath us just went away.


Chapter Six
M
aybe you’ve never fallen into a frozen stream. Here’s what happens.
1. It is cold. So cold that the Department of Temperature Acknowledgment and Regulation in your brain
gets the readings and says, “I can’t deal with this. I’m out of here.” It puts up the
OUT TO LUNCH
sign and
passes all responsibility to the . . .
2.  Department  of  Pain  and  the  Processing  Thereof,  which  gets  all  this  gobbledygook  from  the
temperature department that it can’t understand. “This is so not our job,” it says. So it just starts hitting
random buttons, filling you with strange and unpleasant sensations, and calls the . . .
3. Office of Confusion and Panic, where there is always someone ready to hop on the phone the moment
it rings. This office is at least willing to take some action. The Office of Confusion and Panic loves hitting
buttons.
So, for a split second, Stuart and I were unable to do anything because of this bureaucratic mess going
on in our heads. When we recovered a little, I was able to take some stock of what was happening to me.
The good news was, we were only in up to our chests. Well, I was. The water came exactly breast-high.
Stuart was in up to his mid-abdomen. The bad news was, we were in a hole in the ice, and it’s hard to get
out of a hole in the ice when you are pretty much paralyzed with cold. We both tried to climb out, but the
ice just kept breaking every time we put pressure on it.
As an automatic reaction, we grabbed each other.
“Okay,” Stuart said, shivering hard. “This is c-cold. And kind of bad.”
“No?  Really?”  I  screamed.  Except  there  wasn’t  enough  air  in  my  lungs  to  allow  me  to  scream,  so  it
came out like a spooky little hiss.
“We . . . s-should . . . b-break it.”
This  idea  had  occurred  to  me,  too,  but  it  was  reassuring  to  hear  it  said  out  loud.  We  both  started
smashing  at  the  ice  with  stiff,  robotlike  arms,  until  we  reached  the  thick  crust.  The  water  was  a  bit
shallower, but not by much.
“I’ll boost you up with my hand,” Stuart said. “Step up.”
When I tried to move my leg, it refused to cooperate right away. My legs were so numb that they didn’t
really  work  anymore.  Once  I  got  them  going,  Stuart’s  hands  were  too  cold  to  support  me.  It  took  some
tries, but I eventually got a foothold.
Of course, once I got up, I made the important discovery that ice is slippery, and therefore very hard to
hold  on  to,  especially  when  your  hands  are  also  covered  in  wet  bags.  I  reached  back  and  helped  pull
Stuart, who landed flat on the ice.
We were out. And being out felt a lot worse than being in, weirdly enough.
“Iss  .  .  .  not  .  .  .  tha  .  .  .  far,”  he  said.  It  was  hard  to  understand  him.  My  lungs  felt  like  they  were
wobbling.  He  grabbed  my  hand  and  pulled  me  toward  a  house  just  at  the  top  of  the  rise.  If  he  hadn’t
dragged me, I would never have made it up the hill.
I  have  never,  ever  been  so  happy  to  see  a  house.  It  was  entirely  outlined  by  a  faint  greenish  glow,
interspersed with tiny dots of red. The back door was unlocked, and we stepped into a paradise. It wasn’t
that it was the most amazing house I had ever been in—it was simply a house, with warmth, and a residual
smell of cooked turkey and cookies and tree.
Stuart didn’t stop pulling me until we reached a door, which turned out to lead to a bathroom with a
glass shower stall.


“Here,” he said, pressing me in. “Shower. Now. Warm water.”
The door slammed and I heard him run off. I stripped off what I was wearing immediately, stumbling as
I reached for the shower knob. My clothes were frighteningly heavy, full of water and snow and mud.
I  stayed  in  there  a  long  time,  slumped  against  the  wall,  filling  the  little  room  with  steam.  The  water
changed temperature once or twice, probably because Stuart was also taking a shower somewhere else in
the house.
I turned off the water only when it started to go cold. When I emerged into the thick steam, I saw that
my clothes were gone. Someone had extracted them from the bathroom without my noticing. In their place
were  two  large  towels,  a  pair  of  sweatpants,  a  sweatshirt,  socks,  and  slippers.  The  clothes  were  for  a
guy, except for the socks and slippers. The socks were thick and pink, and the slippers were white fluffy
booties, very worn.
I grabbed for the nearest item, which was a sweatshirt, and held it up to my naked self, even though I
was  clearly  alone  in  the  bathroom  now.  Someone  had  come  in.  Someone  had  been  lurking  around,
removing  my  clothes  and  replacing  them  with  new,  dry  ones.  Had  Stuart  let  himself  in  while  I  was
showering? Had he seen me in my natural state? Did I even care at this point?
I dressed quickly, putting on every single item that had been left for me. I opened the door a crack and
peered out. The kitchen appeared empty. I opened the door wider, and suddenly a woman popped out of
nowhere. She was mom-aged, with curly blonde hair that looked like it had been fried by using a home
coloring kit. She was wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of two hugging koalas in Santa hats. The only
thing I really cared about, though, was the fact that she was holding out a steaming mug.
“You poor thing!” she said. She was really loud, one of those people you can easily hear across entire
parking lots. “Stuart’s upstairs. I’m his mom.”
I accepted the mug. It could have been a cup of hot poison, but I would have drunk it anyway.
“Poor  thing,”  she  said  again.  “Don’t  you  worry.  We’ll  get  you  warm  again.  Sorry  I  couldn’t  find
anything to fit you better. Those are Stuart’s, and the only clean ones I could find in the laundry. I put your
clothes in the washer, and your shoes and coat are drying on the heater. If you need to call anyone, you just
go right ahead. Don’t worry if it’s long distance.”
This was my introduction to Stuart’s mom (“Call me Debbie”). I’d known her for all of twenty seconds,
and already she had seen my underwear and was offering me her son’s clothes. She immediately planted
me at the kitchen table and started pulling out endless Saran-wrapped plates from the refrigerator.
“We had Christmas Eve dinner while Stuart was at work, but I made plenty! Plenty! Eat up!”
There was a lot of food: turkey and mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, the works. She brought all of it out
and  insisted  on  making  me  a  big  plateful,  with  a  hot  cup  of  chicken-dumpling  soup  on  the  side.  By  this
point, I was hungry—maybe hungrier than I’d ever been in my life.
Stuart  reappeared  in  the  doorway.  Like  me,  he  was  dressed  for  warmth.  He  was  wearing  flannel
pajama bottoms and a stretched-out cable sweater. I don’t know . . . maybe it was the sense of gratitude,
my  general  happiness  at  being  alive,  the  absence  of  a  bag  on  his  head  .  .  .  but  he  was  kind  of  good-
looking. And any of my former annoyance with him was gone.
“You’ll  set  Julie  up  for  the  night?”  she  asked.  “Make  sure  to  turn  off  the  tree  so  it  doesn’t  keep  her
awake.”
“I’m  sorry  .  .  .  ”  I  said.  It  was  only  now  that  I  realized  that  I  had  just  crashed  into  their  lives  on
Christmas.
“Don’t you apologize! I’m glad you had the sense to come here! We’ll take care of you. Make sure she
has enough blankets, Stuart.”
“There will be blankets,” he assured her.
“She needs one now. Look. She’s freezing. So do you. Sit here.”
She hustled into the living room. Stuart raised his eyebrows as if to say, This may go on for a while.


She returned with two fleece throws. I was wrapped in a deep blue one. She swaddled me in it, like I was
a baby, to the point where it was kind of hard to move my arms.
“You need more hot chocolate,” she said. “Or tea? We have all kinds.”
“I’ve got it, Mom,” Stuart said.
“More soup? Eat the soup. That’s homemade, and chicken soup is like natural penicillin. After the chill
you’ve both had—”
“I’ve got it, Mom.”
Debbie took my half-empty soup cup, refilled it to the top, and put it in the microwave.
“Make sure she knows where everything is, Stuart. If you want anything during the night, you just get it.
You make yourself at home. You’re one of ours now, Julie.”
I appreciated the sentiment, but I thought that was a strange way of putting it.


Chapter Seven
S
tuart and I spent several quiet moments contentedly stuffing our faces once Debbie was gone. Except, I
got  the  feeling  that  she  wasn’t  really  gone—I  never  heard  her  walk  away.  I  think  Stuart  felt  this,  too,
because he kept turning around.
“This soup really is amazing,” I said, because that sounded like a good remark to have overheard. “I’ve
never had anything like it. It’s the dumplings . . . ”
“You’re probably not Jewish, that’s why,” he said, getting up and shutting the accordion kitchen door.
“Those are matzo balls.”
“You’re Jewish?”
Stuart held up a finger, indicating I should wait. He rattled the door a little, and there was a series of
rapid, creaking steps, like someone trying to hurry quietly up the stairs.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought we had company. Must have been mice. Yeah, my mom is, so technically,
yes.  But  she  has  this  thing  about  Christmas.  I  think  she  does  it  to  fit  in.  She  goes  kind  of  overboard,
though.”
The  kitchen  had  been  completely  converted  for  the  season.  The  hand  towels,  the  toaster  cover,  the
fridge magnets, the curtains, the tablecloth, the centerpiece . . . the more I looked, the more Christmasy it
got.
“Did you note the fake electric holly on the way in?” Stuart asked. “Our house is never going to be on
the cover of Southern Jew at this rate.”
“So, why . . . ”
He shrugged.
“Because it’s what people do,” he said, picking up another piece of turkey, folding it, and shoving it in
his mouth. “Especially around here. There isn’t exactly what you would call a thriving Jewish community.
My Hebrew-school class was just me and one other girl.”
“Your girlfriend?”
Something  passed  over  his  face,  a  rapid  wave  of  forehead  wrinkling  and  mouth  twitching  that  I
suspected was a suppressed laugh.
“Just  because  there’s  only  two  of  us  doesn’t  mean  we  have  to  pair-bond,”  he  said.  “It’s  not  like
someone says, ‘Okay—you two Jews! Dance!’ No, she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Sorry,” I said quickly. This was the second time I had mentioned his girlfriend—trying to show off my
observational skill—and again, he just deflected. That was it. No more mentioning it. He obviously didn’t
want to talk about her. Which was a little odd . . . he seemed like the type who would happily rattle on
about his girlfriend for about seven hours. He just gave that vibe.
“It’s  okay.”  He  reached  for  more  turkey,  looking  like  he  had  already  forgotten  how  dumb  I  could  be
sometimes. “I tend to think that people like having us around. Like we add something to the neighborhood.
We have a playground, an efficient recycling setup, and two Jewish families.”
“But isn’t it weird?” I asked, picking up the snowman salt shaker. “All these Christmas decorations?”
“Maybe. But it’s just a big holiday, you know? It all feels so fake that it seems okay. My mom just likes
to celebrate anything, really. Our relatives in other places think it’s strange that we have a tree, but trees
are nice. It’s not like a tree is religious.”
“True,” I said. “What does your dad think?”
“No idea. He doesn’t live here.”


Stuart  didn’t  seem  very  troubled  by  this  fact.  He  beat  another  little  rhythm  on  the  table  to  brush  the
subject away, and stood.
“I’ll get you set up for the night,” he said. “Be right back.”
I got up to have a look around. There were two Christmas trees: a tiny one in the picture window, and a
massive one—easily eight feet high—in the corner. It was practically bent over from the weight of all the
handmade ornaments, the multiple strings of lights, and what must have been ten boxes of silver tinsel.
There was a piano in the living room that was loaded down with opened pages of music, some with
comments written on the pages in pen. I don’t play any instruments, so all music looks complicated to me
—but this looked even more complicated than normal. Someone here knew what they were doing. This
wasn’t just “piano as furniture.”
What really caught my eye, though, was what was sitting on top of the piano. It was much smaller, much
less  technically  complex  than  ours,  but  it  was  a  Flobie  Santa  Village  nonetheless,  framed  with  a  little
barrier of garland.
“You must know what these are,” Stuart said, coming down the stairs with a massive load of blankets
and pillows, which he dumped on the sofa.
I did, of course. They had five pieces—the Merry Men Café, the gumdrop shop, Festive Frank’s Supply
Store, the Elfateria, and the ice-cream parlor.
“I guess you guys have more of these than we do,” he said.
“We have fifty-six pieces.”
He  whistled  in  appreciation,  and  reached  over  to  switch  on  the  power.  Unlike  us,  they  didn’t  have  a
fancy system for switching all the houses on at once. He had to turn the dimmer dial on each one, clicking
it to life.
“My mom thinks they’re worth something,” he said. “She treats them like they’re the precious.”
“They all think that,” I said sympathetically.
I looked the pieces over with an expert eye. I don’t usually advertise the fact, but I actually know a lot
about the Flobie Santa Village, for obvious reasons. I could hold my own at any dealer’s show.
“Well,”  I  said,  pointing  at  the  Merry  Men  Café,  “this  one  is  kind  of  worth  something.  See  how  it’s
brick, with green around the windows? This is a first-generation piece. In the second year, they made the
windowsills black.”
I picked it up carefully and checked the bottom.
“It’s not a numbered piece,” I said, examining the base. “But still . . . any first-generation piece with a
noticeable difference is good. And they retired the Merry Men Café five years ago, so that makes it worth
a  bit  more.  This  would  go  for  about  four  hundred  dollars,  except  that  it  looks  like  your  chimney  was
broken off and glued back on.”
“Oh, yeah. My sister did that.”
“You have a sister?”
“Rachel,” Stuart said. “She’s five. Don’t worry. You’ll meet her. And that was kind of amazing.”
“I don’t think amazing is the right word for that. Maybe sad.”
He switched all the houses back off.
“Who plays the piano?” I asked.
“Me. It’s my talent. I guess we all have one.”
Stuart made a kind of ridiculous face, which made me laugh.
“You shouldn’t dismiss it,” I said. “Schools love people who have musical skills.”
God, I sounded so . . . well, so like one of those people who do things only because they think it will
make colleges like them. I was shocked when I realized that was a Noah quote. I had never thought of it as
being so obnoxious before.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just tired.”


He waved this away, as if it required no explanation or apology.
“So  do  mothers,”  he  said.  “And  neighbors.  I’m  sort  of  the  performing  monkey  of  the  subdivision.
Luckily, I also like to play, so it works out. So . . . the sheets and pillows are for you, and . . . ”
“I’m fine,” I said. “This is great. It’s really nice of you to let me stay.”
“Like I said, it’s no problem.”
He turned to go but stopped halfway up the stairs.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry if I was kind of a dick earlier, when we were walking. It was just . . . ”
“Walking in the storm,” I said. “I know. It was cold; we were grouchy. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry,
too. And thanks.”
He looked like he was about to say something else but simply nodded and started back up the stairs. I
heard him reach the top, then back down a few. He peered through the top rails.
“Merry Christmas,” he added, before disappearing.
This  is  when  it  really  hit  me.  My  eyes  filled  up.  I  missed  my  family.  I  missed  Noah.  I  missed  home.
These people had done all they could, but they weren’t my family. Stuart wasn’t my boyfriend. I lay there
for a long time, twisting on the sofa, listening to a dog snoring somewhere upstairs (I think it was the dog),
watching two hours burn away on the very loud ticky-ticky clock.
I simply couldn’t stand it.
My phone was in my coat pocket, so I went searching for where my clothes had been stashed. I found
them  in  the  laundry  room.  The  coat  had  been  hung  up  over  a  heating  vent.  Apparently,  my  phone  hadn’t
liked being completely submerged in cold water. The screen was blank. No wonder I hadn’t heard from
him.
There  was  a  phone  on  the  kitchen  counter.  I  quietly  crept  out  and  took  it  from  the  cradle  and  dialed
Noah’s number. It rang four times before he answered. He sounded very confused when he answered. His
voice was tired and deep.
“It’s me,” I whispered.
“Lee?” he croaked. “What time is it?”
“Three in the morning,” I said. “You never called back.”
Assorted snuffling noises, as he tried to clear his thoughts.
“Sorry. It was busy all night. You know my mom and the Smorgasbord. Can we talk tomorrow? I’ll call
you as soon as we finish opening gifts.”
I fell silent. I had braved the biggest storm of the year—many years—I had fallen into a frozen creek,
and my parents were imprisoned . . . and he still couldn’t talk to me?
But  .  .  .  he  had  had  a  long  night,  and  it  seemed  a  waste  to  force  my  story  on  him  when  he  was  half
asleep. People can’t really sympathize with you properly when you’ve woken them up, and I needed him
at 100 percent for this.
“Sure,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
I climbed back into my cave of blankets and pillows. They had a strong, unfamiliar smell. Not bad—
just a very strong detergent that I’d never smelled before.
Sometimes, I just didn’t get Noah. Sometimes I even felt like he dated me as part of his plan, like they
were going to have a checklist on the application, and one of the things to tick off was going to be, “Do
you  have  a  reasonably  intelligent  girlfriend  who  shares  your  aspirations,  and  who  is  fully  prepared  to
accept your limited availability? One who likes to listen to you talk about your own accomplishments for
hours at a time?”
No. This was fear and cold talking. This was being in a strange place away from my family. This was
stress over the fact that my parents had been arrested in a riot for ceramic houses. And if I just slept, my
brain would go back to normal.
I  closed  my  eyes  and  felt  the  world  swirling  with  snow.  I  was  dizzy  for  a  moment,  and  slightly


nauseous, and then I was fast, fast asleep, dreaming of waffle sandwiches and cheerleaders doing splits
on the tables.


Chapter Eight
M
orning came in the form of a five-year-old leaping onto my stomach. My eyes popped open from the
force.
“Who are you?” she said excitedly. “I’m Rachel!”
“Rachel! Stop jumping on her! She’s sleeping!”
This was Stuart’s mom’s voice.
Rachel was a highly freckled mini-Stuart with incredibly bed-messy hair and a huge smile. She smelled
vaguely of Cheerios, and she needed a bath. Debbie was right there as well, nursing a cup of coffee while
she switched on the Flobie Santa Village. Stuart stepped out from the direction of the kitchen.
I hate it when I wake up to find that people have been creeping around me and have seen me asleep.
Unfortunately,  it  happens  to  me  a  lot.  I  can  sleep  like  a  champion.  I  once  slept  through  a  smoke  alarm
going off. For three hours. In my bedroom.
“We’re  going  to  put  off  opening  our  presents,”  Debbie  said.  “So  this  morning,  we  can  all  just  have
something to eat and have a nice talk!”
This was clearly for my benefit, as there were no gifts for me. Rachel’s face looked like it was going to
split  in  two,  like  a  piece  of  overripe  fruit.  Stuart  looked  to  his  mother,  as  if  asking  if  this  was  really  a
good idea.
“Except for Rachel,” she said quickly.
It’s amazing how quickly little kids’ moods can shift. She went from total despair to elation in the time
it normally takes to sneeze.
“No,” I said. “No, you guys should, too.”
Debbie was shaking her head firmly and smiling.
“Stuart and I can wait. Why don’t you go and get yourself ready for some breakfast?”
I slunk off to the bathroom, head down, to try to do some basic morning repair. My hair looked like it
was trying out for the comedy circuit, and my skin was raw and chapped. I did my best with cold water
and decorative hand soaps, which is to say, I didn’t make a lot of progress.
“Do you want to call your family?” Debbie asked when I emerged. “Wish them a happy holiday?”
I found myself looking to Stuart for help with this one.
“That may be hard,” he said. “They’re in the Flobie Five.”
So much for hiding that fact. Debbie didn’t seem put out by it, though. Instead, she got a gleam in her
eye like she’d just met a celebrity.
“Your parents were in that?” she asked. “Oh, why didn’t you say? I love the Flobie Santa Village. And
it was so silly to put them in jail. The Flobie Five! Oh, I’m sure they’ll let them talk on the phone to their
daughter! At Christmas! It’s not like they killed somebody.”
Stuart looked up at me knowingly, as if to say, Told you.
“I  don’t  even  know  what  jail  they’re  in,”  I  said.  I  felt  guilty  as  soon  as  I  said  it.  My  parents  were
wasting away in a cell somewhere, and I didn’t even know where.
“Well, that’s easy enough to find out. Stuart, go online and find out what jail they’re in. It has to be on
the news.”
Stuart was already on his way out of the room, saying he was on it.
“Stuart’s a wizard with those kinds of things,” she said.
“What kinds of things?”


“Oh, he can find anything online.”
Debbie was one of those parents who still hadn’t quite grasped that using the Internet was not exactly
wizardry, and that we could all find anything online. I didn’t say this, because you don’t want people to
feel that they’ve missed something really obvious, even when they have.
Stuart came back in with the information, and Debbie made the call.
“I  will  get  them  to  let  you  talk  to  your  parents,”  she  said,  holding  her  hand  over  the  receiver.  “They
have no idea how persist— Oh, hello?”
It sounded like they were giving her a bit of trouble, but Debbie beat them down. Sam would have been
impressed.  She  handed  me  the  phone  and  retreated  from  the  kitchen,  all  smiles.  Stuart  picked  up  a
wriggling Rachel and carried her out, as well.
“Jubilee?” my mom said. “Honey! Are you okay? Did you just get to Florida? How are Grandma and
Grandpa? Oh, honey . . . ”
“I’m not in Florida. The train never made it. I’m in Gracetown.”
“Gracetown?” she repeated. “You only made it that far? Oh, Jubilee . . . where are you? Are you all
right? Are you still on the train?”
I didn’t quite feel up to telling the whole story of the last twenty-four hours, so I made it nice and short.
“The train got stuck,” I said. “We had to get off. I met some people. I’m staying at their house.”
“People?” Her voice hit a high pitch of concern, the kind that said that she suspected drug dealers and
molesters. “What kind of people?”
“Nice people, Mom. A mom and two kids. They have a Flobie Santa Village. Not as big as ours, but
some of the same pieces. They have the gumdrop shop, with the full display. And the gingerbread bakery.
They even have a first-generation Merry Men Café.”
“Oh,” she said, somewhat relieved.
I think my parents think you have to have some kind of moral character to be in the Flobie crew. Social
deviants don’t take the time to lovingly set the tiny gingerbread men displays in the window of the bakery.
And  yet,  lots  of  people  would  take  that  as  a  sign  that  someone  was  unhinged.  One  person’s  crazy  is
another person’s sane, I guess. Plus, I thought I was being pretty crafty by describing Stuart as one of “two
kids” instead of “some guy I met at a Waffle House with plastic bags on his head.”
“Are you still there?” she asked. “What about your train?”
“I think it’s still stuck. It got caught in a snowbank last night, and they had to turn down the power and
the heat. That’s why we got off.”
Again, pretty clever to say “we” as opposed to “just me, wandering across a six-lane interstate during a
blizzard.”  It  wasn’t  a  lie,  either.  Jeb  and  the  Ambers  and  Madisons  had  made  the  trek  themselves,  just
after I blazed the trail. Being sixteen means you have to be a genius conversational editor.
“How’s . . . ” How do you ask your mom how jail is?
“We’re fine,” she said bravely. “We’re . . . Oh, Julie. Oh, honey. I am so sorry about this. So, so sorry.
We didn’t mean . . . ”
I could hear that she was about to completely lose it, and that meant that I would soon lose it if I didn’t
stop her.
“I’m fine,” I said. “The people here are taking really good care of me.”
“Can I speak to them?”
Them  meant  Debbie,  so  I  called  to  her.  She  got  on  the  phone  and  had  one  of  those  mother-to-mother
talks where they express concern for children as a whole and make a lot of scrunched-up faces. Debbie
was well up to the task of reassuring my mother, and in listening to her talk, I discovered that she wasn’t
going to let me go anywhere for at least a day. I heard her shoot down the idea that my train was going
anywhere, that there was any chance at all I was going to make it to Florida.
“Don’t you worry,” she said to my mom. “We’re going to take good care of your girl here. We have lots


of  good  food,  and  we’ll  keep  her  nice  and  snug  and  warm  until  things  clear  up.  She’ll  have  a  good
holiday, I promise you. And we’ll send her right back up to you.”
A pause while my mother made high-pitched sisterly devotions of gratitude.
“It is no trouble at all!” Debbie went on. “She’s an absolute pleasure. And isn’t this what the holidays
are all about? You just take care of yourselves in there. We Flobie fans are rooting for you.”
When she hung up, Debbie was wiping at her eyes and writing a number on her “Elf List” magnetized
refrigerator notepad.
“I should call about my train,” I said. “If that’s okay.”
I couldn’t get anyone on the phone, probably because it was Christmas, but a recorded voice said that
there were “substantial delays.” I looked out the window as I listened to it cycle through menu choices. It
was still snowing. It wasn’t as end-of-the-worldly as last night, but it was pretty steady.
Debbie lingered for a bit but then drifted off. I dialed Noah’s number. He picked it up on the seventh
ring.
“Noah!” I said, keeping my voice low. “It’s me! I’m—”
“Hey!” he said. “Listen, we’re all about to sit down and have breakfast.”
“I’ve kind of had a rough night,” I said.
“Oh,  no.  Sorry,  Lee.  Listen,  I’ll  call  you  back  in  a  little  while,  okay?  I  have  the  number.  Merry
Christmas!”
No “I love you.” No “My holiday is ruined without you.”
Now, I felt myself losing it. I got all choked up, but I didn’t want to be one of those girlfriends who sob
when their boyfriends can’t talk . . . even if my circumstances were a little beyond normal.
“Sure,” I said, holding my voice steady. “Later. Merry Christmas.”
And then I ran for the bathroom.


Chapter Nine
Y
ou can only spend so long in a bathroom without arousing suspicion. Over a half an hour, and people
are staring at the door, wondering about you. I was in there at least that long, sitting in the shower stall
with the door closed, sobbing into a hand towel that read
LET IT SNOW!
Yeah, let it snow. Let it snow and snow and bury me. Very funny, Life.
I  was  kind  of  terrified  to  come  out,  but  when  I  did,  I  found  that  the  kitchen  was  empty.  It  had  been
cheered up a bit, though. There was a Christmas candle burning on the middle bit of the stove, the Bing
Crosby tunes were rocking out, and a steaming pot of fresh coffee and a cake were waiting on the counter.
Debbie appeared from the laundry room next to the stove.
“I had Stuart go next door to borrow a snowsuit for Rachel,” she said. “She outgrew her last one, and
the people next door have one just her size. He’ll be back soon.”
She gave me a knowing nod that said, I know you needed some private time. I have your back.
“Thanks,” I said, sitting down at the table.
“And  I  spoke  to  your  grandparents,”  Debbie  added.  “Your  mother  gave  me  their  number.  They  were
concerned, but I set their minds at rest. Don’t worry, Jubilee. I know holidays can be hard, but we’ll try to
make this one special for you.”
Obviously,  my  mom  had  told  her  my  real  name.  She  pronounced  it  carefully,  as  if  she  wanted  me  to
know that she had taken note of it. That she was being sincere.
“They’re usually great,” I said. “I’ve never had a bad holiday before.”
Debbie  got  up  and  poured  me  some  of  the  coffee,  setting  the  cup  down  in  front  of  me,  along  with  a
gallon of milk and a massive sugar bowl.
“I know that this must be a very rough experience for you,” she said, “but I believe in miracles. I know
it sounds corny, but I do. And I feel like you coming here has been a little one for us.”
I glanced up at her as I poured milk into my coffee and almost flooded the cup. I had noticed a sign in
the  bathroom  that  said
FREE  HUGS  GIVEN  HERE!
 There’s  nothing  wrong  with  that—Debbie  was  clearly  a
nice person—but she maybe veered toward the goofy side of soppy.
“Thanks?” I said.
“What I mean is . . . Stuart looks happier today than he has in . . . Well, I probably shouldn’t be saying
this, but . . . Well, he may already have told you. He tells everyone, and you two already seem to have hit
it off, so . . . ”
“Told me what?”
“About Chloe,” she said, wide-eyed. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“Who’s Chloe?”
Debbie had to get up and slice me a thick piece of cake before she could answer. And I do mean thick.
Harry Potter volume seven thick. I could have knocked out a burglar with this piece of cake. Once I tasted
it, though, it seemed just the right size. Debbie didn’t fool around when it came to the butter and sugar.
“Chloe,” she said, lowering her voice, “was Stuart’s girlfriend. They broke up three months ago, and
he . . . well, he’s such a sweet guy . . . he took it so hard. She was terrible to him. Terrible. Last night was
the first night in a long time that I saw a spark of the old Stuart, when you were sitting there with him.”
“I . . . what?”
“Stuart  has  such  a  good  heart,”  she  went  on,  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  I  had  frozen,  a  bite  of  cake
halfway to my mouth. “When his father, and Rachel’s father, my ex-husband, left, he was just twelve. But


you should have seen how he helped me and how he was with Rachel. He’s such a good guy.”
I  didn’t  know  where  to  begin.  There  was  something  shockingly  awkward  about  discussing  Stuart’s
breakup with his mom. The expression is: a boy’s best friend is his mother. It’s not: a boy’s best pimp is
his mother. It’s that way for a reason.
Even worse, if it could get any worse, which it apparently could . . . I was the balm that had healed her
son’s wounds. Her Christmas miracle. She was going to keep me here forever, stuffing me with cake and
dressing me in oversize sweatshirts. I would be Bride of Flobie.
“You live in Richmond, right?” she chattered on. “That’s, what, a two- or three-hour drive. . . . ”
I was thinking about locking myself in the bathroom again, when Rachel came bounding in the doorway
and skidding up to me in her slippers. She climbed halfway up onto my lap and studied my eyes up close.
She still needed a bath.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “Why are you crying?”
“She misses her family,” Debbie said. “It’s Christmas, and she can’t see them because of the snow.”
“We’ll take care of you,” Rachel said, taking my hand and doing that adorable “let me tell you a secret”
voice that little kids can get away with. In the light of her mother’s recent comments, though, it seemed
kind of threatening.
“That’s  nice,  Rachel,”  Debbie  said.  “Why  don’t  you  go  and  brush  your  teeth  like  a  big  girl?  Jubilee
here can brush her teeth.”
Can, but hadn’t. No toothbrush in my backpack. I was really not at my best when I packed.
I heard the front door open, and a moment later, Stuart arrived in the kitchen with the snowsuit.
“I  just  had  to  look  at  two  hundred  photos  on  a  digital  picture  frame,”  he  said.  “Two  hundred.  Mrs.
Henderson really wanted me to know just how amazing it was that it could hold two hundred photos. Did
I mention that there were two hundred of them? Anyway.”
He set  the  snowsuit down,  then  excused himself  to  go  change his  jeans,  which were  soaked  from  the
snow.
“Don’t you worry,” Debbie said, as he left. “I’m going to take the little miss to go play outside so you
can relax. You and Stuart both got terrible chills last night. You’re staying in here and keeping warm at
least  until  we  can  find  out  about  your  train.  I  promised  your  mom  I  would  look  after  you.  So  you  and
Stuart  stay  in  here  and  hang  out.  Have  some  nice  hot  chocolate,  something  to  eat,  cuddle  up  under  a
blanket . . . ”
Under any other circumstances, I would have assumed that that last sentence meant, “Cuddle up under

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