9781250209153

On Christmas Eve night, my sisters bundle up in their peacoats while I
throw on the fleece I insist is warm enough even though it’s not. Mom
wears her beautiful cream-colored coat and Dad sports his old brown jacket
that smells like peppermint. We traipse out of the house and begin our walk
toward Saint Gabriel’s for the vigil Mass. The air is crisp and still, just cold
enough to feel romantic.
Daphne points out the Christmas wreaths on the neighbors’ doors. Mom
and Dad huff at the Haliburton-Riveras’ notion of decorating, which is a
lone, ceramic candy cane hanging in their foyer window. Thora snaps a
picture of Mom sticking out her tongue.
We turn onto the main road and walk past Irene’s neighborhood. I try
not to think about her, but it’s like trying not to picture the color red.
The church is just beginning to fill up when we arrive. Poinsettias line
the entryway and a wooden Nativity scene adorns the altar. The church
smells like incense and old ladies’ perfume, and the rumbling of voices is
happy and warm. We slide into an empty pew toward the back and tug off
our jackets.
“Oh look, Regina George is here,” Thora says dryly.
“What?”
I follow her gaze to the opposite side of the church. Irene is kneeling in
a pew with her family, wearing a jade sweater with her dark hair falling
over the side. My blood warms; my breath catches.
“Didn’t you know she would be here?” Thora asks.
“I didn’t even know we went to the same church.”
“Let’s throw some holy water on her. Maybe she’ll burst into flames.”
Irene must feel me looking, because she turns her head and meets my
eyes. I feel myself blushing, but I don’t look away. She smirks and raises a
single palm to say hi.
I raise my palm in return. Then I bow my head and mime praying very
solemnly. Even from across the church, I can see her rolling her eyes.