Page 47 of The Grumpiest Elf

I’min my room in a bra and leggings, going through nearly every outfit I own, trying to decide what to wear tonight when Mom knocks at my door. “Honey? Are you almost ready?”

“No,” I wail. “I don’t know what to wear!”

Mom lets out a soft chuckle. “Can I come in?”

Grabbing a shirt off my bed, I tug it on, shoving my arms through the sleeves. “Yeah.” I sound sullen and pouty, and I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t help myself. “Come in.”

Mom opens the door and stops, taking in the mess of clothes covering my bed, falling off the sides and onto the floor. She raises her eyebrows. “Oh dear.”

Throwing my hands in the air, I turn to survey the mess. “I know! I just can’t figure out what to wear. I hate all my clothes.”

With a soft chuckle, Mom steps up behind me and rubs my back. “You really like this boy, don’t you?”

Biting my lip, I nod, leaning my head on Mom’s shoulder. I’m a couple inches taller than she is, so it’s a little awkward, but ever since I was a kid, this is how she’s given me comfort, rubbing my back while I lean against her.

She waits for the sigh that lets her know she’s made me feel marginally better, then gives me one more pat on the back before stepping up to the bed. Gently, she tugs clothes this way and that. “It’s a Christmas party, right?”

“Right. An open house, where people come and go. There’ll be food, but more like snacks and hors d’oeuvres than a sit down meal. Not formal.”

“Do you know what he’s going to be wearing?”

Wrinkling my nose, I giggle. “A truly ugly Christmas sweater.” Stepping forward, I dig my phone out from under a pile of clothes on the corner of the bed and open the text where he sent me a photo.

“Oh wow,” Mom says, sounding a lot like I did when I first saw the pic. “That’s …”

Giggling, I take my phone back. “I know. He told me his family wears ugly Christmas sweaters to their party, but that’s more than I was expecting.”

“I mean,” Mom says quietly, almost to herself, “if that’s how he’s dressed, it literally doesn’t matter what you wear, does it?”

“But I want to look cute,” I wail.

“Oh, baby girl,” she murmurs, giving me that Mom look that’s so full of love and affection I think she’s about to burst into tears, “you always look beautiful.”

“You have to say that,” I pout. “You’re my mom.”

That makes her laugh some more. “Should I leave you to your own devices then, if my opinion is untrustworthy?”

“No!” I hold out a hand. “Please. Help me. I’ve looked at everything so many times that I don’t even know what cuteisanymore.”

Smiling, she goes back to sorting through my clothes. “Skirt or pants?” she asks after a moment.

I chew on my lip as I contemplate her question. “If I could decide that much, I wouldn’t be having this much trouble, would I?”

That makes her laugh again. “I’m going to vote for pants, then,” she says, pulling out my wide leg black velvet pants. “These will do nicely for a Christmas party.” Then she pulls out a simple red tank and a fuzzy white sweater. “I have reindeer earrings and a Christmas tree necklace you can borrow that will fit nicely with his sweater,” she says, nodding toward my phone. “You’ll look cute and festive all at once.”

When she brings me the clothes she’s selected, I throw my arms around her. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper. “You’re the best.”

* * *

Mom doesn’t take nearly as long to get ready, opting for simple and classic like normal—dark red pants and a white cashmere sweater with a strand of pearls at her throat and single pearls dangling from her ears.

I can only hope that one day I’ll look so effortlessly put together. But it’s always seemed like her superpower, and not one that I’ve inherited. When we arrive at the address Dylan texted me, the block is crowded with cars parked along the snow berm lined streets, and we end up having to park almost two blocks away.

“My boss is throwing a Christmas party next week,” Mom tells me as we walk over the snow-free sidewalks. It snowed earlier today, but everyone here seems to keep their walks pristinely shoveled, which I’ve never appreciated as much as I do right now. Since it’s a party, I opted for my heeled ankle boots instead of my snow boots. It didn’t occur to me that we’d have to walk two blocks to get there.

“Oh yeah?”

Mom nods. “On Tuesday. Families are invited, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be working or not.”

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