Page 9 of Home to Christmas Island
His eyes flare for a second, before he shakes his head in what seems like shock. No, I was merely making reference to your tendency to drive too fast.
I feel a little embarrassed that I was wrong, but I blow past it quickly.
Well, you have a tendency to, you know, write tickets to people you don’t know too fast. The comeback is so lame, and I know it, but I’m so mad I can’t think straight. The alcohol isn’t helping either. Throwing up my hands, I add hastily, And, you have a tendency to make judgments too fast, about people you don’t even know!
He laughs and clinks his beer glass against mine, which has been sitting untouched on the bar, before looking at me one last time. His gaze is so intense, but I can’t make myself look away.
You let me know when you’re ready to find out if that’s true, ‘Just Florence.’
And with that, he strides back to where he was sitting before, taking his stupid green eyes with him.
I have no choice but to down my drink in one go.
WE STUMBLE BACK INTO ALBA’S house, the pair of us giggling uncontrollably thanks to the alcohol, our earlier smackdown in the bathroom long forgotten. Rose gives us each a peck on the cheek and whisks herself upstairs and off to bed.
But I can tell from Alba’s face that she’s not tired yet—and she’s scheming.
What? I ask her.
She grins, then says in a slurred, hushed whisper, Do you know what it’s time for, Flora?
I have, I say, hiccupping. Absolutely no idea.
Drumroll, please!
I bang my hands on the table in what I hope is a rapid, steady beat, but my one remaining brain cell assures me that it’s not.
It’s time for… the Christmas Countdown Catalogue!
I hear a snort of laughter burst out of me before I can catch it. Formerly the Christmas Countdown List, until we learned about alliteration in the fifth grade and immediately changed the name. It’s a bunch of made-up Christmas traditions Alba and I used to do as kids. We haven’t done this together since before we left for university.
And here we are, on the eve of the first of December, Alba says, then checks the time on her watch. Well, I guess technically it’s after midnight, so it is December first. That means it’s time to check off the first item.
She pulls out paper and sparkly gel pens from nowhere, like she stashed them here earlier in preparation for this, and says with a wicked grin, Our letters to Santa. We’re both laughing uncontrollably now.
What the hell am I going to ask Santa for? I say, shaking my head. Uh, ‘Dear Santa, please make the new frown line on my forehead go away? Love, Flora.’
Alba is nodding solemnly at this, Yes, exactly, she says. I’m going to start mine with, ‘Dear Santa, remember as a kid when I didn’t have any knee pain? I would like that back, please.’
We go back and forth like this for some time, jotting down every ridiculous whim or wish we’d like granted: a Dyson air wrap, Sabrina Carpenter’s makeup, the newly formed wrinkles between our brows to disappear, one of those inflatable glitter chairs from the nineties, world peace.
Oh, I’ve got a good one for you to add, Cousin, Alba says, grinning at me like a cat. ‘Dear Santa, I’d like that jacked Scottish police officer to—’
Stop! I screech at her, unable to fully fight off the laugh.
I saw you guys talking earlier, she has a knowing look in her eyes, and I hate it.
Alba, he’s a jackass, remember? He only came over to taunt me some more.
She looks like she’s going to say something else, but stops herself. Well, I’m going to add it to my list then, on your behalf.
I can’t bear to look over and see what she’s written, but soon we flourish our letters off with big, dramatic signatures. Alba rifles through one of the kitchen drawers until she finds two envelopes.
You were always such a little weasel, she says, licking her envelope closed. You’d sign your letters with something like, ‘Well Santa, I hope you have a safe flight and you get lots of cookies to eat. Say, what’s your favourite cookie anyhow?’
Hey, I knew how to use my charm to get my way, I wink at her. I always had the charm that I could turn on or off at my whim, while Alba always had the charisma. Well, I had the charm until recently anyway; it certainly didn’t work when I got pulled over.
But as I’m licking my own envelope closed, something registers. After we finished our letters, we would always go with Mom to the post office to get them stamped before sending them on their way.
