The Holiday Switch(12)

“I get it already,” she huffs, cheeks blown out so they’re taut.

It takes all of me to stifle my laughter. Even if I tried, I can’t stay angry for long, not at her. Sisterhood is a constant push and pull. Truth is, despite our outward differences—that her hair is markedly curly and mine is straight, that she will be far taller than me once she’s through puberty, and that no, she never makes her bed—on the inside we’re so much alike.

We planners; we’re both curious. She loves books—and book people are really the best people.

“What were you looking up?” I relent, sitting on my chair.

“Paint colors.”

Inside, I beam at my inadvertent catch. “Sooo…not for a school project.”

“I mean.” Her cheeks turn a darker shade and her eyes dart all around me like she’s tracking fireflies. She starts to mumble. “Well, first what I did was—”

    Her reaction is enough of a lesson, so I take her out of her misery. “For paper or walls?”

“Ha…” She breathes out, chest caving in with relief. (Note to self: Tell Carm about this later.) “Walls. For when you leave.”

“Geez.” I cross my arms. Okay, so maybe I should have let her suffer more. “You’re already calling it your room when I haven’t even left.”

“You have the room with the biggest closet. It’s not personal.”

I snort out a laugh. “It’s not?”

“Nope. It’s all about space planning.” She throws her arms out wide. “Mommy told me that this is a ten-by-ten room. That’s one hundred square feet I get to do anything I want with.”

She explains her plans, and my gaze migrates around the room to all of my personal touches. The pictures taped up above my bedside dresser. The tapestry hanging on the wall behind my bed, because Dad is convinced anything heavier than that is bad luck. The rosary Mom tacked up above my light switch. My room isn’t a Wayfair catalog. My stuff doesn’t match; my decor is a mesh of my various interests. But it’s full of things I love.

My tummy drops at the thought that this room won’t be mine for much longer, though I try to push it away. It’s silly, because I’ll be going someplace new and exciting, a blank space, with so much opportunity. But there’s this niggle of something I can’t explain. That all of this effort, this sense of ownership, can be erased with a coat of paint.

Suddenly I see Teddy in my mind and think of his abrupt invasion in my life. No, he isn’t like Irene, who’s been waiting for her turn the last few years. Teddy doesn’t seem happy to be here. He should feel lucky that he found a job in Holly’s number one tourist destination.

    Irritation rises up inside me, and I wait until Irene pauses in her description of her plans for the room. “Whew. These are great ideas. But I’m ready for some shut-eye,” I say.

“I wasn’t even done with my sentence.” Her eyes narrow, and she slides off my bed. “Something’s up with you.”

“Do you mean besides having a little sister that can’t take a hint?” I spin her by the shoulders, shuffle her out of my bedroom despite her objections, and close the door.

The silence that descends is both a relief and a bummer.

Only one thing can take me out of this funk. I pull out The Book of Holiday Surprises from my backpack, settle myself onto my bed, and turn to the second page, where I left off at the gift shop.

My unease dissipates as I dive into the story. Teddy, college fund money, Irene redecorating—all of it fades. My body relaxes; I breathe easier. I let the story scoop me into a magical sleigh and take me away, into the book’s setting.

Three hours later, at almost two in the morning, in a jumble of emotions, I finish. I tuck myself into my bed and look up at the ceiling, at the singular dot of a remnant glow-in-the-dark star I put up my freshman year. My vision blurs; my eyes shut.

But sometimes, with a book that takes me in so quickly and doesn’t let go, I’m left with a feeling of emptiness. It’s like a low-level mourning that I’ve lost the experience of reading the book for the first time.

This is a book hangover.

I switch positions in bed, flip the pillow to the cool side, push the covers down to my feet, and then pull them all the way up toward my head. I look up at the ceiling once more.

It’s a sign.

    I have to write about this book.

But The Book of Holiday Surprises is still nagging at me, not only because I know I have to post about it, but because of its title.

Holiday surprises.

I sit up in bed with a lightbulb moment.

Surprises. For my readers. I can do a giveaway of my most favorite books to start. And I’m going to write up lists of books of certain tropes. Like Top Ten Books About the Chosen One, or similar.

That’s how I’m going to step up the content this year.

I try to discern the sounds around me. Our house is cozy; the walls are thin, and Dad’s snoring stands out over the low roar of the furnace. Tiptoeing to my door, I peek out for signs of Irene’s sleepwalking, but it’s pitch-black except for the blinking tree lights that create starlike projections on the wall and reflect the ornament boxes that were pushed aside to be put away tomorrow. Mom is at work until morning.

All clear.