An Ex for Christmas(3)

“Yes-or-no questions,” I remind her, setting the tiny peacoat next to my own so I remember to drop it off at the lost and found on my way out.

“Right, how could I forget all these strict, scientific rules? Should Kelly open her present before I leave for the airport, like a normal best friend?” she asks the Magic 8.

She shakes it, and I wait patiently, already knowing the answer.

Jessica wrinkles her nose at the answer. “No way.”

“Told you.” I pluck the ball out of her hand and place it back in the drawer, locking it. “And in case you’re wondering where your present is, it’s already in the mail. To your parents’ address. Not to be opened until Christmas Day, or Christmas Eve at the very earliest, because I’m nothing if not flexible.”

“Yes, so flexible,” she says, hopping off the desk and handing me the gift.

I set Madison’s snowflake carefully on top of Jessica’s present, then pull on the white J. Crew coat I got on clearance last year.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come home with me?” Jessica pleads as I lock my classroom door. “Erik can get you a ticket using his miles. And my parents are dying to meet you in person.”

I link arms with her. “You’re sweet and I appreciate it, but I promise I’m going to be fine.”

“You’re going to be spending Christmas alone,” Jess says gently. “You. The Christmas nut.”

“I know, but it’s just one year, and I’m actually kind of looking forward to it. For the first time ever, I can do Christmas my way.”

I know it’s going to be a great Christmas, because the Magic 8 Ball, home version, told me so. I don’t tell Jess this, though. She’s mostly tolerant of my superstitious nature, but she has her limits.

And really, don’t feel all bad for me on the Christmas-alone thing. I’m not an orphan, my parents don’t belong to a cult.

It’s like this: My parents, who are pretty much the perfect parents, got married on December 22 thirty years ago. Normally they keep their anniversary pretty low-key, not wanting it to interfere with holiday festivities, but this anniversary is number thirty for them, and I saved up many a meager teacher’s paycheck to send them on their bucket-list trip: a two-week Alaskan cruise over Christmas.

And I’d done the nonrefundable thing so that they couldn’t stay behind out of guilt.

So, yes, technically I’m spending Christmas without my family, but it’s not some sad Dickensian story up in here.

“What time are you leaving?” I ask Jess after we detour to the lost and found to drop off the coat, then step out into the rainy afternoon. The kids are long gone, hopefully off to building gingerbread houses or shopping for the perfect Christmas tree, and the schoolyard feels unnaturally quiet.

Jess pops open her red umbrella and, propping her purse on her roller-bag suitcase, digs around for a cellphone. “I’m getting an Uber from here, then swinging by Erik’s office to pick him up on the way to JFK. And you’re sure you won’t come with?”

“Positive. Besides, my horoscope says I’m due for a brush with bad luck today. I’m pretty sure it was dropping my mascara into the toilet this morning, but I’d be nuts to get on a plane with that sort of forecast.”

Jess gives me a bland look as she pulls up Uber and calls a car. “Hold up. Our birthdays are four days apart. Aren’t you the one that’s always telling me we’re best friends because we’re both . . . Gammas?”

“Geminis. And good point—maybe you should stay here in New York.” I give her a wide grin as I pull my hood up over my head.

“Call me old-fashioned, but Christmas to me means a big, crooked tree in my parents’ living room, and the stocking I made when I was eight hung on the mantel. My apartment can’t fit so much as a fern, much less a fireplace.”

“Then that’s the Christmas I want for you.” I wiggle my fingers and gesture for a hug. “Come, come. Let’s say our goodbyes; your car’s here.”

“Record time, considering it’s raining.”

She lifts her umbrella higher and I duck beneath it to give her a hug. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

She squeezes me. “How much self-control did it take for you not to sing the song?”

In response, I hum the first few notes of Karen Carpenter’s “Merry Christmas, Darling.”

“Thought so. Okay, that’s me,” she says, nodding at a black Honda. “Merry friggin’ Christmas, woman! Do me a favor and get yourself laid, would ya?”

I ignore the last bit. “Merry Christmas! Text me to let me know that your plane didn’t crash,” I call.

I wave after the departing car, and even after my best friend disappears for the next two weeks, I don’t feel even a flicker of sadness.

It’s Christmastime, and maybe it’s because I spend all my days hanging out with the eight-and nine-year-old set, but I feel like I’ve got all the happy vibes of the season flowing through my veins.

And it doesn’t hurt that I’ve got the next two weeks off either.

As I said, Emory Academy’s in Tribeca, a trendy, über-expensive part of Manhattan. My part-time apartment’s in the nearby Financial District, easy walking distance.

But my weekend home, my holiday home . . .