Scene 1
Scene One
“You can just show your cousin your sweater,” my mother says. “You don’t have to wear it now.”
It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting in the back seat of our station wagon with my arms crossed, beads of sweat rolling down my seven-year-old forehead.
I have on my new reindeer sweater, the one I insisted on purchasing for our trip down to Los Angeles.
It’s wool and itchy, but it has antlers and bells on it.
Real bells. And because of this, I think it’s spectacular.
“She has to see it on,” I say for what’s probably the tenth time.
My mom nods and turns back around in the front seat, glancing at my dad. He’s gripping the wheel tightly, his jaw set. We’ve been in the car for a while, and tensions are running high.
I gaze out the window and watch the passing coast. It’s a record ninety-five degrees today, the hottest ever in over a decade of Decembers.
It doesn’t bother me, though. I’ve only ridden to Los Angeles a few times in my short life, and I’m excited.
Especially because we are going to spend Christmas Eve with my cousin, Juliet.
She left our town about two months ago, and I can’t wait to see her.
We are best friends. Juliet, Rob, and I have played together in our backyards practically since we were born, and even though I like Rob, and I’m getting used to things, I really miss Juliet.
We pull up to Juliet’s house, and my mom takes out a piece of paper with some numbers on it and hands it to my dad. He punches them into a keypad. Huge gates swing open, and we drive all the way up and around a road lined with rosebushes.
Their house is gigantic. Not at all like Juliet’s house back at home.
It looks more like the library my mom and I go to on Saturdays.
The one with the big white columns and so many rooms that it’s impossible not to get lost inside.
The gardens all around are filled with roses, and there are cherry trees hanging over either side of the driveway.
It’s like stepping into a fairy tale, and I think how lucky I am that my cousin lives here.
That because we’re family, it’s almost like it’s my house too.
My mom makes a fuss of straightening out my clothes, which she usually never does. She asks me one more time if I’ll take off the sweater, but I just shake my head. I’ve made it to Juliet’s front door. I’m keeping it on. I know Juliet will love it.
We ring the doorbell, and Lucinda answers. They call her a housekeeper, but she’s really like a great big grandma. I throw my arms around her, and she hugs me around my middle. We call her Lucy, but not around Juliet’s mom. My aunt doesn’t like it.
Lucy leads us through what feels like an enormous maze of marble and glass until we get to a big living room.
There are huge floor-to-sky windows on three walls of the room and a television that looks like a movie screen.
Then I spot her. Juliet is sitting on the floor, playing with a gigantic collection of stuffed animals.
They must be new. I’m never seen them before.
I run and throw my arms around her. I start babbling about the drive and our tree house and how much I’ve missed her. I pull back just long enough to shove my reindeer sweater under her nose.
“Look!” I declare loudly.
Juliet sweeps her short brown hair out of her face. She was always a little bit shorter than me, and now her hair is shorter than mine too. It doesn’t matter, though. I bet we could still wear our matching dresses and look like twins.
Lucy leaves, and Juliet’s mother stands up from the sofa. I didn’t even see her there. Her dress looks like the same print as the couch. “I’m so glad you made it,” she says.
Juliet’s mom calls her over, but she doesn’t go right away. She is looking me over, her eyes on the bells on my sweater. She doesn’t seem impressed, though, and suddenly I wish I wasn’t wearing it. Or that it was gigantic, so I could crawl inside and disappear.
Something is wrong.
“Juliet,” her mother says, a little bit louder, “please say hello to your cousin.”
Juliet makes a fuss of getting up, dragging a stuffed-animal horse by the mane. We’re face-to-face, but she still doesn’t move to hug me. She doesn’t even smile.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
“Can I play with you?” I ask.
“I’m finished.”
How can Juliet be finished playing? We used to play for hours. Outside, inside. In my house, her house, Rob’s house. In our driveways, in our living rooms.
“Jules,” I try, “let’s play.” She turns her head and doesn’t look at me. “Joo Joo?” Still nothing. Then I think of it: She’s mad at me. The problem is, I don’t know what I did wrong.
I’m starving by the time Juliet’s father comes home, and my stomach is making loud growling noises when we all sit down to dinner. No one is really talking. I leave my sweater on because it’s freezing in their house. As cold as it is in the ice cream section of the grocery store.
After dinner my dad says we should open one present tonight. It’s a tradition at our house. One present Christmas Eve, the rest on Christmas.
My mom starts to say we shouldn’t, because we’re driving back tonight and we can do it at home, but my dad convinces her. “Come on,” he says. “Just one.”
Juliet gets to pick hers from under the tree.
She chooses a gigantic one. A box so big it takes up the entire left side of the tree.
Then my mom hands me my own, and from the way she’s smiling I know she knew we were going to open it here all along.
It’s a small, long box, and the wrapping paper is sparkling in the white Christmas lights.
I take it from my mom, gently, and turn it over.
Juliet is already tearing at her paper, ripping and yanking.
Inside is a dollhouse. It’s beautiful, like a tiny copy of the house we are in.
Even the white columns are the same. I’m so enthralled with it, I almost forget to open my own gift.
Juliet, however, doesn’t seem remotely impressed.
She takes one look at the dollhouse and puts her hands on her hips.
“Where’s my American Girl?” she wants to know.
“You already have all of them,” I say.
“Not the newest one,” she says. She looks at me like I smell weird.
“Your turn,” my father whispers to me. I brush some hair out of my face and focus on the present in my hands. I fold down the corners the way my mom does, careful not to tear anything. She always saves the wrapping paper for later.
“Hurry up,” Juliet whines. She still has her hands on her hips, and her eyebrows are knit together.
When I finally see what’s inside, my mouth hangs open. It’s exactly what I hoped it would be: Beach Barbie. The new version. The kind everyone at school has been talking about. The kind you can’t just walk into any old toy store and pick up. The kind you have to order special.
I start screaming and rip open the box. My dad puts his arm around my mom.
Juliet does not look pleased. She’s peering at the Barbie in my hands, leaning so far forward she’s balancing on one foot.
“Let me see,” she says firmly.
I’m cradling the doll in my arms, and I don’t want to give her up, but I also want Juliet to like me again.
I want her to take me up to her new room and show me all her things.
I want us to play on her floor the way we used to.
I want to be best friends, just like we were.
And since the reindeer sweater didn’t do the trick, Barbie might be my only option.
“Okay,” I say. “Just be careful.” It’s what my mom always says when she hands me something she really cares about. Like the good dishes to set the table or the brush with the porcelain handle she keeps on her dresser.
Juliet takes the doll and looks her over. Then, with one swift motion, she snaps her head off. It happens so fast, I’m not even sure if I should be upset. She just takes the doll, looks at her, and cracks her in two.
Everyone starts to talk at once. My dad is yelling, and my mom is mumbling something, and Juliet’s mother is talking over everyone, saying that she thinks it can be fixed.
I don’t say anything. I don’t cry or try to snatch the doll away.
I don’t even look at Barbie, or what’s left of her.
Instead, I look at Juliet. She’s staring at me like she’s just won a game of tag.
Like she’s beat me. Then she tosses the two halves down onto the ground and marches out of the room.
Juliet’s father follows her out, but not before he turns to my dad and says a bunch of things, all of which end with a word I’ve never heard before—traitor.
We drive back to San Bellaro that night.
I pretend to sleep in the car but I can’t.
All I can see is Juliet’s face before she walked out of the room.
Determined. Angry. Like I had taken something from her, not the other way around.
I left the broken Barbie on the floor where Juliet threw her.
My parents offer to get me another one, but I refuse. I don’t want her anymore.