Chapter 1
“I don’t know, dude. I’m not sure I believe.”
I say this while staring at the sky above the baling station at Cooper Family Organic Farm, where I work, shielding my eyes with a flat palm.
It’s blue. So blue. The kind of blue that you’d see as you’re swimming in the warm ocean, or eating a Popsicle in shorts and flip-flops.
A perfect establishing shot for a summer day.
Which makes it hard to believe that it’s actually a late December morning and there’s about to be a raid-the-bread-aisle, prep-the-cocoa-and-marshmallows kinda winter storm.
“That’s a phrase I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say,” Diya says. “But it’s going to happen whether you believe it or not.” She doesn’t look up from her binder of opening duties, which I’m certain she doesn’t need to reference—she’s the one who wrote the procedures. “Matter of time.”
She pulls down her red-and-black-check farm-issued cap—the kind with fuzzy earflaps, which I’m wearing too, along with the rest of the staff.
But hers has never been able to contain her short black curls.
They rebel against conformity, much like Diya herself.
She checks off another item and shakes her head, muttering about end-of-season inventory, and I can’t help but smile.
Diya’s vibe might be described as “curmudgeon chic.” I love it, and I love her.
“I don’t know,” I say again, laying the skepticism on harder this time, partly because it’s true and partly because it’s fun to mess with Diya.
I return my gaze to the sky. I don’t add yet , but Diya hears it anyway.
She’s only been a part of our friend group for a year but already knows me way too well.
“I know you’re holding out for Naomi’s test, but I can only tell you what the science is saying,” Diya says knowingly. “And it’s telling me it’s going to happen.”
With a forecast like this, everyone is a meteorologist, but my mother, Naomi, always told me there’s a very simple and surefire way to know if it’s going to snow.
The night before a big storm, if you look up at the sky, you’ll see a halo around the moon—a soft, white ring of light, like a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream that’s just started to melt.
So while the rest of world relies on apps, I have to wait until tonight for my official forecast.
Like all my friends, Diya knows my mother well, since we work together at the farm (which gives me a pass to address her as Naomi—being colleagues and all).
And, like almost everyone I know, Diya loves her.
But while Naomi believes in more, shall we say, mystical signs, Diya—whose purpose in life is to raise awareness about climate change—relies solidly on science.
“I can already hear the climate deniers— oh, and I thought it was all ‘global warming,’ ” she says with extremely animated scare quotes, shaking her head in frustration.
“Okay, let’s say it does happen. Are we at least going to break the curse?” I ask.
“Nah. Looks like it’ll wrap by tomorrow night,” Diya says.
Our small town of Ripton, Connecticut, hasn’t seen a single white Christmas Eve or Day in ten solid years.
So when the weather folx started predicting the “Polar Quasar” ten days ago, there was speculation that the blizzard might finally put an end to this so-called curse.
At the farm, the possibility is causing extra buzz because old man Cooper promised that if it snows on Christmas Eve, every farm employee will be gifted a free turkey—which… cool, I guess?
I can’t say that frozen turkeys do it for me, and I realize snow causes drama, especially around the holidays when people have plans and parties, but I can’t help it; I’m a pretzel of crossed fingers and toes in hopes of a big, batten-down-the-hatches kind of blizzard.
I’m a firm believer that snowscapes indicate something amazing is coming, like when you smell butter sizzling in a hot pan.
And, as a Christmas movie scholar and aspiring filmmaker, they’re the ideal setting for the most magical things to happen.
Like, for example, a first kiss. Which is something I may or may not think about kind of a lot. Kind of all the time.
“Bummer,” I say. “But can you imagine if it did…,” I start, and Diya claps her hands to pull the e-brake on my daydream. “Right, okay. Speaking of tomorrow, we must discuss our plans, milady. What snacks shall I procure for you?”
It’s a Christmas miracle that all four of us are scheduled to be off work tomorrow, reprieve before the marathon that is the Christmas Eve Bazaar and employee appreciation bash the following day and night.
So we’re finally having our Most Horrible Hallmark Holiday Movie Marathon, which last year included nine hours of festive love-to-hate-watch material accompanied by seasonal snacks and cider.
It’s usually the highlight of the season for us, and I’m determined to make sure we’re still on, because I’ve had a surprisingly hard time getting everybody on board for the rest of our annual activities.
It was just Cash and me for the Ugly Sock Swap (originated because sweaters were too pricey)—which, I gotta say, is a lot less fun with only two people.
Then, both our reverse caroling (when we go to people’s home and ask them to sing to us ) and our holiday mash-up potluck were canceled at the last minute (the latter of which left me with an abundance of peppermint pizza and candy cane ramen).
The reasons-slash-excuses? They ranged from picking up last-minute work shifts (Diya) to “not feeling one hundred percent” (Cash) to family obligations (Izaac).
And it being senior year for Izaac, Cash, and me, there’s the added challenge of college applications, which have been invoked as excuses for both Cash and Izaac.
(I have nobly set my own aside to focus on my friends.) And I mean, sure, we all have more responsibilities than we used to, but it’s our last high school Christmas together in Connecticut, so if tomorrow is going to be the only tradition observed this year, I want it to be perfect, down to the snacks.
I’ve picked up Cash’s Reese’s peanut butter trees, and Izaac’s cinnamon spiced kettle popcorn.
I just need Diya’s order, but before she can answer, we’re interrupted.
“Diya!” Seichi calls, bounding up to my friend like a schnauzer with a squeaky squirrel in his sights.
He’s wearing the Cooper uniform hat too, and his straight black bangs stick out the bottom, nearly covering his eyes.
His cheeks are the color of candy apples, and he’s pretty out of breath by the time he reaches us.
“Hey, Seichi,” Diya says, her focus firmly returned to her procedure book.
Seichi only has eyes for Diya, so I’m not offended that it takes him a minute to notice me.
“Oh, hey, Bosley! Fancy meeting you here,” he says, and looks at his watch. “You bail on the bakery early?”
My work on the farm is in our on-premises bakery, where we turn our crops into dreamy treats.
“I struck a deal with Joany,” I say. “She agreed to release me if I could get all four hundred pecan pie squares prepped for the Bazaar. She obviously doubted my powers.”
“Good lord, Bosley, you really are an elf,” Diya says, looking up at me now with a sort of horrified reverence.
I shrug like it’s not a thing, while ensuring they both know it’s very much a thing. My bakery boss, Joany, is the most humorless of the Coopers, and pulling off that feat aged me at least three seasons.
“Ohhhh, I’d kill for one of those right now,” Seichi says, rubbing his stomach.
“Well, those are for the Bazaar, but may I suggest some strudel in the meantime?” I gesture to the refreshment stand by the baling station, where the display is packed with fresh pastries I just brought over. “Honed the recipe myself.”
“Don’t mind if I do!” he says, and I hand him one wrapped in wax paper.
“Good thing Joany gave you the out—this whole plan hinges on very meticulous timing,” Diya says with a square-in-the-eyes look that asks, Are you paying attention?
“The plan?” Seichi asks, deciding on which angle to attack his pastry.
“Yes,” I say. “The focus of my day, the pinnacle of my season, and perhaps the mountain peak of my young gifting career.”
“She’s getting Naomi a tree for Christmas,” Diya cuts in.
“Dude, I’m gonna need you to add a little flourish if you’re going to hijack the reveal.” I give her an aggrieved look. “Imagine you’re announcing that an endangered species of trees is experiencing a resurgence… Put a little David Attenborough on it, ya know?”
Diya rolls her eyes.
“Always directing the scene.”
“You’re getting your mom a Christmas tree for Christmas, from the Christmas tree farm where she works?” Seichi asks through a full mouth with the same squint he uses for working out chem questions at school. Flakes fly as he chews. He’s consumed basically half the strudel in one bite. Dudes.
“Well, Naomi’s been a little… distracted this year,” Diya says, jumping in again, and this time, I don’t mind.
My friends know what’s up at home, and how hard things have been lately in my family.
I’m not super excited to explain the situation myself.
I’d prefer to focus on the positive things, like organizing our traditions, or writing romantic scripts for my favorite characters.
Like, for example, Diya and Seichi, who star in perhaps the greatest will-they-won’t-they in Ripton history.
It all started last year, back when they both tried to compost their lunch scraps at the same bin.
Then they started hanging out, and Diya learned that Seichi’s dream is to expand his father’s gardening business into his own organic farm and boom—she was done for.
Seichi, who follows Diya around like a puppy, couldn’t be more obvious that he thinks she hung the harvest moon, but they’re both too awkward to make a move.