Chapter 2 #2
She reaches to unzip her bag and removes a very familiar red leather-bound text.
“Whoa,” I say, because I’d know that cover anywhere. It’s the same special edition Michelle gave me when I turned twelve, which is now dog-eared and beaten half to dead-as-a-doornail.
“ A Christmas Carol ,” I say with reverence. “And the red cover—a replica of Dickens’s original back in 1843. I’d protect that with my life too.”
“Wow,” she says. “That is… weirdly specific information.”
Her words say, Weird , but I’m pretty sure her expression is giving at least a touch of impressed.
What can I say? A Christmas Carol is my I Ching .
The Christmas magic handbook. The holy grail of holiday essence.
The source text for all my personal philosophical needs.
I have studied its history, its many iterations and interpretations, and could honestly put on a one-woman show for her right now.
Buuuuut I don’t, ’cause that’d be intense.
“Well, it’s a rare find, and an indicator of exceptional taste,” I say instead. “And also kind of like a secret handshake between those who truly understand the Christmas spirit.”
I direct the compliments to the kid, who appears beside his sister as if the book summoned him. She puts a hand on his shoulder, and I wait, but again, he doesn’t say anything. Actually, he doesn’t even look at me. Just at his sister, then back at his book.
“Sorry, he doesn’t talk,” she says, stashing the book away. Once it’s safely stowed, he steps away again, examining some of the footprints around us, and she chews her bottom lip a little, and that catches my attention. My mom always says I do the same thing—that it’s my tell for when I’m anxious.
“Oh, it’s cool,” I say. If that lip chewing thing is her anxious tell too, I don’t want to push her by asking questions.
“But he definitely loves this place,” she says as we watch him crouch for a front-row seat to a pair of squabbling squirrels on a pine branch. “That’s obvious, at least.”
“Well, the owner is a big Dickens fan too. And it’s like the website says, ‘ Cooper Farm: Famously providing family fun for over half a century! ’?” I quote.
“Ha, I can see that,” she says as two families wobble by with a gaggle of children between them in coordinated flannel.
“The matching outfits are… optional,” I say diplomatically.
“Pretty good for the socials of your choice, though.” I gesture to a setup in the distance—a wooden cutout of Santa Claus and a few reindeer around a bench, where guests are encouraged to take photos and tag the farm.
At the moment, it’s occupied by a set of triplets—the smallest is shrieking, his face the color of a holly berry.
His mother dances with a stuffed narwhal behind the father, who is desperately trying to get a decent photo.
“And priceless sibling bonding opportunities.”
“Speaking from experience?” she asks.
“Me?”
“Yeah. You have siblings too? Matching outfits and everything?”
“When we were kids,” I say, and immediately see the images in my mind’s eye.
Photos Naomi still has in her wallet—faded and creased—me in Michelle’s lap, coordinated Santa and Frosty the Snowman pj’s, Michelle red-cheeked and grinning past the camera at Naomi while little toddler me just stared, dazed and delighted.
“Not so much these days,” I add, trying to ignore the pang in my heart.
“Because they don’t make matching pajamas big enough?”
“Ha, no, we just don’t talk anymore,” I say quickly, but then regret it, because that answer requires an explanation—one I don’t want to get into.
“Which… makes it tough to coordinate outfits, ha,” I say, attempting to keep it light and move things along.
Now I’m the one chewing my lip.
“Hm.” She seems to consider this, and maybe she’s picking up my tell, because she is definitely looking at my mouth now. “I guess communication can be hard, huh?”
“Seriously,” I say, and wow, this got real. “Which is precisely why I love Christmas!”
I straighten up and flash my customer service smile again; I never want to be the one bringing negative vibes—very un-Yuletide.
“Because… writing letters to Santa is easier than talking to people?” she asks.
I laugh, but it isn’t far from the truth, actually.
“Well, it’s definitely more fun sometimes,” I say. “But also because you get to tell people how you feel with gifts. Zero words required! If you prefer to avoid them.”
Or if, like me, you’re just terrible at using them , I think.
“I guess. If you can find the right gifts,” she says, kicking the dirt absently, her hands still in her pockets.
“Uh-oh, do I detect some gifter’s block?” I ask.
Her mouth pulls to one side, and then she blows a little air through her lips. I don’t know her, but I know this expression: the universal sign for stumped .
“Maybe,” she says. “Everyone in my family is so hard.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” I say. I crack my knuckles and roll my neck. Maybe I can’t be more chill, but this? This I can do.
For some people, gifting is an obligation, a chore, or a hassle.
For me, it’s an Olympic sport. I don’t just plan.
I train. I listen all year, keep extensive notes, and take great pride in knowing details about the people in my life: what they really love and want and need, even when they don’t say it out loud.
Maybe especially when they don’t say it out loud.
She looks around at the fields and the trees, then back at me. I jab my two thumbs toward myself. “It just so happens that aside from assaulting strangers with hot beverages, gifting is my love language and well-documented specialty. Consider me your personal concierge of presents.”
“Okayyyy,” she says. “I’ll bite. I have literally no other ideas.”
“Let’s just start with what we know.”
She nods in the kid’s direction. He’s moved on to the next row of trees, where a brilliant red cardinal has taken up residence in a tall spruce.
“Well, he’s a total mystery now. I have to rely on what he used to say he liked, before…”
I wait, wondering if she’ll elaborate, but she doesn’t. Maybe she’s feeling what I was just a moment ago, not ready to share something that might not be so pleasant and festive, so I try to carry the conversational flag.
“Okay, no wish list. Common conundrum. Let’s look at our context clues…”
I try to discreetly observe him. It’s the most elaborate costume I’ve ever seen, but two elements stick out: blue plastic glasses, and a pair of spankin’ white Nike AJs.
“Hmm. Seems like he’s fully committed to this ’fit, which is amazing. I personally love the AJs, but maybe he’d be into footwear that’s a little more… in character?” I ask with caution. I don’t want to offend her accidentally.
“Good eye on the kicks,” she says, looking impressed at my sneaker knowledge. “But yeah. He outgrew the shoes that went with it, so we got him these, which I thought he’d love, because for real, who doesn’t want a fresh pair of AJs?” Then she sighs. “Ugh, but you’re right. It kills the vibe.”
“Great!” I say, too enthusiastically. “I mean, now we have an objective.”
“Okay, but now what?” she asks. “Like, I’m always down to scour for vintage kicks, but nineteenth-century footwear feels more… rare.”
“Mm,” I say, rubbing my chin, because she’s not wrong, but now that I’ve started down this path, I have to make good on the promise.
I look down and tap my foot, suddenly sweating like I’m on a stage. And then it hits me.
I snap my fingers and she jumps.
“Sorry!” I blurt, a little embarrassed, but also, I’m on a roll, so I quickly add, “Okay, what’s your budget?”
“I mean, not nothing,” she says, “but not a lot?”
“Right,” I say. “So, there’s this vendor who comes to the farm every year—does all this incredible cosplay stuff. She actually made these,” I say, pointing to my uniform curly-toed elf shoes that old man Cooper thinks are critical for “full immersion.”
“Wow, I did not catch those,” she says. “That is a choice… but, uh, cool, I guess?”
I feel her softening a little, trying not to offend me this time. Maybe she’s not as standoffish as I thought.
“Thanks!” I say, following her gaze to my feet. “Took me a minute to come around on them, and my friend Diya had a fit because they couldn’t be less practical on a farm, but…”
Okay, now I’m rambling, but when I look up, there’s another new look on her face… Amused?
“Sorry, back to the point,” I say, blushing.
“Anyway, in addition to outfitting a bunch of seasonal employees, she also does designs for local theater, like these super cool Victorian era replicas for A Christmas Carol . With, like, lots of buttons. Spats. The whole nine. But they’re like three hundred dollars. ”
“That’s… a little more than the not nothing I had in mind.”
“I figured. So what’s great is that she also does these really cool sneaker covers so you don’t have to drop a fortune on a whole pair.
They’re, like, thirty bucks. And if you’re crafty, she even sells the templates for ten so you can sew your own.
The fabric is super cheap at a craft store.
You can search her Etsy shop, CosCobbler.
My friend Cash is obsessed. He wants to be a costume designer, so… ”
I trail off before I go on another ramble about Cash’s talents.
“Huh.” She squints thoughtfully. “That’s actually… kind of awesome.”
I grin and dust off my shoulder. “It’s kind of a hobby.”
“Pretty good hobby,” she says, and I bask in the success.
“So, let me guess. You’re a Cancer?”
“Whoa!” I say, as she basks in her own success now. “How did you…”
She doesn’t wait for me to finish and starts counting off traits on her exposed fingers. “Perceptiveness, generosity, sensitivity to the environment and others.”
It feels like she’s giving me flowers, and I like it, even though it’s just a rundown of Cancer’s qualities.
I clear my throat and say, “Kind of awesome.”
She dusts off her shoulder and echoes me. “It’s kind of a hobby.”