Chapter 5
It may come as a surprise that one of my favorite Christmas stories isn’t actually a film, but the story behind the film. Legend has it that screenwriting icon John Hughes wrote Home Alone in only nine days.
Nine days!
I remind myself of this every time I feel pressured by the applications waiting for me in my room, all neatly organized into a folder. One that I have not opened since the day I made it, more than a month ago (which, at the time, felt like a pretty big step).
I figure until I’m within nine days of those deadlines, I’m in good shape.
Which is great because what I didn’t tell Izaac is that for the first time in my life, I am blocked. Like, no-going-over, no-getting-around, brick wall blocked.
I have wanted to go to film school since I was old enough to press Play on the DVD player.
For years I daydreamed about the acceptance letter, the first day I’d step into film school classes, the chance to not just watch but study movies, so I could make the ones I want to make someday—queer Christmas rom-coms destined to be classics.
I picked three schools, all in New York because even though it’s not Hollywood, the city is the setting for so many Christmas movies. And let’s be real, because I know my friends will be in Brooklyn.
But applications require a lot of paperwork, which is notoriously not my thing, and the most stressful piece is a two-to-three-page Statement of Purpose outlining my “goals and career aspirations,” and describing what I “hope to gain from the program.”
Izaac gave me some unsolicited advice on this section early on.
“Bennie, these schools want to know what you intend to do with your education, and how you’ll represent them,” he said.
“They want to know that someday, if Bennie Bosley’s credits include having gone to, say, NYU, it’s going to be mentioned when you win an Oscar, not a Razzie. ”
It made a lot of sense, but it also kind of scared me.
I’ve been talking about my goals and career aspirations for so long, but now, when it comes to putting it on paper for review by some highly official higher education admissions committee, making holiday rom-coms just feels…
silly. Like everyone else is planning to do something serious, and suddenly my “purpose” doesn’t feel so meaningful anymore.
When Izaac leaves, I know I should direct my attention to sorting it all out, but my mind wanders directly back to the farm this morning. I sigh. Why can’t my purpose just be to find Eve?
Eve, the girl with the melted chocolate eyes, the coy smile, the library of laughter, the wild, curly hair.
Eve, who cares about humans and star signs and moon magic.
Eve, who lives in my dream city with her Dickens-loving little brother, who wonders about a doughnut-loving old man, and wants to give the best gifts possible.
Personal statements feel hard, but I could compose poems, sonnets, and anthologies about Eve.
I could write scripts and sequels and do some seriously sprawling world-building around the idea of us .
I don’t have any good reason for being so sure—especially when I’m unsure about so many other things in my life—but something in me just knows that she is supposed to be the one.
My first kiss. I felt it at the farm, and I feel it now.
I’m also somehow pretty sure that she felt it too.
Fate. Undeniable, like the gravitational pull of the moon.
Our moon. What else could those sparkles mean?
But how will I ever live out my romantic Christmas first-kiss dreams when I don’t have the slightest clue how to find her?
I frown, sitting on the couch across from Marley, clutching a package of peppermint Joe-Joe’s like a safety blanket. I probably just need a snack. Could be low blood sugar. That seems right…
I’m about to address the problem when the phone rings. I know it’s my mom because my ringtone for her is Amy Grant’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” but my heart drops because Naomi should be on her way home by now. If she’s calling, she’s not driving. And if she’s not driving, she’s still at work.
“Greetings, Fozziwig’s Rubber Chicken Factory,” I say, trying to sound as sunny and cloudless as the sky above Cooper this morning, referencing The Muppet Christmas Carol .
“Hey, Pop-Tart,” Naomi says. “How was the morning?”
Okay, so when Eve called me Strudel, it wasn’t the first time I’ve been referred to as a toaster pastry.
I argue that it’s exaggerated, but family legend has it that one snowy after-school afternoon, I reached for a strawberry frosted Pop-Tart to pair with my daily cocoa, only to realize Michelle had taken the last one—and I was legit inconsolable.
My mom then made a point to buy a family-size box, and this time, I got to it first. I opened it up, took out every individual snack and stashed it somewhere I deemed safe.
The problem was, I then promptly forgot most of those hiding spots, and for months afterward, we were finding toaster pastries in the strangest places in various stages of decomposition.
After that, Michelle started calling me Pop-Tart—and sticking a fresh pack in my stocking every year—and the name stuck.
I pretended not to like it, but it was an inside joke with my big sister. And that, I loved.
Now, though, it just feels strange hearing it from Naomi, especially since I know where this conversation is going.
“Ya know, it wasn’t bad, actually,” I reply to my mother, trying to play it cool.
What I want to say is, I met the most amazing girl and she was beautiful and smart and funny and perfect and how do you know if you’re in love?
But again, I keep it to myself. This time because if she’s calling about what I suspect—that she’s not coming home—I’d rather we get to it, so I can start trying to get over my disappointment.
“Great!” Naomi says, but doesn’t bother to ask any follow-up questions.
“So listen,” she goes on, and that is all I need to hear to know my night is over.
I physically deflate like that Snoopy as Flying Ace blow-up in January.
It’s the way she says listen , like it really means okay, prepare yourself .
And the next sentence is one I could have scripted: “I’m sorry to say this, but I’m not going to be home until late tonight. ”
“Again?”
“I’m sorry, Pop-Tart. It’s Christmas. You know how it is.”
For some families, Christmas means spending time together .
Another thought I keep to myself, because I know that for my mother, this year the holiday means extra cash by way of extra shifts, at the farm or at her old boyfriend’s bar.
She didn’t tell me how much Michelle’s rehab cost this second time around, but I asked a chatbot once for an estimate and—wow—getting off drugs is expensive.
On top of it, my mom is paying back the damages from the shoplifting, a small fire, and a car accident Michelle caused when she relapsed at the end of the summer and sent our little family into this crisis. Again.
There’s a parallel universe where the relapse didn’t happen.
Michelle would be home, hanging a few last ornaments on the tree.
Naomi would be putting a big dinner on the table and I’d be cuing up Elf .
Then we’d wrap last-minute presents and sing along to vintage Mariah Carey and Dolly Parton while drinking eggnog.
But that’s not this universe and honestly even when my mom’s not working, Michelle seems to be the only thing she wants to talk about. Not our beloved traditions and happy memories or anything that would put us in the joyful holiday spirit, but the person who stomped all over them.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Naomi says, but it feels hollow.
“Sure, yeah,” I say. I don’t bother to ask how, because if I keep talking, my voice might break, and I’m really trying to avoid that.
Once, after an especially rough night with Michelle, Naomi thanked me for “being so mature about all this.” She told me she was proud of me for that, and I have tried to live up to that ever since.
Then again, if this is what it means to adult—having to swallow your feelings and forget about magic and sacrifice Christmas and comfort and joy and your parents’ attention—hard pass.
There’s an awkward beat, and I can practically hear Naomi’s frown on the other end.
“Okay, well…,” she says. “I also wanted to ask, have you thought any more about Friday?”
And there it is. The question I’ve been dreading most of all.
“You mean Christmas Day?” I ask, stalling but also trying to subtly drive home my displeasure at her calling it “Friday” as if it’s just another day.
Two days ago, Naomi threw me a curveball by asking if I would consider joining her on Christmas to go visit Michelle upstate, rather than staying home and celebrating our usual way—watching the Disney parade with hot cocoa and buttered cinnamon toast, opening presents, and taking a walk around the neighborhood together to deliver cookies in every mailbox.
“That’s the one,” she says, with a tone like she’s losing patience.
“Yeah. I, uh… I’m still not sure,” I say. “It’s been really busy with work and everything. You know how Joany is. Just been too focused to think about it.”
“I do, but is it really much to think about?” Naomi says, now clearly exasperated. “I just think it would be nice for us to be together, don’t you? You love Christmas.”
That makes me exasperated too. I do love Christmas. But what she’s talking about is not Christmas. How can it be in a totally foreign place without any of our traditions?
“I know it’s been hard,” she says after a beat. Which… understatement of the century. “But I know you don’t want your sister to be alone on Christmas. She loves it too.”
I let my head flop back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. She did once .