Get Real by Betty Hicks Read Free Book Online Page B

totally agreed the kids’ drink was better, except for the fact that the adults’ version floats in a huge crystal punch bowl. The kiddy eggnog gets served in a pretty pitcher that has tiny candy canes etched all over it. But pouring from it is nowhere near as elegant as picking up a sterling silver ladle and scooping creamy liquid out of a crystal bowl five times bigger than the biggest mixing bowl on earth.
    And … Food. Is. Everywhere.
    Beautiful, yummy, catered, and completely different every year. Plus, kids under ten get to take home gifts wrapped in shiny white paper with red satin bows. The last year that I got one, before I aged out, it was a box filled with Hershey’s Kisses, each one wrapped in red foil. I know it’s the same candy that comes in ordinary plastic bags from Eckerd’s, but when you nestle a bunch of kisses in a box with crisp white tissue paper, they taste better.
    Toward the end of every party, Mrs. Lewis, looking like a movie star, always plays the piano while everyone circles around her and sings Christmas carols.
    On December 23, going to the Lewises is as good as it gets.
    I don’t mean to sound bratty and horrible, because I love Christmas at my house, too. But the differences are staggering. There’s no pine smell here because our tree is fake and stays in the attic, decorated all year. When it comes out, it takes me all day to pick away dust balls and pieces of pink attic insulation that get on everything. I have to wear those thick yellow dishwashing gloves to protect my fingers from the tiny strands of insulation that act like invisible splinters of glass.
    Our holiday food is the packaged-fruit-cake and pre-cooked-turkey-breast-with-canned-gravy variety, and most of our presents are wrapped in recycled gift bags. We’ve never had a party, except for the Tater T-shirts kind, and Dad has definitely never asked anyone under twenty if he could take her coat.
    Jil says my decorations are better, though, and she’s right. They aren’t as beautiful as hers, even after I clean them up each year, but every one has its own story, like the baby-food jar lid with my picture pasted inside that I made in first grade. Or the dangling strand of cheap pink-and-purple beads that Mom and Dad bought from a street vendor the year they met. Denver has a purple-and-yellow turtle that he painted himself. I have a needlepoint St. Lucia—it’s Swedish—that I made when my Sunday school created a Holidays Around the World tree.
    If you ask me, Christmas is one of those times that’s special no matter how you do it.
    So, imagine my surprise when I call Jil, three days before her party, and she tells me that she won’t be there.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI’m going to my mom’s,” she says, sounding all bubbly.
    â€œYour mom’s? Mom-2?”
    â€œDon’t call her that.”
    â€œSorry. You’re going to Jane’s? For Christmas?” I exclaim.
    â€œNo, silly,” she says. “I’ll be back by Christmas Eve.”
    I decide she’s kidding. “Yeah, right,” I say.
    â€œNo, really. I am. Mom and Penny are going to have their whole Christmas early. Just for me. It’s going to be awesome!”
    â€œWow.”
    It’s not much, but honestly, it’s all I can think of to say. Ever since Jil found her mom, I’ve been excited for her. Maybe even a little jealous. But not going to her own Christmas party? That takes this two-family deal to a whole new level.
    â€œKids from divorced families do this all the time,” she explains in the same tone of voice that the TV might say, “Clothes cleaned with Tide are whiter and brighter, every single wash.” It reminds me of her Christopher Columbus voice, the one that’s always been reserved for convincing adults. This is the first time it’s ever been used on me.
    Which bugs me. But then Mom’s friend-in-need warning goes