Brant, age 12
Mom always preferred the colorful twinkle lights over the white ones.
I stare at the beautifully assembled Christmas tree, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, and it makes me think of her. My mom. She loved Christmas, and she loved rainbows.
June races into the front room, spinning the skirt of her holiday dress. Her light chestnut hair is coiled into corkscrews that bob over both shoulders as she practices the moves she’s been learning in ballet class. She spent a good portion of her classes in an arm cast over the last two months, only participating in the less complex routines, but that didn’t seem to lessen her drive. My little ballerina is more dedicated than ever—and as of a few weeks ago, she’s finally cast-free.
She even asked for shiny tap shoes for Christmas, so I spent all of my allowance money on the perfect pair. Mrs. Bailey offered to buy them for me, but it felt less special somehow. I wanted to buy them with my own money, so I worked extra hard in the yard with Mr. Bailey, raking leaves and collecting wood from the old, splintered treehouse.
June is going to love her shiny shoes.
“What’s a June bug look like?”
I glance over at her still dancing in circles around the coffee table. The lights from the tree reflect off the sparkles in her emerald dress, and I smile wistfully. “It looks like a rainbow butterfly with glittery fairy wings.”
“Wow!”
I feel guilty for lying, but I realized too late that I’d named her after a hideous creature with long, creepy legs and a poop-colored shell. It might be the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
June plops down onto the couch beside me, nuzzling against my shoulder. “Do you think Santa will come? Have I been good this year?” Her feet kick back and forth as she stares at the illuminated tree in front of us. “He might be mad about the treehouse.”
“Don’t be silly, Junebug. You’ve definitely been good this year. Brave, too.”
She sighs. “I’m not brave.”
Before I can respond, Mr. Bailey trudges in through the front door, covered head to toe in white snow. His skin is stained from the cold, his nose so pink it’s actually red. He doesn’t look happy as he stomps his boots against the reindeer welcome mat. “It’s really coming down out there. We’ve gotten four or five inches in the last hour.”
Mrs. Bailey appears from the hallway, clasping a dangly earring into place. Her hair is down tonight, curled like June’s. “That bad, huh?”
“Yep. I knew we should have upgraded to four-wheel-drive before winter set in.”
“Money’s just been tight, Andrew. With the higher mortgage from the move…” She glances my way, clearing her throat. “You know how it’s been.”
“Yeah…” He runs a gloved hand up and down his face, then pulls off his snow-kissed hat. “I don’t think it’s safe to drive tonight. Maybe we should stay in.”
A gasp leaves me. “But it’s Christmas Eve,” I proclaim. “What about dinner?”
We were supposed to have dinner at Aunt Kelly’s tonight. I haven’t seen her since June’s sixth birthday, and she got a new cat—she told me so in a letter she wrote to me. This one is just a baby kitten, and it’s much nicer than her other cat.
Theo skips down the hallway, joining us in the living room upon hearing the news. “He’s right, Brant. I looked out my window and the car is already covered again, and Dad just cleaned it,” he says. He pulls off his snowman sweater, revealing a plain white tee underneath, and I’m certain he’s just trying to get out of wearing the new sweater his Grams made him. “It’s not safe.”
“I want to see the kitten,” June adds, her lip jutting out in a perfect pout.
“We can’t, Peach,” Theo tells her. “What if we crash and you get hurt again?”
There’s a seriousness laced into his tone, causing the room to fall silent. Images of June lying crumpled in the grass slice through my mind, and I grind my teeth together. Theo’s been extra protective of June since it happened—we both have.
June isn’t at all charmed by his concern. She folds her arms over her chest with a frown. “What about my pretty dress? What about Mama’s earrings and Theo’s nice sweater from Grams?”
Theo grumbles.
“We must go!” she insists, rising from the couch and running toward her father. Mr. Bailey sighs wearily, plucking the gloves off his hands, one by one. “Please, Daddy? We’re all dressed up, and Aunt Kelly was going to make my favorite ham.”
He shakes his head, patting her on the shoulder. “I know you were excited, June, but safety comes first. Our car won’t make it in this blizzard. Maybe we can order in?”
“No. I hate that idea.”
Mrs. Bailey unclips her earrings. “We could order pizza.”
“Yeah!” Theo agrees.
“We can’t have pizza on Christmas Eve!” June stomps her feet, acting petulant. She might even cry. “Pizza is for when Daddy watches sports all day. We need to have a feast on Christmas Eve.”
An idea swims through my mind, so I clear my throat, standing to face the Baileys. “Maybe I can help,” I shrug, tucking my hands into my khaki pockets. “I can cook Christmas Eve dinner.”
I’m not a cooking expert, and I’m still pretty young, but I watch a lot of cooking shows. I even help Mrs. Bailey in the kitchen sometimes, jotting down notes and recipes onto index cards. Last week for breakfast, I made a hollandaise sauce for our eggs, which impressed Mrs. Bailey—she said she wasn’t even able to make a good hollandaise sauce.
I want to learn more.
I want to cook Christmas Eve dinner, so June will get her feast.
Hesitation ripples around me, even as June bounces up and down, pleased with the suggestion. Theo slides down to his knees by the Christmas tree, fingering the array of multicolored presents glinting beneath the lights. He chimes in with his own agreeance. “I like that idea. Brant is a really good cook.”
“Well… all right,” Mrs. Bailey consents. She relaxes, gifting me with a warm smile from across the living room. “I’m not sure if we have much of a selection, but I’m sure we can whip up a few things. I’ll help you get organized, Brant.”
Excitement whizzes through me. The last time I helped cook Christmas Eve dinner was the year before my parents’ deaths. I was only five years old, so I couldn’t do much, but I have a vibrant memory of standing in front of the stove on a little wooden stool, helping my mother stir a pot of mashed potatoes. I recall her being on edge that evening, worried about how the potatoes were going to turn out. They were my father’s favorite. He liked them with extra butter, not too much garlic, and with no pieces of the skin left behind. I spent a long time picking out tiny peels of potato skin, and when she wasn’t looking, I added an extra heap of butter, plus a sprinkling of pepper and seasoned salt.
My father loved them.
Mom was over the moon happy.
Smiling, I race around the sofa into the kitchen with eager steps, ready to scour through the pantry and refrigerator for dinner items.
If there’s a chance I can save the day, I have to do it.
I want to see June as happy as my mother was that last Christmas.
Homemade lasagna, potato salad, cranberry sauce, beer bread, macaroni and cheese, and gooey cinnamon buns—that was the dinner I’d created with all of the ingredients we had on hand. I know it wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly a feast, and the Baileys were stunned by my creations. Mrs. Bailey helped me swap dishes from the oven and assisted in a few various tasks, but overall, the meal was entirely made by me.
June was so happy.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her so happy.
She tried a bit of everything with a huge smile on her face, then told me I was the best chef in the whole world. Truthfully, seeing her joy was the best Christmas present I could ever ask for.
Christmas Eve wasn’t ruined. I’d saved the day.
Now we’re all huddled around the tree in our holiday pajamas with cocoa and cookies. Our bellies are full, but not too full for the treats we’re inhaling faster than the snow falling down outside. Mr. Bailey has disappeared down to the basement a few times for unknown reasons, but we’re finally all together, drinking in the moment.
June is in my lap, her back pressed to my chest as she gazes at the tree with a look of wonder in her eyes. It’s magic, really, and it makes my heart skip a few beats as I watch the joy flicker across her face.
Mrs. Bailey pipes up from the reclining chair, her hair now in a messy bun with a holiday-themed pen stuck inside. Her Rudolph slippers nearly rival Mr. Bailey’s platypuses. “Brant, I have an early Christmas present for you… if that’s okay.”
Of course, that’s okay!
I’m instantly giddy. Nodding my head, I straighten, while June lets out a gasp of excitement from my lap. Her hair tickles my chin when she resituates, clapping her hands together.
“I know what it is!” she chirps, bouncing up and down. “Can I give it to him, Mama?”
“Hey, it was my idea,” Theo counters.
Mrs. Bailey stands, setting down her mug of “grown up” cocoa we’re not allowed to taste. She bends over near the tree, plucking a small present from the pile, and for a moment, I’m transported back in time to that last Christmas at my old house. I picture my mother in her red flannel nightdress with curlers in her hair. She looked so sad, even though she was always smiling. She reminded me of the rainbow song—a sad melody disguised with happy words.
She’d read me a story about dancing sugar plums and rosy clatters. It was a magical story with strange words, but what I remember most about that night was the way my mother grazed her fingers up and down my spine, her voice a lullaby in itself. Everything felt so perfect in that moment. Dad had locked himself away in the bedroom, so there was no fighting, no tears. It was only me and my mom, drowning in Christmas magic, reading stories by the fireplace with colorful twinkle lights glimmering off the tree.
The memory fills me with warmth.
It fills me with regret.
It fills me with a touch of madness because it’s not supposed to be like this. She should be here right now, sharing a grown up cocoa with the Baileys and singing us to sleep with our favorite song.
I’m brought back to the present when Theo snatches the gift from Mrs. Bailey’s hand and rushes it over to me. He’s smiling so big, I can’t help but let the bitterness fall away. For as much as I hate that my mother is gone, I can’t be angry for what I have now. I could never regret this family, or this home… I could never regret spending Christmas with my best friend and little Junebug.
“It was my idea, but June wrapped it,” Theo explains, plopping down beside me on the area rug. “Go on, open it.”
June scurries off my lap and faces me on her knees, far too eager to see what she already knows is inside.
Mr. and Mrs. Bailey have their arms around each other as they settle on the couch beside us, and I swear there are tears in Mrs. Bailey’s eyes. The lights are reflecting off of them.
What could it be?
Swallowing, I peel back the candy cane wrapping paper. It’s a tiny present, just the size of my fist, but my heart starts to thump, nevertheless.
And when I unfold the gift that sits inside, that same heart nearly detonates.
I discard the paper, staring down at the treasure in my hand, my chest achy. My throat tight. My fingers tremoring.
June is quick to point at the discovery, her voice high and chipper. “Look, Brant, it’s your Mama! She’s so pretty. And that’s you when you were tiny, just like me.”
“Do you like it, Brant?” Theo wonders, his eyes wide and curious.
I glance around the room with my own wide eyes before slipping my gaze back to the gift. It’s an ornament. It’s an ornament shaped like a gingerbread house, with a photo inside.
My mother and me.
I’ve never seen this photo before. She’s crouching down beside me, her hands squeezing both of my arms. I’m looking at the camera with a cheesy grin, and she’s looking at me. Her smile is so happy, so proud. So alive.
She’s looking at me like she never wants to let me go.
I have something smeared across my face, maybe chocolate, and my long lost friend dangles from my grip.
Bubbles.
June announces with pride, “I couldn’t find your elephant friend, but Mama found this picture in the attic, so I did my best. He’s not lost anymore. He’ll live in this picture with you forever.”
I look up at her, silent and stunned. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find, but it wasn’t this. I open my mouth to speak, to thank the Baileys for such a kind gift, but nothing comes out. My words are stuck in my throat like caramel.
So, I just trail my eyes around the room again. I suck in a breath.
And then…
I cry.
I can’t help it.
Emotion seizes me, and I clutch the ornament in one hand, while my other hides my face from the worried onlookers. I cry so hard, I don’t even know where the tears come from. It’s been so long since I’ve cried like this.
A loving arm wraps around my shoulders, followed by a voice. A soothing voice. A voice that reminds me of my mom, which only makes me cry harder. “Oh, Brant… I’m sorry, sweetheart. We didn’t mean to make you cry…”
I know they didn’t mean it. They meant to give me a precious thing, and I’m making them feel bad. Sniffling, I swipe at my eyes and lift my head, my bottom lip still quivering. “Th-thank you. I’m sorry I got sad. I just… I miss her a lot.”
Theo pats my back, his own eyes looking watery. “Want to hang it on the tree?”
I nod.
Rising to my feet, I wipe away a few more stray tears and approach the artificial pine. Mr. Bailey speaks up from the couch, and when I glance at him, I think maybe he was crying, too.
“Why don’t you hang it at the top?” he suggests, joining me, reaching for the ornament. “Right beneath the glowing star.”
“Okay,” I sniff.
He moves it into place, and we both take a step back. A smile replaces my sadness. It almost feels like she’s looking down on me.
June tugs at my pajama shirt then, so I dip my head to give her my attention. She’s holding Aggie in her arms. “You can sleep with Aggie tonight,” she tells me in a sweet voice. “He always helps me feel better when I’m sad or scared.”
The sentiment almost makes me cry all over again. I hold in the tears, forcing a smile. “That’s kind of you, Junebug, but he’s your friend. I’ll be okay.”
“Will you tuck me in?”
Mrs. Bailey nods her approval as Theo races to the couch and hops onto his father’s lap. They both laugh, and the image tickles my heart. I sigh. “Sure, I will. Let’s go.”
We traipse down the hallway to her bedroom. I watch as June leaps into her bedcovers, bouncing atop the mattress with a big smile. She snuggles beneath the blankets, curling up into a ball. “I’m sorry you got sad, Brant. Did something bad happen to your Mama? Is that what Monica Porter was talking about in the treehouse?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek as I settle down beside her. “Yeah, it is. But I don’t want to talk about that right now,” I say softly. “I really love the gift. It made me cry in a good way.”
“A good way?”
“Yes. It was so thoughtful, and I felt a lot of love in that moment. Sometimes a lot of love can make you cry.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “I don’t cry about love.”
“Maybe you will someday.”
“That doesn’t sound so good. I don’t think I want a lot of love.”
“It’s a good thing to have,” I tell her. “The downside is, the more love you have, the harder it is to lose it.”
Her little pink lips pucker as she contemplates my words. I don’t think she understands, but I don’t expect her to. June is still so young, immune to the hard consequences of love. The parts that hurt. Right now she’s only experienced the beauty of it.
“Goodnight, Junebug,” I whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Dream of Junebugs flying high over the rainbow, lemon drops, and chimney tops.”
“Like the ones Santa goes down,” she giggles.
“That’s right.”
I’m about to stand to leave when she calls to me once more. “Hey, Brant?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think I want tap shoes anymore,” she says, pulling the comforter up to her chin. “I want Santa to bring me something else.”
My heart stops. “What do you mean? You were so excited about tap shoes.”
“I know, but that’s not what I really want.”
Oh, no. What am I going to do?
I gulp hard, biting at my lip. “Okay. What is it you want, then?”
“I want a sword.”
“A sword?”
“Yes, a sword for fighting. A sword to make me brave, like you.”
“You don’t need a sword to be brave, June. Bravery comes from here.” I press my hand to her chest, right over her heart. “I don’t have a sword.”
Her big blue eyes twinkle in the glow of her nightlight. “That’s just what I want, Brant. Do you think Santa will get it for me?”
“I…” My mind races with anxiety. It’s way too late to change my gift now, and I doubt she’ll be getting a sword from anyone else. June will be so disappointed on Christmas morning. Heaving in a deep breath, I stretch a smile. “We’ll have to see, but for now, it’s time to get some sleep. Merry Christmas, Junebug.”
“Merry Christmas, Brant.”
She sends me a final smile, then closes her eyes and buries herself under the covers.
I step out of the room, my heart squeezing tight.
I’m not sure what to do. June seemed so excited about shiny, new tap shoes, and now she’s going to hate them. Now she wants a sword.
The image of my little ballerina with a mighty sword causes me to laugh out loud through my worry. What a sight that would be.
When I step out of her bedroom, I lean back against the wall and try to come up with a plan. It’s after nine P.M. on Christmas Eve in the middle of a blizzard. There’s no way to even get to a department store right now, even if one were open. And I know I don’t have any toy swords, and neither does Theo, and…
Wait!
A thought springs to life. My skin tingles with a possible idea.
Marching down the hallway, I half-jog into the living room, calling out for Mr. Bailey. He glances up from his mug of cocoa. “Everything okay, Brant?”
“I think so. I hope so,” I spit out, checking the time on the giant wall clock. “I need your help with something.”
“Anything.”
Anything. No questions, no hesitation.
I smile.
“I need a sword.”
Christmas morning is a blur of chaos.
Wrapping paper, bows, garbage bags, toys, boxes.
Laughter, squeals, music.
Mr. and Mrs. Bailey are still in their robes, clutching mugs of coffee and munching on leftover cinnamon buns. Snow still flutters from the sky outside the window, creating the perfect backdrop for such a magical morning.
June is tearing through her final haul, her hair in complete disarray. Her curls from the night before are half undone, the toffee-toned strands dancing with static, and her feet are no longer adorned with slippers but with shiny tap shoes.
She rips open the last gift and peels the cardboard back, revealing a Barbie Dreamhouse. I don’t miss the way her smile slips, just slightly. “Wow, cool,” she says, digging out the toy. “Thanks, Santa.”
I lean back on my palms, watching from my perch on the rug. It’s been a wonderful Christmas—Theo and I got the new Nintendo system called The Wii, along with an assortment of new games. We got clothes, posters for our bedrooms, and the Baileys even gave me cookbooks with my very own apron that says, “chef in training.”
I have everything I could ever want.
Except one thing.
June is quietly playing with a puzzle when she crawls over to the couch and hops up, sighing dramatically. Her little shoulders deflate as she blows a piece of loose hair out of her face.
“What’s wrong, Junebug? Do you like your gifts?”
“Yes, I love them.” She swings her legs back and forth. “I love my tap shoes the best. And the bath time dolly.”
“Then why do you look sad?”
She shrugs, glancing away. “I didn’t get a sword. I guess Santa didn’t think I was brave enough.”
Sharing a look with the Baileys, I climb up beside her on the couch and pat her knee. “Remember what I told you last night? You don’t need a sword to be brave. Bravery comes from the inside.”
“I guess.”
“I’m serious, June. Being brave is a choice, and choice is the greatest weapon of all. I promise, you don’t need a sword.”
June worries her lip, gazing up at me with a wide-eyed stare. Her eyes glimmer like the tinsel on the tree. “You mean it?”
“Of course, I mean it.”
“Okay, then,” she nods, a smile lifting. “I’m brave. I’m the bravest girl in the whole wide land.”
My grin is bright. “Say it again, Junebug. Louder.”
“I’m the bravest girl in the whole wide land, and I don’t need a sword!”
We all laugh when her squeaky voice cracks, and I pull her in for a tight hug. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, I whisper gently into her ear, “Go look behind the tree.”
Her eyes pop. “Why?”
“Something just appeared, like magic.”
She only falters for a second before she leaps from the couch cushion and darts around to the back of the tree. A little voice calls out with astonishment, “Another present!”
Theo wiggles his eyebrows in my direction, and Mr. Bailey gives me a wink. June drags the long, narrow gift from the back wall to the center of the room and begins to shred the paper.
When the gift is revealed, she gasps.
A wooden sword stands tall in her two eager hands, painted pink and silver.
“Whoa!” she squeals with delight.
Mr. Bailey and I stayed up nearly all night carving June a homemade sword from the wood pieces of our old treehouse. He loved the idea, and he loved that something that caused so much pain could be reused for something joyful. My painting job isn’t so great, but June doesn’t seem to notice. She’s so happy, near tears, holding the sword high in the air with all her might.
“Look at that, June,” I say, standing to my feet. “I guess you don’t need a sword to be brave, but it sure is nice to have.”
“I love it! Santa is the best!”
I chuckle, reveling in the enchantment glowing in her eyes. Someday she’ll know who really made her that sword, but for now, there’s nothing more special than Christmas magic.
Mr. Bailey clears his throat, slapping a palm against his wife’s knee and rising from the loveseat. “Well, since we’re on the subject of surprises, I think Santa might have one more trick up his sleeve. I found something this morning with a tag that said, ‘For June, Theodore, and Brant.’
My heart stutters, and I share a surprised look with Theo and June.
We’ve already received so much for Christmas… what else could there be?
“I’ll be right back,” Mr. Bailey declares, disappearing down into the basement. He returns after a few moments of curious silence, while Mrs. Bailey sips her coffee through a smile. With his arms full of a giant box wrapped in glittering Santa paper, he sets it down between us on the rug. “Go on. Open it up.”
We all glance at each other again.
Theo dives in first.
June and I lean over the box while paper flies and cardboard tears, desperate to get a peek of what hides inside.
When the final flaps are pulled apart, Theo jumps back.
June screams.
The Baileys laugh.
And I…
Well, I jump up from the rug, hop up and down, and shout to the heavens with my arms stretched high, “A puppy!”
It was a puppy, all right.
A tiny black and tan Dachshund, hardly bigger than my hand, and something I’d been wanting since the neighbor dog licked my fingers through the fence of my old backyard.
It took six years, but I finally got the puppy I’d always dreamed of.
I’ll never forget standing on my front porch beneath cotton candy clouds, telling my mother I was going to name him Yoshi… so, that’s exactly what we named him.
Yoshi was a constant companion over the years. For a little while, we pretended he was actually Yoshi, and continued to act out our heroic video game scenarios with June as the princess in peril. We didn’t have the treehouse anymore, but we still had fruit trees and gardens and many wild acres to explore in our backyard.
But Theo and I were getting older.
And as the years pressed on, our imaginations faded, replaced by something far more intriguing…
Girls.
