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We sing.
We all made promises that night.
I promised I would never react with violence again, and, well…I did a pretty damn good job of keeping that promise. I only went off course one time, years later, and I like to think I had a good reason for doing that. (Wyatt Nippersink might not agree.)
But that was it.
The fear of snapping, of doing irrevocable damage like Lucas Elliott had done to my mother in a moment of what the detectives called “blind rage,” was a highly effective motivator over the years.
And then there was Theo’s promise.
Theo hardly left June’s side after the tree-house incident. He was overly protective, fiercely loyal, and, unlike me, unafraid to lash out at any person who put June in harm’s way.
Even if that person was his best friend.
Even if that person was me.
Lastly, there was Andrew Bailey.
Andrew made his own promise that night. He swore it was the last time we would ever set foot in that godforsaken tree house.
Come sunrise, it was nothing but a pile of firewood.
8
FIRST NOEL
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 tree house.
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 tree house.”
“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.”
