Page 1 of The Christmas Yes List

Chapter 1

For the record, I am typically a socially competent person.

People who were voted Miss Congeniality in eighth grade at some obscure weekend pageant and have the wherewithal to never tell people they were voted Miss Congeniality in eighth grade at some obscure weekend pageant are socially competent people. Sure, if I’m being honest, I get a secret little boost of confidence from silently knowing two hundred random girls once met over a weekend and liked me enough to vote me as the nicest person there, but I know it would be pathetic to brag about it to others.

At the very least, I see this as proof that I am a functioning person in society like the rest of them.

Which is not, at all, what it looks like at first glance now.

I rifle through my backpack squished between my legs, find the binder, and yank it out. Thirty-year-old glitter drifts onto the airline tray table. “Well, if it’s flight aversion you’ve got, sir, I may have just the thing. Now how would you like to take a gander at this little gem?”

I slap the top of the heavily bejeweled family scrapbook on my tray table and tap it like it’s really something. “More than ninety-two fabulous pages of fun at the Hollis Christmas Family Reunion, circa 1995. Pre iPhones. Padded shoulders everywhere. Far too many photos dedicated to casserole spreads. A tremendous distraction.”

His ice-melting Sprite jostles on his tray with another dash of turbulence, and my new best friend / stranded window seat companion of the last hour, Fred, blanches.

The extraordinarily submissive middle-aged accounting professor with baby pink cheeks and amiable blue eyes who sat quietly with hands folded over each other while I rambled on, asking every inappropriate question imaginable (“You know, I have a knack for guessing people’s Social Security numbers. It’s a party trick of mine. Let’s see . . . is your first number a five? No, wait! Six!”), the same man who indulged my request to swap drinks because my Sprite tasted “fishy,” finally breaks.

Fred jolts himself up, declares he needs to use the restroom as a matter of some urgency, and all but thrusts my scrapbook into the aisle as he sails past my knees.

Sixty-two minutes.

It’s been sixty-two minutes of torturing this man on this tiny plane connection from Chicago to Maple Hills, West Virginia, and, in the process, torturing myself. Asking if I could switch seats with him for the window, then getting said window seat and asking to switch back because I’d changed my mind. Pulling out my phone and asking for selfies together since we’d shared secrets (correction: I shared secrets with him, unprompted) and were now “close, close friends.” Opening my Christmas novel to see whether he would mind terribly if I asked him to read it to me like I was a lady of leisure because I had a headache. Telling two painfully long stories about family reunions and extending invitations to visit. And finally, pulling out the old family scrapbook, which the quietest, most patient middle-aged man ever to exist deemed his last straw.

It’s taken sixty-two minutes to drive this man to madness.

I should congratulate myself.

And I would, if the entire experience didn’t make me sick.

With his absence, and the ability to finally drop my performance, my body’s reaction is demanding attention. There’s a dreadfully loud humming sound on the plane (or is that just in my ears?), and it feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room. I glance around pensively. It could be my imagination, but at least two sets of eyes dart away the second I swivel round.

Is it because they witnessed this disaster scene? Did they hear me? I tried to be quiet, but . . .

Oh, they did.

Surely they did.

I’m an absolute laughingstock.

People will be talking about me, the horrifyingly annoying girl on the plane, for days. Weeks. Years maybe.

That’s fair, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t?

I wipe back the sweat that has pooled around my temple from the stress of this entire humiliating experience. There’s a loud screech as I lift one sweaty crossed leg off the vinyl (how long have I been sweating?) and readjust in my seat. I’m honestly surprised the pilot hasn’t jolted the plane midair to escape from the scene I’m making.

I crane my neck to the back of the plane and see that the occupied sign is still lit on the bathroom, then turn my attention to my backpack. After repacking the old, bedazzled family scrapbook, I pull out a small black notebook, unsnap the binding, find an empty page, and record:

December 18: Rejection.

How did it feel? Excruciating.

How do I feel now? Nauseous.

Symptoms: Whole-body sweating. Heart palpitations. Dizziness. This was as bad as my worst nightmare, and I feel like I will recall the experience with absolute humiliation for the rest of my life.

First rejection down. Nine more to go before Christmas.

Final verdict: Success.