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“Isn’t this just so great?” Genie exclaims. “This is just great.”

Genie’s arm has been slung over my shoulder for the past half hour as we’ve trooped farther and farther into the woods. Mind you, when she first put her arm around my shoulder, it was with my arm still looped around James. She, holding on to Peter’s arm, brazenly clung to me like we were a happy-go-lucky Rockette group ready to do the cancan.

Eventually I had no choice.

I had to let go.

Genie, with great satisfaction, continues holding on to me, and with James off to the left and Peter off to the right, we work our way through the south end of the farm. While most of the property is forested with poplars and river birches and towering white pines, it became tradition to keep several acres from the old Christmas tree farm days dedicated solely for personal family use. Every few years we jump in and seed a few new lines of trees, and on and on it goes. Right now the closest lines to the river are shortest, with spruces just two and three feet high. A few rows back are rows of five-footers, interspersed with some sixes and sevens, and so on. As always, we are on the hunt for the rare, truly gigantic specimen.

It’s a tradition in its own right. During Nana’s farmhouse Christmas gatherings, someone or some group is always dedicated to the task of cutting down the yearly family tree.

I had heard this year it was going to be Josh with the help of his brothers (to celebrate the fact that he just earned his medical degree), but clearly, as evidenced by the axes over James’s and Peter’s shoulders, Josh hadn’t known he would run into one of Genie’s schemes.

“I think we should break off and look,” I say.

Genie clings to my shoulder tighter. “Great idea. Peter, James—you two team up. Let’s see what ya got.”

“Or,” James puts in with a casual air, as if this idea has just come to him, “I could go with Chloe.”

“No need,” she says briskly.

“Given we’re both the ones with the axes—”

“What are you trying to say, James? That we can’t handle our own axes?”

“No. It’s just . . . you handed me the axe.”

“Do you think we can’t cut down a tree?”

“You just said you didn’t want to hold the axe because you got your nails painted. Santa Clauses, if I recall. Which, for the record, I’m happy to oblige.”

“I bet you are.” The words are . . . complimentary? The look on her face is scathing. As though he just threw out some bad words at her. “I. Bet. You. Are.”

James blinks. Looks from her to me. Then back to her. “I . . .” He hesitates. “Am.”

Her sniffs communicates, Typical response.

Ooookay. Time to intervene. We’ve got a whole family shindig to get through.

But here’s the thing: I know my best friend. And I know that where I lack, she has strength. The girl was on the debate team in high school. Not because she was really academic but because she “loved a club that was all about arguing.”

Which is why, after a moment’s pause, I make a decision.

I look at James. Give him one of those intense prepare yourself stares.

There’s a flicker of acknowledgment in his expression. Confusion but also readiness.

The woods are still for a sliver of a second. You can hear a hawk screech overhead. And then . . .

“Run!” I cry as I bend down, unzip one of Genie’s boot zippers as quickly as possible, grab James’s hand, and make a break for it.

He holds fast, and together we escape through the trees.

Genie gives a war cry and fiddles with her boot, all while trying to call after me to “stop it right now.” I squeeze James’s hand harder and run for the second time this day through the snow. It’s heavier here on what we call Christmas Tree Hill, my shins getting coated with snow that threatens to sneak inside my boots with each new print I make in the dusty flakes. As unathletic as I am, thankfully Genie is more, so for each five steps of distance we get away from her, she only achieves two. Before long, there’s a swath of spruces between us, and I can only vaguely hear her yells of “Chloeeee.”

From far away now I hear Peter laugh and beckon Genie back. “See who can bring back the biggest tree!” he calls.

“Sounds good!” I holler.