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CHAPTERONE
If someone ever filmed my family at Christmastime, the end result would resemble a reality show where siblings are pitted against each other in a series of to-the-death competitions. Either that, or a documentary on domestic dysfunction with a delightfully festive backdrop. I can even hear the voiceover narration announcing “The Carmichael clan competes for the Christmas crown” with exaggerated alliteration.
Observing what I’ve now dubbed the Gingerbread Gauntlet, I pop a gumdrop in my mouth, letting the copious amounts of sugar dissolve on my tongue as I regard my brother’s pièce de résistance. Matt has captured Thomas Jefferson’s historic home, the Monticello, in impressive detail down to the candy cane columns.
Beside him, my sister, Veronica, painstakingly squeezes a piping bag, adding evenly spaced frosting shingles to a fairy-tale cottage tantalizing enough to tempt Hansel and Gretel, even after their ill-fated foray into the witch’s forest.
By the end of the day, my dad will choose this year’s winner who will receive—I kid you not—a literal trophy. It’s one of those plastic statues passed out like candy at the end of a children’s soccer tournament, but still… It’s a trophy. For the best gingerbread house. Because who makes a gingerbread house just for fun?
If I sound bitter, it’s not because in all my twenty-eight years of life, I’ve never won the trophy. Or even come close. No, the slight chip on my shoulder is because, just once, I’d like to celebrate the holidays like I’m in one of those Hallmark movies with my loving family gathered around a cozy fireplace singing carols while big, fluffy snowflakes flutter outside the frosted window.
But that will never happen. Because my family can’t sing carols without turning it into a Christmas episode ofThe Voice. And it never snows in Los Angeles.
Veronica sets down the icing and reaches for the sifter of powdered sugar to add a dusting of saccharine snow to her creation. Her hand collides with Matt, who had the same idea.
“Excuse me, but I’m using that.” Veronica tightens her grip on the sifter.
“Correction.I’musing it.” Matt gives a little tug, eliciting a puffy white cloud.
I lean back in my chair, nibbling on a Twizzler as I watch the scene unfold. Even though they’re both in their early thirties, Veronica and Matt bicker like toddlers. Unless they’re picking on me, of course. That’s a united effort.
“No,Iam.” Veronica gives the handle a hard yank, and a powdery plume explodes across the table like a sweetly scented volcanic eruption.
“Great. Look what you did.” Matt brushes the front of his cable-knit sweater, but only manages to make a bigger mess.
Watching in amusement, I drag the unchewed end of my licorice stick through the silky coating covering the plaid tablecloth, absentmindedly tracing an outline of a snow angel.
“Me?” Veronica cries indignantly. “This isyourfault! Look what you did to my gingerbread house. You buried it under an avalanche.”
“Yeah, well, mine looks like it was obliterated by a blizzard. So, I guess we’re even,” Matt huffs.
Veronica pouts for a full thirty seconds before her lips curl into a smirk. “Well, I guess it could be worse. Our gingerbread houses could look like Quincy’s. What’s it supposed to be, anyway? A replica of the Roman ruins?”
Matt snorts. “Don’t be obtuse. Can’t you tell she’s making an artistic statement?”
“Oh, right.” Veronica nods, playing up the joke. “What’s your masterpiece called?” she asks me with mock sincerity. “Deconstructed Gingerbread House?”
They share a laugh.
“Ha-ha. You two are hilarious.” I roll my eyes and take a nonchalant bite of the Twizzler, forgetting I’d just dipped it in sugar.Gross. There really is such a thing as too sweet.
I’d like to say their insults are out of jealousy, but the truth is, my gingerbread house—if you can even call it a house—would be condemned by any self-respecting building inspector. I doubt the lopsided roof could withstand a light throat-clearing from the Big Bad Wolf, let alone a full-blown huff and puff. But you want to know the truly sad part? It’s probably my best attempt to date. I am not gifted in the fine art of transforming baked goods into a home befitting the Borrowers.
I push back my chair and stand.
“Come on, Quincy. We’re only teasing. Don’t leave,” Veronica cajoles, doing her best to appear contrite. “We’ll be good. Right, Matt?”
“Scout’s honor.” He raises three fingers in the Boy Scout salute, even though he was never a member.
For a moment, I consider sitting back down. Despite the lifetime that has proven otherwise, a small part of me wants to believe in a Christmas miracle—that for once, we can enjoy a holiday together without the backhanded insults lobbed in my direction like verbal snowballs. Snowballs with hidden rocks in the center.
But before I can decide my next move, Mom sashays out of the kitchen carrying a silver platter of her infamous fruitcake. I know the iconic dessert gets a lot of flak this time of year, and the wisecracks are endless, but when it comes to my mother’s recipe, they’re all true. It’s basically concrete in loaf form, sprinkled with a few dried cranberries that, frankly, deserve better.
“Okay, kids. Time for fruitcake,” she announces in a singsong voice.
Matt and Veronica unabashedly groan, and my mother’s smile falters.
Deidre Carmichael has only one flaw. And it’s her inedible fruitcake. But despite the fact that one bite could crack the toughest of tooth enamel, she puts her heart and soul into it every year.
