“I do care.” I set down my fork. “I just don’t see how caring will change things. And I used to be okay with it, because maybe I didn’t understand the full breadth of responsibilities of Christmas, maybe there was more at work than what I was seeing—but god, anymore, that’s not true.”
Iris watches me carefully. “How so?”
“Okay.” I guess I’m doing this. “You mentioned old traditions, right? I remember when I was younger, and Kris and I studied Christmas’s history—which we haven’t in years, and it was disappointing to stop, because I did used to love it—”
“You did?”
“Yeah. That was before you.” Before Mom left. Before everything changed.
God, I haven’t thought about this old version of me in… years. Even starting to now has a piece of me lighting up helplessly, a spirited levity in my chest.
“We learned about stuff like our noble houses. The Luminarias and the Jacobs, the Frosts, the Carolers—how they developed from different pockets of joy created by Christmas in different communities across the world. There are hundreds more different cultural touches that combine or can combine to create a celebration that’s encompassing, not justeasy.But no one ever talks about it? All the shit we put out is the same old regurgitated stuff that only fits one set type of person.”
“Yeah, exactly.” Iris screws the lid back onto one of the polishes. “We could be doing so much more. But wearen’t.My dad and yourskeep saying how this merger of our Holidays will change things, but my dad has never taken any other steps to improve things beyond a generic ploy forexpansion.His complacency grows each year and I don’t know how to break out of it.”
“It isn’t just your dad.”
Iris’s face squishes. “Speak for your own Holiday.”
“I mean—it isn’t just at the top. You know how most of my friends back at school see Christmas? The same way I do—not wanting to go home, not wanting to deal with their families, hoping maybe they’ll get a cool gift to soften the stress of whatever arguments they get into. And here I find out that that attitude is exactly what my dad’s been letting fester, because he’d rather focus on the commodification of Christmas so he can stretch our resources than narrow in on making our Holiday resonate with anything meaningful. But would itbemeaningful? Would anything we provide really resonate, really be able to make anything in this worldbetter?”
Iris frowns. “We do. We make people—”
“Happy. I know. But what good is one day of happiness when it’s proven over and over again that it does jack all to stop anything bad from happening? Would we be better to siphon off all the money and assets we have to charities? Wouldn’tthatdo more?”
“Christmas is involved with charities. I know you are.”
“Yeah, we are. But it’s a negligible amount, in the big scheme of things. And the sad thing is, the small percent we kick off to charities probably does more good than all of the other shit we peddle combined. Because at the end of the day, what would people rather have: a white Christmas and a single day of magical feelings, or a roof over their head?”
Iris rocks to the side. “I’ve never heard you talk like this.”
I sit back in the chair—I’d leaned forward, shoulders caved in—and have to take a breath to fight the tightness welling in my lungs. “Yeah. Well. I guess I don’t tell you everything either.”
She exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about switching my class load. It isn’t a big deal.”
That isn’t exactly what I was referring to, but I’ll take it. “Would you stop saying that? It is. It’s allowed to be. You’re allowed to be pissed about your dad forcing your life to go a certain way.”
“I’mnotthough.” She waves the polish bottle around to encompass something intangible. “I don’t hate my classes. Some of them are interesting. Andapplicable.Did I tell you I was at the top of my statistics class?”
I yank my head back, face fully wide in revulsion. “Oh, god, Iris, this is so much worse than I thought. I might stage an intervention for you.”
“And”—she inches closer, all conspicuous—“Ilikedit.”
“No onelikesstatistics. It’s philosophy but with numbers.”
Her face screws up. “What? No, it isn’t.”
“Yeah—it’s all theoretical shit. If you can argue well, you can get any answer you want.”
That confused look breaks on a chuckle. “If that’s what you think statistics is, it’s really no wonder you bombed it.”
“I eventually passed.” Barely. “My point is that liking statistics is a cry for help.”
“Well, I must be screaming for help, because I liked my philosophy classes too.”
I mimic throwing up. Violently. “I have failed you, utterly, to let your mind become so corrupted by the educational enticements of—” My eyes finally land on my right hand. “You painted my nails black and orange.”
She smirks. “Figured you should pay homage to a certain Halloween guest.”
