April makes an understanding hum. “I know you don’t want to live with Mom and Dad. But you could still move in with us. We have plenty of room, and I bet you could sublet your apartment.”
I stayed with my parents for a few weeks after moving out of Grandma’s house. They live in Astoria, and it’s not like they charged me rent or anything, but I can only deal with my mother in small doses, so it was never going to be a permanent solution.
After yet another Sunday morning fight with Mom over going to church—she wanted me to go, and I didn’t—Dad called in a favor with an old friend and hooked me up with this place. The floors creak like they’re in a haunted house and the kitchen appliances are ancient, but it’s rent stabilized and all mine.
Even if it doesn’t quite feel like home yet.
“That’s really nice of you,” I tell April. “But I’m not ready to leave New York.” And as much as I love my sister, her well-intentioned but intrusive questions would get on my last nerve.
“I just want you to know it’s an option, okay?”
“Thanks. Oh, I’m getting another call,” I lie.
“Have fun at the party. I want to hear all about it later. And make good choices!”
I suppress a good-natured eye roll. She’s been telling me that for as long as I can remember. “I will. Bye,Mom.”
“Ouch. Point taken. Bye!”
I hang up and put the rest of my lunch in the fridge. Then I finally tackle the dishes in the sink.
These are the moments when I miss my grandmother the most. When it’s quiet, when I’m alone, when I don’t have a deadline breathing down my neck. It’s easier to stay busy than face the grief of my first Christmas without her.
The ornaments in storage? They’re hers. I had decided to keep them even before my uncle sold the house out from under me, so I didn’t tell anyone I had them.
But I can’t face seeing them anywhere other than the fake tree in her living room.
So the fact that Mrs. Greene thought of me and took the time to make these ornaments,by hand, means more than I will ever be able to convey to her.
Still, I have to thank her somehow.
I think about it while I finish the dishes and do my daily fifteen-minute yoga routine. I want to make something in return. Another ornament? No, that feels derivative. A drawing? Maybe.
Then it hits me. Christmas is a week away, and I haven’t done any baking yet. While I’m not much of a cook, I enjoy the precision of baking. You follow each step and when it’s done, you have something delicious and heartwarming. I’ll find out Mrs. Greene’s favorite dessert and make it for her.
With my mind made up and my body loose and limber, I turn my attention toward the other order of business: prepping for the party in 5B.
Riding high on the endorphins of hitting my deadline, and maybe a lingering sense of empowerment inspired by Starsong’s own story arc, I rummage through my dresser and tiny closet. It’s not enough to just look pretty; I want to embrace my creativity and do somethingmemorable.
While rifling through a bin of cold-weather gear, I’m hit with a brilliant flash of insight.
If I sacrifice this white scarf and this red sweater ...
After a quick image search on my computer, I grab a pair of scissors and a hot glue gun.
A short time later, with my costume complete, I slick on some mascara and wine-red lipstick. Then I trim my bangs and use a curling iron on the ends of my hair. I pin up the sides with a couple of claw clips and leave the rest hanging loose.
With my hair and makeup done, I wrestle my boobs into a strapless push-up bra and pull on a pair of black jeans so tight I know I’ll feel the urge to pee every time I sit down. But this is a minor inconvenience, because they make my butt look fantastic.
And now, it’s time for the pièce de résistance.
I’ve trimmed the neckline and wrists of a red V-neck sweater with pieces of a fluffy white scarf. I tug the sweater over my head, taking care not to mess up my hair or makeup, and tuck the hem into my jeans. After cinching a stretchy black belt around my waist, I turn to admire the results in the mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door.
“There you are,” I say to the mirror. For the first time in a while, I feel like more than Evie C., the cute and quirky comic book illustrator.
I’m Ivelisse Cruz, the grown-ass adult who knows what she wants and goes after it.
I am wearing Mariah Carey’s iconic red Santa outfit from the 1994 music video for “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Or as close to it as I can manage, using items found in my closet.
