Santa's Playbook

“Why does everybody keep saying that?” Juliette said, shoving the dog off her chest to haul herself upright in the field of giant red-and-hot-pink flowers. She’d thought this was the coolest bedding ever when she’d been ten and Mom had surprised her with the makeover that banished the cutesy Winnie-the-Pooh stuff of her childhood. And it wasn’t that she hated it, exactly. But it was time for a change, maybe.

The dog flopped over, baring his pink belly. Sighing, Juliette obliged, which of course made him crunch forward to madly lick her hand. “I’m not in a bad mood,” she muttered.

“Uh-huh.” Rosie swept her nearly black hair over her shoulder as she shifted on the bed, her math book open on her lap. Pale green eyes, eerie against Rosie’s dark skin, met Juliette’s. Like her, Rosie was also the eldest. Only she had six siblings. All boys. As crazy as it got here, it was ten times worse at Rosie’s. “So you gonna tell me why you’re pissed, or what?”

Even two days later it still stung that she had to admit Miss Jacobs was right—that whatever was gonna happen, or not, Juliette couldn’t influence it one way or the other. Unfortunately, this flew in the face not only of everything Mom had ever said about people being in charge of their own destiny, but of Juliette’s naturally impatient nature.

Something she doubted Rosie, who was the most laid-back person ever, would understand. The upside to this was that nine times out of ten Rosie was like “sure, whatever” about pretty much anything Juliette suggested. Theirs was definitely a symbiotic relationship. But being from a family in which everybody apparently lived to some ridiculous age—she had a great-grandmother who was like a hundred and five, yeesh—Rosie couldn’t possibly understand the huge honking hole inside Juliette that only seemed to grow larger every day. Instead of closing up, like you’d expect. Like she’d hoped.

“It’s just...stuff,” she said, grabbing her own math book and loose-leaf binder from the foot of the bed, smacking both open. “I’ll deal. So...what did you think of the cast choices for the holiday play?”

Some Dr. Seuss version of A Christmas Carol. Hysterical. And it had a gazillion parts, so lots of kids could be in it. Even if for only a few minutes. Like her and Rosie. Because lead roles only went to juniors and seniors.

“They all sounded okay during the read-through, I guess,” Rosie said. “Although I’d like to swat that smarmy smile off whatshername’s face.” Juliette smiled, knowing exactly who Rosie meant. Amber Fortunato. Big hair, bigger boobs, Daddy owned a BMW dealership. ’Nuff said. “But her boyfriend? The dude who’s playing Scrooge’s nephew? What’s his name?”

Juliette’s cheeks prickled. “Scott Jenkins?” she said, staring really hard at the first problem. She’d paid attention in class, honest to God, but she still didn’t get it.

“Yeah, Scott. He is so frickin’ cute. I could totally lick ice cream from those dimples. And those blue eyes... Le sigh.”

Honestly. Whatever popped into Rosie’s head slid right out of her mouth a second later. Juliette might be impatient, but she wasn’t impulsive. She did think things through before she said/did them. Mostly.

“He’s a junior,” she said, still staring at the book. Still blushing. “Out of our league. Not to mention, hello? Amber?”

“Please. I give that two weeks, tops.” Rosie tilted her head. “And you do know your face is about the same color as those flowers, right?”

“Shut. Up.”

“So you should totally ask him out.”

Juliette’s eyes slid to Rosie’s.

“Okay, so in two weeks. When my prediction proves true.”

“Right. Because even if Scott didn’t laugh in my face, Dad would kill me. And then him, for accepting. Then me again, to make sure I got the point.”

“So what if he asked you out? You know, after he and Amber split and he’s all looking for someone to heal his wounds and stuff.”

Juliette sighed. Because as much as she hated to admit it, that particular fantasy had crossed her mind a time or twenty. But still... “Slightly different order, same outcome. We’d both be dead. You know I can’t date yet, Rosie. Not until I’m sixteen. And in any case...” She glared at the book again. Nope, not making any more sense than it did five minutes ago. “I’ve got too much else on my mind right now.”

“Like what?”

“Like passing geometry, for one thing.”

“So get a tutor. And for another?”

Juliette blew a slow breath through her nose. Yeah, Miss Jacobs had said she could talk to her anytime, and Juliette knew she meant it. But when, exactly, would that happen? At school? And anyway, their previous conversation hadn’t actually solved anything, had it—?

“Jules?” her dad said, knocking at the partly open door. His face looked pinched, like always. “Dinner’s ready in ten minutes. You staying, Rosie?”

“If it’s okay...?”

“Carmela brought over a tuna casserole. There’s enough for half the town.”

Rosie giggled. “I’ll ask my mom, but sure. Thanks.”

Dad left the door ajar like before, the floor creaking underneath the carpet as he walked away. Rosie’s eyes cut to Juliette’s before she leaned forward and whispered, “Is your dad okay? He looks exhausted.”

“So it’s not my imagination.”

“No... Oh. You’re worried about him, huh?”

Juliette supposed it was normal for a kid who’s lost a parent to worry more about the one who’s left. So she nodded, then basically repeated what she’d said to Miss Jacobs on Saturday—with a few adjustments to cover her butt—and Rosie got this totally understanding look on her face, a lot like when she’d heard Juliette’s mom had died, and she’d come right over and they’d hugged for like ten minutes, crying their eyes out. Rosie might have her shallow moments, but they’d been friends for so long for a reason.

Her friend sighed. “I can’t imagine how Papi would cope without Mama. Speaking of which...” She dug her phone out of her purse, texted her mother. “She’s, like, his life. And yeah, she says I can stay. But...I have...to help with the dishes.” She rolled her eyes, then texted a two-letter reply, returned her attention to Juliette. “You do know you can’t fix this, right? That it’s your dad’s life?”

“Pretty much what Miss Jacobs said—”

“Omigod—” Rosie sucked in a breath, then lowered her voice. “Please don’t tell me you tried fixing up them up? God, Jules, Miss Elliot was bad enough, but Miss Jacobs? Seriously?”

“Okay, setting aside that we all agree I shouldn’t be trying to fix up Dad with anybody—”

“Ya think?”

“—what’s wrong with Miss Jacobs?”

“Her? Not a thing. She’s one of the coolest teachers ever. But have you met your father, chica? He’s a good man, don’t get me wrong—and he’s a hottie, too—”

“Jeez, Rosie, boundaries.”

“Hey. These eyes, they know what they see. But I can’t imagine two people more wrong for each other. Don’t forget, I remember your mom. She and Miss Jacobs... Like two different species. Think about it—she’s all bubbly and goofy and whatnot, and your dad’s...not. And neither was your mom. Get real, Jules—”

“It’s okay, I’m over it. My matchmaking days are done.”

“You swear?”

Juliette crossed her heart. “It’s just...” She flopped back on the bed again. Barney belly-crawled over to lay his chin on her stomach. “It’s Christmas coming, you know? Mom... She loved everything about it, practically turned herself inside out to make sure it was great. The baking, the decorations, the way Christmas carols were always playing...”

“I remember. This was always, like, the coolest house on the block.” Rosie snorted. “My poor mom, she does well to remember to buy those sucky grocery store cookies. Not that the boys care—if it’s sugarfied, they’ll eat it.”

“Same here,” Juliette said with a tight grin, then blew out a shaky breath. “Even after I figured out Santa wasn’t real, Mom still made it magic somehow. Sure, I can make cookies and decorate and put on those old CDs and stuff. Except it’s not the same. It’s like...” She turned to Rosie. “Like she took the magic with her.”

“I get why you think that, Jules,” Rosie said, her eyes all kind. “I do. But to say the magic died with her?” She shook her head, hard, making her curls shiver. “That’s stupid.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s true. I mean, sure, your mom might’ve expressed the magic, but it’s not like she owned it or anything. Because it’s all around us. In all of us—”

Dad called them for dinner; her friend pushed her books aside, then hoisted herself to her feet, brushing cookie crumbs off her expansive chest. “My abuelita always says, the more you try to tell the universe what you want, the harder it is to see what the universe is already trying to give you. We don’t have to make stuff happen. We only have to let it.”