The Tori Trilogy (14 page)

Mom bustles out from the kitchen, greeting our guests and helping Auntie Luz with the pans of corn bread she baked to go with our chili. Ben offers to take coats, which he and Nate fling onto hangers in the entryway closet. Joey wanders in to say hi and ends up playing with little Sofie, who is wearing the cutest stretchy Christmas headband.

In the flurry of excitement, we barely hear the doorbell ring again.

“It's Abuelito and Abuelita!” I cry, peering through the frosty glass of the front door.

Joey flings it open this time, welcoming our grandparents, who drove in from Cicero.

Abuelito is a strong, sturdy old man with a full head of thick white hair and dark eyes that dance with laughter. Abuelita has her long gray hair twisted into an elegant bun at the back of her head, and soft caramel skin creased with wrinkles. She dresses neatly and carefully, holds her head high, and is one of the classiest (and kindest) ladies I know.

Tonight, her arms are full of
panettones
and a big chocolate pot stocked with ingredients.

“Let me take those, Abuelita,” Nate offers, pulling them from her arms. Ben helps her off with her coat, and Abuelita beams at both of them.

“Gracias, mis
cari
ños
(Thank you, my dears),” she says.

Dad jogs down from upstairs, freshly showered and changed, in time to greet his parents. He helps with the coats and the taking of things to the kitchen, while I stand in the chilly entryway, chatting with my family.

“Are Andrew and Stephanie here yet?” Gina asks, peering past me into the living room.

“Not yet,” I reply. “They should be coming any minute now.”

Less than ten seconds later, as though they read my mind, my oldest brother and his wife appear on the front porch, their faces aglow in the soft light of the Christmas wreath on the door.

“Yes!”
I exclaim, welcoming them in. “You're here! Let's get this party started!” What can I say? I'm excited!

I fly first into Andrew's arms, and he swings me up into a bear hug. At twenty-four, he is my favorite brother and the only one I consistently get along with. His brown hair is cut short, stylish but practical, and his jaw is strong and square with the beginnings of a goatee. Andrew teaches English at a high school not far from his and Stephanie's apartment, about half-an-hour out of Forest Grove.

I hug Stephanie next, careful of her big baby-belly. My sister-in-law teaches middle-school English in the same school district. She is also beautiful, with thick, shiny blonde hair and eyes the color of the ocean. I
adore
her.

“How's my wittle niece?” I croon, smoothing my hands over the bulge in her maternity sweater.

Stephanie laughs. “You're going to be awfully disappointed if this baby turns out to be a boy,” she says.

“We-e-ell,” I drag out the word, not sure how to answer.

Andrew plucks at a strand of my hair. “Better prepare yourself, Tori,” he warns. “According to one source in particular, this baby
is
a boy.”

My skin prickles in alarm.
“You found out?”
I gasp. “I thought you both wanted it to be a surprise!”

“Relax,” Stephanie tells me, slipping off her black-wool jacket and draping it over Nate's outstretched arm. “Nothing's official yet.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Nate asks, hanging the jacket in the closet.

“She had a pencil test,” explains Andrew.

“A
what
test?” I shriek.

Stephanie smiles. “It might sound crazy, but one of my coworkers swears by it. She's given it to every pregnant woman she knows, and she's been wrong only once.”

“How does it work?” Nate, Gina, and I ask together.

“Double-jinx!” Nate cries.

Gina giggles, but I'm too tense to laugh.

Stephanie explains that the pencil test involves threading a needle, pushing the needle into the eraser end of a sharpened pencil, and dangling the pencil by the thread above the wrist of a pregnant woman. Without anyone doing a thing, the pencil will start to move all by itself. If it swings around in circles, the baby is a girl. If it swings in a straight line, the baby is a boy.

“Sounds like witchcraft,” jokes Nate.

“Apparently there's science to it,” Andrew replies. “Something to do with the bloodstream.”

I find this incredibly interesting. “So your coworker gave you the pencil test, and it said you were having a boy?” I ask Stephanie.

She wrinkles her nose sympathetically. “It
has
been known to be wrong.”

“Yeah,” I reply dully.
“One
time.”

I wander from the entryway into the living room, stopping in front of the fireplace, where the crackling flames seem to leap with hope.

Please,
I pray, squeezing my eyes shut tight.
Please let that pencil test be wrong.

Chapter Three

As hungry as I am after not having eaten since my big breakfast at Shelly's Place, I am unable to force down more than a few spoonfuls of black-bean chili, half a square of corn bread, and a small blob of the orange-pineapple Jell-O salad Stephanie made.

My mind is too busy worrying and my heart is too busy colliding against my ribcage. That baby just
can
't
be a boy!

When the meal is over and the tables have been cleared, we all gather in the living room to decorate the Christmas tree. Dad pokes the fire back to life, and Mom turns on a Christmas CD. The evening is picture-perfect, from the golden glow of the fireplace to the happy laughter of my family members as they set to work untangling cords of colored lights and slipping ornaments from their beds of tissue paper.

Earlier on, I was brimming with holiday spirit. But now, I can't seem to even muster a smile. If I don't get a brand-new niece, my biggest Christmas wish won't come true. And my biggest Christmas wish has
always
come true, as many years back as I can remember. When I was six, it was a Barbie dream house. Check. When I was seven, it was a kitten. Ebony joined the family. When I was eight, I asked for a karaoke machine. That Christmas, I was the star of the show. Last year, when I was nine, I wanted an MP3 player more than anything. Done.

But babies, I realize, are
much
more complicated. You can't just go out and buy one at the store.
I'd like a baby girl, please, seven pounds four ounces, with soft brown hair and a rosebud mouth.
Unfortunately, you have to take what you get.

I sigh heavily, sit down cross-legged by a box of ornaments, and begin to riffle through it as Dad, Abuelito, and Uncle Gabe string the lights on the tree.

I find the ugly felt angel I smeared with glitter way back in kindergarten, the equally ugly Play-Do cut-out ornaments I made in first grade, and the
horrific
plastic-spoon Santa Claus Joey made when
he
was in first grade. I find a ceramic teddy bear holding a sign that says “Baby's First Christmas” along with the year Andrew was born, the holly-wreath ornament Ben bought for Mom when he was ten, the tiny crystal wedding bells that were Mom and Dad's first Christmas tree decoration. I find the red glass ball with “Congrats, Grad!” and the date of Nate's high-school graduation painted below it, the flimsy silver snowflake I discovered lying in the yard one dreary January after our tree had been put out at the curb, the package of plastic candy canes Dad picked up for almost nothing last Christmas Eve.

In some ways, our ornaments are better than flipping through a photo album. I like knowing that they're packed up safe in the same boxes, year after year, carefully stored on shelves in the basement, until Christmastime, with all its sparkle and good cheer, comes around once more.

But this year, even the ornaments can't make me smile.

Gina crosses the room and sits next to me. “Don't be sad, Tori,” she whispers. “I bet anything that baby will be a girl. What does a silly pencil know, anyway?”

At last, I feel an upward tug at the corners of my lips. I'm grateful to my cousin for knowing me so well. “You're right,” I agree, my spirits lifting. “It's just a stupid piece of wood!”

When the tree is finally decorated, shimmering with all the colors of the Christmas lights, glittering with garland and tinsel, sparkling with ornaments, and crowned by a lit-up star, Dad flips the light switch, plunging the living room into darkness.

The tree spreads its fairy glow over my family, and I feel a lump of admiration rise in my throat. I know I say this every year, but it's the most beautiful tree we've ever had!

Abuelita scurries into the kitchen, returning moments later with an enormous tray of sliced
panettone,
dessert plates, and napkins. Mom follows her, carrying a tray of mugs filled with the spicy hot chocolate Abuelita prepared, and Auntie Luz follows
her
with yet
another
tray of mugs.

We all sit around, bathed by the glow of the lights, sipping the warm mugs of rich deliciousness, munching
panettone,
and enjoying the beauty of the Christmas lights inside and the Christmas lights outside, reflected in the glass of the windows.

“I have news,” Abuelita announces suddenly.

Everyone looks at her with interest.

“This year,” she begins importantly, “the
entire
Salinas family will be together for Christmas.”

“What do you mean, Abuelita?” asks Joey.

Abuelita sets her plate aside, smiling meaningfully at Abuelito. “Today, we received a telephone call. Now it seems that both Javier
and
Crista will be with us for the holidays.”

Everyone talks at once.

“Crista
never
comes for Christmas,” says Auntie Luz.

“Where will they all stay?” Andrew wonders.

“That's wonderful!” cries Mom.

“It's going to be a
big
Christmas,” says Uncle Gabe.

“How perfect,” adds Dad, “that this is Javi's year to come to Chicago. Now we'll all be together!” Looking at his face, I can see how much he misses his siblings.

I'm as pleased as the rest of the family. Uncle Javi, Aunt Leilani, and my three cousins from California fly out here every other year for the holidays. They spend the in-between years celebrating Christmas on the Hawaiian island of Kauai, where Aunt Leilani's relatives are.

Auntie Crista, Uncle Kevin, and my seventeen-year-old twin cousins from Ohio typically spend every Thanksgiving here, but never Christmas! Christmas is reserved, for some unfair reason, by Uncle Kevin's side of the family.

But not this year!

“It's going to be
great!”
I exclaim, almost (but not quite) forgetting about the baby for the time being.

Abuelito clears his throat, catching all of our attention. “Andrew asked an important question,” he says, glancing at my oldest brother.

“I did?” Andrew's eyebrows rise.

“You asked where everyone was going to stay,” Stephanie reminds him.

“That
is
a good question,” says Ben. “Where are they going to stay?”

“There isn't room for both families at Abuelito and Abuelita's,” Gina puts in.

“Claro que
s
í
, nieta
(You're right, granddaughter),” Abuelito tells her. He catches Abuelita's eye.

She clears her throat. “Because of this, we wonder...” her voice trails as she glances from Auntie Luz and Uncle Gabe to Mom and Dad.

Mom gives her no chance to finish the sentence. “We have room here for one of the families,” she offers generously.

My mouth drops open. As excited as I am to see my uncles, aunts, and cousins from out of town, I don't necessarily want them staying at my house over Christmas! Running downstairs on Christmas morning with messy hair and p.j.'s to unstuff stockings and open presents is a private, immediate-family type of thing. It just won't be the same with outsiders there!

I feel mean thinking that, but I can't help it. “Mo-o-om,” I start to protest.

She clamps a hand on my arm as a warning.

I don't need to be told twice.

“Are you sure, Susan?” Auntie Luz asks Mom. “Because we'd be more than happy to--”

“I'm absolutely sure,” Mom tells her. “We have more room here.”

“It'll be a lot of fun!” agrees Dad.

Abuelita smiles warmly.
“Gracias, mis hijos.
(Thank you, my children.) This will be the best Christmas ever, no?”

My thoughts turn stormy once more. I think about that stupid pencil test and wonder if maybe it
was
right, after all. I think about sharing my Christmas morning with extended family members who don't belong there. I, for one, seriously doubt that this will be the best Christmas ever. Bah, humbug!

The days speed into December. On Monday evening, we celebrate Joey's fourteenth birthday at his all-time favorite restaurant, Gianmarco's Italian Kitchen and Pizzeria. Unfortunately, he invited along his best friends, a pair of obnoxious eighth-graders named Parker and Bret. The three of them together equal a
very
unpleasant meal, at least for me.

On Tuesday afternoon, I help Mom decorate and bake a batch of Christmas sugar cookies. I use cookie-cutters to shape the rolled-out dough into reindeer, Santa Clauses, snowmen, stars, and Christmas trees. It isn't as much fun as it usually is. I have a lot on my mind. I shake green sprinkles over a Christmas tree cut-out and sigh.

Mom glances my way. “What's the matter, Tori?” she asks. By the tone of her voice, I can tell she has a good guess.

“Christmas,” I grumble. “It's not going to be any fun this year.”

“Victoria Michelle!” My mother's voice rises dangerously. “How can you say a thing like that? Do you have any idea how blessed you are, how many people there are in this lonely world who would give anything to be in your shoes?”

I
hate
that line, probably because I know it's true. “But, Mom,” I whine, “Christmas just won't be the same!”