In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,24
of bark that will become our monkey’s ears. “Maybe we do a monkey?” I hold them to the sides of my head, demonstrating.
With a smile, he digs into the box and brandishes the two arm-shaped squash that will fit our monkey perfectly. We grin wildly at each other. We are geniuses!
“Be cool,” he whispers quickly, wrangling his smile under control. We share a subtle fist-bump.
At first, we’re all working in our respective areas, ignoring what everyone else is doing because it takes a while for the lumps of snow to start looking like anything specific. But as time goes on—around when the twins get bored and start making snowballs nearby—we get more competitive. Each team glances over their shoulders more frequently. We all start to whisper and point. No one is eager for a dinner of sinewy chuck, and we have to know which team we’ll need to beat.
Nearly forty-five minutes in, the monkey is coming out even better than I could have imagined—even better than she did last time. Her ears are just big enough to make her look cartoonish and cuddly. I managed to snag some beautiful tortoiseshell buttons that make her eyes look dark and luminous. Andrew is gifted with the butter knife, apparently, because he’s alternating between heating it up with a lighter and carefully carving out her features. Her nose and mouth are perfect. Look what we can do when we actually put in effort!
And maybe cheat. Just a little.
“It’s too wet.”
I look up at Andrew when he says this. “What’s too wet?”
Swallowing audibly, Andrew uses the butter knife to point to where I’m struggling to get the monkey’s tail to curl up and back over itself. It crumbles every time I dig out the extra snow. “You have a moisture problem.”
The words bounce back and forth between us, growing louder somehow in the ringing silence. His eyes twinkle with repressed laughter, and finally, unable to hold it in anymore, we both break.
“Did you just tell me I have a moisture problem?”
He can’t stop laughing. “No—yes.”
“Are you broken, Andrew Polley Hollis?”
He doubles over. “I promise I’ve never said that to a woman before.”
Pressing my hand to my chest, I say, “What an absolute honor to be the first.” I wave him over. “Come help me with this.”
“With your moisture problem?”
“Andrew.”
He crawls over, eyes glimmering as they meet mine. I want to capture this moment. I want to put it in a snow globe and be able to see it just like this, forever.
We decide to name our monkey Thea, because we want to reach peak trolling levels with Theo when we win. I make sure to stand to the side often, looking like I’m thinking really hard about my next step. Andrew catches what I’m doing and gives me an approving smirk.
Our bait works beautifully. Ricky meanders over, eyes Thea. “What is that?”
I see his trash talk and knock it down, coyly running a finger beneath her artistically sculpted jaw. “You know exactly what it is. Her name is Thea, but I like to think of her as filet mignon.”
He tilts his head, walking in a wide circle around her. I can tell he’s shocked and impressed; Andrew and I are bringing our A-game.
Finally Ricky speaks, but it comes out with a jealous edge. “I don’t know, Mae. Have you seen our bear?”
Giving it a brief glance, Andrew says, “Oh, that bark-covered lump of snow over there?”
“Hey, that’s going to be my masterpiece!” With a laugh, Mom throws a loose snowball in Andrew’s direction.
Unfortunately, at that exact moment, Dad stands up about halfway between them and the snowball hits him with a thud, squarely on the side of his neck. The ice slides under his collar, and I see a big puff of it disappear beneath his sweater.
My stomach drops. Mom is lighthearted and fun-loving. Dad is . . . well, he is not. He is kind but sensitive, and never good at being the butt of a joke.
Please, I think. Don’t fight. Don’t derail this day.
Mom playfully singsongs, “Oops! Did I hit you, Dan?”
The group holds its collective breath. Mom, unfazed, does a saucy little dance. This woman is playing with fire.
Holding eye contact, Dad bends to collect and form a perfect—and terrifyingly compact—snowball. I deflate in relief when he stands and I see that he’s grinning. When he tosses the snowball at her, I swear it whistles ominously through the air, missing her by only inches.
Mom screeches in delight. Dad laughs, bending to