Nothing, technically I just haven’t talked to him in a few days
Which I guess sounds psycho but we always talk
And he hasn’t answered my texts
Like I asked him a direct question and . . .
silence

Do you know his parents? Lulu asks. Could you call them?

I don’t have their number
His dad and privacy, you know

Lulu does. She kicks her feet restlessly, irritated. A shopping bag that was sitting at the end of her bed tumbles to the floor. When she retrieves it, it has a card that reads SURPRISE! in her mother’s familiar loopy handwriting tied to one of the handles. She pulls out the bag’s contents and stifles a groan.

She and her mother and Naomi have spent every Christmas for years now at a spa in Koreatown, their own personal version of Chinese food and a movie. They sit and soak; they get wrapped; they get pedicures. They come home and eat vegan ice cream and watch Love, Actually.

It’s corny, but it’s fun too: It’s a good reminder that as stressful as her family is, it could be worse. They could have to celebrate Christmas, with its gift-buying demands, and nightmare travel scenarios. This idea that twenty-four straight hours can be sugar-sweet and picture perfect. What they have is wildly imperfect, but at least it’s theirs.

It’s just that this year, her mother has given her a pair of sweatpants with SHAPIRO emblazoned across the ass, and Lulu is ninety-nine percent sure that she and Naomi are going to be expected to parade around the spa in matching outfits. With their mom.

Lulu returns to her phone. Cass hasn’t said anything else. Lulu hates the idea of her having a shitty Christmas because Ryan’s in a mood. So she asks, Can I do anything?

Cass replies:

That’s why I texted, actually
We have family Christmas stuff this morning & evening but I sort of want to go over to his house in between
Just to check
Again I know I’m being crazy

I’ll come, Lulu texts, before she really considers whether this is possible or not. Her mom isn’t usually a huge stickler about family traditions, but then they only have this one, and Lulu’s never tried to get out of it before.

On the other hand, she actually has a present to give Cass, so if it works out, it’s kind of perfect.

Thank you so much, Lu.
I’ll pick you up around 1?

Lulu confirms with Cass and then goes to Naomi’s room.

Naomi looks like a cat who’s been stuffed into a dress: a haunted and miserable creature. Her hair is pulled back into a low, tight ponytail, and its no-nonsense severity is especially ridiculous—almost pathetically inadequate—against the force of the word Shapiro written in hot pink across her butt.

“This is a nightmare,” Naomi says. “This is my personal, private nightmare.”