Chapter 1

2015

“Kiss Uncle Auden, Merry,” my sister Emily says to her daughter, purses her lips, and make kissy sounds to show Merry what she means. Merry, fourteen months old, with adorable black hair resembling a punk mohawk—no matter how hard Emily tries to tame it—clashing spectacularly with the pink frilly dress she’s wearing, smacks her tiny hands on my cheeks and giggles when my beard tickles her palms. She looks intently at me, opens her mouth and tilts her head, and gives me a wet, sopping kiss. My mouth, my beard, and my chin all end up drenched as the rest of my loud family cheers her on and shouts “Good girl!”

I blow a raspberry on Merry’s cheek, ruffle her hair, and set her on the floor where she toddles away. I snatch my phone from my sister’s grip—she took pictures of the kiss, of course—and get up and go to the bathroom to wash my face. As I towel off, someone starts the music in the living room, and my Granny’s all-time favorite Christmas song, “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer,” booms from the loudspeakers.

“Someone get me some eggnog,” Granny yells.

With a chuckle, I tiptoe through the house to the back door, get dressed in my outerwear, and sneak out.

The silence that follows after I close the door is wonderful and vital for my continued sanity. I slump against a porch post, heaving a deep, long, relievedsigh. Shaking my head, I snicker. I love my family to pieces, but a Whipple family Christmas is a loud and boisterous—and long—affair. We begin with breakfast here at my parents’ house, followed by gift-giving by my parents’ Disney-esque tree, then we just keep going through lunch and dinner until we crawl home and slip into food comas.

It starts off quiet enough—people aren’t all that chatty before the first few cups of coffee—but when we get going, we never stop. And when someone—usually Granny—breaks out the eggnog, all bets are off.

I adore my granny—she’s a fierce and spunky lady—but she’s the loudest of us all, especially after eggnog. It’s the only time of the year she drinks anything alcoholic, so it doesn’t take much to make her giggly. We always know when the tipsiness happens, because that’s when the singing starts.

She’ll make one of us put on “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer,” and listen to it on repeat as she sings along at the top of her voice and out of tune. She’s even made a routine for it: she lifts her glass of eggnog, roars out the word “eggnog” in the lyrics, then cackles like a madwoman. Then she looks expectantly at the rest of us, waiting for us to laugh. And we do, of course, because we love her, but if our chuckles become more polite than hearty after the tenth time, she doesn’t seem to notice.

I join in the fun, too, even though I’m not a sing-along kind of guy. I’m the quiet type, who’d much rather observe everyone, preferably with a sketchpad on my lap and a pencil in my hand, but it’s been a Whipple family Christmas tradition for as long as I can remember, and it wouldn’t be the same without it.

But now I’m in desperate need of a break and a few minutes of silence, which is why I snuck out. This, too, is a Whipple family tradition. They all pretend not to notice that I disappear from family gatherings unless I’m gone for too long; then someone—usually my younger sister Emily—will come find me and herd me back into the fold.

The chill in the air nips at me, and a shiver racks my body. I wind the thick neon-pink scarf I grabbed before fleeing around my neck—making sure it covers my ears—and shove my gloved hands into the pockets of my second-hand lavender peacoat. I should have worn my ultra-warm down jacket instead, but noooo, I had to look nice on Christmas. As though my family would care. Besides, they know I’m always cold and wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if I arrived wrapped in a thick blanket.

As a kid, I was all skin and bones, knees and elbows, and was constantly freezing, even in summer. It didn’t help when I reached puberty and shot up like a weed. These days I’m not rattling around like a skeleton anymore, but I’m still skinny. Talland skinny. And delicate. My wrists are stupidly slim, my shoulders bony and angular, and I have a thigh-gap that would make any model jealous. I try to hide my fine and narrow features by letting my black hair fall around my face, and by growing a beard. I’m pretty sure the facial hair doesn’t fool anyone since it’s as soft and swishy as the rest of me.