Get Real by Betty Hicks

off inside my head.
    â€œYour mom’s letting me play ‘Jingle Bells’!” I chirp with outward enthusiasm. Inside, I’m not only still annoyed, but I’m also feeling pretty majorly sorry for myself because Jil won’t be there to hear my official debut as an artist. Or to sneak a sip of gross-tasting adult eggnog and make gagging noises with me.
    â€œI know. I’m really sorry I won’t be there,” she says, not sounding like a commercial anymore, but sad, as if she truly is sorry. “But you can play it for me when I get back. Okay?”
    â€œDefinitely.” I hope I sound convincing. “Have fun. I’ll miss you.”
    â€œMe too. See ya!”
    *   *   *
    Three days later, December 23, I arrive at the Lewises with my parents. I’m super nervous because I want to sound good for them on the piano. I only know how to play the “Jingle Bell” melody—no chords—but it’s important that I get it right so they’ll know I’m serious about wanting a piano.
    When I practice alone, I get so excited about the song that’s magically coming out of my very own fingers that I swear I feel icy wind chilling my face. I hear laughing and singing and one-horse-open-sleigh runners gliding across soft snow. I even hear bells on bobtails ring, and I have not one single clue what a bobtail is. But I want my parents to hear it too.
    They’re still calling my piano playing a passing phase, but I know better.
    Mr. Lewis flings the front door wide open and greets my family. “Welcome, Denver! Merry Christmas, Dez! Scott! Linda! So glad you could come.” The aromas of warm candles, hot roast beef, and freshly baked bread fill the foyer while Mr. Lewis ushers us in from the cold as though we’re royalty. He’s wearing a Christmas tie with tiny reindeer on it, and a red handkerchief neatly tucked into the chest pocket of his sport coat. The coat fits him so perfectly, he looks as if he stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. Dad doesn’t have on a jacket, but he is wearing a white dress shirt with a cool bow tie, and even though the shirt’s a little wrinkled, he looks good … for Dad.
    Mom is not in her gray sweats. She does own a dress. Maybe two. This one’s shiny and the color of a dark ruby. I think it would look a lot better if she hemmed it four inches shorter, but she just hugs me and says, “Dez, I’m happy that you care. Really, I am.” Then she adds, “The true meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with fashion.”
    I know that. I’m not stupid. But, still … I doubt that God meant for the whole human race to walk around wadded up in swaddling clothes, either. Despite her no-style statement, Mom’s dangly earrings match her dress, and from the hemline up, she looks good. Better than good, she looks neat. Who knew she owned earrings?
    I’m feeling almost proud of them, which is way better than the usual embarrassment, but I wonder—if they’ve noticed how to dress for the Lewises, why don’t they notice how good a living room looks without mildewed stacks of magazines in the corners? Or Legos and Mr. Potato Head parts covering every inch of the carpet? Or how clean a kitchen counter is when there’s no faded shoe box full of old batteries and rusty nails sitting on it? Or how fantastic a real Christmas tree smells?
    â€œMay I take your coat?” asks Mr. Lewis, bowing slightly from the waist.
    I feel like a princess.
    Except that the coat in question is my bulky quilted nylon jacket with a rip in one sleeve—torn while assisting in the attempted-but-unsuccessful theft of a street sign.
    That’s okay, though. Underneath, I’m wearing a dynamite outfit. Slinky black pants that flare at the bottom, tiny hot pink heels, and a silvery scoop-neck top. For the first time ever, I feel confident that tall looks good.
    Mr. Lewis