Get Real by Betty Hicks Page A

reminds Denver and me that all the kids are in the downstairs rec room. “You know the way,” he says cheerfully, then turns to talk to my parents.
    Denver sprints for the basement, and I follow. There’s a lady there who snags Denver immediately and herds him off to a corner where all the under-fives are busy coloring candy-cane pictures. Silently, I wish her luck.
    Glancing around, I’m not surprised to find food, games, and even a miniature version of the upstairs Christmas tree. I hang out, nibbling chips with dip and tender, juicy chicken chunks skewered on little sticks of bamboo. I play one game of Ping-Pong, sip homemade eggnog from a plastic Santa cup, and miss Jil.
    Feeling the jitters of my “Jingle Bells” performance beginning to creep over me, I wander back upstairs to stare at the piano—for calming purposes. And to make sure all the keys are right where I left them.
    â€œDez!” exclaims Mrs. Lewis. “You look amazing!”
    â€œThanks,” I say, admiring the simple black silk dress that she’s accented with a string of white pearls. A pair of fantastic-looking high heels tells me that her feet are covering a New York designer label with a name I can’t pronounce. “You look pretty amazing too.”
    She gives me a quick hug, then takes me by the hand. “Follow me.”
    Expertly, she guides me through four groups of people and into the dining room. Grown-ups are standing around talking about what they found on sale at the last minute, who’s coming to their Christmas Day dinners, and why they really shouldn’t eat any more little tarts filled with crabmeat, while they scarf down two more anyway.
    Mrs. Lewis takes the Santa cup out of my hand and reaches for one of the crystal cups beside the adult eggnog bowl.
    She’s going to give me alcohol? No way!
    I’m speechless.
    Then she takes my Santa cup and pours its kiddy contents into the beautiful cut-crystal cup. “Performing artists should not have to drink out of plastic,” she says.
    The cup is heavy in my hand. It feels extravagant and solid. I don’t mind that she didn’t put whiskey in it. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. That would mean that she was a crummy parent, and then what would I say to convince Jil?
    â€œThese cups were my great-grandmother’s,” she says. “She brought them with her all the way from Italy, wrapped in a patchwork quilt.”
    â€œThanks, Mrs. Lewis.” I take a sip of my eggnog. “It tastes better!”
    I have just graduated from feeling like a princess to queen status. I’m also thankful to know that Jil does have Christmas things with stories.
    I wander into the living room and eye the piano. It’s even shinier than normal. I bet I could pluck my eyebrows in the reflection—if I plucked my eyebrows. The whole room is elegant. White-blooming poinsettia plants and twinkling lights everywhere.
    Being careful not to make eye contact, I slip through two groups of people so I can work my way into the corner with the Christmas tree and not have to answer a dozen neighbors, who will all ask, “How’s school?” I scan all the awesome ornaments, looking for my favorite. The glass piano. It’s so tiny, maybe it’s tucked behind—
    â€œAttention!” Mr. Lewis shouts into the crowd. “May I have everyone’s attention, please?” He raps a spoon against his crystal eggnog cup to quiet the roomful of party people.
    My mind screams, Don’t! You’ll break the great-grandmother’s cup!
    Eventually, the room quiets, and Mr. Lewis clears his throat. “Thank you all for coming. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without each and every one of you.” Then he bows his head and begins a prayer: “Bless this house on this very special night. May we all keep this spirit in our hearts.…”
    I bow my head with the rest of the people in the room,