JUST LIKE THE ONES WE USED TO KNOW
Brenda Novak
To my husband and five children,
because they make every Christmas special.
CHAPTER ONE
“MRS. FORRESTER?”
Seeing Kayla’s teacher smile expectantly as she held the door, Angela swallowed hard, then straightened her spine and walked into the sixth-grade classroom. On the Friday afternoon before Christmas break, it was empty of students, yet it still smelled of pencil shavings and chalk, which evoked pleasant associations. Growing up, Angela had been a good student. But the girl she’d taken in a year earlier was struggling in school, in life.
Angela had become Kayla’s caregiver so late, could she really make any difference?
That was the big question and had been from the beginning. Angela was afraid she couldn’t. And she was afraid Kayla’s teacher had called her in, once again, to let her know just how badly she was failing.
Trying to ignore the helplessness that engulfed her so often lately, Angela perched uncomfortably on the chair next to Mrs. Bennett’s battle-scarred desk—she knew her place in this room well—and smoothed the skirt of the designer suit she’d worn to work that morning.
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” the teacher began, peering at Angela over her bifocals.
Angela pulled her heavy trench coat more tightly around her and forced a smile. “It’s fine. You know I want what’s best for Kayla.”
“I want the same thing.”
“Of course.” They just approached it differently. Mrs. Bennett could be stern and rather severe. She often indicated that she felt Angela was letting pity about what had happened in the past interfere with good old-fashioned discipline. But Angela had been a foster child herself—had spent several years living in the same house as Kayla’s mother, in fact—so she understood Kayla’s situation well. Besides, this was Angela’s first attempt at parenting. She was twenty-nine, but she wasn’t married. Maybe she wasn’t the best person in the world to finish raising Stephanie’s daughter, but before Stephanie’s mother had died, she’d given Angela guardianship because she was a better choice than any of Kayla’s other options.
“What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Bennett?” She decided to ask the question and get it over with. “Isn’t Kayla turning in her assignments?”
Angela knew Kayla finished her homework because they did it together. But only last Wednesday Mrs. Bennett had informed Angela that it’d been two weeks since Kayla had handed in a single paper. Angela had been shocked and worried, of course, but what made the situation more mystifying was the fact that Kayla couldn’t tell her why she wasn’t turning in the work.
“She’s improving there,” Mrs. Bennett said. “I’d like to see her test scores come up, but that’s another issue. I called you in today because I wanted you to see something she’s written.”
Written? The crisp Denver winter settled a little deeper into Angela’s bones. Kayla was generally excluded from the tight cliques of other girls. She kept to herself and rarely associated with the kids in her class, which had been the subject of yet another parent/teacher conference. So…had Kayla finally decided to get even with the ever-popular but cruel Barbie Hanover, who’d stolen her notebook and shown Jordan Wheeler the poem she’d composed about him?
Angela half expected Mrs. Bennett to smooth out a note detailing Barbie’s lack of good qualities or some other manifestation of the intense humiliation she’d caused Kayla. But Mrs. Bennett presented her with what looked like a regular English paper. And, even more surprisingly, written across the top in red ink was a big fat A.
It was probably Kayla’s first A, which should’ve been reason to celebrate. Except Mrs. Bennett’s sober expression indicated that Angela should still be concerned.
“What—”
“Read it,” Mrs. Bennett said.
Angela glanced at the heading.
All I Want For Christmas
By Kayla ???????
“She wouldn’t put her last name?” Angela asked in confusion.
Mrs. Bennett gestured that Angela should keep reading.
She returned her attention to the small, cramped writing.
I suppose you want to hear that Christmas is my favorite time of year. That’s what everyone else says, right? There’s candy and presents and parties. There’s baby Jesus and Santa Claus. Even for girls like me.
So why am I finding this stupid paper so hard to write? I should just copy someone else, someone normal. I can hear the people all around me. I want this…I want that…I’m getting a new cell phone, a new TV, a new dress. Barbie sits next to me and wants an iPod. Not any old iPod. It has to hold about a billion songs and play videos, too. Nothing but the best for Barbie, and we all know she’ll get it. Her friend Sierra is asking for a snowboard. That’s not cheap, either, so I wouldn’t ask for it even if I wanted it. But Sierra’s parents are rich, which means she’ll be pleasantly NOT surprised to find it under the tree on Christmas morning. They’re lucky. Not because they get what they want, but because they want what they get. A boy I know wants a new basketball. He’s—the next part had been heavily erased and written over—He’s even luckier.
Was Kayla writing about Jordan at this point? Angela wondered. She thought so. He was the only person not named, which was significant, and there was emotion behind all those eraser marks.
Angela frowned and kept reading.
Tyler Jameson is asking for an Xbox. Tyler was Jordan’s best friend, which seemed to offer more proof that she’d segued from the boy she liked to his best friend. He’s always making a list of the games he wants—at $60 apiece. His Christmas isn’t going to be cheap. Money. I wish it could buy what I want. I wish I could be satisfied with an iPod or new clothes, or even getting my ears pierced. But I don’t care about any of that. I want something Santa can’t pull out of a sack. I want a real last name. The kind that came before I did. Not, “We’ll just call her…” I want to know what my name should’ve been. I want to know who I belong to. I want my father. Then I could ask him why he loved my mother enough to make me but didn’t love me enough to stay.
If I knew him, I think even I could be happy with an iPod.
By the time she finished, Angela’s throat had constricted and she doubted she could speak. She didn’t know what to say, anyway. As tears filled her eyes, she felt Mrs. Bennett’s hand close over hers.