Santa's Playbook. Karen Templeton
Читать онлайн книгу.
sigh.”
Honestly. Whatever popped into Rosie’s head slid right out of her mouth a second later. Juliette might be impatient, but she wasn’t impulsive. She did think things through before she said/did them. Mostly.
“He’s a junior,” she said, still staring at the book. Still blushing. “Out of our league. Not to mention, hello? Amber?”
“Please. I give that two weeks, tops.” Rosie tilted her head. “And you do know your face is about the same color as those flowers, right?”
“Shut. Up.”
“So you should totally ask him out.”
Juliette’s eyes slid to Rosie’s.
“Okay, so in two weeks. When my prediction proves true.”
“Right. Because even if Scott didn’t laugh in my face, Dad would kill me. And then him, for accepting. Then me again, to make sure I got the point.”
“So what if he asked you out? You know, after he and Amber split and he’s all looking for someone to heal his wounds and stuff.”
Juliette sighed. Because as much as she hated to admit it, that particular fantasy had crossed her mind a time or twenty. But still... “Slightly different order, same outcome. We’d both be dead. You know I can’t date yet, Rosie. Not until I’m sixteen. And in any case...” She glared at the book again. Nope, not making any more sense than it did five minutes ago. “I’ve got too much else on my mind right now.”
“Like what?”
“Like passing geometry, for one thing.”
“So get a tutor. And for another?”
Juliette blew a slow breath through her nose. Yeah, Miss Jacobs had said she could talk to her anytime, and Juliette knew she meant it. But when, exactly, would that happen? At school? And anyway, their previous conversation hadn’t actually solved anything, had it—?
“Jules?” her dad said, knocking at the partly open door. His face looked pinched, like always. “Dinner’s ready in ten minutes. You staying, Rosie?”
“If it’s okay...?”
“Carmela brought over a tuna casserole. There’s enough for half the town.”
Rosie giggled. “I’ll ask my mom, but sure. Thanks.”
Dad left the door ajar like before, the floor creaking underneath the carpet as he walked away. Rosie’s eyes cut to Juliette’s before she leaned forward and whispered, “Is your dad okay? He looks exhausted.”
“So it’s not my imagination.”
“No... Oh. You’re worried about him, huh?”
Juliette supposed it was normal for a kid who’s lost a parent to worry more about the one who’s left. So she nodded, then basically repeated what she’d said to Miss Jacobs on Saturday—with a few adjustments to cover her butt—and Rosie got this totally understanding look on her face, a lot like when she’d heard Juliette’s mom had died, and she’d come right over and they’d hugged for like ten minutes, crying their eyes out. Rosie might have her shallow moments, but they’d been friends for so long for a reason.
Her friend sighed. “I can’t imagine how Papi would cope without Mama. Speaking of which...” She dug her phone out of her purse, texted her mother. “She’s, like, his life. And yeah, she says I can stay. But...I have...to help with the dishes.” She rolled her eyes, then texted a two-letter reply, returned her attention to Juliette. “You do know you can’t fix this, right? That it’s your dad’s life?”
“Pretty much what Miss Jacobs said—”
“Omigod—” Rosie sucked in a breath, then lowered her voice. “Please don’t tell me you tried fixing up them up? God, Jules, Miss Elliot was bad enough, but Miss Jacobs? Seriously?”
“Okay, setting aside that we all agree I shouldn’t be trying to fix up Dad with anybody—”
“Ya think?”
“—what’s wrong with Miss Jacobs?”
“Her? Not a thing. She’s one of the coolest teachers ever. But have you met your father, chica? He’s a good man, don’t get me wrong—and he’s a hottie, too—”
“Jeez, Rosie, boundaries.”
“Hey. These eyes, they know what they see. But I can’t imagine two people more wrong for each other. Don’t forget, I remember your mom. She and Miss Jacobs... Like two different species. Think about it—she’s all bubbly and goofy and whatnot, and your dad’s...not. And neither was your mom. Get real, Jules—”
“It’s okay, I’m over it. My matchmaking days are done.”
“You swear?”
Juliette crossed her heart. “It’s just...” She flopped back on the bed again. Barney belly-crawled over to lay his chin on her stomach. “It’s Christmas coming, you know? Mom... She loved everything about it, practically turned herself inside out to make sure it was great. The baking, the decorations, the way Christmas carols were always playing...”
“I remember. This was always, like, the coolest house on the block.” Rosie snorted. “My poor mom, she does well to remember to buy those sucky grocery store cookies. Not that the boys care—if it’s sugarfied, they’ll eat it.”
“Same here,” Juliette said with a tight grin, then blew out a shaky breath. “Even after I figured out Santa wasn’t real, Mom still made it magic somehow. Sure, I can make cookies and decorate and put on those old CDs and stuff. Except it’s not the same. It’s like...” She turned to Rosie. “Like she took the magic with her.”
“I get why you think that, Jules,” Rosie said, her eyes all kind. “I do. But to say the magic died with her?” She shook her head, hard, making her curls shiver. “That’s stupid.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s true. I mean, sure, your mom might’ve expressed the magic, but it’s not like she owned it or anything. Because it’s all around us. In all of us—”
Dad called them for dinner; her friend pushed her books aside, then hoisted herself to her feet, brushing cookie crumbs off her expansive chest. “My abuelita always says, the more you try to tell the universe what you want, the harder it is to see what the universe is already trying to give you. We don’t have to make stuff happen. We only have to let it.”
“Wow. Deep.”
“Hey, I’ve been listening to this crap my entire life. It was bound to come out of my mouth eventually.”
Juliette laughed. Rosie could make her as mad as all get-out, but she could always make her feel better, too. And deep down, she knew Rosie—or her grandmother—was right: she was going to have to be patient. To trust. And okay, to maybe dig a little deeper to find the magic inside herself, or at least to look harder for it. But as they went down to the kitchen, and she saw the strain tugging at her dad’s mouth, heard the flatness in his voice, it occurred to her that, if she were still little enough to believe in Santa, she knew exactly what she’d ask him for.
Seated at the dinged metal desk taking up nearly half the tiny office near the locker rooms, Ethan propped his hands behind his head, yawning so widely his ears popped. The overhead fluorescent light flickered, then settled back into the mesmeric one-note hum that inevitably lulled Ethan to sleep. Practice had ended a half hour ago, right before the sun whisked away its last feeble rays, leaving a bleak, damp cold in its wake. Possibility of light snow, they said. Ethan’s knee protested, offering an unwelcome second opinion.
The