sixty-one : the death of christmas
Mia sat in the front passenger seat, eating the layers of an orange and white striped licorice allsort, one at a time.
I reached for the bag of party mix on the console and she pushed it forward, just out of reach. Mum smacked her hand and held the bag out to me, watching in the rearview to make sure I only took one. I dug around for a green jelly, but ended up with a red snake. The holy grail of party mix. I stretched it out as far as I could until it snapped in half, watching the two pieces shrink back down to size.
Mia pressed all the buttons on the radio. Three words of Wonderwall, half of the shrill chorus of a Mariah Carey song, a commercial for Furniture King.
‘Why does she always get the front seat?’
‘She asked first.’
‘No she didn’t.’
Mia twisted around in her seat to glare at me over the headrest. “Did TOO.” Hot breath and the smell of licorice hit me in the face. I screwed up my nose. She grinned, triumphant, and I kneed the back of her seat as hard as I could.
‘Sierra!’
‘She started it.”
‘I don’t care who started it. Mia, fix your seat-belt.’
‘But, she—’
‘Enough. Act your age.’
Mum looked to the right and we turned onto a long stretch of unfinished road. Mia started pressing buttons again. Jingle Bell Rock, Killing Me Softly, the opening music of a news program. Mum batted her hand away from the stereo.
‘Leave it, Mia.’
I hummed the Fugees song while Mum listened to the news. She frowned at me in the mirror and turned up the volume. I stopped humming and leant my head against the window. It vibrated and made the giant boulders and dry grass look fuzzy around the edges. Somebody had tied bright red tinsel around a gum tree. I felt the harsh December sun burning my scalp through the glass and sat back up. Mia was looking through the party mix again. She picked out another allsort. My face felt red and hot.
‘Can you turn the fan on, Mum?”
‘We don’t need the fan on.’
‘But it’s like a thousand degrees in here!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Just open the window.’
I wound it down, but the air was still hot and wind thumped loudly against my eardrums. My backpack was on the floor at my feet, and I rummaged through it for something to read. A box of Crayola’s slipped out, and the yellow cardboard looked soggy. I slipped off my sandals and poked it with my toe. Molten electric lime and goldenrod oozed out onto the carpet.
‘Mum!’ I raised my voice over the wind, and she looked over her shoulder at me, turning down the stereo.
‘My crayons have gone all melty.’
‘There’d better not be any on the seat.’
‘It went on the carpet a bit.’
She pulled the car sharply off the road. The tires kicked up loose dirt that blew in through my open window. Mum craned her neck over the back of her seat to see the damage. Mia grinned.
‘It was an accident.’
Mum shook her head at me.
‘You’ll be cleaning that up. Wait till Dad sees it.’
She pulled back onto the road, and the sound of Christmas bells started up under the voice of the news presenter.
…and in our last story of the afternoon, children the world over are preparing for a visit from Father Christmas. We have just received word that his Sleigh has been sighted flying over Sydney Harbor…
‘Last year, Sierra told me Santa isn’t really real.’ Mia smirked, waiting.
I braced, ready for Mum to snap. Instead, she laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ Mia stared at her, confused and disappointed at the lack of yelling.
‘Well, Mia. You’ve put your foot in it. That’s what.’
She picked up the party mix and held it out to me.
‘Now that you both know, there’s one less present to buy for each of you next year.’
Mia’s face fell. I grabbed the last allsort, Mia’s favorite, and shoved the whole thing into my mouth, content for the moment with my small revenge.
This isn’t a new piece—I wrote it back in June or July as a character development exercise. I’d write a proper entry but I’m trying to get as much written as I can for NaNoWriMo now while I’ve still got the energy.
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