Books > Ex-mas > Excerpts

2

Beckwith House
Los Angeles
December 22
12:24 p.m.

Lila read through her iCal to-do list on her laptop. There was still plenty to do before tonight: She had a full bar to set up, a dance-worthy playlist to compile, and mistletoe to hang all over the house (really, the only Christmas tradition that suited her). When it came to her party, she was completely ready to bring it.

Which would be a lot easier to do if her parents would just hurry up and leave the house already.

"Cooper, sweetie!" Lila's mother's voice rang out through all three stories of the Beckwith's craftsman-style house. "Can you please pick up your art project from the kitchen?"

Lila could hear her little brother's thudding footsteps as he came flying down the stairs.

"Lila," Mrs. Beckwith called from the kitchen. "You really should see Cooper's drawing. I think we have a little Picasso on our hands!"

"He's very talented," Lila called back, even though she had not been quite as impressed with eight-year-old Cooper's construction paper scribbles as her mother appeared to be. Even if he was destined to be the next Picasso, Lila doubted that her mother, who collected novelty snow globes, was qualified to say so.

Lila sat in the family room adjacent to the kitchen, supposedly working on the family Christmas card on her iBook while secretly IMing her booze hookup about the night's delivery. The Christmas card had been her personal task since she was a kid and had begged for the honor, sending out one appalling drawing after another, which her parents apparently thought was cute. So cute that they still displayed the cards every year in the taupe-upholstered family room, from Thanksgiving through New Year's. The cringe-inducing scribbles were framed and hung at even three-inch intervals along the mantle.

"How's the card coming along?" her mother asked, appearing in the wide archway in front of her. Mrs. Beckwith had cornflower blue eyes and short, light brown hair that was neatly curled at her chin. She wore a string of pearls around her neck at all times.

Lila smiled innocently, minimizing the IM box just in case her mother had suddenly developed X-ray vision and could see through the laptop to the screen.

"Oh, you know." Lila shrugged. "It's coming." She felt guilty about lying for approximately a second. But then she reminded herself that her parents still refused to get Lila her own car -- despite the fact that she was a senior and lived in Los Angeles, where there were nothing but vast distances between everything, often with mountains -- and got over it. They claimed there might be a car for Lila's eighteenth birthday in January that she could take with her to college, and had been dangling the promise ever since she got her learner's permit. It was behind every threat they ever made: Clean your room before you go out, or no car for you. Better impress us with those midterm grades, or forget that car. And so on. But who knew if they'd even keep their word? The car could just be an elaborate scheme, something they'd read in a parenting book somewhere. Discipline via positive motivation. At this point, Lila wouldn't be surprised to discover it was as much an illusion as Santa Claus.

"One of these years I'd like to send the card out before New Year's Eve," Mrs. Beckwith added, with a pointed look at her daughter.

"You can't rush the creative process." Lila tried to ease her spine back against the plush cushions of the couch. Relax, she cautioned herself. They're leaving. You can make it. "Aren't you guys taking off soon?"

"We leave in half an hour," Mrs. Beckwith said, her thin pink lips in a slight frown. "Are you sure you're going to be okay with Cooper?" she asked. Her tone said, Are you sure you're not going to burn down the house with our precious little eight-year-old inside?

"Yes, Mom." Lila suppressed an eye roll. "You know, a lot of people actually hire seventeen-year-olds to watch their kids. And here I'm happy to do it for free," she added for a little guilt-inducing effect. Her parents had never left her alone with Cooper. This weekend was a first.

A long-awaited, much-anticipated, seriously overdue first.

"Have you packed?" Lila asked, enjoying the look of confusion that passed over her mother's face. Ultra-organized Mrs. Beckwith had showered the night before and packed days in advance, in sets of color-coordinated separates.

Her mother didn't answer the absurd question, and disappeared back into the kitchen. No doubt to supervise Cooper, even though he was eight -- not eight months. Not that Lila's parents seemed to notice that distinction. They treated him like a baby, and like some chicken-and-egg paradox -- ta-da! -- he acted like a baby.

Cooper had been born early and with complications. Lila could remember what it was like back then, with her parents so freaked out about the surgery he'd needed. She'd been scared too. But eight years later, he was a happy, healthy, mischievous eight-year-old kid. And yet they still treated Cooper like he might break at any moment -- all while acting like Lila was a breath away from becoming a juvenile delinquent. When the truth was, she had terrific grades (3.92 GPA, thank you very much), headed up the yearbook committee (how else would she ensure no one ever forgot her?), and played second doubles on the tennis team (sculpted calves? check). At the very least, she deserved to be left in charge of her own transportation. Was that really too much to ask?

She maximized the chat window and typed, THINK SOONER BETTER THAN L8R, OK? PARENTS LEAVING SOON AND THIS PARTY NEEDS 2 START ASAP!

Suddenly a grubby, marker-stained hand grabbed her from behind.

"Aaah!" Lila yelped.

"Made you flinch!" Cooper crowed in delight from the back of the couch. Little brat. At least he was over his Indian-burn phase. That had practically left scars.

Lila gave him her patented Death Glare and slapped her computer shut. "You are a troll," she told him icily.

"Mom said I could help you with the Christmas card," Cooper announced, his brown eyes lighting up as he danced on the carpet. Cooper was small for his age, with short, light brown hair, a frustratingly cherubic freckled face, and clothing permanently stained with markers, paint, cake batter, even (grr) Lila's Nars foundation -- anything he could get his hands on or into. "I drew a picture of Santa! A good one! If I leave it out for him, do you think he'll like it?"

How Cooper had managed to survive all the way to the third grade with his belief in Santa intact was a mystery. MacKenzie Bolton had ruined the whole thing for Lila in kindergarten, bringing in a time-stamped photograph of the Boltons' dad leaving presents under the tree and even eating the sugar cookies left out for Santa. But Lila's parents found it adorable, and insisted that no one in the Beckwith house ruin Christmas for Cooper.

Because she knew her mother was listening, aka monitoring her, from the next room, Lila forced herself to respond nicely. "Nice one, Coop," she said, taking the supposed Picasso from his hands. The drawing was -- surprise! -- a glorified stick figure, sporting a fur-trimmed red hat. "But how do you know it looks like him? You fell asleep before you could take his picture last year, remember?"

"Everyone knows what Santa looks like, Lila," Cooper said matter-of-factly, like he couldn't believe Lila had said something so moronic. "He's more famous than the president!"

"You know this is Cooper's favorite time of year, Lila," her mother called from the other room. "You don't have to let him help you with your Christmas card, but maybe while we're away you can help him build one of those gingerbread houses he likes, or bake some Christmas cookies."

Cooper wriggled around in joy, a mess of freckles and suspiciously stained green sweatshirt and boy on the carpet in front of her. Now that the idea of gingerbread houses and cookies was implanted in his little brain, there would be no escaping it.

"But let's make sure Cooper doesn't eat too many cookies, or too much candy," Mrs. Beckwith continued from the adjacent kitchen. "We have to watch his carbohydrate count. Too many carbs can cause digestion problems."

"Don't worry, Mom." Lila tapped her fingertips on the sleek white top of her iBook. She made a mental note to give herself a manicure before people started showing up tonight. "I'll eat all the leftover carbs."

"As long as Cooper doesn't!" her mother singsonged. Lila's digestive system, presumably, could sort itself out.

Lila stared down at her ragged fingernails. Her parents' attitude certainly wasn't doing Cooper any favors. Lila knew, because she'd been almost as clueless about life at Cooper's age, and look what it had gotten her -- years spent closely investigating extreme loserdom from the inside. She'd wandered through middle school with a selection of fuzzy ponytails on top of her head, Ugly Betty's fashion sense, and no idea how to make the right friends. She and Beau had been best friends growing up and had slid into boyfriend-girlfriend territory in the seventh grade, existing in a little cocoon of first kisses and music. Lila had had some Beau Hodges-induced fantasy about wanting to be a professional singer someday -- the kind of professional singer, apparently, who didn't care about her appearance, content to look like a frizzy-haired Labradoodle.

It wasn't until high school that Lila woke up and smelled the Frédéric Fekkai smoothing cream. She'd had the extraordinarily good fortune of being falsely accused of cheating on a test in a freshman history class. The other suspected culprit? Carly Hollander. Since nothing could be proven and both girls denied it, they'd escaped the school's harsher disciplinary measures, but had been forced to serve two weeks of detention together.

Those had been the most educational two weeks of Lila's life. She had come out of those detentions with a coveted invitation to Carly's birthday party and a bone-deep determination to completely change her look and her life. Enough with Lila Beckwith, the starry-eyed loser who drifted around the fringes at North Valley High. It was time to grow up and stop hiding.

Lila had invited Beau to the party. But he'd acted like she was personally betraying him by wanting to hang out with "the zombies," as he called the popular kids -- Carly Hollander being the Queen Zombie of their class. Their blowup had ended with Lila going to the party newly single -- and leaving the party with Erik as her new boyfriend. Just like that, she'd grown up.

Something Cooper needed to do, stat.

"I really want cookies and a gingerbread house," the little monster was saying now, digging his Heely sneaker into the thick beige carpet. "Don't do that thing you do where you promise stuff because Mom's here and then don't do it. I hate that."

Lila braced herself, expecting her mother to come charging in from the kitchen in a righteous fury, outraged that precious Cooper might suffer so much as one second of disappointment at Lila's hands.

But somehow, it didn't happen. A Christmas miracle.

"She went to the laundry room," Cooper explained. "But me and Tyler found this cool website that shows you how you can make any gingerbread house you want if you upload a picture, so we can take one of our house and make -- "

"Cooper, you need to shut up for five seconds," Lila snapped. Like she wanted to hear anything about Cooper and his dorky BFF, Tyler, who happened to be Beau's little brother. Cooper and Tyler had gone to preschool together -- the same preschool Beau and Lila had attended, way back when. Back when she was too young to really know how to make friends.

"But we could make it as a surprise for Mom and Dad -- "

"God!" Lila groaned, cutting him off again. "We'll bake cookies or something, but not if you're going to be this annoying, okay? It's my vacation, too. Go away."

Cooper just stood there and stared at her, looking like he'd been kicked. With a steel-toed boot. Finally, he scampered off, his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Lila heaved a sigh. She didn't have time to worry about his little eight-year-old feelings -- she had a party to plan. Her delivery of booze was supposed to come in an hour. She checked the delicate gold watch Erik had given her when he left for college. So you'll always know how long until we see each other again, he'd said. She felt herself calm down at the thought of his broad, confident smile.

Twelve thirty-two.

T-minus twenty-eight minutes to her parents' departure time.

And then the games would begin. Finally.