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You've been hard at work decorating this miniature permaviridescent tree for about an hour now, getting reams of tinsel caught on your horns approximately every five minutes along the way, but you still have no idea what Earth Human Christmas is all about. "I understand the eggs, but I don't understand the nog. Is the nog the soporific?"
"No, that's the fine Kentucky bourbon," Rose says, plucking opalescent plastic strings from your hair.
"I'm pretty sure the nog comes from noggin, as in that's what's going to be hurting on every-fucking-body when Rose and her Mom get enough of it in them," Dave intones from the couch, having long abandoned all pretense of joining in the holiday festivities. He's watching some kind of cartoon about a black and white barkbeast who dances on a small red hive, and somehow this also has to do with Earth Human Christmas.
"I don't follow," you say, arranging the baubles on the tree according to color. You start with magenta at the top, and work your way down the tree to maroon at the bottom. From the couch, Dave holds his hands up and claps his fingers against his thumbs in what appears to be a nak nak nak motion, although you aren't sure. You look over your shoulder at Rose, who has a thin layer of white on her upper lip from the beverage. She rolls her eyes, and you wipe the dairy film from her lip with your finger.
"Dave is tense because his Bro is coming too," she whispers sotto voce, and you can smell the aforementioned fine Kentucky bourbon on her breath. "He's gearing up for a weekend of high-brow bonding activities such as bobbing for apples in the shuriken pit and medianoche machete madness, which you'd think would be a late night duel to the death, but it's actually a very elaborate sword-based sandwich ritual. I don't pretend to understand it."
"I can hear you, you know. They're katanas, not machetes."
Rose smiles and rearranges some of the baubles you've already put up, scattering the well-ordered hemospectrum of festive glass ornaments into unabashed entropy. "Sure, but that's not alliterative."
You suppress the urge to re-rearrange the ornaments and join Dave on the couch, who makes the tiniest of attempts to get out of your way, but mostly he just slumps against you dejectedly. "What does medianoche machete madness have to do with the virgin birth of the Earth Human Jesus?"
Dave shrugs and changes the channel. "What does that fuckin' tree over there have to do with the Baby Jesus either? Nobody knows, we just keep doing this shit every year because someone out there will probably judge us for it if we don't. The Holiday Cheer Police will accost us with the unholy shrieking of caroling teens and flaming chestnut firebombs until all hope is lost and we all want to bash our own noggins in with Rose's crystal punch cups."
"I'd find that preferable. It reminds me a little bit of Twelfth Perigee's Eve, although we generally are attacked by crooning lusii, not human teenagers. We don't have a traditional soporific, but we have been known to--"
"Speaking of whipch," Rose interrupts, beginning to slur her words a little, "you should probably try some of this stuff. I think we're all going to need to get inebriated to survive a weekend with Mom and Bro. They should be here any minute."
"Nah," Dave says, throwing down the remote and standing up. "Last time I made the mistake of letting Rose's Mom get me drunk, she hid all my underwear in the goddamn freezer."
"What does that have to do with--" you begin, but Dave doesn't let you finish.
"Nothing. Nothing has anything to do with anything. Put down the thesis for a bit, Maryam. Not everything has to be an anthropological study, okay? And even if it did, I really don't think you should base any sweeping judgments about humanity on this family." You open your mouth to ask why not, but he puts a finger to your lips, smudging your green lipstick. "Shh. Just take it from me."
You glow briefly with annoyance, but before the two of you can have words, the front door of the condominium blows wide open, letting in more than just the cold December air. Two humans, one male and one female, both middle-aged by the looks of them, stroll inside, tracking snow into the front utility chamber. You've never had the pleasure of meeting Rose and Dave's guardians before--or any of your human friends' guardians, for that matter--so you have no idea what to expect. Your research would suggest that they'd have gifts in tow, and that at least appears to be accurate: the female human, you who correctly identify as Rose's Mom, has a stack of boxes wrapped in colorful paper balanced on one forearm and a full stemmed glass of a deep maroon beverage in the other hand.
The male human, who by process of elimination must be Dave's Bro, speaks first, poking Dave firmly in the chest. "Conference. Upstairs. Now." He scans the room, offering a brief, "Hi Rose," before gesturing in your direction and asking, "Who's the greyface?" His own face betrays no emotion.
Annoyed at not being addressed directly, you look over at Rose, who is standing silently next to the tree, looking like she's had just enough nog to not give a fuck. "Did Dave not tell you about my girlfriend?"
Mom stomps her feet loudly to dislodge the snow packed in the tread of her boots. The pile of gifts and the liquid in her glass both tilt precariously as she transfers the glass to her other hand, stabilizing the presents on her forearm with her chin as she tries to bend over and unzip her boots. "This is Kanaya, I think?" she offers before Rose can say something sharp.
Rose steps forward and dutifully takes the presents and the glass from Mom, sniffing the beverage. She has to tuck her eggnog cup into her elbow to hold everything. "Couldn't even wait to get inside, huh?" So much for cutting off the sharp comments. Mom hesitates with her hand still on the fuzzy cuff of her boot, a short, pregnant pause before grabbing her zipper, which no one else notices in the hustle and bustle.
Bro and Dave glance silently at each other over Mom's back and then roll their eyes in unison, and although most humans always look more or less the same to you, you think you can see the family resemblance. "Hey," Bro finally says directly to you. "Business. Sorry." They disappear upstairs, Dave giving you a slightly pleading look as he ascends the staircase. For a moment, you're a little bit jealous of them. You have a deep sense of foreboding that you don't have the appropriate cultural compass to decipher, but that doesn't change the fact that it is still very, very real.
In short: you have a bad feeling about this.
Finally out of her boots, Mom stands up straight, her face flushed but composed and her eyes bright. She smooths out her skirt before taking her glass back from Rose and drinking from it while Rose deposits the presents under the tree. "Well, I wasn't the one driving, right? So I figured, hell, why not dip into the Malbec a little bit early? I knew that I'd be drinking your world-class eggnog later, and I guess I got a little excited."
"Of course," Rose says, straightening up and gripping her cup so hard that her knuckles begin to pale. Her bangs have fallen into her eyes and you have a strong urge to cross the room and brush them out of the way, but you're locked to the couch, riveted by the unfamiliar interpersonal machinery at work. "Why not? It's not like there are laws against drinking in a moving vehicle or anything, right?" She shrugs, gesturing toward the punch bowl on the coffee table filled with creamy, opaque nog. "Anyway, you know where it is. Help yourself."
"Soon enough!" Mom says, walking toward you, and your vascular pump begins to thump rapidly. Her gait is much like Rose's when Rose is deep in her soporifics: the same mechanics as usual, just a little less self-aware. Her hips sway under a pencil skirt with a tasteful peplum, her arms swish gracefully in her excitement, and her eyes light up with delight at your face. You catch yourself staring and you try not to blush, because you're pretty sure that having your gazeglobes fixated on your matesprit's guardian's rumblespheres is some kind of human faux pas. When she sits on the couch next to you, you look down and fold your hands in your lap. The positive force of this woman's energy managed to catch you with your guard down, and you can't hide how enchanted you are so you try to just not say or project anything. "I wanna hear more about your adorable ladyfriend first," she says, putting her empty palm on your knee and staring at you expectantly while sipping her--what did she call it, Malbec?
Rose's glare at her mother when she touches you is full of cold steel--probably daggers, or maybe one of Dave's shitty katanas. Would that you could be anywhere else on this planet or another. "Um," you say helpfully.
"What do you do? How did you two meet? What's your favorite thing about my daughter? Are you interested in hearing my thoughts on ectobiological research in a mixed-species, post-colonial world?" she asks over the rim of her glass, finally withdrawing her hand from your leg.
"Mom--" Rose snaps, but you interrupt her before she can find something specific to object to.
"Generally what I do is a lot of wind bladder respiration and motile locomotion, but if you mean to ask about my occupation, I'm an anthropologist," you say, leaning forward to ladle yourself a cup of nog from the bowl on the coffee table. You suppose that right now it is functioning more as a nog table, and you make a note to bring this up later. "Right now I'm contributing my expertise to a treatise on troll education in a mixed-species, post-colonial world, so if I may address your questions out of order: yes, I would be very interested. It seems that there is some overlap in our fields."
Rose's mouth hangs open in disgruntled disbelief, and she stuffs it with more eggnog. Her cheeks are starting to flush in that way that they do when she's embarrassed or angry or aroused, small ruddy blossoms opening up beneath the brown, betraying emotions she's too coy to state outright.
Mom, however, is rapt with attention, leaning forward with her legs crossed toward you, so close that you can make out the mesh pattern in the synthetic flesh tubes on her otherwise bare legs and smell the fruity undertones of her cloying perfume. You feel the need to stuff your own mouth for a moment, perhaps to keep from saying something inappropriate or maybe just to cut out a bit of sensory overload, so you close your eyes and take a sip of eggnog. The flavor is off-putting, but the cup cuts off your vision and the spices take over your nasal turbines and flavor sensors, shutting out the two Lalondes. The warmth it spreads in your mouth and digestion sack is calming, so you continue drinking until you've finished the whole cup. "That's my kind of girl," Mom says. "Go on."
"What?" You say, a little taken aback by the fact that in the meantime, Rose has perched on the arm of the couch, eying the two of you like a bird of prey. "Oh. Rose and I met at an interdepartmental seminar on comparative human and troll literature. It was very informative." You cradle the now-empty crystal cup in your lap, aware that they are now both looking at you expectantly. It feels a bit like being a slab of protein in a human butcher shop. "Her thesis was on the commonality of having escapism as a dominant theme in the current cultural narrative of both species, in an attempt to shift away from the neophobian themes of earlier generations. Maybe that's the thing I like best about your daughter, to segue into the final question. She shares my passion for multiculturalism and, uh. Particular types of literature."
"I'll bet." Mom winks at you before procuring her own cup of eggnog. "She comes by that honestly, I can tell you that much. There's more of myself in her than she'll admit."
"My mother fancies herself a scholar because she wrote Gandalf/Saruman fanfiction back in the 80s," Rose mutters.
"Yes, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to peer review it thirty years later. I mean, our understanding of wizards had changed so much since then, and I'm all about modernizing our past ventures. I'm so lucky to have such a thoughtful daughter." Mom takes a long sip of eggnog, and you notice that her knuckles are almost as white as the beverage. When she surfaces from the cup, her knuckles relax and she flashes you a winning smile. "Mmm. Beautiful, talented, and adorable. You just look at her and think, 'goddamn, that girl is clearly a product of her mother's loins, all gestated up in her uterus and birthed naturally as per the general human custom', don't you?"
"I prefer not to. Viviparity is considered vulgar on Alternia, but I'm trying to unlearn that prejudice in light of..." You wave a hand around, indicating the amorphous quality of your current existence on this planet. "...everything. I also try not to think about the reproductive organs of people I've just met." That second part slips out before you can stop it, possibly because the eggnog you had chugged a moment ago is starting to hit your vasculature.
Mom laughs out loud, spilling half of her eggnog on the floor. At the same time, a loud THUMP comes from upstairs, shaking the whole apartment from somewhere in the vicinity of Dave's room. "Oh, delightful. I see that the madness has begun," Rose says, grabbing a towel from the kitchen.
Several hours later, you're in the bedroom that you share with Rose, undressing for the night and thankful that the house has finally quieted down. Dave hasn't left his bedroom since Bro came downstairs to join you all shortly after the impact that had rattled the windowpanes, and Mom had passed out half an hour ago in the spare bedroom that Rose had cleaned up the night before, tucking the sheets in with something she called 'hospital corners' and arranging soft pillows and doilies around the room. It looked a little over the top for you, even by human standards. Rose had even set up a minibar.
Speaking of whom, Rose is already in bed, lying stick-straight under the covers and staring silently at the ceiling. A half-empty glass of whiskey (she had given up on the nog) sits on the bedside table. You're at a loss. "So... Mom seems agreeable for purposes of polite conversation. That wasn't nearly as bad as you and Dave would have had me believe."
She snorts and shifts over when you join her under the covers to spoon up against her back. "That's because she's still laying down the basis of her Cool Mom routine for you before she really starts sticking in my proverbial craw. I can't wait until she opens up the horrid sweater I knit for her. Watch, she's going to pretend she loves it and insist on wearing it for the rest of the day just to mock my lack of skill."
This is a strange thing for her to say, since you've seen Rose knit complicated patterns into blankets and ponchos and more scarves than either of you could ever possibly use in a single lifetime. Rose actually has a great deal of skill with a pair of needles. "I don't understand why you wouldn't just knit her a nicer sweater? She has a wonderful form, sartorially speaking." You remember the way her hips swished under the frills of her skirt, and how it had filled you with--well, some kind of feeling that it would probably be rude to discuss right now. Still, you move your hands over Rose's hips without thinking. "Those extra ruffles on her skirt gave me some ideas for--"
"Can we please not talk about how much you admire my mother's form?" She sighs and pulls up the straps of her nightshirt. "You know, it's funny when I do it to Dave, but coming from you it just--"
"That's not what I meant, I just mean she has good taste. Her aesthetic is well put together, down to some very exacting details, and I think I could pull some inspiration from that. I enjoyed the scent she had on. It was a good balance of flowery and fruity--"
"Jesus Christ, Kanaya. That perfume is by Britney Spears." Rose pulls away from you, her face is flushed again, and this time there's no doubt that it's from anger or all the soporific, most likely both. She's definitely losing her cool, which is a bit unsettling to watch. You wouldn't have thought that there was anything that could perturb Rose this much.
"Who, as a popular human music sensation, is primed for my derision as a perfumer?" You actually fancy Britney Spears' aesthetic quite a bit as well. Like yourself, she is fond of vibrant color schemes. The music is take it or leave it, but that's how you feel about nearly all human music.
Rose takes a deep breath and sits back, exhaling slowly. "That's not what I meant. Can we just go to sleep, please?" She dismisses you by rolling over in one direction, so you roll over to face the other way, staring out the window at the falling snow and feeling pointedly unfulfilled.
Mom Lalonde takes the starring role in your dreams that night, wearing a red leather jumpsuit and giving a musical lecture on interspecies procreation efforts. There is a demonstrative dance number, and when you wake up just before dawn your skin is warm and wet with a thin sheen of sweat. Rose is snoring next to you, and if you know her habits, she'll remain as such for at least a few more hours. You'll all be lucky if Dave wakes up before noon.
You kick off the oppressive covers and pace around the room for a few minutes to cool off, literally and metaphorically, finally deciding to put on an airy pair of festive green pajamas and go downstairs. To your surprise, Bro is already sitting on the couch, watching TV and eating huevos rancheros. He nods his head wordlessly to acknowledge your presence.
You stop at the foot of the stairs, unsure of how Dave's Bro conduct his morning greetings. Hopefully there would be no swordplay involved, as you left your lipstick in the bedroom. "I didn't expect anyone to be up."
He shrugs. "I don't sleep."
"Much?"
"What?"
"You mean you don't sleep much?" you offer.
"Sure. Yeah." He goes back to his food, which relaxes you. It seems there will not be a strife this morning after all.
"I'm normally awake before the humans, which has always been a little confusing to me since my understanding is that they require sunlight for the absorption of certain nutrients. You'd think they would want to maximize their use of the fleeting sunlight during this part of the year, but Rose and Dave are nothing if not--"
"Completely insane? Give them a break, look who raised them," he interrupts between forkfuls of eggs and peppers. "There's more in the kitchen, if you want," he adds when he sees you staring at his plate.
You shake your head and sit down a careful but not impolite distance away on the other side of the couch. "No thanks. I only eat the blood of my friends and enemies."
His fork pauses momentarily on the way to his mouth, and you see him smile briefly, the slightest betrayal of emotion. You don't know why, but it makes you feel like you just achieved the impossible. "Fair enough. I mean, I know that isn't true because I saw you drinking eggnog with the 'Londes last night, but suit yourself."
"I suppose I was being a bit hyperbolic. I can eat, it just isn't as fulfilling as sucking your food directly from a warm body. Mammals are ideal for that kind of thing."
"Shit, girl. You're hardcore, huh? More than the surface belies, anyway. I guess you'd have to be." He doesn't qualify that, although you're curious.
"What did you mean a moment ago? When you said that Dave and Rose exhibit the characteristics they do because of who raised them? Are you implying that you and Mom are not suitable guardians?"
Bro surprises you by setting down his plate and giving you his full attention, looking squarely at you over the rim of his shades. His eyes are warm in color but cold in expression, and you suppose that for a lot of humans his direct gaze would be incredibly unsettling. Good thing you're not human. "I mean that she and I really had no business trying to raise anybody given who we were and where we were and how much notice we were given. But I also know that even the most prepared guardians only have the slightest fucking clue what they're doing the majority of the time. That's humanity's greatest secret, okay? We're all fucking winging this shit."
You wait what seems like a sober amount of time to process what he said before speaking. "I think that's the most you've spoken since you've gotten here." Humans seem to be really touchy when it comes to the fruits of their procreative efforts.
"I guess you're right," he says, sitting back and facing the TV again. "You should watch this, if you're trying to experience a real Earth Christmas." Subject changed, topic dismissed. This is starting to happen to you left and right.
"What is it?" A movie starts, showing a busy pre-colonial Earth American town square. You have no trouble identifying it as a Christmas movie even without Bro's expository dialogue, as the opening sequence shows a cluster of humans singing about the birth of Jesus Christ--which, as far as you can tell, is the traditional meaning of the holiday. You generally have a difficult time tracing the majority of the modern Human Christmas traditions back to that fact, but this carol makes no bones about it--Jesus is the Reason For The Season, another thing that baffles you since you've seen models of the Earth's axial tilt and you're pretty sure that no human could have any effect on that.
Pretty sure isn't the same as positive, though. You learned a long time ago not to underestimate humans, despite their harmless exterior.
The title sequence informs you that the movie you're watching is called A Christmas Story. The focus shifts to a pack of children running through the streets to congregate, jostling in wonderment, around a department store window decorated in traditional Christmas fare, with tinsel and fake snow and electronic, mechanized joy. The focal piece, at least for the narrating character, is something called a Red Ryder BB Gun.
Red Ryder, the character for whom the toy is named, appears to be a cowboy of some kind, a real smooth operator and upholder of violence-based justice, as if there was any other kind of justice. You think you might know a person or two like that.
"It's something they cram down our throats every year around this time," says one such cool customer from the other end of the couch. "Although I gotta tell you, it's clearly the inferior Christmas movie, especially when you put it up against such flawless classics as The Muppet Christmas Carol. I actually started a Change.org petition to get that movie its own marathon, seeing as how it's infinitely more deserving. Do you wanna sign it?"
"You know, I think I'm going to ingest some of those eggs after all," you say, standing up and excusing yourself to the kitchen.
"This is the exact same movie we just watched!" you exclaim two hours later.
Dave starts with a jerk next to you, where he has been dozing in and out of sleep since joining the two of you on the couch midway through the movie in his wrinkled sleep shirt and with jeans pulled over his pajama bottoms. You get the feeling that he didn't sleep well, if the purple bags under his eyes have anything to say about it. His sunglasses are also absent from his face, which is possibly a sign of an increasingly holiday-addled brain, or maybe he's just too tired to give a fuck. He blinks a few times until his surroundings make sense again. "What? Oh. Yeah. They show this back to back for like a whole day."
"It must be pretty important," you muse quietly. "It might even be an integral but elusive connecting loop in the logical chain of understanding the true meaning of how modern Human Christmas evolved from the traditional origin of the holiday. The pink rabbit symbolism was particularly obscure and seemed like a seasonal anachronism, so perhaps I should start there. I could find out if there's a novelization--"
Dave reaches out blindly for your face, grazing your nose with his hand. "No. I told you. There is no missing link, just leave it alone and bask in the piecemeal, irrational glory of unabashed consumerism and indoor arboreta. Speaking of presents and shit, should we wake the whiskey sisters or see if they crawl out of their caves before sundown all on their own?"
"That won't be necessary," you hear a voice croak from the top of the staircase. Rose looks decidedly worse for wear with her hair standing up in the back and her makeup smudged. Last night's mascara is now indiscernible from the purple rings under her eyes that match Dave's set.
"Wow," Dave deadpans as she descends the staircase. "I'll get on the coffee."
"You do that," she bites back as Mom floats down the stairs as well. She's the only one of them wearing real clothes, a red and green houndstooth wool dress that makes you feel a little dizzy if you stare at the pattern for too long. She also sports a long white beard and mustache, which Rose glances at momentarily before marching into the kitchen after Dave. She looks a bit like she might be ill.
"Your facial hair is admirable, Ms. Lalonde. To be able to grow such a long and luxurious beard overnight is undoubtedly a show of outstanding human virility." Through the kitchen window, you can see Dave rub the stubble on his cheek in frustration. You also see Rose drop a heaping splash of soporific into her coffee. Humans have a saying about that, something about the hair of the barkbeast that bit her, although it's getting to the point where enough is enough already.
Mom laughs loudly, and Rose winces as she carries her coffee into the living room, sitting down on the floor in front of you. "Wow, that's an outstanding compliment. Now I kinda wish it wasn't fake." She pulls the beard away from her face, as if to show you that it isn't attached, and lets it snap back into place. "I'm in costume, sweetie. You can call me the Christmas Wizard."
"Santa Claus is the bastard ectobiological child of Odin and Saint Nicholas, Mom. He's either a pagan god or a Catholic saint, not a wizard."
Mom puts her hands on her hips and frowns down at Rose, the beard making her look more intimidating than usual. This woman can be a dangerous force of nature when she discards the obscuring veneer of bubbliness. "Excuse me, young lady, but he drives an honest-to-god enchanted sleigh pulled by magical reindeer and manages to be in every flipping house on the planet at exactly midnight local time. That's some goddamn wizardry if I ever fucking heard it."
"Maybe we could revisit this issue another time, preferably one when I'm back on the other side of the country?" Bro asks.
"Yeah, like, this debate is all hells of interesting and I can't even begin to tell you how emotionally invested I am in the nature of Santa Claus's unholy Christmas magic, but there's coffee that needs drinking and presents that need opening. Also--" Dave interrupts you as you open your mouth to ask for clarification on the wizard vs. saint vs. god issue, "--also, we don't need to encourage Kanaya to ask more questions about the meaning of Christmas. So. Please?"
Mom gives you all a smile and smooths her beard with fingers that only tremble very slightly, really. "Right. I just get so excited." She tries to laugh, but it breaks in the middle, and she excuses herself to the kitchen.
Rose looks triumphant, even managing a cheerful gesture at a present under the tree. "Here, Dave. You start. I think this one is for you." She points to a box wrapped in what appears to be papier mâché and barbed wire. Dave grimaces, and through the kitchen window Mom is grimacing too, dumping just as much soporific into her coffee as Rose had done.
When she returns, her smile is plastered back on and shining in full force, even through the thick haze of pearly white beard and mustache. "Yes, Dave, I agree. You should kick off this shitshow with the completely innocuous present that most definitely isn't a death trap from Bro." She pokes around under the tree, passing out gifts and stroking her beard with some exaggeration, waggling her eyebrows at you through the branches when she catches you staring.
That beard really does look so soft. It kinda looks like it would tickle when--
Your thoughts are interrupted by a forced expulsion of air from your wind bladders as a particularly large box is dropped into your lap. "Oof," is all you can manage to say, but no one is listening to you. The Striders and the Lalondes are focused on their human ritual of present opening, which rapidly devolves into a contest of "who can bury Jaspers under the most wrapping paper" and "who can fit the most sweaters on at once" and "let's all watch Dave avoid certain death at the hands of Pandora's Christmas box", which, once he has successfully neutralized all of the traps, contains a very large jar of mulled apple cider.
Dave hugs the jar tightly to his chest in an unprecedented display of pure emotion. The feelings water is still drying on his cheeks when Mom holds up Rose's sweater. Rose watches from the floor with cool detachment as she scans it critically and turns it around, showing the group the nauseatingly saccharine pattern knitted onto it. It features a pink Persian kitten on a lilac background, wearing a vest and a princess hat and batting at a multicolored ball of string.
Mom stares at it for a long time with a very blank expression, self-satisfaction blossoming on Rose's face, before she shocks everyone by bursting into a very loud sob. "This... is... the most BEAUTIFUL THING I HAVE EVER SEEN in my ENTIRE LIFE!" she shouts, crawling across the floor to wrap Rose into a very vigorous, very tearful hug. Over her shoulder, Rose looks at her as though she just grew a second or third head.
The entire sequence of events is so anthropologically interesting that you entirely forget about the presents in your lap until Dave nudges you with his elbow. "Quick, do something," he whispers.
"I, uh." You clear your throat until both Lalondes are looking in your direction. Rose has finally extricated herself from her mother's embrace, and Mom is pulling the sweater over her head, getting her beard tangled in the neck, her face flushed and her mascara smudged. "I'm going to partake in your human tradition and open these gifts, although I feel some remorse for not having gotten anything for the rest of you."
"You were dragged unwittingly into this 'shitshow'. Don't worry about it," Rose says, getting up for more coffee. You wait until she returns, handing Mom a martini. "You look like you need this," she says with the same amount of manufactured sweetness as she put into the sweater.
Mom sniffles dramatically, wiping the feelings water from her face and smudging her makeup a bit more. She looks a bit like a human bandit with the expanding rings of black spreading around her eyes like a mask. "Thank you, bb. You're so thoughtful."
You slide your thumbnail carefully under the taped ends of the package, meticulously unfolding it in an attempt to release the box without ripping the shiny paper. "Jesus, just rip it. You wanted the super authentic Homo sapiens holiday experience, right? Tear through that shit like you're starving and there's the last box of instant cup-o-grub noodles in the world inside." You press your lips together and rip tentatively, relishing the crisp sound of tearing paper that cuts through the room.
"Oh my, that is a satisfying sound," you whisper.
"Go apeshit, chica," Dave says, resting his hand solemnly on your shoulder. After that, you plow through the presents with aplomb, leaving a massive pile of ribbons of shredded present-swaddling parchment in your wake. In your enthusiasm, you accidentally chip a nail on the artillery shell makeup case that Dave got you. Rose's present contains a mint green winter cap with holes in just the right size and placement for your horns--for which you are very thankful, since the mass-produced hats tend to have horn holes much wider than you strictly need, resulting in your hair still getting wet from the snow--with a matching scarf and pair of mittens.
The third and final box in your pile is a gift from Mom, and you feel your cheeks flush with jade. "I didn't anticipate that you would get me a gift. I'm so ashamed by this lack of foresight. You must think I'm so rude--"
"Oh just open it already," Mom says, biting suggestively into her olive and leaning back, resting her weight on her other hand behind her back.
Inside, nestled between delicate layers of glitter tissue paper, is a metallic emerald dress. You hold it up in front of you, examining the violently puffed sleeves, the ruched bodice with rosettes at one hip, and exaggerated ruffles at the bottom. No words will come to you, so you just hold it out and continue to stare at the obnoxiously loud garment, feeling waves of adoration wash over you that you didn't even know were possible.
This must be what true love feels like.
"I hope you like it. It's a vintage Lalonde circa 1985. We might need to take it in in a few spots, but--"
"I love it!" You exclaim, feeling yourself glow with involuntary enthusiasm, too overcome with affection for this dress to try to rein it in. "I mean, uh, this is obviously a very high quality vintage piece and in very good condition. I'm glad you thought to give it to me."
Rose twists her mouth and looks off to the side, but Mom and Dave encourage you to try it on. A few minutes later you descend the steps, feeling radiant in your new dress. It really is a fine garment, and the slick fabric feels cold against your skin, almost like a stylish but protective vinyl exoskeleton. You couldn't be more elated right now if you tried, which is probably why you don't notice the way Rose is fuming in the corner of the room.
"Damn. It's a vestiary train wreck, Maryam, I'm not gonna lie to you. But, like, a sexy train wreck. I'm still wrapping my brain around it," Dave appraises.
Mom whistles. "God, this takes me back to my asymmetrical bob days. I should show you how to feather your bangs. Do you have any idea how much Rose used to cry whenever I would try to tease her hair when she was little?" She laughs. "One time when she was seven, she actually said it made her look 'grotesque'. The things kids will say!" Rose mashes her hand down on her bangs, perhaps subconsciously plastering them to her head in protest.
"I remember that phase. I should have taken out stock in Aqua Net," Bro mumbles.
"Don't even talk to me, you had a gumby," Mom snaps back.
"Excuse you, the gumby is a motherfucking classic." He takes his hat off and smooths his hair restlessly. "Shit, I should cut it that way again. Get myself a juice box or something."
Dave snaps to attention. "What? We gettin' more juice?"
You press your lips together, eager to get them back on target. "This is a lovely tangent that is totally related to the subject at hand, I'm positive, but what were you saying about bangs?"
Mom assaults your hair with a hair fork and a can of spray adhesive for a full 20 minutes, and at the other end of the ordeal, you can barely comprehend how stunningly gorgeous you look. Your hair is every bit as flamboyant as the sleeves on your dress, and this seems fitting to you. Sartorial perfection has never been as close at hand as it is right in this moment.
"You have given me a gift that far exceeds my capacity for expression or understanding," you mumble breathlessly and inelegantly, staring at yourself in the full-length mirror while Mom flits around you like a songbeast, putting the finishing touches on your bangs and going for that perfect poof.
"Yeah, Mom. Way to steal the show. I've read a lot of psychological theories about how damaging it can be when we treat Christmas as a competition upon seguing into adulthood, but hey. If it were a competition, your nightmare rhapsody in electric polyester here would be the winning horse for sure," Rose says from the peanut gallery at the back of the room, where she's been sitting on the closed toilet seat and trying not to look like she's been sulking for half an hour. Her posture has a dangerous lean to the left, and a half-empty bottle of wine sits on the cistern behind her.
"I'm not an expert, but isn't it rude to compare your guardian to a beast of burden and sport?" you say distractedly, still gazing at yourself.
"It's fine," Mom whispers into your ear, standing behind you with her hands on your hips and looking at her handiwork. "You look like a genuine fucking princess, I'll tell you what." You feel warm all over and have difficulty pulling air into your wind bladders in a way that has nothing to do with how tightly this dress is hugging your thorax. It probably has more to do with Mom's fingers threading through the ruched folds of fabric along your sides.
Rose stands up and steps forward into the frame of the mirror, wobbling a little and wiping her hand over her eyes. "Yes, you do look beautiful, as long as you don't mind being the most flammable thing in the room. Mom, do you mind?" She looks pointedly at your hips before going on, her voice going low to try to hide the rising anger that's evident in the redness of her cheeks. "I know your moral compass is a bit off-kilter and you're a lonely single mother,"
"Rose--" Mom tries to cut in, but Rose cuts her off.
"And you're a bit overwhelmed at finally having a willing participant-slash-enabler for your compulsion for princess makeovers, but I'm right here." She takes another step forward, grabbing her mother's wrist with an unsteady hand and jerking it abruptly away from your waist, spilling the remnants of Mom's pomegranitini all over your dress.
You step quickly out of their way, looking down with silent horror at the purple stain spreading over your stomach. Time stretches into an endless, silent expanse, a quiet little corner of hell where you are frozen to the spot and unable to do anything to stop the fruitful tide of destruction.
Mom blanches, opening her mouth and then closing it, then opening it again. She doesn't seem to know how to respond, so she goes to sip her drink, which is when they both see the empty glass and realize what just happened. "Shit," Rose mumbles at the exact same time as Mom breathes, "Damn it."
"I'm sorry, I'll get some--" Rose starts, stumbling to the corner and grabbing one of Dave's t-shirts off the bathroom floor to sop at the liquid.
"Stop it," you say quietly, still in shock, heartbreak threading through your vasculature like serum poisoning. They both ignore you, pawing without coordination at your dress, using whatever they can find lying around, but you feel the anger rising hot and percolating in your chest until it boils over, leaving you in an abrupt outburst.
This whole thing had been kind of cute all along, in that "human social structures sure are weird and mildly amusing" kind of way, but that was before there had been any honest-to-Mother-Grub casualties of war in this familial strife.
"I said STOP IT!" you shout, glowing so brightly that Mom has to back away with her hand over her eyes, picking up Dave's shades and putting them on. Normally, this would amuse you, but not today. You have a dress's sacred fucking honor to defend, here. "This is ridiculous. You're both acting ridiculous."
"She's just--" Mom starts.
"No, she's not 'just' anything." You look wildly between the two of them. "She," you say, gesturing at Rose, who is squinting at you from the floor, where she is on her knees and still trying to dab at you with Dave's record t-shirt, "is experiencing an extreme case of internalized human impostor syndrome, which she has taken to imbibing excessive amounts of soporific to suppress, meanwhile allowing her feelings of inadequacy as a daughter to manifest themselves as a series of escalating passive-aggressive dares that you--" you point at Mom, who has backed up all the way to the toilet, her hair becoming unkempt and flopping forward into Dave's shades, which do actually look mildly ridiculous on her.
"You pretend you don't realize she's doing it, but secretly you imbibe just as much soporific because it makes it easier to pretend that everyone feels just as good about the situation as you do. Because... well... I don't know, but if I had to venture a guess I'd say that pretending is easier than actually addressing people's negative feelings toward you, or facing the possibility that they don't have the same feelings for you as you do for them."
They're both staring at you with mild shock. "If the two of you would stop knocking back so much soporific that you're about as lucid as a subjuggulator on Colonial Day, maybe--just maybe--you could speak to each other like adults and not have to partake in these games for fucking wigglers that you pass off as legitimate interpersonal interactions!" You bend over, inhaling deeply after your impromptu speech. You don't know what just came over you, but you can't possibly be the first victim to succumb to cocktail dress rage in the course of history.
"Kanaya--"
"No. You two work it out. Consider this metaphorical talkstick now subject to the unhindered whims of Earth's gravitational pull." You storm out of the bathroom before either of them can fill the silence that follows, angrily kicking off your shoes and peeling off the tragically beautiful but potentially ruined garment of clothing. Fuck. Maybe there's a laundromat still open somewhere.
As it turns out, you are able to find a human dry cleaner willing to take on the challenge of triaging the pomegranitini stain. You had briefly entertained the idea of going to one of the troll vestment ablution stations, which you knew would be open but probably wouldn't be prepared to treat the vintage dress with the delicacy that this situation required. Fortunately, the elderly human from the back of the store promises you that she will do everything in her power to save it from a one-way ticket to the scrap pile.
You have to wait in the laundromat for several hours, with your legs spread across three human-sized chairs in the empty waiting area, watching as the snow begins to accumulate on the ground. The walk back is going to be a cold, slushy slice of human hell. If only you'd had the foresight to wear sturdier boots, but the only thing on your mind as you had walked out of the apartment was that time was of the essence as fruit juices burrowed their way into the delicate fibers of your new masterpiece. Now, with the danger mitigated to the best of your ability, all that's left to do is wait, hope for the best, and ponder incredulously at the stunted emotional range of human beings when it came to their progeny.
"Just so you know, it's almost done," the teen attendant says to you, coming back to the front and grabbing her magazine off of the counter. She studies your face for a moment. "Don't look so worried. Your dress is in good hands with Ji-ya, and this isn't our first rodeo with a fruitini disaster. If we can't get the stain out, we won't charge you."
"I have faith in your human skill. That's not what concerns me." You burrow into your coat, crossing your arms across your thorax. Cold weather always makes you sluggish, although the dark doesn't bother you quite like it does the humans. "I think I made a grave social misstep today. It might even be safe to assume that I waltzed myself right off the handle of social grace and did a backflip into an ice cold pool of faux pas."
"How bad can it really be?"
"I may have yelled at my human girlfriend and her human guardian. I may have told them they were acting ridiculous and berated them for drinking to excess and being bad at emotions."
She puts down her magazine and laughs. "Okay, yeah, that's bad. But it sounds par for the course for Christmas with the family."
"Is it? This is my first family Christmas, so I wouldn't know."
She shrugs. "My family doesn't celebrate it or anything, which--you know--is why I'm working today I guess, but if popular culture and listening to my friends at school talk about it has taught me anything, it's that Christmas is the most stressful time of the year for a lot of people. I think it's also the second biggest day for breakups."
That makes you wince. "I hope that isn't what lies in my future."
"I doubt it. I've heard of much worse. At least nobody is on their way to jail or the hospital, right? What's a little bit of family neurosis compared to that?"
You trill in assent and turn back to the window, where you see Mom's silver Jeep SUV pull up to the curb and park a bit crookedly at a meter just outside the door. Inside the truck, Mom is talking rapidly and Rose is staring dejectedly out of the window, the hood of her purple parka pulled up over her head as if trying to shut out everything in her peripheral vision--like, for example, Mom. She catches your gaze through the window and rolls her eyes, but she also smiles at you before turning and responding to something Mom says.
Just then, the elderly woman comes up and drapes a plastic garment bag across the counter. You signal to Rose to wait just a moment and stand up, crossing the room with trepidation. "Were you able to salvage its dignity, at least?"
"Good as new," Ji-ya says with a wink. Your vascular pump swells with so much relief that you tip them a truly sacrilegious amount before running out into the snow and hopping into the backseat of Mom's truck.
"Thank God we found you. There's some kind of city-wide snow emergency, and I just know that trolls don't handle the cold nearly as well as--"
"Thank you," you interrupt Mom before she can go on. She pulls away from the curb and does a u-turn in the empty, snow-covered street, narrowly missing the meters on the opposite sidewalk. You consider asking if she's sober enough to drive, but you reject that idea quickly. You've said enough on the subject of their drinking habits for the time being.
For a while, no one says anything. You stroke the bag in your lap absently and alternate between studying both Lalondes in the front. Rose has her feet tucked underneath her in the passenger seat, her wet boots on the floor in front of her, still staring out the window with a not insignificant degree of surliness. Mom, on the other hand, is singing along under her breath to "Shoop" by Salt-n-Pepa, which is playing from her iPod through the car's speakers. She still has Dave's sunglasses on.
As you get closer to the house, however, you feel an overwhelming urge to address the silent tuskbeast in the truck. If you're going to do it at all, you need to do it before the Striders are brought into the equation, which means you need to do it now. "I, uh. I should apologize. I think I crossed a boundary by making a judgement of both your drinking habits and your familial relationships, two things about which I really know very little."
The two of them share a look that you can't read. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart," Mom says, looking at you through the rearview mirror.
Rose sneaks her hand back between the door and her seat, and you hold it in yours, letting her warmth spread through your fingers. It's not a verbal apology, but you'll take what you can get.
"I don't know about you two, but I'm frigging starving," Mom says as the three of you walk up to the condo door from the parking lot, having made it home without an accident or other notable incident, possibly thanks to Rose's whispered prayers to the horrorterrors every time Mom took a hard right turn on the ice.
"I could eat," Rose concedes, only letting go of your hand to open the front door.
The scent of something edible hits you immediately, and Mom moans with delight. "Whatever you're making, I hope it's ready!" she shouts into the kitchen from the foyer.
Dave walks into the living room. "Good, you're right on time. Since you left us to our own devices against your better judgement, Bro and I made you a traditional Strider Christmas dinner."
"Oh, fuck me," Rose groans behind you.
Once your boots are off and your dress is hung securely from the staircase, you enter the dining room, where the table has been set with Rose's good china, a lit candelabra with white candles, wine glasses, water goblets, and the fine silverware. In the middle of the table is a platter of pizza rolls arranged in exacting detail, and surrounding that are bowls of Cheetos, Doritos, chicharrónes, and beef jerkey, as well as tureens of ranch dressing and barbecue sauce.
Mom sniffles, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. "It's so beautiful," she whispers under her breath.
"Serve yourself," Bro says from the kitchen. "I'm putting the finishing touches on dessert in here."
"What fresh hell could that possibly be?" Rose mutters, but she sits obligingly at the table next to you, slipping her hand into yours under the red and green tartan tablecloth. She even spoons a few pizza rolls onto her plate in a gesture of good faith, whereas Mom and Dave load their plates up with rolls and sauces and chips. Dave dips his Cheetos into some ranch dressing, but they wait for Bro before digging in.
"Incoming," Bro says, backing into the room with a tray of stacked Hostess cakes, which he places at the end of the table before sitting down. "Y'all ready to say grace?"
The humans all nod in assent, so you go along with them, even though you have no idea what is about to happen. When they join hands, you take Dave's hand in your empty one and watch expectantly, knowing that you're about to be a primary witness to a key human holiday ritual. You can barely contain your excitement.
"Dear gods of broitude," Bro begins. "Please bless this table with your magnanimity and imbue the food we're about to consume with the essence of righteousness, so that we may be privy to your holy awesomeness and preach the gospel of not giving a fuck about some motherfuckers who doubt us or speak blasphemous things about our puppet video empires or rad science research or, I dunno, whatever the hell it is Rose and Dave do anyway. Take Kanaya into your arms and show her the light so she can fit into this family as the badass bombshell that she may not realize she is yet, and give her the strength to deal with our bullshit. A-fucking-men."
"Amen," the other humans respond.
"Amen?" you add, a beat too late.
"Hell yes amen," Bro says. "Enough talking, let's eat. That cheese is gonna start congealing."
As appealing as that sounds, you hold back a moment and watch as the rest of them dig in to their food, talking and laughing and generally getting along better than you've seen since Mom and Bro arrived. Dave steals his shades back from Mom and puts them back on, joking about how he felt like he was running around naked all day, and she quips back with a joke about frozen underwear that makes him blush and sink lower in his chair. Everyone knocks back goblets of a mixed drink made with Mountain Dew and Dave's mulled apple cider, which Bro calls an 'Xtreme Eve', claiming it as a signature drink.
Rose squeezes your hand and smiles at you, and while you don't know what it's like to have a family and you're no closer to discovering the meaning of Christmas than you were 36 hours ago, you start to think that it probably isn't the worst thing in the world if it means that you get to spend more time with these endlessly fascinating, remarkably frustrating, curiously warm-blooded but cold-hearted aliens you've grown to adore.