Fire with Fire

CHRISTMAS MORNING, MY PLAN WAS TO WAKE UP early and make pancakes for everybody. But I stay up late watching A Christmas Story with Pat the night before, so I end up oversleeping. It’s after ten by the time I finally get out of bed.

I put my grubby terry-cloth robe on over my T-shirt and trudge over to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, and I’m surprised to see Dad and Pat at the kitchen table. Pat’s got his head bent over a bowl of leftover soup, and Dad’s drinking coffee. “Merry Christmas, DeBrassios,” I say, my voice scratchy from sleep. “I was going to get up early and make pancakes, but—”

“But you’re a lazy little shit?” Pat finishes, slurping his soup.

I grin and pour myself a cup of coffee. “Like my big brudder.”

I take my coffee into the family room and turn on the Christmas tree lights. It’s bare under the tree. We already did presents last night, as is the DeBrassio tradition. I got my dad a new fishing pole I’d been saving up for, and I got Pat a vintage Italian motocross decal off the Internet from some guy. My dad gave me a hundred-dollar bill, and Pat said he’d give me my gift later. Like hell. Pat’s all about rain-checking gifts.

I turn on the TV, and it’s A Christmas Story again. It’s the end of the movie, where they’re at the Chinese restaurant and the waiters are singing “Deck the Halls” and they can’t say their l’s. It’s racist as shit, but it’s still a good movie.

Then Dad and Pat come in, and Dad says, “Katherine, I think there might be one more gift for you under the tree.”

“Get your eyes checked, old man!” I tell him, pointing to the bare rug.

“Pat!” Dad barks. “You were supposed to put it under the tree this morning.”

“Chill out, chill out,” Pat says, and he goes to his room and comes back with a box wrapped in Santa Claus paper. He hands it to me. “Here.”

I look from Dad to Pat. “What is this?”

Dad’s grinning. “Open it.”

I tear into it—it’s a new laptop. My jaw drops. “No way.”

“It’s for college, Katherine.”

There’s a huge lump in my throat, and tears are pricking my eyelids. “How—how did you even afford this?”

“I finished that canoe last week,” Dad says, beaming at me proudly. “And Pat helped.”

I stare at Pat, who is standing against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. “For real?”

“Yeah, dude. I worked my ass off to kick in on this, so you better not fail out of Oberlin.” Pat shakes his finger at me.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm. “I haven’t even been accepted yet.” I should tell them about the whole early-decision beat-down I suffered, but I don’t have the heart.

“You’re getting in,” Pat says.

“Even if I do get in, it’s so far away. . . . Maybe I’d be better off going to school somewhere nearby, so I could still come home and help out around here.”

“No way,” Dad barks. “You’re out of here as soon as you graduate. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

I can barely see him through my tears. “Thanks a lot.”

Pat leans forward and says, “Dad and I can fend for ourselves. Your ass is going to Oberlin. You’re gonna get straight As, and then you’re gonna get rich at some fancy job, and when you do, you’re gonna send lots of dough home to us.”

I laugh. “You’re still gonna be living at home in five years? Loser.” Then I stand up, and on shaky legs, I hug them both.