Fire with Fire

CHRISTMAS DAY PASSES IN A BLUR. WE GO TO church in the morning like always; then we come back, and my dad makes a Korean rice-cake soup and my mom bakes frozen cinnamon rolls she ordered from Neiman Marcus. We eat them as we open presents. I get a new laptop and a mint-and-lavender cashmere sweater and new riding boots and little things like my favorite perfume and the sugarplum face cream from New York.

I should be happy, because I love presents and I’m getting everything I asked for and more. Nadia is squealing over every one of her gifts, hugging our mom and dad each time she opens something, taking her time getting through her pile so she can make it last longer. I can barely muster up smiles and thank-yous. I’m the worst daughter ever.

My parents definitely notice. They keep shooting each other concerned looks. At one point my mom sits next to me on the chaise and puts the back of her hand to my forehead to check if I have a fever.

I didn’t think it would be this bad. That I’d hurt this much over something that was supposed to be fake.

When all the presents have been opened, Mom gives a nod to my dad, and he steps out of the room. When he comes back, he has two huge boxes in his arms. Nadia jumps up and tries to take one of them, but Dad says, “These are both for Lillia.”

I open them. It’s a brand-new luggage set from Tumi, both hard shell in gleaming white. One large roller bag, one smaller roller that will fit in the overhead.

“For college,” my dad announces. “Wellesley has some amazing study-abroad programs, you know.”

I don’t even have the energy to say anything back to that. That I’m still not totally sold on Wellesley. I just nod and click the suitcase latch open and closed a few times.

“Your father picked the set out himself,” Mom says. “He figured you’d like the white.” She rests her hand on my knee and gives it a hard squeeze.

I automatically look to my dad. “I love it.”

“Merry Christmas, princess,” he says.