"You said that, but it wouldn't work." She charges off on a tangent, explaining that was the whole purpose of the break, to see if we could handle a platonic relationship. Another test, like I said in the first place.

Mrs. Jasinski walks in at the end of Sasha's speech, her Christmas tree pin glittering like a dozen diamonds, and something clicks in my head and reminds me why I'm here. "Sasha, we'll be leaving in about ten minutes," she says. She turns towards me and adds, "Sorry to rush you out, Nick, but it's a busy family time. I'm sure you understand."

"Sure." I'm already getting to my feet.

"Oh, no." Mrs. Jasinski motions for me to sit down. "You still have a few minutes."

So I sit down again and that stupid knotted weed twists back and forth in my stomach. I want to throw up, but I know I won't. This is what it must be like to swallow poison ivy. "Sasha." I dip my head towards hers. "We have a lot to think about. Can you meet me after you take the test?"

"You're not going back to your dad's?" Her face is flushed from arguing.

"I told him to go. I'm working the twenty-sixth-do you think you could meet me at the store around one?"

Sasha slides a finger across her lip and says: "One o'clock. Okay."

I get back up. This time I'm really going and it feels wrong, everything undecided between us and that weed flapping its leaves inside me like it wants to fly. Sasha stands up next to me. Her cheeks practically match her skirt and I hope her parents won't ask too many questions about us; I don't think she'll be able to handle that right now. "Are you gonna be okay?"

She opens her mouth but closes it again before saying: "I guess I can act like I am for a while."

"You can IM me later if you want," I offer. "Not like I'll be getting any sleep tonight."

"Okay, I might. I'm glad you came over anyway."

"You are?" I say it lightly. I'm not sure this meeting helped either of us any.

"Yeah, I am. Thanks, Nick." She takes a step towards me and puts her arms around me. The hug catches me off guard. You'd think it would take longer than a month to forget how to hug someone, but my arms feel heavy and stupid at first. Then my hand reaches for her hair. It's soft like it always was and I hug her back the way I used to.

It feels so good to do that. So good that it's scary.

How many times can one person break your heart?

I look like a snowman by the time I get home. My socks are wet, my toes are frozen, and my teeth hurt, but I don't care. I could take off my clothes and lie down naked in the backyard all night and I wouldn't feel much different than I do right now.

The icicle lights are still on, but inside, the house is dark. I can't remember what Mom and Holland are doing tonight, but I hope they'll be gone a long time because I don't think I can pretend I'm okay. At the very least I need an explanation for my presence, but I can't think. My brain is stuck on Sasha in that burgundy skirt, staring at How the Grinch Stole Christmas!

I pull off my shoes and socks and tell myself what to do. Change your clothes, you're cold. Get some food, you haven't eaten. It's like I'm on autopilot, like I'm sleepwalking. I change into sweatpants and throw two Jamaican beef patties in the microwave. I eat half of the first one in the kitchen, but it sounds like a cemetery in there so I stretch out on the living room couch and turn on the TV. There's a lot of Christmas stuff on-The Nightmare Before Christmas, Elf, A Christmas Story, The Santa Clause-but I'm not exactly in a festive mood so I keep flipping until I land on Minority Report. I've already seen it twice, but it's good so I stay with it.

The year is 2054 and Tom Cruise is being framed for murder. He keeps saying, "Everybody runs." It's the best line in the movie. Everybody runs. It's inevitable. Sometimes there's only one thing to do. I wish that's how it was with Sasha and me because I don't know what I'll say to her in two days. See, I don't think I want her to go through with it. I'm like that a.s.shole I told you about, the guy that convinced his girlfriend to have an abortion. I just want it to be over with and I want Sasha to want the same thing so I don't have to feel bad about it. But this is Sasha we're talking about. I don't want her to hate me again. Maybe that's the most important thing. I'm not sure.

Anyway, Tom Cruise is on the run with that precog girl he kidnapped. She's the most fragile person you've ever seen-pale skin and huge eyes. I'm seeing her and I'm not seeing her because the whole mess with Sasha is squirming around in my head. Then next thing I know, I'm blinking up at Holland. Her mostly pink bangs are back in barrettes and she stares down at me and says, "What're you doing here?"

I catch a glimpse of the TV and notice Family Guy is on. I'm not fully awake yet and part of me knows that I don't want to be. "I came back," I mumble.

"Obviously. Did you have a fight with them or something?"

"No, I..." I struggle into a seated position and notice that Holland's wearing her coat. She must've heard the TV and headed straight for it.

Mom steps into the living room behind her and says, "Nicholas, honey, what are you doing home?" She sounds soft and worried, but I'm not ready to lay the truth on her. She won't sound that way when she hears it; she'll sound more disappointed than ever.

"I don't want to talk about it now, okay?" I flip weary glances at Holland and Mom. "I'm gonna be home for Christmas. I hope that's all right."

"Of course it's all right." Mom's still in her coat too. She hardly ever wears high heels anymore, but she's wearing them now. Blush and eye shadow even. "Is this about her?"

I shake my head. I think I'm pouting and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe they'll lay off me for a while if I keep it up. "Mom, I really don't want to talk about it right now. Everything's okay. I'm just gonna be here for the holidays. I might see Dad in a few days."

I can tell I've totally confused them. It would've been smarter to let them believe this was about Bridgette or Dad, but I don't have the energy to lie like that. I squint at the empty plate on the coffee table. I must've eaten the second Jamaican patty too, but I can't remember doing it. I remember Sasha in that burgundy skirt. She's pregnant. My kid. I already know the second test will be positive.

I should check my IM, but I can't get away. Holland and Mom have me cornered. "So where have you guys been?" I ask, rubbing my eyes and milking the little boy lost look for whatever it can get me.

"Church." Holland sits on the arm of the couch. "Then Christine's."

Christine is one of Mom's old library pals. She got divorced a year before Mom did and then married a guy who grooms pets. He offered us a lifetime of free pet grooming, should we ever decide to "take the plunge and buy a furry friend."

"Barry and Christine asked about you." Mom unb.u.t.tons her coat, slides it off, and folds it over her arm. "He's a big hockey fan, you remember?"

I don't remember, but I nod anyway.

"They bought a macaw for Christmas," Holland adds. "It speaks German."

"German?" I repeat.

"Wer sind Sie?" Holland offers, gazing at the ceiling like she's trying to remember more. "Bitte bringen Sie Erbsen." That's just like Holland. She probably even knows what it means. "Who are you?" she translates. "Please bring peas." See what I mean.

I glance over at Mom. "So now she speaks German."

"Nein," Holland says. "Just 'who are you' and 'please bring peas.'"

"The two most important phrases in the German language," I joke.

Holland smiles and I can't believe I made a joke. It must be that voice in the back of my head again-the one that told me to change my clothes and eat something. Maybe it means things will be okay. Maybe you can make it through your whole life feeling like s.h.i.t, as long as you have that voice taking care of you. I glance from Holland to my mom and back to Holland. It's like they're scared to move, afraid to leave me alone in the living room with my secret. They're my little support group, only I don't want to talk to them.

"I can barely keep my eyes open," I tell them. "I think I'll go to bed."

"We were about to make hot chocolate," Mom says, her eyes lighting up. "You love hot chocolate."

And she's right, normally I do. Hot chocolate with shortbread cookies is a Christmas Eve tradition. Six years ago Holland and I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night and finished off half the shortbread cookies while diving under the tree and searching out our presents. We weren't going to open them. We just wanted to examine their shapes and test their weights. Then Holland lost her balance and landed full force on one of her own presents, instantly flattening it. Something snapped inside and Holland's eyes popped out of her face like she was being squeezed. Man, she looked funny, but I didn't laugh.

"We'll hide the evidence," I suggested. "Maybe they won't notice it's missing."

And you know, it actually worked. We unwrapped it and it was one of those paint by number sets, the little brush snapped in two but the miniature paints miraculously intact. A few days later we managed to smuggle the numbered landscape into the garbage. It was from some great-uncle and not something a kid would normally be interested in painting, but I think Holland used the paints during her angels and castles phase.

"Okay," I say. "I guess I'll have some hot chocolate first."

The three of us sit in the kitchen sipping hot chocolate. It feels like we'll never be done and the moment we are, I trudge up to my room and check my e-mail and IM. There are four new messages, but none of them are from Sasha. I told her to IM me because I thought it might be good for her. Now I realize it's what I need too. We're connected, her and me and what's happening inside her. I'm more connected than I've ever been to anything in my whole life, but I've never felt more alone.

thirteen.

Holland wakes me up at 9:48 the next morning. Nothing registers at first. I'm plain old Nick scowling at Holland for waking me up so early. Holland's bangs are hanging in her eyes and she's wearing one of her many black T-shirts. This one says Angry Young Girl on the front and has a pink cartoon face with squiggly long hair on the back. The face is baring its teeth in an angry young frown.

"We're about to do presents," Holland says, watching me struggle towards consciousness.

I'd like to stay in that moment where I don't remember anything, but sure enough it all rushes back to me as I look at Holland. What happened, Nick? We had that talk. I sit up in bed. It's one of many things I have to do while I'm waiting for tomorrow. I have a whole Christmas Day to get through.

"So what really happened yesterday?" Holland asks. "I won't say anything to Mom, I swear." She folds her arms in front of her angry declaration. "It was them, wasn't it?"

"Holland, it's Christmas," I rasp. My voice box has acc.u.mulated a hundred years of dust overnight. "I don't want to think about this s.h.i.t. Go downstairs and wait for me. I'll be down in a second."

Holland c.o.c.ks her head and stares at me. I know this look. She's trying to decide if she should keep pushing. Well, push away, Holland. It won't get you anywhere.

"Fine," she says, and turns on her heel.

I jump in the shower, change into my clothes, and set a course for the Christmas tree. Mom and Holland are sitting on the couch, waiting for me. "Merry Christmas," Mom says. I go over and kiss her on the cheek. She smells like the perfume Holland and I gave her for her birthday.

"Merry Christmas," I tell both of them. It sounds okay, I think. It only feels wrong.

"Merry Christmas," Holland says. "Are you playing Santa Claus?"

"You can do that." I motion towards her.

"I did it last year. It's your turn."

So why ask? s.h.i.t. But Mom looks genuinely happy and I don't want to mess with that if I can help it. I root around under the tree and pull out present after present, reading the tags and pa.s.sing them on.

Afterwards Mom makes blueberry pancakes, another Severson family Christmas tradition. It's funny, Dad doesn't do any of the stuff we used to, but Mom's kept it all up. Maybe that's why she normally looks so unhappy over the holidays. She hasn't moved on. Maybe I'm wrong about that, though, because her smile looks real today, unlike mine.

"I'm glad you're here for Christmas this year," she says as I load the dishwasher. "But are you going to tell me what happened with your father yesterday?"

"Who says anything happened with him?"

"Nicholas." Mom stands with one hand on the counter and watches me, but I don't stop loading. "There's obviously a problem here and I'd like to know what it is."

The phone rings just then and we both step towards it, but Mom gets there first. She frowns at the voice on the other end of the line and says, "Yes, he is, Cole, but he won't tell me a thing. Maybe you can fill me in on what happened last night." She holds the phone tight to her ear and my stomach sinks. This isn't the way I want things to go. Not on Christmas. Not before I've seen Sasha again.

"Let me talk to him," I say. I can hear Dad's voice, but I can't make out what he's saying. "Mom, give me the phone."

"Well, at least he'll confide in you," she says, glowering at me as she continues speaking to Dad. "I still haven't heard a word about it. I came home last night and found him asleep on the sofa."

Mom hands over the phone, which I promptly put on hold. I rush upstairs, pick up the phone in my room, and yell for Mom to hang up.

"You haven't told your mother yet," Dad says, sounding tenser than he did last night.

"Not yet. Sasha and I want to get some things settled first."

"And how'd it go last night?"

"We didn't have long," I explain. "Her family was going to church. I'm going to meet her again tomorrow."

"And her family? What do they say?" Dad exhales heavily.

"They don't know yet either."

"Nick, I know you just found out, but don't wait too long on this. Her parents could be some help." A single note of laughter shoots out of my mouth and slides under Dad's words. "They seem like good people," he continues.

"Yeah, I know." I've had as much of this as I can take. He can't help me. He doesn't know how. "So how was Christmas Eve? You guys got back okay?"

"Fine. Nicholas, look, I want to hear from you again soon. I know it's early, but there are different options that could be set in motion."

"I know." I don't mean to say more; it just slips out. "Maybe she won't have it."

"That could be the best thing, but this is her decision, you realize," Dad says cautiously.

I do realize, but I don't want her to ruin both our lives. Sasha's got more plans than I do; you'd think she'd want to keep them.

Dad and I don't talk for long. He tells me he's glad I trusted him enough to tell him. I don't point out that it was an act of desperation. I thank him for calling and promise to get in touch with him in a few days.

There're a few hours before Aunt Deirdre and Co. show up and I spend most of them in my room. My Christmas gifts are piled at the foot of my bed-new shoulder pads, a waterproof clock radio for the shower, gift certificates for clothes, a collection of CDs and DVDs, and a Magic 8 Ball. The Magic 8 Ball is from Holland and I swoop down and pick it up. I don't even know if you're supposed to ask the questions out loud or what. It's a stupid ball, after all.

Is Sasha pregnant? Magic 8 Ball: Better not tell you now.

Will she have the baby? Magic 8 Ball: Concentrate and ask again.

I drop the Magic 8 Ball on my bed, disgusted with myself. Next thing you know, I'll be phoning a psychic line that charges by the second. Still, I retrieve the ball and try to focus. The Magic 8 Ball says: Signs point to yes. I give it another shake and read the next reply: As I see it yes. I keep flipping it over, waiting for a message I can live with.

Yes definitely.

It is decidedly so.

Outlook not so good.

Really? I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. I balance the Magic 8 Ball on top of the DVDs and stand in the middle of the room. I need to get out of the house and do something. I'm not up to the turkey dinner with my cousins. Mom always forces me and Holland to hang out with Simon because he's fifteen, right in between our ages. She thinks that automatically means we have something in common, but I don't understand half the stuff he says. He speaks fluent computer-geek. It's not my language on a good day.

Taking off on Christmas Day isn't an option, though. Where would I go anyway? Everyone I know is locked into family plans. So I plant myself in front of my computer and check my e-mail and IM again. Not one word from Sasha.

We used to e-mail and IM all the time. A bunch of our conversations and e-mails are sitting on my computer, evidence that we actually used to be together. The funny thing is that I wouldn't let myself reread any of them. It was proof that I was in control, I guess.

But I'm not in control of anything. I see that now, and I click on her e-mail from Halloween and read it through three times before pushing my chair away from the desk. I remember everything about that night as though it just happened-kidding around with her in bed, singing "I'm with You" in my best Avril imitation, Sasha wrestling with me, grinning at me, telling me how special I was and how it felt like we'd just started over.

That night comes back to me in the shower, ringing up a sale, or warming up on the ice. Lots of things about us come back to me. That hug from last night. Does she still believe anything she said to me on Halloween or is it all past tense? It's the last thing I should wonder about, but I can't help it.

Somehow I survive the turkey dinner with Aunt Deirdre, Uncle Martin, and my cousins. I'm quiet, but the giddy noises coming from my two youngest cousins disguise that. After dinner Simon follows me up to my room, sits at my desk, and tries to pretend we have something in common. I try to pretend too, but I know I sound moody and bored. I'm relieved when they leave at ten o'clock, but by ten-thirty I'm bouncing off the walls again.

I don't sleep until after three and Mom has to tell me to pick up the speed a little in the car the next morning. We've been making this mall run since I got my learner's permit. In fact, I drive whenever we're in the car together. My road test is in three weeks and I need to pa.s.s; I'm tired of walking everywhere. "I don't think I've ever had to ask you to drive faster before," she jokes from the pa.s.senger seat.