12 Strays of Christmas by Natalie McKearin

Author:Natalie McKearin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.

Fact: If I was going to listen to Christmas music, it would be Bing Crosby.

On Sunday morning, I thumb through Dad’s old records and pull out White Christmas. The edges of the cover are bent and worn from years of use.

I stare at a smiling Bing and think about all the times Dad asked me to dance. He’d extend his hand and pull me in as Bing crooned on about glistening tree tops and sleigh bells in the snow. When I was really little, I’d stand on his feet as we swayed. Soft and gentle. Nothing like the kind of insane dancing we did yesterday.

I grin to myself as I think about Alex moonwalking his way into a cotton candy stand. I’m pretty sure he’ll be picking colored sugar out of his hair for days.

I start to queue up the record, but a sweet, buttery smell from downstairs stops me in my tracks.

I frown. Mom went into the office this morning—I’m certain of that because I heard the garage door open and wondered why she had to leave before the sun had even come up. I figured she wouldn’t be around to make Sunday Pancakes, either, which is why the smell catches me by surprise.

I’m even more surprised to find Nick at the stove.

“What are you doing?!” I exclaim.

He glances at me over his shoulder as he drops a pat of butter into the pan. “It’s Pancake Sunday,” he replies.

“I know that,” I retort. “But since when do you make them?”

“I make pancakes,” he insists. He sounds almost offended that I would doubt him. Like he and his Br-Apple Stuffing hadn’t just poisoned me a few weeks earlier. But I relent when I see the way Nick carefully and evenly peppers each one with chocolate chips.

I fill a plate and grab the maple syrup. As I sit down at the table, I steal a glance at my brother, standing over a hot stove, upholding our Sunday tradition. I soften.

“Any plans today?” I ask.

I pour a bit of syrup onto my plate—never directly onto the pancake. I will never understand why people enjoy watching their pancakes turn to mush. I take a bite and am immediately treated to a mouthful of sweet, melted chocolate. It’s really good.

“Just hang out here,” he says as he plates the final pancake and plops down in the chair next to me. “You?”

In that moment, it suddenly dawns on me that I still haven’t told Nick about Yuletide Treasures. Guilt creeps up my neck like a rash. I don’t like lying to Nick—and especially not after he’s made such a delicious batch of Sunday Pancakes.

But I can’t risk it getting back to my mom. I’ve already texted her from my laptop three times this morning to avoid suspicion.

“Might go to the mall,” I say with a shrug.

Okay. Not a total lie.

I watch as Nick drowns his pancakes in maple syrup and grimace. “Gross.”

He looks up at me, amused. “Tell me you’re not still scared of your pancakes and syrup touching.

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