Ryan picked up the final ornament—a tiny nutcracker clad in lederhosen and holding a tinier stein of beer—and hung it at the top of the tree. As he marched up the step stool, his slippers jingled; they looked like the shoes of a cartoon Christmas elf—Monster Energy green with little red stripes, the slipper tips of each curling up like scorpion tails and ending with a small golden bell.  

“Sara—hand me the tree topper?” he asked, interrupting the quiet dialogue of Die Hard, which was playing on the flatscreen atop the hutch. 

His sister sat cross-legged on the couch, nursing a Manhattan. She took a very slow sip, tilting her head to the right in order to get a better view of the television. 

Ryan glanced down at her. “Hello?” 

Sara raised an eyebrow, a few strands of her pink box-dyed hair twisting out from beneath her dollar store Santa hat. “I dunno, man, our couch is really comfortable…”

“You’d think, once you’d hit twenty-eight, you’d stop being a pain in the ass…” 

Sara shrugged, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile. She picked a piece of fuzz off of her reindeer onesie and flicked it to the floor. “You don’t need to be so crabby.” 

Ryan shoved his hands into the pockets of his ratty Old Navy sweatpants. Shaggy ginger hair curled out from under his war-torn Santa hat and poked into his thickly bifocaled eyes.  

He sighed. “Please, Sara?”  

She stood, blowing a quick puff of air at the strand of hair hanging in front of her left eye. “I’m juuuust saying…” she said. “The thing is old.” She stepped around the coffee table and headed toward the piano bench, on top of which sat a large, pink, padded envelope. 

Ryan crossed his arms, following Sara with his head but not getting off the step stool. “I know it’s old. So?” 

Sara shrugged with just one shoulder, as if that were a sufficient answer. She placed her glass on top of the upright piano and picked up the envelope, tucking it under her arm before strolling back over to Ryan. She stopped beside him, looking up with her back toward the tree.  

It was Sara’s turn to sigh. “Ryan…” 

“What are you waiting for?” 

“May I…propose something?” 

“Just hand me the—” Ryan took a deep breath. “Please just give it to me…” 

After a quick roll of the baby blues, Sara held the envelope up to Ryan with all the unnecessary theatrics you would expect from an unemployed drama teacher—lifting it like she was handing him some giant, faded pink slip.  

Ryan gingerly reached inside the envelope and lifted out the star—slowly, nimbly, like he was extracting the breadbasket in a game of Operation. The thing was constructed of awkwardly bent coat hanger wire and glittery, sheer beige fabric that used to be gold. There was a hole in the fabric, slightly off-center and the size of a quarter—and one right next to it the size of a dime. The fabric’s crispy glitter-glue embellishments shed every time it moved, like yellowed dandruff from a scaly scalp. It housed an army of frayed edges, threads reaching out like little fingers screaming “Help us! Help us!” and the bottom wires—the ones for attaching it to the tree—were starting to form a winter coat of rust. 

Ryan held the base of the star to the top of the tree and twisted the bottom wires around the wood. He tugged on it, then climbed down the step stool, pushing his glasses up by the bridge with his right middle finger. He got beside Sara and crossed his arms, the two of them staring up at the tree.  

“And thus it is Christmas…” He glanced at Sara, whose face was scrunched into a grimace. “What—?” Ryan raised his eyebrows, eyes widening like a puppy with its tail stepped on. “Come on, don’t complain—” 

“I mean…” Sara shoved her hands into her pockets. “Dude, just look at it…” 

“I am.” 

“It’s got a hole, Ry.” 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Two holes.” 

“It’s always been like—” 

“And it smells like feet.” 

“It’s not so bad—let me just find Mom’s old sewing stuff and—” 

“Ryan!” Sara threw her hands up, like she was going to strangle him. “Oh. My gosh.” 

“It’s a family heirloom, Sara—don’t you have any respect for our family?” 

“I don’t respect you,” she joked, “if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Ryan brushed the hair from his eyes, drawing in a long breath and staring at the bells on the ends of his slippers.  

“Ok, but seriously—” Sara clasped her hands together, like she was about to pray, then pointed the tips of her fingers at Ryan. “It’s time.” 

“Oh—come on, it’s not that bad. Seriously—I can just stitch up the holes, dot on some glue, sprinkle on some more glitter or something, scrub down the wire and polish it all up a bit—it’ll take, like, an hour. Tops. Where are my keys?” Ryan turned on his heel and started rooting around the small ceramic bowl he’d made in fifth grade, in which the keys were supposed to be kept but never seemed to be in. His cheeks were hot; his heart was thumping like it was set on winning a race. 

“Like I said,” Sara pinched the bridge of her nose with tips of her red-and-green painted nails, eyes squeezing shut, “can you be serious for one moment, please?”  

Ryan scowled at her, brushing by her to root through the pile of stuff on the coffee table.

“We’re adults, Ry,” Sara continued, shoving her hands back into the pockets of her onesie. “Can you please try to act like one?” 

“If you’d help me find my keys, I could be back within the hour and—” 

“This is just like that Captain America backpack you had,” Sara muttered, “back in hi—”

“No, no—” Ryan, without looking, jabbed a pointer finger in Sara’s direction. “That’s different—that was basically brand-new.” 

Sara’s whole body rose and fell with a shrug as she followed Ryan’s venture around the living room. “Ry—you’d spilled hot sauce inside that thing more than once…” 

“Just because it was a little sticky doesn’t mean it didn’t do it’s job and will you quit bringing up high school? Why do you always do that?” 

“That’s not my point.” 

Ryan glowered at her. “Keys.” 

“Dude…” Sara shook her head at the floor. “That star lit-er-a-ly bled glitter crust all over the floor.”  

Ryan exhaled sharply at the ceiling. The strings of lights hanging from the wooden beams winked like distant stars. 

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Sara said. 

Ryan sighed, plopping down on the couch and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “You get it though, yeah?” 

“Get what?” Sara sat down next to him, cross-legged. “Your obsession with the thing?” 

“Y’know, you really don’t need to call it an ‘obsession,’ I get your point—” 

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” She paused. “Ok, I kind of did, but can you blame me?” 

“Sure, fine—yes—but do you get it or not?” 

Sara gave Ryan a side-eye, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Of course I get it.” 

Ryan slipped his feet off of the coffee table and leaned forward, reaching for his Manhattan. “We can’t just toss it—we can’t just go buy some cheapo piece of plastic that was made in China and slap it on the tree and call it ‘Christmas.’” Ryan sat back and kicked his feet back up on the table. 

“I’m not saying we buy some plastic—” 

“But you’re not giving me any other option—you’re not—” 

“Ryan—” 

“Remember how each year we’d fight to see which one of us got to put the star up?” 

“I don’t think that had much to do with the star itself.” Sara shrugged. “More the whole child-y principle of it all.” She pointed at the TV. “We also used to fight over which Christmas movie we’d watch while we decorated.” 

Ryan shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, staring into his Manhattan. “If you’re implying that we didn’t argue this year, I mean, come on—we had to put on two movies just so you’d be happy.” Ryan took a sip. “I mean, who—who demands a double feature of ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Die Hard?’ That’s honestly so…dumb…” Ryan finally noticed Sara staring at him. “What?” 

“I just…” Sara tilted her head, doing and undoing one of her onesie’s buttons over and over again with her left hand. “Just because it’s not a new development doesn’t mean it isn’t a bad habit.” Sara stood up and stretched, looking down at Ryan with that big sister judgment stare which Ryan hadn’t seen in a few weeks. “I get it, Ry,” she continued. “I do. I promise. But we need to replace it.” 

A sobering chuckle rose up in the tight middle of Ryan’s chest. He looked up at Sara with the faintest of smiles; pushed his glasses up by the bridge with his left middle finger. “Well…we do love a hill to die on, don’t we?” 

“If only they were ever the same hill.”  

“Oh, come on—if we ever ran out of hills, we’d just make something up. You know that.” 

Instead of rebutting that, Sara tilted her head to the right, scanning the air with her eyes almost like she was reading an invisible book. Her eyes landed on the television, then locked onto the hutch underneath it. She made a beeline for it. “You’re right,” she said at last. “Even this conversation is a hill to die on. That star—” she jabbed a finger up at it while she crouched down by the DVD and VHS players “—is a friggin’ hill.”

Ryan heaved a heavy sigh. “I. Can. Fix. It. Seriously.” 

“No. You. Ca-nnot.” Sara flicked a glance back at Ryan. “Seriously. And you shouldn’t have to feel like you need to.” That last part had a hint of sadness in it, and she started rooting through the big cardboard box sitting next to the hutch. 

“Sara—” Ryan stood up, placing his drink on the coffee table. “You—tell me, why do you care so much about this?” 

“What?” Sara scrunched her face up but kept rooting through the box. “Please…” she muttered, “I’m not the one ‘caring so much,’ here…” 

Ryan drew in a breath as he pushed up his glasses, then exhaled slowly. “Can you just give me your keys?” 

She ignored him. Ryan walked up next to her, mouth starting to open with another protest on his lips, then his eyes landed on the box she was rooting through. He stopped, mouth snapping shut like a frog swallowing a fly. He squinted; pushed up his glasses again and tilted his head down so he was looking out just the top part of his bifocals. The box his sister was rooting through was one he had left in the shed every Christmas for the past four years—it was filled with old VHS tapes: kiddy Christmas movies and home videos. 

Silence descended on the craftsman living room, except for the quiet bits of Die Hard dialogue emanating from the television:  

“…just anoth-eh American who saw too many moviez az a chilt? Anoth-eh orphan of a bankrupt culture who thinks’e’s John Wayne? Rambo? Marshal Dylan?” 

“Was always kinda partial t’ Roy Rodgers, actually. Really like those sequin shirts.” 

“D’you really think you ‘ave a chance against us, Mister Cowboy?” 

“Yippe-ki-yay mother f—” 

“FOUND IT!” Sara whipped a VHS into the air like she’d just uncovered the holy grail.

Ryan flinched back—shoulders tightening and neck muscles flaring, nose scrunching up and eyes squinting shut. “G-a-a-aggh…” he growled, ears ringing. “Was that really necessary?”

Sara popped the VHS into the player and switched the HDMI output. Die Hard was replaced by the fuzzy, dim picture of Ryan and Sara, ages roughly six and seven; they were putting their favorite ornaments on the tree near the bottom, where they could reach all by themselves. Their mother was sitting off to the left in what their dad had always called “the bachelor chair” because he’d gotten it off the side of the road back when he was a poor, broke, single college student. The camera shakily moved in close to their mom. The woman smiled, rolled her eyes, then waved the camera away.  

Ryan hesitated, mouth forming words but not verbalizing them. “I…I don’t remember this…” he said at last.  

“That’s because you were barely sentient,” Sara said, standing up and repositioning beside Ryan on his right.

“I thought I left these in the—” 

“Just watch the tape.” 

“Whatever you’re trying—” 

“Shush!” 

The two of them watched the television side by side; they would’ve been shoulder to shoulder, were it not for Ryan being a whole head taller.  

As the footage zoomed in on their mother, Ryan and Sara’s younger selves bickered in the background:  

“Give it to me! It’s my turn—you did it last year, it’s my turn!”  

“Nuh-uh!” 

Then their mother looked into the camera. One of her eyebrows was raised, mouth pressed up into a half-smile, like she was winking at them through time and space.  

“Would you look at them go?” she said.  

Their dad chuckled from behind the camera.  

“They fight over that thing like it’s made of gold. It is so sweet…” She shook her head, smile growing larger. “It takes me back to when I was their age—me and Tom and Janet wouldn’t quit fighting each other about that glitter bomb either…” She laughed to herself and looked past the camera, presumably at her husband. “It cracks me up, honestly—I swear, look at it!” She gestured with her hand for the camera to pan. “Look!” 

The camera swept to the right and zoomed, slowly, in on the star, which was being held up and away from little Ryan by little Sara; she’d been taller than him back then. Even with the shakiness and low resolution of the tape, the state of the star was clear: a bit faded, a bit crusty, a bit bent.  

“It’s lo-o-ong past time I made a new one…” Their mother’s laugh jingled like distant sleigh bells, then faded into a soft sigh. “Honestly, the only reason I still have it is because I don’t feel like throwing it out. It’s been a part of my Christmas for so long, you know?” 

The camera panned back to her, as if answering “yes.” 

“As a child, I always wanted to put the star up because it was shiny. It was this pretty little thing…” Their mother was looking off camera to the right, a faraway look in her smiling eyes. “But that’s not really the point, now, is it?” She looked back at the camera, eyes aimed slightly above the lens. “Just because Great Grandma Janice did some arts-and-crafts one day…that shouldn’t distract from why we put the star up, don’t you think, dear?”

Their dad nodded the camera up and down. Their mother laughed.  

From off-screen, there was a thud—followed by shrill wailing.  

“Oi—Sara Joy Cartwright, do not hit your brother!” Their mother rose from the chair and the camera tilted to the floor, then the tape ended.  

Ryan stared at his slippers, arms crossed.  

Sara swayed to the left and bumped him with her shoulder, hands in her onesie pockets. “You good?” 

“I just…” Ryan sighed. 

“Yeah…” Sara stared off at the wall. “She won’t be mad.” 

“You sure?” 

Sara nodded at the TV. “Weren’t you listening?”  

“But what if—” 

“Hey.” Sara smiled, eyes slightly shimmery. “I get it.” She sighed, a smile still on her face. “But she wasn’t like Great Grandma Janice.” 

“Not super fair that we have to be the ones to usher in the end of an era, though… Right?” 

“I think Mom would call it ‘starting fresh.’” 

Heat began to rise in Ryan’s cheeks—his chest grew tight and his voice wavered as he spoke: “Still, we can’t just get a plastic star. That’s not—” 

Sara raised a finger, slipping her phone out of her pocket. “If you’d let me finish one freaking sentence earlier, I would have told you my plan.” 

“So-o-o…?” Ryan squinted down at Sara’s screen as she swiped through her app library.

“So-o-o-o-o,” Sara mimicked, “I was thinking that we get something handmade.” 

“Oh.” Ryan squinted, folding his lips under his teeth and pressing them together for a few seconds before adding: “That’s actually not a half bad idea—she’d like that.” 

“I know,” Sara smiled, glancing up at Ryan out of the corner of her eye. “You square…” She started swiping through Etsy listing after Etsy listing. 

A cozy feeling rose into the center of Ryan’s chest, slowly untying the knot there. The tingly scent of the pine needles tickled his nose like a friendly feather. Inside his elf-shoe slippers, he made fists with his toes—reveling in the soft, plush fluff that encased his feet. The soft glow from the outside lights drifted through the large windows, painting the wooden exterior with warm Christmas colors. 

Ryan breathed in, hands on his hips. “You down for hot chocolate? I think we have some of that Mexican stuff in the back cupboard.” 

“Third cupboard from the dishwasher,” Sara said, still scrolling. “The cereal one.”

“Right—right—right.” He turned to head to the kitchen, but Sara grabbed his arm.  

“Wait,” she said, “this one?” She shoved her phone inches from his face.  

Ryan reared his head back, squinting at the screen through the bottom of his glasses. “Why is your brightness up so dang high…”  

“Just read the thing…” 

The listing was for a tree-topper star entirely crocheted with off-white yarn, little threads of gold peeking out here and there. The pattern in the middle resembled a Celtic knot, all the strands weaving in around each other like a square dance.  

“It won’t rust,” Sara said. 

“Mhmh—and it won’t seep glue that smells like feet unless something goes terribly wrong.” 

“Terribly wrong.” 

Ryan reached over, finger hovering over the ‘add to cart’ button. He looked over at Sara. She nodded, her nose freckles scrunching as she smiled.  

Ryan pressed the button and gave Sara a high five. “Look at us—adulting like the adults that we are.” 

“Yep.” 

“For the cocoa—do you want your nutcracker mug or the creepy Santa?”  

“Always creepy Santa. Hey—” Sara’s hand shot toward Ryan, tugging on the edge of his shirt before he walked away. “Can we watch more of these?” she added, nodding at the TV. 

Ryan nodded, slowly at first but with growing enthusiasm. “Yeah, actually—that’d…yeah.” He smiled, narrowing his eyes. “How about the one where you sobbed unconsolably in the mall Santa’s lap—I know that one’s in there somewhere.” 

“Wow-w-w-w…” Sara tucked her phone into her pocket and knelt back down at the cardboard box. 

“Didn’t you run away from a guy in a Grinch suit at that same Macy’s?” 

“I raise you—” Sara lifted a tape from the box and blew off the dust “—the year you played the lead in ‘the Nutcracker.’” 

Ryan retreated to the open-plan kitchen, half groaning and half laughing. “Please tell me you’re joking—what was I, ten?”  

“Hurry,” Sara called. “I don’t want you to miss this.” 

Amidst Sara’s giggles was the soft buzz of TV static, then the rushing-water noise of a clapping audience. Ryan took two mugs from the cabinet: the creepy Santa head, then the fifties kitsch mug with the teal and coral diamonds and pale-blue snowflakes. He got the cocoa-mix from the cupboard, putting an unhealthy scoop in each mug. He put a pot of milk on the stove to boil. The overture started. Ryan bobbed his head to the rhythm.  

After a few minutes of heating and pouring and stirring, Ryan sat down next to Sara on the couch, both mugs topped with a giant mound of whipped cream and producing thin tendrils of steam. Ryan handed Sara her mug; she took it with both hands and held it close to her chest. 

Ryan’s eyes were focused on the TV, but he nudged Sara with his elbow and said: “‘Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.’”  

“Yeah—” Sara smiled, bringing her mug up to her mouth and blowing gently over the top of it. “‘And a happy new year.’”

Lucy Grecu

Lucy is currently a second-year apprentice at The Company. She grew up in Los Angeles, California, and spent nearly every summer doing musical theater camp. Lucy spends her time drawing fictional characters, reading novels very slowly, and getting her friends to watch every movie she considers a classic. You can find her at LucyGrecu.com, where she blogs about the mundane curiosities of life!