You avoid her.

At least, you try to avoid her, but even still, she needs an eye to be kept on her. Purely for discipline reasons. If Miss Perfect steps wrong, you can tell Mum right away. That’s the only motive you have in spying on her. Nothing else. She is a freak, after all.

She has decided to come home for the Christmas season, but you can’t understand why. After all, you and she are no longer friends, and you go out of your way to be spiteful to her. And doesn’t she have freak friends at her school? Doesn’t she come home every summer, happy as can be, writing loads of letters to others like her, discussing at dinner how she longs to return? But this year was different. Last summer, she was a wreck, and you used to listen at her door, hear her cry herself to sleep, hear her moan in her dreams. And now she’s back for Christmas, the same expression on her face of anguish and loss. Every time you see it, your heart does a happy flip. Perhaps little Miss Perfect is finally seeing that she is different.

But Mum and Dad don’t think so. You watch them comfort her, watch Mum smooth down that blasted red hair and kiss her forehead. Dad squeezes her shoulder and whispers into her ear. She gives a small laugh and smiles, the tears streaming down her face starting to dry up. Mum hugs her close, tells her those three little words that she never tells you.

Disgusted, you storm off, slam your bedroom door. All she has to do is exist, and she gets all the attention. One tear and your parents are immediately at her side. You are thoroughly sick of it. They don’t care about your problems. And they are such hypocrites. You remember being younger, when they told her not to be different, told her she wasn’t supposed to fly through the air, or levitate pebbles, or whatever else she did. But now they are so proud. It’s absolutely wretched.

As you stew in your room, you wonder what you can do to show Prissy over there what you think of her. And as you shred the Christmas party invitation Mum handed to you, it comes to you. And all you can do is smile and dream of all the things that could possibly go wrong for that redhead next door.

---

Mum is busy putting up the decorations, the stress of it all clearly shown in the deep lines framing her face. She wants the party to be perfect, and you feel a slight pull of sympathy towards her. But only slightly. She is your mother, but you can never forgive her.

Dad is outside on the roof, hanging up the lights. You can hear him swear every so often, and it makes you smile. You don’t know why, though. He never smiles at you, only ever has a smile for the other girl.

Thinking of her, you carry the Christmas candles with you into the kitchen, where she is frosting some gingerbread men, her back to you. You can’t help but notice that one of the men has a familiar look to it- long black hair, black eyes, a quirky and sinister smile. She’s set it aside in its own corner on the table, but she obviously put great care into creating it. With a wicked grin, you purposefully knock the corner of the table with your hip and give an exaggerated fall, pulling the tablecloth with you. The gingerbread men slide across the table, and she quickly reaches out to stop them from falling. But she’s too late to catch the black-haired one, and it smashes to the floor, breaking into large bits. She gives out a loud cry, and immediately gathers up the pieces. Her eyes find yours, and you can see the pain in those green irises. And all you can do is smirk back and watch her expression become more crestfallen.

The next time you cross paths, she is hanging ornaments on the tree. You watch her pause at a certain trinket before she puts it onto a branch- you see it’s a small globe with a glowing doe inside. She takes great care in hanging it, and her eyes are mesmerized by the glow. You make a mental note of its position for later, but you have to do something right now to demonstrate you can’t stand her presence in the house. As she lifts another ornament, you pretend to walk into the room distracted, and you bump rather roughly into the boxes of ornaments. Since she is standing right next them, she falls as they slide across the floor into her legs. She lands in one of the boxes, and there is a deafening crunching noise that brings Mum and Dad running. With a haughty expression, you glare at the startled girl in the box.

“What happened?� Mum asks anxiously, not even noticing that you are there, too.

“She’s a klutz is what happened,� you respond viciously, and a little loudly, and your parents turn towards you. “And look, she just ruined some of your best ornaments, Mother.�

The freak’s mouth drops open, but before she can say anything, Mum is by her side. “Are you okay, Lily?�

She nods, and she gives a hug to Mum. “Yes, just surprised. I guess I just didn’t realize there were boxes right behind me.�

Your own jaw drops at her lie. How dare she!

Mum helps her up, brushing off the glitter and some of the shards of ornament sticking to her pants. Dad squeezes her shoulder, like he always does. And you can’t take it anymore. In a huff, you rush out of the room to the kitchen. Frustration boils over and it’s all you can do to stop from screeching as loud as possible at the world.

It’s time to up the ante. You see that a ham is cooking in the oven, and with the rage boiling inside you, a decision is made. Quickly you up the temperature before heading to your room. You don’t feel like seeing anyone at the moment.

---

There’s only an hour before guests begin arriving to the party, and the girl is in the kitchen again, this time cooking the dinner. She’s told Mum to rest and she’s told Dad that she can handle it so he can finish the rest of the outside decorations.

You can’t stand being in the same room with her, but you have to if you wish to ruin her. She politely asks you to go get some things from the pantry, and you grudgingly oblige. However, you grab the ginger root and rosemary instead of the thyme and allspice she requested.

But she doesn’t even flinch. She just thanks you for your efforts and goes into the pantry herself. Infuriated, you spot the mixing bowl holding the mincemeat. You throw the stuffing onto the floor that she had been mixing together to put into pies. However, the fury is still there, but you know she’ll be back any second. Still, you toss a heaping of salt into the pie dough that sits on the counter.

When she returns, her eyes narrow at the sight of the mincemeat on the floor. You try to look apologetic, but the façade won’t last- she knows you did it on purpose. She is no longer smiling, and something dark passes over her brow. But she says nothing, just gets down onto her knees and cleans up the mess. You notice that her fingers are twitching and realize she is holding back. It’s not good enough. You want her to lash out. You want her to feel like you do: unloved, furious, and destructive. But patience, you tell yourself. Plenty of time for that when the guests are here. Then she’ll really feel alienated.

She’s done cleaning up, and the glare she gives you suggests that she wants you to get your arse out of her sight. The ham distracts her though- it has started to smoke. With a cry, she realizes that you had changed the temperature by a good fifty degrees.

“Get out, Petunia! Get out before I curse you with my wand!�

Despite the fear you feel at being cursed, you can’t help but smile. And you know that it irritates her further to see you do so. With a toss of your head, you leave the kitchen. When you’re out of sight, you hear her start to mutter savagely, and she even chokes back a couple sobs.

The doorbell rings, announcing the first of the guests has arrived. Mum answers the door cheerfully, welcomes him into her home. She sends you to go get the man a drink.

Feeling much the slave, you enter the kitchen again and see the redhead trying to fix the ham. With a quick clearing of the throat, you announce your presence.

“Mother needs a flute for the guest in the sitting room,� you say. Flustered, she thrusts open the wineglass cupboard. In her haste to fix the ham and pies, she’s forgotten to pour the drinks. As she begins to pull down the glasses, you muscle your way over to the ham. It’s only slightly black, and probably won’t be a problem for her to fix. You can’t have that. Silently, you push the pan holding the ham to the edge of the counter, so part of the pan hangs over it. When she closes the cupboard, she backs up into the dish.

Naturally, it all comes crashing down to the floor.

She stands there, frozen, wineglass in hand, staring at the shattered mess on the floor. Mum rushes in, and her hands fly to her mouth.

“My grandmother’s dish!� Mum cries out, and the freak has the decency to hang her head in shame.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident.� Her voice is small, and you can see that tears are starting to push their way out of her eyes. Mum bends down to the ground, her hands tentatively held out in front of her.

“We’ll just clean it up,� she says, remarkably calm.

You’re pissed. If you had been the one found next to the broken dish, Mum wouldn’t have been so calm.

“Lily, see if we have any of those hors d’oeuvres in the freezer. The spinach and ham ones. I think those will have to do instead of a Christmas ham.�

She does as she is told, and brings out the package holding the frozen treats. Mum sends you out with the wine to entertain the guest as she cleans the floor.

Determined to cause problems, you hand the man a glass, and attempt to pour the wine. However, you purposefully allow it to spill onto the carpet.

“Oh no!� you exclaim as the man jumps out of his seat. “Mum, the wine spilled onto the carpet!�

The doorbell rings again. Mum dashes out of the kitchen and answers the door. As she lets in the next few guests, she yells, “Richard, come inside! I need your help!�

Mum faces you, still holding the wine, and with a flash of anger, she takes it out of your hand and orders you to go get a wet towel and then help Lily in the kitchen.

You turn on your heel, sniping at the comment Mum made. You knew that Mum would get angry at you and not at the good-for-nothing freak. But it still causes rage to beat within your heart.

The party starts without fail, and you soon find yourself carrying out trays of food. The redhead has seated herself near the tree, quiet and withdrawn. She has a pie in her hand, and you can’t wait for her to taste it.

The guests are cheerful, toasting each other, but you barely hear what they are saying, wrapped up as you are in your own little world. You can only focus on the one girl who has ruined your life.

She bites into the treat, and immediately spits it back out. Silently, you laugh to yourself as she looks around the room, horrified. Her eyes land on the plate of mincemeat pies, but the guests have already emptied it.

Mum starts to cough, distracting you, and you see that she has eaten the pie. She places down the rest of the treat and grabs the closest drink. Your sister is quickly at her side, spewing a string of apologies, to which Mum forgives her, and the incident is smoothed over. The guests are apologized to, and they opt for the other hors d’oeuvres. But you can see that the girl can’t even manage a small smile.

One of the guests comments on the beautiful decorations, catching your attention. Loudly, you say, “The tree is missing some ornaments, though. Somebody fell into the box of decorations and broke them.�

Ignoring the evil eye Mum just sent you, you walk over to the tree, fingering some of the ornaments. Your hands brush the special one that the freak liked. Slyly, you turn around to face the room, and smile, continuing your speech. “But yes, they are beautiful, and what really matters is that we all have the spirit of Christmas within us tonight.�

Mum and Dad give you surprised looks, but you only have eyes for her. Suspicion is written all over her face, and you deliberately trip backwards into the tree, your hand still touching the special ornament.

The room falls silent as it comes crashing down. The glass shatters, and the glowing doe cracks from the fall. She stands there, blinking, shock displayed in her entire being. No longer can she hold back the tears and frustration. Anger replacing the shock, she rushes over to the ruined decoration, her hands hovering over it, as though she can’t bring herself to quite believe what transpired.

“You- you-� She can’t even spit out the words, and your lips curve upward into a cruel smile.

“Freak,� you whisper spitefully, and her expression changes lightning fast.

“Why can’t you leave that alone?� she cries out, to the bafflement of the guests.

The speech you’ve been longing to give to her dies in your throat. The people around you don’t need to hear it- they would probably think that you were insane. But she can’t stay quiet.

“Petunia, why can’t you just let it alone? Why do you have to ruin Christmas?�

“I, ruin Christmas?� you find yourself shouting at her. “What about you?�

“Me?� she states in disbelief.

“Yes, you! Miss Little Perfect who has Mum and Dad on beck and call when her nails get chipped!�

“I don’t get to see Mum and Dad, Petunia. You’re the one that gets to spend time with them!�

She is so naïve, and you can’t stand being in the same room with her for another moment. With the loudest huff possible, you flip your hair and storm out.

As you leave, you can hear Mum smoothing the girl’s hair, comforting her in a whisper, promising to see if she can fix the ornament. As your sister’s sobs subside, Mum can be heard apologizing to the guests: “You’ll have to excuse Petunia. She hasn’t been herself lately.�

Once in your room, you finally let out the screams you’ve been holding back, but soon you find yourself sinking into bed, crying into your pillow. And you don’t even know why.

Later that night, you find yourself restless. The bed is lumpy, the pillows are hard, the blankets are itchy. Your throat is sore and in desperate need of water. Unable to let sleep claim you, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, slide your feet into slippers, and wrap yourself in a robe. You quietly sneak down the stairs towards the kitchen, and as you do, a glint of light catches your eye. There, on the mantle of the sitting room, is a plate bearing the broken pieces of the ornament. It looks like the redhead took her time to carefully gather up every last shard, and the realization leaves you feeling hollow.

Frustrated by this new emotion, you turn away from the trinket and quickly enter the kitchen. But there is your great-grandma’s dish, the pieces placed into a brown bag. Suddenly, you don’t want water anymore.

You race outside of the house, heart traitorously pounding faster and faster. All you want to do is curl up against the side of the house and let yourself freeze. A blast of cold air rips into your cheeks, and snow has started to fall as you plop down. The onset pour of tears chills instantly, but you don’t care. You don’t care because your actions didn't get you what you really wanted: to be a normal family again.

The chances of that are no longer likely.