We aren’t allowed to get up before six, but we don’t sleep. In the dark, we bump into each other and into the furniture as we check the time.
“It’s too early,” my sister and I whisper to the younger kids. “Go back to bed.” But we look at the clock again, just to make sure.
At six o’clock we crowd into the kitchen. My sister crushes the strawberries, but it’s my turn to whip the cream. I’m strong, and the mixer only gets away from me once. It’s always Mom’s turn to make the waffles, and Dad’s turn to serve them. Waffles make it easier to wait.
After breakfast, we sit quietly in the living room. Younger kids first. Finally Dad hands me my present. “From Santa and Mrs. Santa.” The box is heavy. I pry up the tape with my fingernail.
“Don’t tear the wrapping paper,” my mom says, again.
“I know, Mom,” I answer. I look down to hide my face from Dad.
The paper comes off, the box opens, and I pull out a pair of roller skates. They’re beautiful and new, blue with red and white stripes, the first skates in the family. I try them on, and for a moment I don’t understand. I tug at the boot tops, and try to shove my feet in. But they’re too small. Mom says she got the largest size in the sale bin, but I’m size two, and my feet are too big. I’m crying, hiccuping. I throw the skates down.
“You never get me the right thing,” I shout.
It’s true, but Mom looks sad, and Dad looks angry.
The skates fit my younger brother perfectly. I hate him and his friendly happiness, and his lucky, little-kid feet.
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