Tidings of Great Boys by Shelley Adina Page A

played vocal gymnastics with some of the American carols
     (ever heard “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” sung hip-hop style?), I left them to it and sank into thought.
    Sometime in the next week I’d have to tell them all I wouldn’t be going back to Spencer for the winter term. Even though I’d
     made a big deal about applying to Harvard and Pepperdine, the simple truth was that I didn’t want to go there. Or to Oxford,
     either. All I wanted to do was stay right here at Strathcairn and—what? Haunt the place for years until either I got married
     or Roger inherited it and booted me out?
    That wasn’t a very appealing prospect, and neither was becoming a doctor. Though with that, at least, I could practice somewhere
     round here, and maybe even live at home. I could turn the carriage house into a surgery, even.
    But future plans aside, I didn’t want to alienate the friends I had here. I know they got on Dad’s nerves a bit—he was old-fashioned
     about things like tattoos and piercings and hated it when people like Gordon flaunted what he called their “personal ventilation.”
     But at the same time, they were my crowd. We’d been friends since primary school, and yeah, maybe we stuck together in self-defense
     because there weren’t many kids out here in the country. But they weren’t a bad lot. They just liked a bit of entertainment
     now and again and weren’t fussy about other people’s boundaries when they went out to find it.
    Dad had been right when he said I had one foot in one world and one foot in another. I was going to have to choose a side
     and put my whole weight somewhere. Soon.
    So, gathering at the foot of the Christmas tree was a relief—I could totally regress into childhood, where a person didn’t
     have to make these kinds of decisions, and no one would think badly of me.
    Dad had chosen the tree and put it up yesterday, and Shani and Gillian and I had decorated it. After we’d located the box
     containing the candles, it had taken at least three more calls to Mummy to decorate the sitting room, and one call to figure
     out how to slide back the panels that divided it from the music room. “Why can’t you ask your father?” she’d finally demanded
     in exasperation.
    “Because he’s out on the estate with Gabe and Mr. Gillie.” The three of them were in the orchard, talking about beekeeping
     or root rot or something equally interesting. They were only a shout away if you leaned out a window, but I wasn’t about to
     tell her that.
    The result was a beautifully decorated setting for our cozy party and the tree—and one agitated mother who secretly couldn’t
     bear the fact that Strathcairn had come alive again without her. It was the first time I’d ever been home to play hostess—no
     ski trip to Chamonix, no quick flight to the Azores—and I was developing quite the taste for it.
    Lissa picked up a flat package with a spill of silver curls on top. She held it to her ear and shook it, but no rattles or
     clunks told her what might be inside.
    “It’s a book,” Carly suggested.
    “From Kaz? I hope not.”
    “A DVD, then. Some obscure science fiction movie none of us has ever heard of.”
    From his seat on an ottoman, Alasdair held a little box out. “You might try this one.”
    “Oh, no,” Lissa assured him. “I promised Kaz I’d open his tonight. I’ve been dying to—”
    “It’s from me.” His tone was diffident. Shy, even.
    “Oh.” Lissa turned a pleading face on Shani and me, sharing the love seat.
Help me out, here
, it said plainly. “I, um—”
    “A promise is a promise, Alasdair,” her dad told him. “Come and toast the season with Graham and me.”
    Since Alasdair was too polite to refuse, he put the gaily wrapped box back under the tree. “Thanks. Ah well, all the more
     for Lissa tomorrow.”
    She ducked her head and hid behind her curtain of hair as she ripped the paper off Kaz’s gift. “Oh, wow. Look at this.