At Midnight - Kiến Thức Cho Người lao Động Việt Nam

SUGARPLUM

Anna-Marie McLemore

Inspired by “The Nutcracker”

RECIPE FOR THE SILBERHAUS ANNUAL CHRISTMAS PARTY

YOU WILL NEED:

One intimidatingly enormous house (complete with actual columns)Your father’s boss and his wifeRoughly thirty adultsApproximately five hundred million bottles of imported wine and top-shelf hard liquorEnough fancy hors d’oeuvres to sandbag against five hundred million bottles of wine and liquorA Betty White impersonatorOrganic chicken tendersDye-free sodaA powder-puff tutu (No fucking way, not this year)A pair of split-sole ballet shoes you don’t mind anyone spilling grenadine on (See above)Substitute for above: the most annoying girl in five zip codesBegin by arriving at the enormous house. Feel exceedingly small compared to the white pillars in front of the brick facade. It will be just as you remember it, so cloyingly and ridiculously nice that the cream drapes might wrinkle if you get too close. (But really, says Mrs. Silberhaus, make yourself at home.)

Observe the adults, all of them employees and their spouses who each want to make an impression at their boss’s Christmas party, one that suggests they are fun and relaxed and definitely not nervous about performance reviews in three months.

Say a prayer of gratitude as these adults deposit their children in the plush-carpeted finished basement. There, they will be fed the organic chicken tenders and dye-free soda by the nanny who used to take care of the Silberhauses’ now too-old-for-nannies children. She’s a Betty White type who is retired but comes out of retirement whenever the Silberhauses have a party. About five different parents will bring her plates from upstairs—Knock, knock, I thought you might want some grown-up food—as an excuse to make sure their children haven’t destroyed anything priceless.

It is good that the children are down here. No kid should see what’s going on upstairs.

Upstairs, witness the opening of the five hundred million bottles of imported wine and top-shelf liquor, or at least enough so that by the end of the night, most of the adults present have revealed themselves to be either hard drinkers or willing to just play one on TV for the night. Witness the artful arrangement of hors d’oeuvres on gilt-edged plates, directed by a chef who demands absolute silence for the sake of her artistry (and really, you have to admire the woman for being able to shut up the rich people who hire her).

Cringe at how few people are here. Your mother and father are always determined to be among the first to arrive, proving to your father’s very white boss and his very white wife that just because you’re Mexican doesn’t mean you can’t show up on time. While Mr. Silberhaus leads your father to the wine fridge so your father can praise his choice of vintages for tonight, your mother will help Mrs. Silberhaus arrange overpriced cookies on pewter serving trays. No, the catering team will not do this part, because lifting the cookies from their glossed white bakery boxes makes Mrs. Silberhaus feel as thrillingly domestic as if she’d baked them herself, and inviting a brown woman to do it with her makes her feel like a good person.

Meanwhile, take this opportunity to warm up your muscles, stretch out, work on that stubborn spot on your left calf that always feels tight. Because partway through the party—when she’s had her third or fourth glass of sémillon—Mrs. Silberhaus will ask if you could show her guests just a little of your ballet, it always makes me feel so festive, won’t you indulge us, just this once? And all the other drunk people will clap their hands like you are Tinker Bell and they can make you light up by applauding.

But Mrs. Silberhaus is your father’s boss’s wife. And when Mrs. Silberhaus gets what she wants, and when she gets to show off to her friends, she’s happy. And when you have done something to make Mrs. Silberhaus happy, Mr. Silberhaus is happy with your father.

So you indulge them. Just this once.

Repeat.

Just this once.

Every fucking year.

But not this time. This year, you will not dance. This year, omit the tutu and the ballet shoes, both of which you have left at home, and please note the following alterations to the previous directions:

This year, there is something else Mrs. Silberhaus wants from you. And that is to go cheer up her sullen daughter. Petey Silberhaus is always a little sullen, but in addition to being sullen she’s also currently a little sad. She screwed up her arm playing hockey or frozen crew or whatever it is she does at the school she goes to.

Having to interact with Petey more than usual is not ideal, but it is far better than dancing for a bunch of drunk people like a figurine on a music box, so you will gladly do it.

Smile as Mrs. Silberhaus leads you from the marble foyer up the stairs. Try not to stare at her hand on the banister, the nails impossibly shiny, like the inside of a shell. If you stare, you will feel compelled to hide your own nails, which are bitten down. Yesterday you applied sparkly fuchsia polish, which is already chipping.

Smile again as Mrs. Silberhaus says, “Petey’s going to be so glad to see you. She’s always liked you.”

Refrain from telling Mrs. Silberhaus that no, Petey has not always liked you. There was just a stretch of years where you and Petey were the only kids around the same age at these parties, cowering away from the older ones and staying out of the way of the younger ones, who were so sugar-infused they were bouncing off the holiday decor.

Do not roll your eyes when Mrs. Silberhaus’s delicate knock and song of “Your friend is here” is met with a grunt of acknowledgment from the other side of the door.

Gain an unexpected modicum of respect for Mrs. Silberhaus when she gives you a tight-lipped smile and a “Good luck,” because Mrs. Silberhaus apparently knows just how much of a delight her daughter is not, and you were not aware of this.

Open Petey Silberhaus’s bedroom door.

Observe Petey sprawled on her bed with a book (has she gotten taller since the Siberhauses’ Fourth of July party? Really? Again? While you’re still waiting for Madame Arnaut to decide you’ve reached a suitable height to audition for Aurora and Cinderella?).

Observe how your dress, which you loved until this moment, looks ridiculous in the same room with Petey’s T-shirt and sweatpants.

Observe how Petey sees you, eyes the full length of your dress—with its pink-mauve satin, its tea-length tulle, its trailing ribbons and lace detailing that you and your mother both decided were adorable—and bursts out laughing.

Say, “Shut up.”

“You look like a sugarplum.”

“And you look like an asshole. No special outfit required.” Sit on Petey’s bed with the full force of your Mexican ass, wrinkling the duvet as much as possible.

Ask Petey: “How did you get out of this?”

When Petey lifts the cast on her arm, say, “Yeah, I don’t believe it for a second. If your mother wanted you down there, you and your cast would be in your best blazer.”