Page 10 of Not Home Alone

I decide not to tell her that I am not alone in the Home Alone House, since Grant mentioned no one can know he’s staying here. Although I have no idea why I’m making this choice. He wouldn’t do a single thing to make my life any easier.

I’m about to yell out the chorus to the Darlene Love song, but it suddenly stops playing because a call is coming in. It’s Joy. I have to sit up higher in the tub before answering it. I don’t want to put her on speakerphone in case Grant is lurking in the hallway.

“Joy to the world!” I sing into the phone.

“I am so happy you’re here!”

“Hi! I’m so happy you’re happy!”

Now her voice is muffled, and I can hear her saying something to someone in the background. Something about the wrong kind of parmesan. She must be picking up an order for her boss. After sending the order back, with clear directions to remove all traces of parsley and replace the powdered parmesan with shredded parmesan, she says, “Sorry. I want to hear all about your amazing life, but first let me tell you something very important.”

“I hope it’s about parmesan.”

“Even better! Did I tell you I started volunteering with the Holly Grove Community Players in my free time?”

“I didn’t even know you had free time. Do you have a new boss who lets you have some free time?” Joy’s boss is a lawyer who has been known to call her at two a.m. to ask her the name of a client or make her work on a weekend because he didn’t want to go to Bermuda with his new girlfriend’s family.

“No, I just decided to call it free time whenever I’m not in the office. Like right now. Fifteen minutes of free time while I pick up Wyatt’s order! Yay!”

“Yay!”

“I’m kind of functioning as the production manager-slash-stage manager-slash-hair and makeup-slash-props master. You know how it is.”

“Boy, do I ever.” The wistfulness in my voice surprises me.

“Anyway, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but—surprising no one—we’re doing a Christmas Eve production of The Notcracker to raise money for the children’s hospital this year…”

The Notcracker.

I cover my heart like I’m suddenly reminded of a beloved long-lost friend I’ve tried to forget.

Every Christmas season, for as long as anyone can remember, the residents of Holly Grove put on a production of The Not-Ballet Nutcracker. It’s a stage play retelling of both the nineteenth-century story The Nutcracker and the Mouse King by E.T.A. Hoffmann and the Tchaikovsky ballet The Nutcracker. This delightful, brilliant play was written by a local writer named M.E. Blossom. It was originally called The Nutcracker, but then everyone assumed it would be a ballet, so the title was changed to The Not-Ballet Nutcracker. Locals have always referred to it as The Notcracker.

It is glorious.

Imagine, if you will, that an awkward, possibly horny, precocious preteen character in a Wes Anderson film wrote a fantasy romance Christmas play intended for an audience and cast of all ages. While high on cough syrup. It’s kind of like Our Town, but there are attempts at Shakespearean monologues as well as random 1950s pop culture references. It is brilliant and crazy and terrible and wonderful and everyone who’s seen it is obsessed with it. I starred in The Notcracker, as Clara, four times. I was always deemed too young to direct it, even though I had better ideas than every adult director I ever worked with on it, and that is why I decided to get an incredibly useful bachelor’s degree in theater.

I hear Joy’s muffled voice send the order back again before she says to me, “Please tell me you’ll be here through Christmas.”

“I will.” I might be in jail for doing some amazing, horrible thing to Grant Moody that I haven’t thought of yet, but I will definitely be in town.

“Sensational! So… your dad didn’t want me to mention this to you because he knows how busy you are and you know… we all know you have some not-great memories of the last time you starred in The Notcracker…”

“Pfft. I am so over it,” I say, not at all convincingly. I wish I had a bunch of pencils in my hand right now so I could snap them in half. Instead, I swipe at some bubbles, which is not nearly as satisfying.

“Great! Because I have two amazing things to tell you! First of all—your dad offered to sponsor the play this year. The Christmas Barn is sponsoring The Notcracker this year, I mean.”

“Okay…” It is very weird that he didn’t tell me this.

“I mean it makes perfect sense, right? It’s great PR for the local businesses that sponsor holiday events. Vinny Sarducci’s is sponsoring the Luminaria Night. The Moody Group throws their annual party at their winery…”

I grunt at the mention of The Moody Group, but Joy doesn’t seem to hear it.

“And usually Mr. Moody sponsors The Notcracker, but for whatever reason he didn’t this year, so your dad offered to because he thought it would be good for business.”

“Sure! Makes sense.” What doesn’t make sense is why he wouldn’t tell me…

“And anyway, good old Joe Tucker, he didn’t want to bother you with this, but as you know, I have no shame. The woman we hired to direct our production just got a job directing a show off Broadway and ditched us. The fantastic news is that you’re here, so now you can direct it!”