My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories

“Thank you,” she said, pulling the ends of the tie even and looking down at them. “It matches my sweater.” Mags was wearing a giant sweater dress, some sort of Scandinavian design with a million colors.

“Everything matches your sweater,” he said. “You look like a Christmas-themed Easter egg.”

“I feel like a really colorful Muppet,” she said. “One of the fuzzy ones.”

“I like it,” Noel said. “It’s a feast for the senses.”

She couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her, so she changed the subject. “Where did Pony go?”

“Over there.” Noel pointed across the room. “He wanted to get in position to be standing casually near Simini when midnight strikes.”

“So he can kiss her?”

“Indeed,” Noel said. “On the mouth, if all goes to plan.”

“That’s so gross,” Mags said, fiddling with the ends of Noel’s tie.

“Kissing?”

“No … kissing is fine.” She felt herself blushing. Fortunately she wasn’t as pale as Noel; it wouldn’t be painted all over her face and throat. “What’s gross is using New Year’s Eve as an excuse to kiss someone who might want not want to kiss you. Using it as a trick.”

“Maybe Simini does want to kiss Pony.”

“Or maybe it’ll be really awkward,” Mags said. “And she’ll do it anyway because she feels like she has to.”

“He’s not going to maul her,” Noel said. “He’ll do the eye contact thing.”

“What eye contact thing?”

Noel swung his head around and made eye contact with Mags. He raised his eyebrows hopefully; his eyes went all soft and possible. It was definitely a face that said, Hey. Is it okay if I kiss you?

“Oh,” Mags said. “That’s really good.”

Noel snapped out of it—and made a face that said, Well, duh. “Of course it’s good. I’ve kissed girls before.”

“Have you?” Mags asked. She knew that Noel talked to girls. But she’d never heard of him having a girlfriend. And she would have heard of it—she was one of Noel’s four to five best friends.

“Pfft,” he said. “Three girls. Eight different occasions. I think I know how to make eye contact.”

That was significantly more kissing than Mags had managed in her sixteen years.

She glanced over at Pony again. He was standing near the television, studying his phone. Simini was a few feet away, talking to her friends.

“Still,” Mags said, “it feels like cheating.”

“How is it cheating?” Noel asked, following her eyes. “Neither of them is in a relationship.”

“Not that kind of cheating,” Mags said. “More like … skipping ahead. If you like someone, you should have to make an effort. You should have to get to know the person—you should have to work for that first kiss.”

“Pony and Simini already know each other.”

“Right,” she agreed, “and they’ve never gone out. Has Simini ever even indicated that she’s interested?”

“Sometimes people need help,” Noel said. “I mean—look at Pony.”

Mags did. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt. He had a half-grown-out mohawk now, but he’d had a ponytail back in middle school, so everyone still called him that. Pony was usually loud and funny, and sometimes loud and obnoxious. He was always drawing on his arm with ink pens.

“That guy has no idea how to tell a girl he likes her,” Noel said. “None at all.… Now, look at Simini.”

Mags did. Simini was small and soft, and so shy that coming out of her shell wasn’t even on the menu. If you wanted to talk to Simini, you had to climb inside her shell with her.

“Not everyone has our social graces,” Noel said, sighing, and leaning into Mags’s space to gesture toward Pony and Simini. “Not everyone knows how to reach out for the things they want. Maybe midnight is exactly what these two need to get rolling—would you begrudge them that?”

Mags turned to Noel. His face was just over her shoulder. He smelled warm. And like some sort of Walgreens body spray. “You’re being melodramatic,” she said.

“Life-or-death situations bring it out in me.”

“Like coffee table dancing?”

“No, the strawberries,” he said, sticking out his tongue and trying to talk around it. “Duth it look puffy?”

Mags was trying to get a good look at Noel’s tongue when the music dropped out.

“It’s almost midnight!” Alicia shouted, standing near the television. The countdown was starting in Times Square. Mags saw Pony look up from his phone and inch toward Simini.

“Nine!” the room shouted.

“Eight!”

“Your tongue looks fine,” Mags said, turning back to Noel.

He pulled his tongue back in his mouth and smiled.

Mags raised her eyebrows. She hardly realized she was doing it. “Happy anniversary, Noel.”

Noel’s eyes went soft. At least, she thought they did. “Happy anniversary, Mags.”

“Four!”

And then Natalie ran over, slid down the wall next to Noel, and grabbed his shoulder.

Natalie was friends with both of them, but she wasn’t a best friend. She had caramel-brown hair, and she always wore flannel shirts that gapped over her breasts. “Happy New Year!” she shouted at them.

“Not yet,” Mags said.

“One!” everyone else yelled.

“Happy New Year,” Noel said to Natalie.

Then Natalie leaned toward him, and he leaned toward her, and they kissed.

Dec. 31, 2013, almost midnight

Noel was standing on the arm of the couch with his hands out to Mags.

Mags was walking past him, shaking her head.

“Come on!” he shouted over the music.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“It’s our last chance to dance together!” he said. “It’s our senior year!”

“We have months left to dance,” Mags said, stopping at the food table to get a mini quiche.

Noel walked down the couch, stepped onto the coffee table, then stretched one long leg out as far as he could to make it onto the love seat next to Mags.

“They’re playing our song,” he said.

“They’re playing ‘Baby Got Back,’” Mags said.

Noel grinned.