An Introvert's Guide to Holiday Parties

a short story

Dec 23, 2023

Article voiceover

1×

0:00

-4:58

This short story was written as part of my year-long creative writing challenge. Every Monday, I use a random number generator to select a new writing prompt and share my response by the following weekend. You can learn more about the project here.

Write a scene about a party that your character is reluctant to go to.

Snowflakes collect on the outside of the window as I wrap myself in my thickest wool blanket, the one Gramma made me on my seventh birthday with the hole in the bottom left corner that I still haven’t figured out how to patch. I just keep avoiding it, like a creaky spot on the stairs that you know you should fix but always chose to walk around instead.

Leaning my forehead against the glass, I let the cold press into me even though I know it'll leave a red mark, and try to count the snowflakes as they gather on the ledge. One, two three, five, eight, twelve. They look like little spiderwebs, but who would want to think of spiders at this time of year?

I sit there watching them build up, one little fairy footprint at a time, until the sky slowly bruises a dark purply grey and the streetlights flick on and turn my little collection to golden threads and I can no longer avoid the inevitable. Leaving the safety of my wool blanket puddled on the armchair in my bedroom, I pause before the mirror and try to fluff some life into the limp strands of my dirty blond hair.

Earlier I tied a ribbon in it and I can't decide if it makes me look like an American Girl doll or not. I know my efforts are pointless, that my hair will never be anything more than straight with a wisp of bang. Between the ribbon and the red tinted lip balm, I give the appearance of a washed out Alicia Silverstone. There's a bit of lace edging the collar of the dress Mom asked me to wear and it itches every time I breathe. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it'll give me a rash. Maybe I'll get hives and have a chance to escape.

I open the door and the wave of noise hits me even as the scents of nutmeg and holiday roast curl around my ankles like a cat demanding my attention. I can smell the cider brewing and the stuffed mushrooms Kim makes every year that almost make us forgive her for marrying into the family. The tastes of Christmases-past lure me forward into the present, into the heat and noise and jumble of bodies as four generations of Carusos shove their way into our three-bedroom home. A glass of red wine and a crostini are instantly shoved into my hand. Sofia, there you are! You’ve gotten so tall! How’s college going? Do you have a boyfriend yet? What’re you studying? You’re too thin girl! Dont they feed you in Connecticut? Here, eat something!

The questions and exclamations linger on my skin like ink smudges as I move through the crowd—dodging aunts and uncles and aunts of uncles and cousin after cousin—that it's a wonder my arms aren't stained with them by the time I reach the kitchen.

Want more fiction and poetry? Join my email list to receive posts like this directly to your inbox.

Here, I find Mom, her hair levitating in dark frizzled curls away from her face and lipstick on her large front teeth. She’s shouting at one of her six sisters who surround her. They move pan after pan after dish from the counter to the oven to the counter to the sink to the fridge and back to the counter again. The glass of wine in my hand is replaced by a scrubbing brush and I park myself at the sink, contributing in the best way I can and making sure that almost no one talks to me.

It works, until Mom notices and spins me back around—oh no you don’t, you’re not going to hide in here all night! Go socialize. Be young, be free!—and hands me a tray of meatballs for the table. I weave back through an assortment of stray family members we've collected over the years who may or may not be related to us, narrowly dodge Cassandra and her baby, deposit my tray and grab a handful of rolls, then make my way back through the hall. Sofia, why did you quit singing again? You have such a lovely voice! Your Grandmother loved hearing you sing! I keep a mouthful of bread behind my teeth at all times, the perfect excuse to mumble and shrug, until the querent moves on already looking for their next victim.

Back through the sticky crowd, back through the noise, until I break out into the living room, where Jimmy and Marco are drinking beers and arguing about football with Dad. By the fire sits Uncle Leo, cracking holiday nuts into his palm with a scowl on his large meaty face. As kids we used to make up tales about him, that he'd been in the mob, that he'd killed a man, that he’d tried to assassinate a president once. A few Thanksgivings back he got into a fistfight with Johnny over if gravy or cranberry sauce was better, and now everyone avoids talking to him about anything more substantial than the weather. I sometimes think that he did it on purpose.

I sit on the floor next to him and enjoy the bubble of silence that his presence guarantees. He hands me a shelled almond without speaking that may be from the same bag Mom bought last year, but I eat it anyways. Somewhere deep in the house, “Carol of the Bells” blares loudly then lowers to a background volume.

From this distance, the party takes on an effervescent sparkle and glow, basked in the blue-tinted nostalgia that only the holidays can bring. Someone lit candles next to Gramma and Grandpa’s wedding photo on the mantle, the black and white one where he’s leaning in to kiss her cheek and she’s laughing with her eyes squeezed shut beneath those thin 1930s brows.

My throat tightens as my gaze falls on the empty green wingback chair, a thrifted monstrosity that almost didn’t fit in Paulie’s car. The old basket she used to store her crochet needles in is still at its feet, as if she’d just gotten up to get a glass of sherry and would be back at any moment. Someone, probably Dad, will say a prayer for her at dinner tonight. He’s always the best at giving speeches.

Uncle Leo hands me another almond and I pass him my last remaining dinner roll. Down the hall, someone starts singing an off-key version of “Jingle Bells” and I can hear Mom laughing from the kitchen. Outside, the Christmas lights leave puddles of green and red and gold across the blanket of fresh snow now dusting the yard.

What’s your favorite holiday party that you’ve ever been to? I’d love to hear about it. Let me know in the comments or by replying to this email♡

Dreamer's Field Guide

Discussion about this post