By Adrianna Cabello
"Tell Santa what you'd like," Mother urges, as I stare suspiciously up at the whiskered old man. I eye him nervously. I don't want to talk to him, I don't even want to look at him, but I can't risk ruining my own Christmas. Like Ralphy and his Red Ryder, I am resolute. My Christmas will not be complete without a perfect, beautiful, porcelain doll.
I whisper my request and leap from his lap without waiting for the candy cane he is undoubtedly trying to hand me. I never liked those anyway. I cower behind my mom as I wait for my sister, Lauren, to take her chances with the scary old imposter. And that's when I hear it. Of course, she asks for a porcelain doll. My eternal copycat.
As I stomp through the slushy mall parking lot, I try to ignore her, but that proves to be impossible. When I try to hold Mom's hand, she grabs the other. When I fold my arms angrily in the car, Lauren does the same. Why couldn't I have been an only child? I try to ignore her for the next two weeks as I ready our room for the doll that is sure to be coming. From the corner of my eye, I can see her, folding the blankets and polishing the tea set, just like me. Can't she do anything on her own?
When the glorious morning finally arrives, we rush down the staircase to find that Santa did not disappoint. There, beneath the glittering lights of the Christmas tree, are two beautiful dolls. One with dark black hair for me, and the other adorned with bouncing blond curls like Lauren. My doll is perfect. Her bright brown eyes stare cheerfully up at me, set off by her rosy red cheeks. Her deep purple dress will match my bedroom perfectly. Surprisingly, I am so enthralled by my own perfect gift that I forget to be angry with Lauren, my copycat. We play together all morning and I even have fun with her, though I'd never admit it.
When it's time to go to Grandma's house, we buckle our dolls into their seat belts. I am literally counting the seconds until I get to show her. Grandmas are the best at being excited about Christmas things. When the minivan finally skids to a stop on the icy driveway, I throw the sliding door open. Grandma's going to see my doll first.
I sprint through the snow-covered grass, dashing up the stairs to the front door. Almost there. Right when my fingers touch the chilly brass knob, shattering glass echoes through the quiet evening air.
Whipping around, I see my sister, planted face first on the cold cement steps, with tiny shards from the little doll's face scattered in the snow around her. My voice catches in my throat, and I'm unsure what to say as I watch her eyes well with tears. I shouldn't care. I didn't want her to copy me in the first place. But against my will, all of my excited Christmas feelings are gone. I try to smile as I trudge into Grandma's house, but I can't seem to get over those little painted pieces lying in the snow.
Daddy carries Lauren inside, but she is inconsolable. She sobs on the couch and her crying makes me so upset I feel too guilty to even bother showing Grandma my doll. I hide it under my coat instead. It just doesn't feel right to be happy. I'd be destroyed if it were my doll that was broken.
Lauren is still crying when we get home much later that night. As Mommy tucks us into bed I stare through the darkness at the faceless doll that lies at her bedside. After what seems like hours, Lauren finally quiets down. I tiptoe across the carpet, snagging the doll by the hem of her dress, and sneak out of our bedroom to the stairs. At the bottom of the flight, I heave a decisive breath. I know what I need to do.
In the quiet of the Christmas night, Daddy helps me pick the sleek black hair from my own doll's head, replacing it with the curly blond locks from Lauren's broken doll. When we've finished our work, even switching the dresses, the doll is barely distinguishable from its broken counterpart.
I place the new doll by Lauren's bed and crawl under my covers, excited for morning. Even though I no longer have my precious gift, I have something even better. This year for Christmas I learned what Christmas is really all about.
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