The Afterlife of Holly Chase

by Cynthia Hand

After, it was like happy people became the enemy. Happy people were weak. They were clueless. They did stupid things like die on you. Before, I thought Christmas was a day my mother had created entirely for my benefit. After, Christmas felt like a black hole that would suck me into it for weeks. It made me think of my mom when I didn’t want to think of her. Which understandably made me cranky, but you’re not allowed to be cranky on Christmas. You’re supposed to be all merry and bright. After, I convinced myself that Christmas was just another day, an excuse to spend too much money on gifts people don’t really appreciate and go to lame parties where people wore Christmas sweaters—an affront to good fashion everywhere—and drank too much eggnog—possibly the grossest beverage ever to have been invented. After, when people said, “Merry Christmas,” I thought, Whatevs. Which was, I suppose, my version of Bah, humbug.