In the bedroom CeCe and Carla shared, she moved to stand beside a wall calendar from a neighborhood deli. “If you want the best, buy your meat from Burgess!” was scripted across the top with a photo of the butcher store’s front window. Boylin commented that she passed the shop all the time when she came to visit other little kids in CeCe’s neighborhood.
The complimentary calendar, with tear-pad sheets for each month, was from the previous year. December 1975 was the only square sheet still fastened to the thick cardboard. The rigid calendar sat on a slim strip of wall between the bed and the tall chest of drawers. Dangling from the same single nail holding the outdated calendar was a long chain of soda can tabs.
There was a blue milk crate on the floor in the corner. Boylin slowly entered the room as CeCe pulled out the crate and climbed on top. She still had to stretch her arms to reach a handle-less coffee cup resting on the otherwise bare dresser top. CeCe hooked her tiny wrists to the edge of this mammoth pine chest, her hands patient and relaxed as Boylin moved in closer.
“I have this many Thursdays,” CeCe said, tipping the coffee cup toward Boylin to show its content of soda can pull tabs.
“Can you tell me about this cup and the Thursdays, Crimson?” Boylin asked, perplexed.
CeCe teetered on the blue crate to turn and face the nail in the wall, holding its outdated calendar and chain of soda pop tabs. CeCe was careful as a schoolteacher as she explained how she moved the tabs from the cup to the wall every Thursday, after walking with Mrs. Castellanos to the store for her lottery tickets and small groceries.
“When I have only one left, then I’ll know to get ready for Santa,” CeCe said, tapping the chain absently. Watching it swing, CeCe turned to Boylin, eyes wide with a sudden realization. “Do you know about Santa Claus?”
Boylin smiled and confirmed that, indeed, she knew all about Santa Claus.
“How did you hear about him?” Boylin asked.
“Ms. Cas-teanose.”
“Mrs. Castellanos?”
CeCe nodded.
“She told me all about Santa after I missed him last time.”
“You missed him, honey?” Boylin asked, amusement fading from her eyes.
“Mmmhmm,” Cece replied, giving a small nod. “And he only comes one time every year, y’know.”
“You make sure you ask for your mama’s permission before you eat this, dulce,” Mrs. Castellanos said each week before handing CeCe her weekly salary of fruit punch soda and a Chick-O-Stick for helping with her grocery bags.
“OK,” CeCe said. They both knew CeCe’s mother never heard about the treats.
CeCe enjoyed Mrs. Castellanos. She knew lots of songs and made up smart games. She had sat next to CeCe one day in the courtyard when she was four and stayed her friend ever since. CeCe didn’t have any other friends, since the other kids were so much older and she and her mother didn’t know any other kids. CeCe only waved at Mrs. Castellanos for a long time. When she introduced herself to CeCe, offering to read her a story the next day, CeCe had been thrilled.
Mrs. Castellanos read stories in her decorated accent, still waxed heavy with Puerto Rican roots. Sometimes, CeCe would play quietly on the bench next to her while Mrs. Castellanos read a newspaper. One week she didn’t meet CeCe out in the courtyard and CeCe thought she had somehow made her friend angry.
“Last Thursday was Christmas,dulce,” Mrs. Castellanos said, squatting next to CeCe on the dusty ground next to the bench. “Don’t you remember when Santa came to visit?”
CeCe pinched her face together trying to remember a visit.
Mrs. Castellanos gasped a little. “Dulce CeCe, you didn’t get anything from Santa for Christmas?” she asked.
CeCe shook her head slowly, beginning to wonder if she was in trouble somehow. She didn’t know anything about this Claus.
CeCe sat with her friend until lunchtime, until CeCe’s stomach was empty and her mind full of images of happy, fat men hauling around gifts with her name on them. Mrs. Castellanos told her good little girls were allowed to send their wishes to Santa, too. Having her mother back was CeCe’s number one wish. Roller skates was her second.
“When is he coming back?” CeCe asked.
“We’ve got a ways to go, dulce,” Mrs. Castellanos said, watching the cloud fill the child’s face. “Christmas is always December twenty-fifth and that was only one week ago. We have to wait until next year.”
CeCe considered.
“How long is that?”
“A year?” Mrs. Castellanos asked. “One year is the same as fifty-two weeks, dulce.”
CeCe thought some more.
“Is that soon?”
Mrs. Castellanos took in a breath and thought. She crossed arms across her massive breasts and drummed her fingertips until an idea came to her.
“On Thursday when we walk to the store, that will be one week,” she had said. “And the next Thursday will be another week—”
“—And after . . . fifty-two Thursdays Santa will come back?” CeCe chimed.
Mrs. Castellanos beamed. “Yes, dulce.”
“Is fifty-two a long time?”
“It can feel like a long time sometimes, dulce,” Mrs. Castellanos laughed.
Ms. Boylin now sat on the hard, square bed, facing CeCe and her rudimentary calendar. She could see now that December 25, 1975, had been circled.
“Did you do this, Crimson?”
“No,” she said, unsettling her thick plaits with a shake. “Mama showed me where Christmas was after I told her about Santa. I don’t think she knew about him either, because she cried about missing him, too.”
“And, so, you count the Thursdays with this chain so you and your mama won’t miss Santa, is that right, Crimson?”
Another rattle of braids.
“How many Thursdays are left in the cup?
“Thirty-three.”
“How many Thursdays are on the chain?”
“Nineteen.”
“That was a lot of fruit punch, huh?” Boylin said, with a wink.
CeCe ducked her head with a grin.
“You’re a very bright girl to have figured this out all by yourself,” Ms. Boylin said.
CeCe released her second broad smile of the morning. “Ms. Cas-teanose calls me ‘bright,’ too,” she said. “I like it. Makes me feel like I have magic inside.”
“Sweetheart, you do have magic inside you. You absolutely do.”
CeCe returned to the courtyard bench while Ms. Boylin spoke with her mother again. She tried to press all of Ms. Boylin’s words against her memory: bus stop, state law, gifted class, private school, scholarship, development, future, foster care. CeCe could tell these were all serious words, but she knew her mother wouldn’t hear any of them. She had to remember.
Ms. Boylin came outside and walked to Cece on the bench. When she spoke, Cece was taken in by the warmth of her hazel eyes. Her lashes were long and her lips glistened pink. She had a tiny mole on her left temple, which CeCe hadn’t noticed before. She wondered if all the extra nice grown-ups had moles.
“It