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12-25-01 - 10:14 p.m. Holy shit I have no parents. My parents are both dead. In keeping with the Christmas theme, it seems to me that a common tradition among many diarists and their families is to annually share an anecdote from Christmases past. They do this in my adoptive family, too. I stayed quiet through it. (No, I didn't go to Leif's. We were both really tired, so we are taking rainchecks.) Anyway, in the spirit of Christmas, I'd like to share a Christmas memory of my own: When I was 13 and getting seriously into alcohol, I spent Christmas Eve with my then-boyfriend, a 17-year-old guy named...I don't even know. Jesus works. I spent Christmas Eve with "Jesus." I woke up around noon on the 25th and had him rush me home, knowing that my mother would be furious with me for A) not telling her where I was going, B) spending the night away from home, C) getting drunk, and D) being too hungover to give a damn what she had to say. As I paused to turn the knob to enter my house, I found a note on the door Ann had written to me. I don't remember the exact wording, but it was something to the effect of: "Sluts don't get any presents from Santa Claus." I walked inside to find that our Christmas tree had been burned to ashes, and that she had thrown my backpack into the fireplace, where now a fire burned. All my schoolwork, my textbooks, pens, pencils, glasses, my calculator�all of it was burning and I couldn't do anything to stop it. So I gritted my teeth, turned around, and left. I went across the street to Kellie's house and spent my holiday there. I never told them what Ann did. I just found ways, both sick and shameful, to make enough money to replace all the things I'd lost. Getting enough money to pay for my glasses took months. Nobody wanted to hire a 13-year-old girl. When I showed up at school with all new school supplies, I told my classmates they were all gifts from my mom. People said, "Gee, Laura, your mom's so cool!"
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