The Christmas Pageant

My Christmas dress is burgundy velvet, with a tulle skirt. My mother has forced me into a pair of white wool tights and Mary-Janes that match the dress. I am hot and itchy. My tight’s waistband keeps falling below my belly button, giving me what my brothers call drop crotch.

I am tall for my age, but not tall enough to see the pulpit from behind the man in front of me. My father turns a blind eye as I crawl up on the pew, stand on my knees, and lean heavily to the left to see in front of the old man.

My priest is a good woman, that’s what my mother always says as we walk home. That she’s a good woman, with a good head on her shoulders. She’s telling a story from the bible, but I’m not listening. That’s what my father says. That I’m not very good at listening.

Right now I’m not listening, because I’m paying attention to the action behind the altar, in the hallway off the right side. I am waiting for Mr. Bill to give the signal. He’ll do it sometime after the sermon, but before the Apostle’s Creed.

When the prayer begins, he steps out of the hallway, waving wildly towards us in the congregation. I leave my parents’ side without so much as a goodbye; I’m too excited. I sprint past my brothers in the Acolyte den–Conor is playing with a loose thread on his robes, Liam has nodded off.

I leave the church and push open the fire door that connects to my school. I am in this building six days a week. If my mom volunteers us for a church picnic or a food drive, I’m here every day of the week. The lunch room is a flurry of movement. Toddlers are crawling around on all fours dressed as various barnyard animals. Pre-teen boys, unlucky to have been forced into the pageant by their parents, shepherded the animals into a sloppily arranged line. Mary and Joseph are adults this year, and the baby Jesus is their own newborn.

Mr. Bill announces loudly that “no one is allowed to be near or sneeze on,” he casts a pointed look at a sniffling wise man, “the baby Jesus.” I take myself to the clothes rack, where a mom hands me my angel robes.

I slide them over my burgundy dress, and the red color shines through the thin fabric. I reach into the pocket of my dress, where I’ve slipped a tube of pink lipstick. I smooth it over my mouth, rubbing my lips together like my mom does. I slip into line alongside the other angels. I dodge a pair of tinsel wings as the girl in line before me turns around to face me.

“I think you forgot your wings.”

I look around for a mom or Mr. Bill. I face her and shrug. “No one gave me any.”

Her face screws into a sneer. “What’s on your mouth?”

I fold my lips in on themselves. “Lipstick.”

“Why are you wearing it?” She rubs the corner of her eye.

I shrug again. “I wore it for the Nutcracker.”

She nods and then glances at me sideways. “Like the Barbie movie?”

“I was a snowflake,” I say proudly, with my nose in the air.

“Cool.” She turns around, and I narrowly avoid her wings as they swing past my face.

Mr. Bill calls me from across the room. A cold rush of dread grasps my stomach. I cross the room, my head down and shoulders hunched. Mr. Bill is tall, so I keep my eyes cast down, hoping from this angle he won’t notice my lipstick.

“Merry Christmas.” He says over his shoulder, as he lifts a pair of cardboard wings off the rack. “Now–” he drawls, holding the wings up to my body. “You’re my tallest angel, can you be my Gabriel?”

I don’t listen well, so I’m not sure what that means, but I recognize that as a boy’s name. I roll my hand into the billowing sleeve of my robe nervously, still I agree.

He gestures for me to turn around and slips the wings over my shoulders. They’re larger than the others and are covered in white tinsel, rather than gold. I turn back around to face Mr. Bill, he tucks his clipboard under his arm, and bows at his waist to come to my eye level. He peers over his readers. His breath smells like coffee and peppermint candy.

“Now, all you’s got to say is ‘Do Not Be Afraid.’ Think you can do that?”

I nod, and then we’re ushered back into the church. We shush each other, as the preist who’s a good woman, tells the story of Mary and Joseph. The barnyard animals are called to the altar, and the shepherds trudge behind them.

The animals have the excuse of being babies, so lots of them crawl off the altar towards their families before Mary and Joseph even step onstage.

Mr. Bill pulls me from the back of the line and positions me in front of the entrance to the altar. My brothers are to my left, and I poke Liam with a toe to wake him up. He glares at me. I stick my tongue out at him. Mr. Bill whispers in my ear, “Now go out, say your line, and then come on back.”

He pushes me in the back, and I walk onto the stage, with my hands open by my side and my toes turned out, just like I did when I was a snowflake. The church is typically lit naturally by the stained glass windows. But it’s midnight mass, so the altar is brightened by an industrial spotlight.

I blink into it, but I don’t block my eyes. I clear my throat and remember my lesson in music class about projecting. I open my mouth and shout to the rafters, “Hey Mary, don’t be scared!”

The congregation laughs a lot, and I linger a bit too long, smiling my pink smile back at them. But Mr. Bill calls for me from backstage, and so I turn on my toes and leave. But I think better of it halfway across the altar and stop. I turn to face Mary.

I wave at her. “Bye!”

The audience laughs again, and the good priest continues her story, so I go backstage. Mr. Bill is smiling. I ask him for a peppermint, and he gives me one from his pocket. It is warm, but sends a cool rush of air down my throat. Eventually, all the angels are brought out on stage, and we, alongside the shepherds, the wisemen, and the few barn animals that remain, sing “Silent Night.”

We go back to the lunchroom and remove our costumes. Mr. Bill releases us back to our families. My parents take communion. We sing “Angels We Have Heard on High” as the clock strikes midnight. I tug my mother home by the arm so we can return before Santa skips our house.

I kick off my Mary-Janes and tights as soon as we step in the door. We set out the cookies and the milk, and my mother sends me to brush my teeth. When she comes in to kiss me goodnight, she stops.

“Is that my lipstick?” She takes a tissue from my nightstand and rubs at my mouth. I smile at her, and she laughs. She kisses the top of my head and wishes me a Merry Christmas.

Our house is an old house, and it makes sounds in the middle of the night that wake me up. But tonight, I remember “do not be afraid,” because tonight I know it’s Santa bringing me my Christmas gifts.