“Nolan? Did you leave something on the porch?”
No answer from upstairs. Somebody in his game yells about a zombie, and he yells right back.
I stand in the front hall with my empty cup. Through the glass beside the door, I can see a package.
It wasn’t there when I went to bed.
The kitchen clock calls eleven. I count along without meaning to. Mom thinks I’m asleep.
I put my cup on the stairs and undo the lock. Cold air pushes through my pajama sleeves.
The package sits beside our welcome mat. It’s flat and wide, with one corner tucked under the porch rail. Across the brown paper, somebody wrote CLARA.
Snow covers every porch step, smooth and white all the way to the sidewalk. I lean over the rail to check the yard too.
Where are the footprints?
Nobody could reach this far from the yard. Whoever left the package would have to climb the steps.
Across the street, Piper’s porch light comes on. I almost wave. But it’s her dad brushing snow off his windshield.
He doesn’t look over. I lean out a little more, trying to see our side yard.
Something brushes my ankle.
I jump so hard my heel hits the door.
The wind lifted a corner of our welcome mat. I kick it flat and rub the ankle it tickled.
“Clara?” Mom calls from upstairs. “What’s that noise?”
“Getting water!”
I grab the package and shut the door.
“Then get back to bed. School tomorrow.”
“I know!”
I turn the package over in the hall light. The paper feels dry, even on the bottom. There’s no stamp or address. Not even a sticker from a store.
Just my name on the front.
When Nolan’s bedroom door opens above me, I shove the package behind my back.
“Who’s getting water with a hammer?” he asks.
“Go fight your zombies.”
“They have better manners.”
He disappears. I pick up my cup and carry everything upstairs, then slide the package under my bed.
I tap my phone’s screen. There’s an earlier message from Piper.
DID YOU DO THE LAST MATH PAGE?
I type: SOMETHING JUST SHOWED UP ON MY PORCH.
I look at Nolan’s wall. His game rattles right through it.
By tomorrow he’ll grab whatever it is. He’ll shake it, open it, and tell me I’m holding it wrong.
I want to open this one by myself.
I erase the message and send Piper a picture of my math page. Then I turn off the lamp.
“Why is there wrapping paper in your cereal?”
Nolan drops into the chair beside me.
“It isn’t wrapping paper. Move your elbow.” I pull the package away from his plate.
It’s December 1, and I made it all night without opening it. Now the brown paper is in strips.
Mom sets a mug beside the sink. “Where did that come from?”
“The porch. Last night.”
“Was that what you were doing?”
I pick at a piece of tape. “My name’s on it.”
She checks the paper. “Maybe a relative sent it. Let me see the label.”
I hold up the part with CLARA.
“That’s all there is.”
Mom turns it over. Her eyebrows pull together.
“I’ll ask around. Next time, tell me before you open a mystery package.”
“Maybe it’s a flattened pony,” Nolan says.
I kick his slipper under the table and pull the last sheet of paper free.
There’s an advent calendar in my lap. I sit up straighter.
Mom usually gets us the chocolate ones. Nolan is fifteen, and he still eats his backward, starting at twenty-four. I’m eleven, and I have to hide mine from him. This year Mom didn’t get them yet.
This one doesn’t look like it holds chocolate.
It’s old, heavy cardboard, about the size of a cookie sheet. Gold numbers cover a picture of a snowy street.
I lift it closer. Little yellow windows shine in painted houses. The cardboard smells like cinnamon and the dusty boxes in our attic.
“That’s pretty,” Mom says.
“It’s our street.”
Nolan keeps eating. “All streets have houses.”
“Look at the mailbox.”
He glances over at the painted fish mailbox. Its open mouth faces the road, just like ours.
Dad picked it out. Mom still makes him get the mail.
Across from our painted house is Piper’s. I run my finger past her tire swing, then our crooked porch light. They even painted the streetlight between our houses.
“Okay,” Nolan says. “That’s weird.”
My stomach gives a little flip.
The biggest number, twenty-four, sits on a red door. Our front door is red. This one even has the scratch near the handle from Nolan’s bike.
A thin black line runs down its edge. I touch it, but it’s just paint.
“Did you order this?” I ask Mom.
“No. Maybe somebody had it made. A photo gift?”
“With all our stuff on it?”
“They can do that. Let me ask Dad.”
While she takes out her phone, Nolan reaches for the calendar. I pull it against my chest.
“Get your own.”
“I was looking.”
“Look from there.”
He raises both hands. One has cereal stuck to it.
I find number one on a downstairs window in our painted house. A tiny cardboard tab sticks out along the edge.
I slide my nail under the tab and lift the flap. Inside is a picture of a silver bell.
“No chocolate,” Nolan says. “Terrible pony.”
The bell is round, with a wire loop on top. A black slot runs across its bottom. I can see a little dark ball inside.
I tip the calendar toward the light.
Something cold bumps my knee.
I gasp and jerk back.
A silver bell rolls across my pajama pants. I catch it before it drops.
The ball inside gives a sharp ring.
Nolan winces. “Do that in your room.”
I stare at the open window.
The picture is gone.
There’s only plain cardboard inside.
I turn the calendar over, running my fingers across the back. No plastic pocket. No place for a bell to hide.
