“Why not?” the director said.

“She won’t talk. Or sing,” I said. In my last year in the pageant, I was the third wise man. That’s the problem with the Christmas story: most of the roles are for boys. The only girl is there because men can’t have babies.

“And she does things,” Leslie said, but the choir director wasn’t listening.

Wavy already wore a white dress, so for the rehearsal all she needed was a halo and a pair of wings. Even without those things, she looked like an angel.

The rehearsal went fine until we broke for our snack. When we returned to the sanctuary, the Baby Jesus was missing. Like in a crime drama, the only things left behind in the straw were his swaddling clothes.

The adults searched through piles of costumes and boxes of decorations. The church ladies accused each other.

“I put it in the manger. I always put it in the manger,” said one.

“Him!” another lady said. “Our Lord Jesus is not an it.”

The choir director accused the Virgin Mary, who cried, and then the Virgin Mary’s mother yelled at the choir director.

In the middle of the drama, Wavy leaned close to me and whispered, “Dust Bunny.”

“This isn’t just some baby doll,” I said. “This Baby Jesus has been in the church’s Christmas pageant every year for a long time.”

Wavy gave me the small, sneaky smile I knew so well.

She had Dust Bunnied the Baby Jesus.

“Let’s look under the pews,” I said to Leslie. So we crawled through the sanctuary, searching under the pews. The other kids started looking, too, and five minutes later, the head shepherd said, “I found it!”

I cornered Wavy on the steps to the choir loft and said, “Why did you do that?”

“Easter egg hunt.”

That’s what church was to Wavy: a set of games she didn’t quite understand. I laughed, Wavy laughed, and the choir director yelled, “Who’s giggling in the loft? And where’s my third wise man? Please, can we focus?”

*   *   *

In Sunday School, we were supposed to make Christmas cards to deliver to church members who were too sick to come to church. Wavy cut out the wise men and the livestock, colored them in shades of purple and green, and glued them all around the edge of her card. She left Mary and Joseph and Jesus in a pile of cut out paper on the table.

Inside her card, where we were supposed to write Bible verses, Wavy wrote, “Dear Kellen.”

I didn’t get to read what she wrote after that and neither did anyone else. When the teacher came around to look at our cards, Wavy wouldn’t let her.

“Why not, sweetie? Just let me see.”

The teacher took a step closer and Wavy ran. For the rest of Sunday School she hid, and for the pageant, too. So the choir director didn’t get her perfect blond angel to stand front and center and refuse to sing. After the pageant was over, as Mom was about to panic, Wavy walked out from behind the baptistery.

Back at home, Dad sat on the couch, reading his work papers, while Leslie, Donal, and I tore into our presents. Wavy had presents, too, but all she wanted for Christmas was an envelope and a stamp.

“Who’s the card for?” Mom said.

Once it was safely sealed in the envelope and addressed, Wavy passed it to her.

“Jesse Joe Kellen? This is the boy who calls you Wavy?”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Leslie was in eighth grade that year and had gone completely boy-crazy, and Dad’s mom was just as bad.

“What color are his eyes? Blue? Brown?” Gramma Jane said.

Wavy nodded and said, “Soft.”

“Soft brown eyes are very nice. Is he in your class at school?”

Wavy shook her head.

“Well, is he younger than you? Or older?” Gramma Jane said.

Older.

They went on asking questions about Kellen and, to my surprise, Wavy answered. He had a shy smile and Wavy got to ride on his bike.

“Mom, stop, you’re embarrassing her,” Dad said.

“She likes it,” Gramma Jane said. “Every girl likes to talk about the boy she likes. And he likes you, too, doesn’t he?”

“He loves me.” Wavy followed the confession with one of her rare dimpled smiles. Mom thought it was so cute that she told the story to her book club friends when they came over for New Year’s. Wasn’t it sweet how her tragic ten-year-old niece had a little boyfriend who loved her?

It was sweet until Mom met Kellen.

We were in the kitchen, getting ready to leave for our music lessons, and Mom was arguing with Donal about his Christmas toys.

“Donal, we’re going to come back to the house and get them, okay? You don’t have to take them all with you. Wavy, will you tell him?”

Wavy shrugged, maybe because in her experience, you didn’t always get to go back for your toys.

The doorbell rang and Mom sent me to answer it. On the front porch stood a huge man in jeans and a snap-front western shirt. He said, “Hey, I’m Kellen. I’m here to get Wavy and Donal.”

I left him in the entryway and ran back to the kitchen.

“Who was it?” Mom said.

“Kellen. He’s here to get them.”

Donal dropped his toys and ran out of the kitchen, shouting, “Kellen!”

Wavy went after him.

Still in our coats, we trundled into the front hall, where Kellen swooped Donal up so high he almost knocked his head on the ceiling. Wavy smiled, while Donal talked nonstop. Now that he was talking, that was all he did. “And the Jesus baby was missing. And we crawled crawled crawled around on the floor to find it. And I wore a towel on my head. I was a shepherd. They wore towels on their heads. And Wavy was an angel. She had a halo. And … “