"Hey, Bumpy."

"You sound out of breath."

"I'm trying to find my sweater. Sarah reorganized my room, and I can't find anything."

"That bitch."

"Well, you're grumpy."

"Just tired. It's been a long day."

"Aw, poor bunny rabbit."

"How are things?"

"You must be tired, asking me about my life instead of the other way around."

"I take an interest every once in a while."

Silence.

"You're ruining the moment of fraternal affection."

"Since, like Haley's comet, we will not see it again for another 86 years. So what's the matter?"

"I don't really want to talk about—it's a little complicated."

"Lex. Stop worrying about Sir Harry. Dad's not even breaking a sweat over here. He actually thinks you can pull this whole, um, Cadmus Labs? You can pull it off on your own."

"He does?"

"Yeah."

"Wait. How do you know about Sir Harry?"

"Just because you never tell me anything that's going on, doesn't mean Dad doesn't. We believe in communication, in telling each other what we feel, in keeping channels of expression open between family members."

"I take it you and Dad have started the family therapy."

"We've actually got an appointment in half an hour. It's so weird; I feel like I should be wearing harmonizing crystals and talking about our centers of energy. Maybe that's week three. I'm amazed Dad keeps going."

"You said you wanted him to go."

"Yeah, I did. I do. But… I mean, how did he know I wanted us to have therapy? I didn't even tell you about that until after Christmas. Although—"

"What?"

"I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this, but I wrote it on the Wish List. Right before we went to the party."

"The Wish List? That thing's still around?"

"Of course it's still around. I'm sentimental."

"About a notepad stuffed into a chimney?"

"I've had it since I was four!"

"Three. I had to write down what you wanted the first time."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"I'll go check."

"You don't believe me?"

"I thought I was some genius baby who could write by age three."

"You could. You were just a lazy genius baby."

"Oof. This brick was always impossible to get loose."

"Especially since it was never supposed to get loose in the first place."

"The wonders of a chemistry set and no conscience when it comes to destruction of property. The brick still smells a little, you know that?"

"Of what?"

"Of whatever you used to destroy the mortar around it."

"I did it all for you."

"That's what worries me. What kind of big brother makes a secret hiding place just because his little sister wants to play Pirates with Treasure Maps?"

"My kind, apparently."

Paper rustles. "Well, your seven-year-old handwriting is craptacular."

"Thanks. It's improved some."

"It would have to. 'Dear Santa, Lilly wants'—you wrote the 'y' in my name backwards—'wants a cat, and some yellow socks, and a necklace of real'—spelled 'R-E-E-L—'diamonds. Thanks, Lilly's brother. P.S. I want a new chemistry set, she used mine up.'"

"How endearing."

"Isn't it? Anyway, yeah, I still write my presents down, every Christmas Eve—you didn't even check this year?"

"I didn't know you were still writing it. You're almost eighteen."

"What if I'd asked Santa for something else and I didn't get it?"

"You asked for a few things on that list that you never got."

"Yeah, well, asking for my own moon was a little ambitious."

"'A little'?"

"I was only…six when I wished for that. And I didn't ask for anything else that year."

"Your own moon is quite enough."

"Yeah, too bad I never got it. So, I didn't tell anybody I wanted to have family therapy, and I wrote it on the Wish List, and he tells me Christmas Day that we're getting counseling—which actually makes sense, if you think about what happened the night before—but I don't think he was just doing it out of the goodness of his heart. And I don't know how he knew about it—you didn't have time to check before you pulled your stunt at the party, so you couldn't have said, 'Dad, here's what Lilly wants for Christmas." And we never told Dad about the fake brick, did we?"

"I don't believe so."

"Wait a minute. You did tell him, didn't you?"

"Told him—I'd never tell him something like that."

"You told him about the Wish List!"

"That is a complete—"

"You violated the pact!"

"I did not!"

"You're a big fat bald pact-violator!"

"Three out of those four accusations are totally untrue!"

"You swore—you pinky swore—that we'd never ever ever tell Mom and Dad about the List. Pinky swore!"

"I am hurt and offended that you'd think I would tell Dad about something as sacred as the Wish List."

"Whatever. When did you tell him? I know it has to be this year, because you always bought my Wish List presents before."

"Santa brought you the presents."

"Santa needs to remember that if he's going to eat only part of one of the cookies I left for him, I'm going to have Dexter run the DNA."

"When did you do that?"

"Um… I think I was ten."

"You believed in Santa until you were ten?"

"Not 'believed,' I just wanted empirical evidence that he didn't exist. The two Christmases before, I fell asleep keeping watch behind the couch, so I decided to try something else."

"So you had Dexter run the DNA."

"And it came back 'Lex Luthor.' Busted."

"I can't believe you."

"What, you thought I still believed in Santa?"

"There are certain truths that don't need to be exposed, Lilly. I thought it was a nice mutual understanding we had."

"Whatever. So when did you tell Dad?"

"Nice try, but I'm smarter than that, because if I answer that, that will imply—erroneously—that I told Dad about the Wish List."

Silence. "Lex."

"Yeah?"

"Did you ever tell Mom?"

Silence. "Oh."

"Well, however he found out about it… um, thanks."

"Just as long as you don't buy any harmonizing crystals."

"Yeah. Anyway, I've got to go if I don't want to be late."

"Okay. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you a lot, Lex. And don't worry about the takeover, you'll do fine."

"Thanks."

"Bye."

*

"Hellooo, there."

"Hey."

"I'm framing this paper. Sir Harry's expression is absolutely priceless."

"I thought you might like that."

"Beautiful work. Just beautiful. How did you manage it?"

"It was depressingly easy."

"Tricky Vicky ain't so quicky."

"How long have you been waiting to say that?"

"Years. Really."

"I believe it."

"Are you having the Bourbon of Victory right now?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Well, you deserve it. Hey, am I on that speakerphone thing again?"

"How can you tell?"

"Because your voice gets like Lou Gherig."

"Lou Gherig."

"You know. 'Today I consider myself the luckiest man-man-man, on the face-face-face, of the Earth-Earth-Earth.'"

"I see."

"Hold on. Dad wants to talk. Love you. Talk to you later."

"You, too. Bye."