I look festive.
I look ridiculous.
And I don’t have time to fix it. I’m needed at the Mavericks’ Christmas party in fifteen minutes, and I’m going to be late as it is. I pay and tip Brandy for her creative efforts.
While I emptied my wallet for an updo that’ll snag on doorways, I count this trip a success. I discovered Brandy no longer requires the Silver Creek Santa’s help, and I was able to support a family in need.
That’s why I’m smiling as I enter the senior center. I spot Mom across the cafeteria. She takes one look at me, and her eyes go wide. I guess Brandy also gave me the ability to make an entrance.
Noticing the stack of packages before Mom that need to be wrapped, I hustle over to her.
She sticks an adhesive bow on the corner of the gift she’s working on and presses her lips together as if holding back a laugh. “Do I even want to know?”
“What, that I paid sixty dollars to look like the tipsy adult version of Cindy Lou Who? Probably not.” I grab the next box, a roll of wrapping paper, and get to work.
“Leonard told me he tried to invite Leo tonight,” she puts in with a side glance at me. “But said he had to work.”
“Then Leo’s story lines up. Because that’s what he told me when I asked.”
“Leo’s popular.” She smiles. “I know it’s none of my business, but is there anything going on between you two?”
“Only friends.” I can’t tell Mom about our agreement because she has no idea I’m the Silver Creek Secret Santa. Or that her mother, my grandmother, had a hefty bank account. Or I should say bank accounts. I guess certain banks will only insure your money to a quarter of a million. As far as problems go, that’s a nice one to have.
The seniors are playing “Guess that Christmas Carol” with Pap and Leonard showing flashcards of emojis. Although someone, other than a Maverick, should’ve checked the emojis to ensure everything is appropriate. Too late now.
Mom and I wrap gifts for an hour straight, then I join the festivities, making a Christmas craft and participating in the final game.Participatingtranslates into being the humble prop. Brandy’s exuberance is a hit with those over seventy. The seniors wanted to play a game where everyone stared at my hair for a full minute, and then I left the room. Whoever recited the most Christmas items on my noggin won the light-up star on my head. Being a good sport and really wanting this blinding thing far, faraway from me, I agreed. So even more good has come from my salon trip. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Needless to say, no one looks forward to snack time more than me, especially since Brewtiful Grounds supplied the treats. Tilly’s famous peppermint bark cookies are giving me life right now.
“Did you notice”—Mom reaches for a hot chocolate in a Styrofoam cup—“that we wrap gifts the same?”
“I didn’t catch it.” Mostly because I was busy thinking about my next steps as Secret Santa.
She takes a dainty sip and smiles at me. “Your gran taught me. I’m guessing she taught you too.”
“Yeah.”Gran taught me everything, I want to say, but the words sit like acid on my tongue. When Mom was absent, Gran had the job of schooling me on everything from makeup to boys to periods. Things that moms do. Gran never got to enjoy retirement because she was raising her grandchild. Did she miss out on something she wanted to do? Did she leave this life unsatisfied, feeling ripped off?
The cookies turn to cement in my stomach.
It’s weird Mom never explained why she left. Why shealwaysleft. Gran stayed for me. Then I stayed for Gran. I regret nothing, but I do have some hesitancies about my relationship with Mom. Will it be anything like the relationship between Gran and me? Do I want it to be? Will we ever talk about the abominable snowman in the room? The giant beast of a topic we’ve been avoiding? I hate confrontation, but maybe I need answers more. I chew the inside of my cheek, taking in the festivities before me. This isn’t the time or place. So I’ll bottle the frustration and give myself a headache.
“You doing okay?” Mom places a gentle hand on my shoulder.
She’s trying. I know this. It’s the pressure of the Santa thing, the fact that this was Gran’s favorite holiday, and the reality that she’s not here—it’s all getting to me. I can blame the gazillion pins in my hair, but it feels like everything stings. “I think I need some air.”
Her brow lowers. “It’s twenty degrees out.”
“I’ve got my coat.” Though with my stupid hair, I can’t pull up the hood. I’ll have to ignore the possibility that my ears might freeze off. I escape into the hallway and exit through a side door, my boots sinking into the blanketed-white ground. The skies had poured another layer upon the snow we’d gotten yesterday. I inhale deeply, trying to savor the quiet, but my mind’s too loud. I have two weeks to find the perfect candidate. I have to help Leo find the Vallerton nativity set, and I feel like I’ve exhausted all my contacts. Plus, I have to navigate these chaotic emotions about my mom.
I step past a snow-laden dogwood tree—its branches stretching out like pale, gnarled fingers—and glance to my right, finding a familiar face. Santa’s. Only he’s a giant wooden cutout situated by the senior center sign. Floodlights are aimed at his jolly grin, but to me, his wide smile doesn’t look like festive merriment. He’s laughing at me.
“You think it’s so easy,” I say to the stupid decoration as I scoop up a handful of snow and pack it into something I can launch. “It’s not.” I hurl the snowball, and it smacks Santa’s haughty mug.
Oh, that felt good. So I do it again. The tension seeps from me with every throw. I grab more snow and?—
“You’ve got good aim.”
I squeal and hurl my snowball at the voice.
