Page 9 of Falling for the Grinchy Bad Boy

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JOY

Istood in the elementary school cafeteria holding a clipboard like it was a shield, trying to look like I had any clue what I was doing. The smell of lingering fish sticks and crappy tater tots hung in the air. Or maybe that was my own childhood trauma. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that special shade of institutional beige that made everyone look slightly ill.

I had gone to this school just like every other kid in Calton Hill. We only had one elementary school in town. I supposed that could be a good thing. Everyone knew everyone. We all had to be friends. There were no rivalries with other schools—except for Templeton. They were about fifty miles away. They beat us almost every year in high school football.

I looked around the cafeteria that was still the same as it was twenty years ago. I remembered standing in line and someone let out a bunch of frogs. It was chaos. Another time I tripped and fell and my mashed potatoes flew and landed on Cindy Levine. They got all in her blond hair.

Boy had she been pissed.

Another time I spilled my juice and it soaked Bobby Bishop’s lap. He had to walk around looking like he peed his pants for an hour.

The place held many memories for me but I couldn’t call them fond.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Joy Murphy,” Aunt Victoria announced to the small crowd of volunteers scattered around folding tables covered with poster board and markers. “She’s going to be taking over as our new Yuletide Festival organizer.”

I forced what I hoped was a confident smile and gave a little wave. Inside, I was screaming. Every pair of eyes in the room turned to study me like I was a science experiment gone wrong.

“Oh, wonderful!” chirped Mrs. Clark, the first-grade teacher who still wore seasonal sweaters with actual jingle bells sewn on them. “We have so many ideas for this year’s festival. The pet parade needs to be moved to earlier in the day because last year Mr. Hunter’s goat got loose and⁠—”

“Actually,” interrupted a woman with perfectly blown-out hair who I vaguely remembered from high school. She was definitely a mean girl. I couldn’t remember her name. She must have traumatized me and I blocked her out of my memory for good. “I think we should focus on the craft booths first. The spacing was terrible last year. My sister-in-law couldn’t even fit her jewelry display properly, and she paid the same booth fee as everyone else.”

A man in a flannel shirt raised his hand. “What about parking? We need more parking. People were walking six blocks last year just to⁠—”

“The real issue,” cut in another voice, “is the sound system. Nobody could hear the quartet over by the gazebo.”

I stood there nodding like a bobblehead, my smile growing more strained by the second. These people had opinions about everything, and they all seemed to think I had magical solutions tucked away in my back pocket.

I didn’t even know what they were talking about. All their complaints meant nothing to me without context.

“Those are all… great points,” I managed. “Maybe we could, um, make a list?”

Aunt Victoria mercifully stepped in. “Why don’t we focus on getting these posters made first? Joy, the cocoa station is all set up for you over there.” She pointed to a table in the corner where I could see hotplates and what looked like an industrial-sized can of cocoa mix.

Right. Cocoa. How hard could that be?

I made my way over to the station, grateful for something concrete to do. The setup looked simple enough—three electric hotplates, a stack of paper cups, and a can of cocoa powder the size of a paint bucket. There were also several pitchers for water and some plastic spoons for stirring.

I filled the first pitcher at the sink and carried it back to the hotplates. So far, so good. I plugged in the first hotplate and set a large pot on top, then poured in the water. While I waited for it to heat up, I wrestled with the industrial can of cocoa powder.

The thing weighed about twenty pounds and had a lid that apparently required an engineering degree to open. I twisted, I pulled, I considered finding a hammer, but finally the stupid thing popped free with enough force to send cocoa powder puffing into the air like a chocolate dust storm.

I was still coughing and wiping cocoa from my face when I saw one of the kids staring at me. She actually shook her head before walking away.

“Oh girl, you have no idea how fucked up life is going to be,” I muttered under my breath.

I got started with heating water, managing to spill some. The water mixed with the cocoa powder spread over the silly plastic tablecloth with snowmen all over it. Now, it looked like the snowmen had pooped everywhere.

Great. Fucking awesome.

Ten minutes later, I found a rhythm. Kind of. It was messy but I’d managed to serve about ten cups of cocoa.

The cocoa wasn’t supposed to be smoking. I was ninety percent sure about that.

But it was. Smoke curled up from the battered silver hot plate. It smelled less like chocolate and more like burnt marshmallow. And plastic. I was no expert on cocoa making but something told me it was bad. I waved my hand through the air like a lunatic trying to clear it, but instead the smoke thickened, and the smoke detector overhead began to shriek.

“Perfect,” I muttered. “First event of the Yuletide Festival, and I’ve burned boiling water. I’m making history.”