Page 39 of Not Just for Christmas

‘What are your lines?’ Dylan asked.

‘Um?’ The small shepherd looked at Miss Cooper, who put a hand on his shepherd’s crook to prevent it taking someone’s eye out.

‘Wow, look at that star!’ she enunciated clearly, while pointing at the ceiling.

The little boy followed her pointed finger; Dylan felt rather than heard his teacher’s sigh.

‘If you forget,’ said Dylan, ‘just look at me and I’ll remind you. I’ll sit on the side.’

The little boy’s eyes lit up. ‘Cool.’

‘I won’t forget my lines,’ Sam whispered in his ear. ‘But will you clap for me at the end, and whistle?’

A text from Jack from years ago came flooding back. How Jack was keeping his fingers crossed that one day Sam got the part he wanted. And now that day was here, and Dylan was here in place of Jack. Life sucked sometimes.

‘The loudest, proudest clap you’ve ever heard, dude.’ Dylan swallowed the lump in his throat and gave his godson a squeeze. ‘You know, everyone feels a little nervous before they go out on stage.’

‘Even Ariana Grande?’ asked a girl in a camel outfit.

‘Oh yeah, even her.’ Dylan nodded. ‘And she’s amazing, and so will all of you be.’

‘I don’t believe she gets scared,’ said the camel.

‘Oh really?’ Dylan pulled out his phone. ‘Shall we call her?’

‘Yeah!’ The children gasped.

‘Oh heavens!’ Miss Cooper looked like she might be sick.

Dylan scrolled until he reached her name in his list of contacts.

‘Miss Cooper.’ Mrs Wheeler tapped her wristwatch. ‘Two minutes until curtain up.’

‘Oh gosh, yes. Everyone line up! Time to go. Sorry, Dylan – I mean Mr Wilde,’ gasped Miss Cooper.

The children surged forward in their haste to line up. One of the three kings pushed the donkey, knocking two angels into Miss Cooper, who fell sideways. There was a dull thud as her wrist smacked against a metal coat peg.

‘Ouch, oof!’ Miss Cooper hugged her wrist to her chest, face screwed up in pain.

‘You OK?’ Dylan edged towards her, but Mrs Wheeler got there first.

‘I’ll get you an ice pack,’ she said briskly. ‘Children, fingers on lips, you know your places, follow Miss Evans.’

‘You got this, kids,’ said Dylan, high-fiving the children as they filed past him.

Everyone sprang to their roles, leaving Dylan and Miss Cooper in the cloakroom alone. She was cradling her wrist to her chest. It was swelling rapidly and glowing red.

‘Is it broken?’ He scooted closer along the bench.

‘Just bruised, I think. But it hurts to bend it. How am I going to play the piano for the show?’ She sniffed back a tear. ‘I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing.’

‘You mean you play as well as sing the loudest in the whole school?’ He whistled under his breath. ‘I’m impressed. At my school, all we had was Mr Cool and his boombox, and yes, that was his real name.’

‘I’m the only one who can play the piano,’ said Miss Cooper. ‘I could just use my right hand and play the melody, I suppose.’

‘Or we can use the recording you did to send home for the children to practise with?’ said Mrs Wheeler, returning with an ice pack. She handed it to Miss Cooper, who gingerly laid it on the swelling.

The young teacher shook her head. ‘It’s not good enough.’