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Once the bag has been emptied, I stuff my clutch inside and fold the fabric around it as neatly as possible then look for a place to stash it. Should I stash it? Maybe it would be better if the kids saw it? Make it more magical for them? Then I think of Mr. Claus who will soon be joining me and figure it’s probably unwise to have two bags sitting there. Plus, I want my wallet secure. There will be too many distractions to keep an eye on my valuables.
I spot a row of tall, plastic storage closets lined up against one wall. They’re probably filled with a number of art supplies, but I’m sure no one will notice or mind if I borrow a little space for a couple hours.
Heading over, I open them one by one, surprised to find each one stuffed to the max with papers and paints, crayons and marker boxes, and more. These kids have a better stock than my high school art teacher ever had. I’m marginally jealous.
They even have real clay!
The second to the last cabinet is the jackpot. There is one shelf at the bottom that has an open cranny and I scrunch the bag up as small as I can and bend down to stuff it inside between a spool of twine and a bucket of stained rags.
“Oh...uh...sorry,” I hear a man’s voice say behind me, and the cool breeze on my backside alerts me right away to what he’s seeing.
I jackknife up and whirl around, my hands tugging at the material to cover my butt. “I was just putting my stuff away,” I hurry to explain, and I know by how hot they feel that my cheeks are burning red.
But my embarrassment evaporates the instant I look into the man’s eyes. Even with his face hidden behind the snow-white fake beard and the wire-rimmed glasses, I would know those eyes anywhere.
My blood runs cold at the same time my heart races and an unexpected sense of despair and raw hurt explodes in my gut. Somehow, when I manage to find my voice, it comes out as calm, hard, and unaffected as I would hope for in a harrowing situation like this.
“What are you doing here?” I ask even as I note the bright red Santa suit.
Kyle blinks a few times, as if he’s trying to process what he’s seeing, and the information can’t compute. Typical. He never was the sharpest tool in the box—obviously; otherwise, he never would have screwed up with me.
“I, uh, volunteer here. I mean I work here. I’m mean I work here, but I also volunteer for these holiday things...” He shakes his head as if to clear it, then his brows knit together as if he’s straining to think. “Wait, why are you here? And dressed like that?” he asks, looking me over as if in shock.
Lifting my chin, I say defiantly, “I think that’s obvious, on both counts.” Then, desperately needing to sit down, I march over to the folding chairs and lower myself into the one closest to the tree, crossing my rubbery-feeling legs and staring back at him in open challenge.
The paralyzing shock on his face is worth the self-torture of sticking around.
