by Alex Hayes
I smile and thank her. The box feels strong and there’s a weight to it. I can’t imagine what’s inside.
Past Christmases have been about necessities. Clothes or a new pair of shoes. Sometimes makeup or toiletries.
Papa drops into a chair across from me. He leans forward, his generous mouth stretching into a grin. “Open it. Open it.” He sounds more excited about the gift than I am.
I savor the unwrapping, carefully peeling off the tape. Green paper unfolds to reveal a white box with an apple embossed on the outside.
What?
A reused box, that’s all.
I lift the lid. The glass front of a brand new iPhone shines back at me.
How can this be? iPhones cost hundreds of dollars. No one’s ever spent this much on a gift for me before.
“This…” I swallow. “This is too much.”
“Nonsense.” Mama hands Papa the jackknife wrapped in silver paper. “We’ll be able to communicate better if you have your own phone, instead of using Shri’s.”
The iPhone balances on my palm. Cool and sleek.
I wonder if Dean and Shri will get new phones for Christmas. Kids at school talk about getting new gadgets all the time. Something I’ve never understood. Why would you replace something that works perfectly well?
“Turn it on,” Papa says, leaning forward in his chair, expression eager.
I bite my lip and hold down the start button.
Mama opens her gift from me. “Oh, lovely. And my favorite color.”
I’m relieved. “You can exchange it if it’s the wrong size.” The gift receipt is in the bottom, just in case.
Mama holds the sweater up against her chest.
“Looks just right,” Papa says. “Thanks for the jackknife, Cadi. Just what I needed.”
I beam, unable to hide my joy, because this is the best Christmas ever.
Mid-afternoon, Shri and Dean show up.
Papa looks out the window. “What are they doing here? It’s a holiday.”
Mama joins him. “Bearing gifts by the looks.” She grins and heads for the front door.
A Christmas bouquet has been transferred into Mama’s arms by the time Shri and Dean walk in.
Papa accepts a bottle of liquor from Dean. “Aren’t you a little young—”
“My mom picked it up for us,” Dean says. “She guessed what you might like.”
Papa smiles. “It’ll do very nicely. Thank you, both.”
Shri glances at Dean, who’s avoiding eye contact with me. He looks awkward or embarrassed.
Does he regret that kiss under the mistletoe?
An inward sigh. Guess I’m not surprised. I’m not Angie Gilbert.
Then he looks at me, eyes large. Vulnerable. “This is for you.” Another box.
This time it’s a wooden box with a flower and three leaves inlaid into the top.
“It’s maple.” Dean points to the flower. “And that’s a red clover.”
“It’s beautiful.” I give him a bright smile. “Thank you.”
A small smile tightens his lips and his eyes slide to the floor.
Shri elbows between us. “And this is from me to say thanks for those amazing chocolate-covered caramels.” She hands me a gift bag with reindeer on the sides.
The inside is as white and fuzzy as a Persian cat. I pull out a hat, gloves and scarf.
Shri grabs the fake-fur-edged hat. “Let’s see how you look.” She drags it over my head, snags the scarf to wrap round my neck, then stands back. “Snow bunny. The color looks good with your hair. I figured white went with everything.”
I grin because so does black.
Dean’s eyes are on me, again. He seems to have recovered from his weirdness. “We should go outside. Who’s up for a snowball fight?”
“Well, yeeeaaah,” Shri responds. “Cadi, get your coat.”
Our Christmas interrupted, I glance at Mama and Papa for permission.
Mama pushes me after the others. “Go on, have some fun.”
I hug her tight, then hurry after Dean and Shri.
7
Idris
The day after Christmas. Marek helps me shovel last night’s twelve inches of snow from the horseshoe driveway in front of my house.
He gets paid; I get kudos. He’s grinning; I’m groaning.
With a pat on his stomach, Marek says, “Great workout for the abs.”
I lean back and rub my lower back. “I’m more out of shape than I realized.”
“Gotta squeeze those abs each time you lift,” my best friend preaches.
Yeah, yeah. If I was into he-man sports, I’m sure I’d be flaunting a six-pack, but I prefer to run. I squeeze my stomach muscles with my next shovelful, just to test his theory. Hmm, seems to work well enough.
We reach the right side entrance into the drive where the town plows have erected a mini version of the Taconic Mountains in solid ice.
“We’ll need a pickax to get through this,” I grumble.
Marek hacks at the barrier with the edge of his shovel. “Nah, the ice is just a shell. See?” A layer breaks free, revealing snow underneath.
I attack the mountain and think I might be winning, only to glance over and see Marek’s shovel hit pavement.
Damn. How’d he do that so fast?
He leans on his shovel and watches my pathetic maneuvers. I’m about to invite him to help me out when a voice shouts, “Hey, guys.”
Across the perfectly plowed street stands Brianna with a hip-high French poodle wearing a padded doggie jacket over the tight curls of her chocolate-colored coat. Brianna waves and steps over a mound of snow onto the roadway. She’s wearing a tight-fitting silver-gray down jacket.
Marek and I exchange glances. Yeah, she looks hot.
“Hey, Brianna.” Marek calls before I can. “Whatcha doing out in this weather?”
Brianna strides across the section of driveway Marek’s just cleared. “I was walking Miss Moneypenny.”
“Moneypenny? That’s a great name. Who’s the Bond fan?” he asks with a grin that’s growing bigger by the second.
Miss Moneypenny sniffs Marek’s snow pants, then turns for a whiff of mine.
Brianna tugs at the dog’s leash and pats her head. “The whole family. How was Christmas?”
Marek sweeps off his wool cap like he’s just remembered it’s there; probably thinks it makes him look like a dork. “Made out like a bandit.”
I lie through my smile. “Great.”
Brianna’s rosy cheeks turn my way. “Hey, Idris. Mom said to remind you about the music competition next time I saw you. Did you sign up?”
I nod with an overdose of enthusiasm. “Yeah, last night.”
Marek’s face flashes surprise. “Seriously?”
I can practically read his mind. What did your dad have to say about that?
My responding look says, What makes you think I told him? Then I turn and grin at Brianna. “Seemed like a good idea. Tell your mom, thanks, for suggesting it.”
“She’ll be excited. Really excited. She can’t stop talking about your compositions.”
I hadn’t realized she’d been paying that much attention in music lab.
“Oh, Marek…” Brianna turns to him with the sweetest smile. “Have you chosen a partner for your physics project yet?”
I stare at him. Me, right?
His head shifts my way, but he doesn’t make eye contact. “Uh, no. Not yet.”
Inside, I cry, Don’t leave me to partner with Josh Zimmerman. The guy’s a loser. And I’m pretty sure Adam Rhen will pick Millie Day, so he’s out of the running. You can’t do this to me, man.
But Marek doesn’t have his brainwaves set to receive. “Why? You looking for someone to partner with?”
Why else would she be asking?
Brianna tilts her head to one side in a way that can only be described as tantalizing. “Yeah. I thought Millie would partner with me, but Adam snapped her up before I could ask.”
There you go. What did
I say?
“You wanna partner up?” my former best friend asks.
Brianna’s smile gets sweeter. If that’s even possible. “Sure, I’d love to.”
Ugh. What am I? Pond scum?
Marek’s eyes droop, all puppy-dog like. “Excellent. So…um, we’d better meet up and decide on a topic.”
Miss Moneypenny barks a rolling G note and tugs on the leash. Brianna glances over her shoulder as a couple of girls with a doberman head our way. “Oh, that’s Dogbert. Moneypenny loves him.” Miss Moneypenny makes excited all-paws-airborne jumps while barking nonstop. “I’d better take her over to say hi. Give me a call and we’ll make a date.”
Did she just say what I think she said?
Marek appears too stunned to move.
Brianna walks away.
“Uh…um, I need your number,” he calls after her.
She looks over her shoulder. “Idris has it. See you guys.”
Marek’s eyes shoot daggers at several of my vital organs as Miss Moneypenny drags Brianna across the street on an intercept course for Dogbert.
How could anyone in their right mind name a dog Dogbert?
“Bro? You been making moves on my girl behind my back?”
My jaw goes slack. “What?”
Marek’s hand tightens around his shovel. “Give me her number, so I don’t have to kill you.”
“Relax, man.” I pull out my phone with a gloved hand and almost drop the thing. “I’ve never tried to pick up on her. Besides, she’s not your girl.”
Marek’s brow scrunches. “Not yet.”
I forward Brianna’s contact info. “Yeah, well, maybe you can finally make it happen.”
“What’re you doing with her number, anyway?” he growls.
I stuff my phone back in a pocket and drag the striped pompom hat covering my head lower over my frozen ears before they snap and fall off. “Strings practiced after school last year. We all traded numbers.”
Marek’s phone chimes with my incoming text, and his eyes light up like he’s just got the best present ever.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, shaking my head, and turn back to my snow pile.
When the shoveling’s done, about a decade later, we head indoors for leftover sugar cookies and Mom’s signature candy cane mochas.
Dad trots down the back stairs. “Idris, when are we going over the Toastmasters’ speech?”
An inward groan. “Thought that was weeks away.”
“January 20th.”
What? Shit. That’s the date of the music competition. How’m I going to get out of Toastmasters so I can go?
“Right, okay.” But it isn’t. “Uh…this afternoon, I guess.”
Dad nods and disappears in the direction of his office. Mom follows with a mug.
Dropping into a chair at the kitchen table, I throw back my head, eyes rolling to the ceiling.
Marek leans against the kitchen island, takes a sip of his drink and looks at me. “What’s up, bro?”
“The music competition’s on the same day as Toastmasters.”
His head swings up and down, long and slow. “Sounds like you’re gonna have to make a choice between the two.” So much for hoping that cog-turning nod meant he was working out a brilliant solution.
“Maybe. There’s a chance the selection committee won’t accept me for the music competition,” I say on a sigh.
Marek’s face puckers. “You seriously think you won’t get in?”
I shrug. “Until I do, it’s a decision I don’t have to make.” After a swallow of rich mocha goodness, I lick off my minty mustache and contemplate the afternoon’s torture session with Dad. “Okay if I head over to the Thorny Rose later?” That’ll be my reward.
Marek nods. “Sure, but I’ll be tied up a while. Gotta go out with Ma for dinner at Georgie’s.” That’s his sister, who has a condo across town. “Tonight we meet the new boyfriend.”
“I gotcha, man. Don’t have too much fun.”
He drops a key with a rosebud keychain into my hand. “Nah, don’t worry. I’ll swing by after and give you a ride home.”
I tell Mom and Dad I’m meeting Marek and take off on foot into the dark, right after dinner.
The sun had cleared the sidewalks of snow by mid-afternoon and the streets are well lit on our side of town. Safe enough to run the three miles to the Thorny Rose. But once I hit the old industrial parkway, everything changes. The streets are dimly lit by the security lights running the length of the old storefronts.
I keep my eyes turned toward the darkness so they don’t adjust to the glow. Leaving the fringes of light behind, I’m running on packed snow. The road widens and the sidewalk disappears, so I shift into the open road where the tarmac is clear, except for the glimmering puddles, which I see well enough to avoid.
A car races along the road toward me. I dash up the snowbank as the vehicle’s headlights flash over the wet asphalt. The car rushes past without slowing, and I question my sanity, running out here in the dark.
A half mile further, the sidewalk returns and scattered buildings transform into rundown office blocks separated by alleyways that back onto the old railroad tracks. Streetlights offer intermittent pools of light and signs of life return in apartment building windows.
I jump a pothole and shift to the edge of the sidewalk closest to the buildings. As I jog through the light of a streetlamp, a shadow staggers out of the ink black of night and rams into me. I trip and fall on my ass while the bent shadow is saved from the same embarrassment by a wrought iron fence post.
I’m back on my feet in a heartbeat. “Hey, are you okay?” I ask the shadow, which clings to the post like an arctic monkey.
A mumble comes back that sounds none too happy.
I scoop my phone from my back pocket and flip on its light.
“Turn that stupid thing off,” grumbles an old lady voice as a wool clad arm rises to shield a cowled head.
Tilting the light from her face, I take in the rest of her. A shrunken body hidden under the folds of an old brown coat and glow-in-the-dark orange sneakers.
“Sorry I ran into you.” I’m being polite because, technically, she ran into me. I step a little closer and reach out to check she’s not about to fall over.
She flinches like my hand’s a striking viper with poisonous tongues instead of fingers. “Keep away from me!”
I snatch my hand back. What’s that nursery rhyme?
There was an old lady who lived in a…dumpster, judging by the smell of her.
“Are you okay?” I repeat.
She growls. “Mind your own fucking business.”
I’m stunned by her language, but maybe I’d talk that way too, if I lived in a dumpster. “Yeah. Okay.”
Just turn around, Idris, and do as the lady says… Mind your own effing business.
“Do I know you?” She doesn’t sound any less pissed, but the question freezes me in my back-stepping tracks. “There’s something familiar about your…smell.”
Smell? Me? Like a bed of roses, maybe. And look who’s calling the kettle pungent?
I lift my chin and put on my polite voice. Mr. Slick as Marek calls it. “No, ma’am. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. G’night now.”
She lifts her head and peers at me, a chuckle catching in her throat. “Are you sure?”
Her voice reminds me of that wicked witch. I’ll get you, my pretty.
The blood in my veins trickles to a stop. Her eyes. Violet, like the flower, only brighter. Damn freaking Twilight Zone bright. They glow like black lights.
Shit. I’m totally out of here.
I take off into the darkness oblivious of what’s under my feet. Maybe my shoes aren’t even touching the ground because I feel like I’m flying.
The turn to the Thorny Rose appears, carpeted in a low lying mist. My legs stir the fog rising off the tarmac as I race toward my destination.
The key to the back door of the Thorny Rose is in the lock before I realize I’v
e pulled it from my pocket. My heart’s pumping in overdrive as I slide through the gap, slam the door behind me and fumble for the deadbolt.
I’m safe. Thank god this place is built like a fortress.
Silence pervades as my heart slows to a sane pace. My phone chimes.
I scoop the device from my pocket. An incoming email.
Congratulations, Mr. Williams. This message is to inform you that you have qualified for the Miles Davis Music Competition. We look forward to seeing you at the Springer Jazz Auditorium in Manhattan, New York on January the twentieth at nine a.m.
Holy crap. I’m in.
I wake up feeling like my eyeballs are made of lead and gravity is making them sink to the back of my skull. My smartwatch tells me it’s ten to midnight.
With a struggle, I sit up in bed. The room spins.
Marek drove me back from the Thorny Rose at ten, and we agreed to meet up at noon tomorrow.
After my freakout with the glowing-eyed old lady, I’d hurried into the basement of the Thorny Rose and locked myself in the recording room. Playing my acoustic guitar was therapeutic, and by the time Marek arrived, I decided I’d imagined those weird eyes. Just some trick of the light. Not surprising, given the low-hanging fog.
Of course, Marek showed up stinking of cigarettes — thanks to his sister’s new boyfriend — which set me off into a spasm of coughing. I’ve always been sensitive to secondhand smoke.
Could that be why I feel so bad? Or did that dumpster-diving old lady cast some evil mojo on my retreating ass?
Flipping on the bedside light, I narrow my eyes and try to make the scene in front of me stop teetering.
Jim looks at me through the terrarium glass. Jim never does that. He’s oblivious to the world outside his heated enclosure.
Why am I hyper-focusing on a reptile when I should be wondering what is going on with my head?
Haven’t had the flu in god knows how long, but this feels way different. Sinuses are clear. Throat feels normal. Not the cigarette smoke then. Head feels as heavy as…uranium.
I drop its elemental weight onto my pillow with a moan and cover my eyes with my fists. Merciful sleep swallows me.
I’m woken by a rapid shaking on my arm.