One Snowy Week in Springhollow

by Lucy Knott

  ‘So, when Devon’s dad got a job out in New York, they didn’t think twice. Devon didn’t tell me until the night before he left, and the news completely blindsided me. I was angry and didn’t want to talk to him. My mum never pushed the matter, instead I guess she looked at it as a chance for me to grow without him.’ My shoulders slump as the words come spilling out. My chest suddenly feels lighter, like pressure has been removed in opening up to Hope.

  ‘That’s a bummer,’ she says, rubbing my forearm. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, I have you and Jess. I got over it,’ I lie. One look at Hope and I know she sees right through me, as she looks at me from under her long lashes with a pointed stare.

  ‘I can see how that would have hurt, but he’s here now and he seems to want to hang out, so why not catch up on lost time? High school was tough for so many people, college too. You saw what Jess had to contend with,’ Hope says, going back to her breakfast.

  I play with the hem of my tee. Because of her style Hope often escaped the wrath of bullies whereas in college Jess and I enjoyed plenty of snide remarks and our group was collectively known as “Beauty and the geeks” and that was without me wearing comic book tees or sharing my love of art. I just didn’t seem to fit in.

  However, Hope and Jess liked me. They, along with their families, moved to Springhollow a month shy of each other when they were starting college. Being the new kids in the square they sort of gravitated towards each other and clicked. But it was only four years ago that they started dating. I couldn’t have been happier for them both. Hope sat me down one day to ask if it would upset me if she and Jess started dating. I was pretty puzzled at first. I guess I just took it as a given. In fact, I think I told her that I would be more upset if they didn’t. Hope and Jess, Jess and Hope – it simply fit. I’ve never really felt like a third wheel. It was more frustrating when they invited me to everything, especially when it was things I was pretending not to like.

  ‘I just…’ I start and then pause. While opening up to Hope feels somewhat healthy, it’s scary and I’m worried as to how much I can or should say. ‘I just don’t want to get attached again. I can feel it already, even when I’m mad at him, it’s like I like being mad at him as long as he’s here,’ I confess, which is huge for me. I take a breath in; my head is spinning. I take another sip of juice. Hope rubs my back. ‘He’s not going to be here for long. I know I hurt him too, so it’s better if I just keep him in the past, and then I can stop missing him once and for all.’

  ‘You never stopped missing him, you still miss him and you’re always going to miss him,’ Hope informs me nonchalantly. I look up at her, confused by the abruptness and insensitive tone of her statement, which really isn’t going to help my current sombre mood or positive intentions of forgetting about him. ‘Unless,’ she adds, ‘you acknowledge to Devon that you made mistakes too, like you’ve just done to me, and you open your eyes and realise that your former BFF is in town right this second and you have some lost time to catch up on.’ I see the sparkle of mischief in Hope’s cat-like green eyes.

  ‘I can’t though,’ I say putting my guard up straight away, like I did earlier with the man himself. There’s no way I can do it. There’s no way Devon and I can be friends again. ‘He’s moved on, Hope, he doesn’t need me, which he has clearly demonstrated over the past ten years. He’s done mighty fine without me. He’s a bloody superhero for crying out loud and I don’t need him either,’ I say slathering on the excuses. Anything to make her see that this is a bad idea.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re like Captain America and The Winter Soldier. He’s more Steve Rogers and you’re more Bucky because you’ve got Bucky’s evil glare down to a T and you don’t want to remember all the amazing times you had with Devon and you won’t let yourself believe your friendship with Devon can be resurrected and that’s without having had some mad scientist manipulating your brain. Oh, but we all know how that story ends.’ Hope claps her hands together, ignoring everything I just said, a delirious smile on her face. ‘Uh, Cap and Bucky, Bucky and Cap,’ she adds a little more sarcastically.

  I know what she’s doing. She’s downplaying my anxiety over this whole situation; she thinks that I’m being overly dramatic. She thinks that just because Devon and I were best friends for sixteen years and that I’ve missed him so much these past ten that our friendship can just pick up where it left off. She thinks she’s right, that she knows what’s best for me – that all these years this is all I’ve wanted and have been waiting for. OK, so she didn’t exactly say all that, but I can see it in her face. I can read between the lines: she somehow thinks I still care about him, that I’m just putting a wall up because I’m scared of my emotions, but I don’t and I’m not. I need to tell her this and make it very clear to her where Devon and I stand.

  I get up from my chair and look Hope in the eyes. I go to tell her that she needs to understand that Devon and I are no longer friends; that too much time has passed, when instead I say, ‘Why does he get to be Captain America?’

  Damn it.

  Hope lets out a high-pitched squeal. ‘Oh my God, wait till I tell Jess you’re a closet nerd. He’s going to freak out. Scarlett, we have like ten years of superhero movies to catch up on and you are going to love them all. And you need to come and see Devon’s movie with me – you’re actually going to die.’

  ‘Hope, have you not been listening? I’m not into that stuff anymore. Devon coming back doesn’t change any of that. I’m a grown-up. I don’t play with action figures anymore,’ I say, firmly, even stomping my feet a little.

  ‘Oh please, Jess and I are grown-ups too and believe me when I tell you, if you loved the comic books, wait until you see what they did with the films. Oh, this is like the best day ever,’ Hope exclaims, before taking a big bite of her yoghurt and granola, like she requires all the energy for this momentous day. ‘I understand this might be difficult for you, Scarlett, and I’m not dismissing your emotions, but maybe Devon coming back is a sign. You work so hard, you let your mum dress you, and your idea of fun is watering your cacti and going for walks. You need to allow some of that inner child out and embrace who you are. And don’t get me wrong I love who you are, and I love your plants, but I love you even more now, so please don’t be scared,’ she says, turning to face me, bowl now in her hand as she takes smaller bites in thought.

  I stop still and wrap my arms around myself. I don’t know what to say, it’s all so much to take in. While yes, I can feel the excitement bubble in the pit of my stomach over talking about comic books with Hope and Jess, I can also feel the undercurrent of nerves. Suppressing my love of comics all these years has helped me keep my focus at work and be the best personal assistant I can be to Hope.

  If I allow myself to get too caught up in that world it will only be a matter of time before I get the itch again – the itch to dream bigger – and I can’t do that to Hope. I can’t do that to my mother. If I start sporting Spider-Man tees again, she’ll have kittens and deem me unmarriageable. She will be the talk of the town; I can’t put her through that.

  And Devon, what did Devon want? What did he expect from me? OK, so we say our sorries, put it down to being young and stubborn, then what? Devon leaves again. I can’t get attached. Sometimes you just can’t be the person you want to be or do the things you want to do because you end up letting people down or getting hurt.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ I mumble stubbornly as Hope pops off her chair and quickly rinses her dish in the sink. ‘Just have a think about it, OK? I’m here for you,’ she says, giving me a little hug and skipping to the front door. I walk to the kitchen door and watch her bundle up for the cold. ‘I’ll be back later to check on you.’

  As Hope closes the front door behind her, a cold blast sweeps through the house. The last superhero movie I saw was Captain America: The First Avenger. If the rest of the films are anything like that one, I know I’m in for a treat and I feel a tiny thrill at the idea of getting to watch them
with Hope, but at the same time I feel like Steve Rogers – after years of being buried in the ice, I’ve been uncovered. I tiptoe into the living room to switch off the lamp now that the sun is out among the grey clouds while my brain tries to decipher if my past and present colliding is a Christmas wish come true or a gift I need to return.

  7

  Alone in my house I’m distracted from the emotions that have been overwhelming my mind and body since I got out of bed this morning as I tune in to the lyrics of Wham! and sing my heart out in the kitchen. The Christmas fair project is coming along nicely, and I get a thrill every time I think about the village coming together to decorate their own gingerbread and share their own labour of love, whatever their heart’s desire; maybe they make a hotel, a Christmas tree or a building that holds a special place in their heart. I’ve enjoyed stepping away from the Styrofoam and paints and, though I know that most of the folks in Springhollow have enjoyed my arts and crafts themed stall each year, I hope they will love this idea just as much; if not for the fact that these creative tools are edible and delicious.

  For my gingerbread house, which I will be using as the example piece, I’m going to be doing a replica of The Village Gazette building. Our office block is made up of a three-storey old-fashioned town house that dates back to 1923 and the magazine has been running out of there from the very beginning. It’s one of our town’s most beloved buildings along with the village library and Mr and Mrs Rolph’s bakery. I will say that, though my job doesn’t always set my soul on fire, working in the building is something I like about it. It’s cosy and homey, each section of the magazine having a different room, the walls holding notice boards of inspiration for each writer. The horoscope room is a lot of fun. All the artwork pinned to said boards often mesmerises me: the paintings, the colours, the galaxies and their glittering specks.

  The top floor, where Hope’s office is, is more open plan, the walls having been knocked through to make just two rooms, one big square with rows of desks, leading to Hope’s office at the end. The ceiling is high and the patterned skirting makes it rather regal-looking and vintage, which it is, but it’s stood the test of time and is still on trend. There are wall-to-wall bookshelves and old-fashioned radiators – those white curvy ones – and grand bay windows that from the street make it look magical, like one of those fancy toyshops. I’m hoping to capture the essence of the building in gingerbread form.

  I scour my dining table, looking over the bags of icing sugar and the tray of gingerbread pieces I had made on Wednesday night, to look for my plan. I drew up a rough sketch of what I wanted this thing to look like with a few notes of the dimensions I would need each biscuit piece to be so it would fit together snug. I must have left it in my spare room to ensure no eyes but mine could see it.

  I take the stairs two at a time, reaching the landing slightly out of breath. The door to the spare room is the only door that is closed; I don’t like for people to snoop, and by people I mostly mean Hope and Jess. I promise I’m not a bad friend but whenever Hope sees something I’ve crafted, she second-guesses my position as her personal assistant, and I don’t want her to worry about me. Art is my hobby and whenever I feel in the mood to pursue it, I come into my spare room. My “storage room” as it’s known to everyone else, which is just a tiny white lie. My love of superheroes might have been revealed this morning but my dream job I am keeping guarded. Hope needs me at the magazine, especially now that we’re on the cusp of possible closure.

  I push open the door and navigate around the cardboard boxes I stacked either side of the door. Twinkling lights are strung around my desk with more potted plants by the window. I wander straight over to my cluttered oak desk that is littered with all different-sized sheets of paper, half-finished sketches, doodles, and pencil crayons that need sharpening. I get the same familiar itch of desire to pull up my chair and get lost in my imagination, which I used to get as a child when Devon and I would draw for hours; creating other worlds and dreaming up our own comic books.

  My fingers tingle, my hands ball into fists. I’m transported back to the hospital room when I told Devon he would need to draw for me. The sparks in my fingertips that burned underneath my casts with my want and need to draw as it had been taken away from me due to my injury, is the same feeling I get now. I haven’t drawn in days and I haven’t attempted to sketch my beloved characters and comic book ideas in years.

  I see my gingerbread blueprint and pick it up, turning to walk away but I hesitate. I backpedal and take a seat at my desk, hands trembling with both fear and excitement. I open the top drawer of my desk. From under a blanket of scrap paper I remove a wad of drawings, drawings I haven’t looked at in three years – to be exact.

  One night at the annual Springhollow summer fair Hope and Jess had had a few too many glasses of wine and were arguing over which Marvel superhero was superior. I had remained silent. However, once home and with my brain infused with a healthy dose of pink gin, I had stumbled into my spare room and started drawing. Somewhere around four a.m. I had succumbed to the land of nod and abandoned my comic strip. When sober and clear-headed the next day, I hadn’t been able to finish it.

  Now though as I flick through the pages of colour and fine lines, I find myself grinning from ear to ear. I find my Faber-Castell pencil tin and immediately pick up where I left off. The magic, the other realms, the heroes, and villains, they all fly from my brain and straight to the page. My brows are drawn, my tongue sticks out with every swish of my wrist and stroke of my pencil. Though I’m still wary of Devon being back, I can’t help the inspiration it has unleashed inside me.

  *

  ‘Scarlett, Scarlett.’ My hand stiffens and freezes above the page. I swear I can hear my name. ‘Scarlett, are you ready?’ I automatically look down at my attire – the vintage tee and shorts from this morning. Where the hell did the time go? My heart starts hammering when I realise I’m not on Planet Naelea but in my spare room. ‘Scarlett, are you OK?’

  ‘Shoot,’ I mutter to myself. My hand flies to the switch on the wall. I turn off my fairy lights and run to the door. Whipping the door closed behind me, I turn and smack straight into Hope on my small landing.

  ‘Why aren’t you dressed? What were you doing in there?’ she says looking me up and down, noticing my rapid breathing.

  ‘Whooo,’ I breathe out, making a dramatic show of bending over, placing my hands on knees, the tell-tale sign of an unfit person having just exerted themselves. ‘I was just moving around some boxes, cleaning and dusting. It was due a tidy, all those stacked boxes just collecting dust,’ I say, moving my hands from my knees to Hope’s elbows and guiding her and her puzzled expression to my bedroom door, to distract her with my apparent need to change.

  ‘You’ve been cleaning for five hours?’ Hope asks taking a seat on my bed. Had it been that long? Holy moly. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and spent that long drawing, let alone the last time I spent that long doing something I truly enjoyed. Oh sugar, I left the gingerbread in the fridge and all the ingredients out. I silently count to three, not wanting to panic Hope. I might now be behind schedule for my Christmas project, but I will finish it. I have to.

  ‘I had a lot of stuff to sort through. You know what it’s like, you come across pictures, old childhood stuff and get distracted. Boxes get heavy, it takes time moving them around.’ I’m rambling as I rifle through my cupboard for something to wear. ‘Where are we going?’ I add, trying to gauge what outfit I require. These days I don’t often pick my own ensembles. Between work, dinners with my parents and spending time at home, I’m usually in whatever outfits my mum has picked out for me or my favourite baggy tees and PJ’s.

  ‘Oh yeah, you stumble upon any photos of you and Devon?’ Hope asks, a smirk playing at her baby-pink lips. ‘Speaking of Devon, we’re going out remember? He invited us out this morning. I texted to tell you I accepted. Jess is meeting us at the pub. He needed longer to get ready. He’d already changed three ti
mes before I left – he’s kind of freaking out over meeting him,’ Hope tells me through a chuckle, amusement behind her eyes.

  I stop rooting through my clothes to look at Hope. ‘I wasn’t looking nor did I find any pictures of me and Devon,’ I say firmly. ‘And, oh gosh, tell Jess to relax – it’s just Devon.’

  ‘To you maybe but not to the rest of us. I mean, of course I’m not going to go all fangirl on him or anything. I’m cool.’ As if to demonstrate her coolness, she flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘I know how emotional this is for you and I know I said I’ll be here for you but pretty please for one second can you let me have this moment and try to understand how freaking awesome this is for us comic book nerds? Your friend Devon is part of the superhero franchise and your two best friends happen to love superheroes. Whether you want to admit to liking them or not, this is a fantasy come to life for me and Jess. I know deep down you know that.’ She sort of squeals at the end of her sentence as my stomach explodes with a swarm of tiny ant men.

  ‘Fine.’ I huff, turning my attention back to my wardrobe. I will point out that in the ten years that I have known Hope and Jess, I never actually said I disliked comic books. I just always happened to fall busy when they wanted to watch the movies, or I remained quiet whenever they had one of their deep discussions on where they would rather live: Asgard or Wakanda? So, really, I’ve not totally been lying to them all these years.

  And sure, I thought it was ridiculously cool that Devon was a superhero. I just couldn’t quite believe it, share my emotions or be outwardly giddy over it just yet. His reintroduction into my life hasn’t exactly been subtle, he’d Doctor Strange’d it out of nowhere; I am going to need more than twenty-four hours to digest it all.

  I stop my search when my hands land on my olive-green maxi button-up dress and pull it off the hanger. A small smile curves at my lips as I throw the dress on to my bed and watch the fabric crinkle slightly. It seems like an age since I wore something that felt like me, besides my lounge wear. But with my mum and dad being on holiday, it’s not like I’ll see them at the pub and be given a once-over or disapproving stare from my mother. My stomach flips with a tiny jolt of excitement. I feel a little dangerous defying her – not that I’d ever want to hurt her feelings but to be free of ruffles and pink for an evening will be incredibly liberating. I wander back out into the hall and into the bathroom to turn on the shower. Hope continues talking to me through the open doors as I make quick work of putting shampoo and conditioner through my hair. As I move in and out of the water, I hear her muffles.