by Alyson Noel
With nowhere to go from here, I heave a breath of defeat, dump the cupcake in the trash, look straight into those crazy spiral glasses, and nod my consent.*4
“Welcome aboard.” He closes the door behind me. “You just get yerself all settled in, and I’ll have you where you want to be in no time.”
* * *
*1 Mom, please reread footnote in Chapter 5.
*2 So far there’s no sign of either ice cream or puppies.
*3 This is exactly what I should have done.
*4 I don’t think I need to say how much I regret that.
8:17 P.M.—???
END OF THE LINE
Even though the driver told me to take a seat, I stand before him, digging around in my pockets, searching for a bus pass that probably won’t even work on this crazy Christmas trolley, or whatever I’m on, as I start to give my address.
“Fuggedaboutit!” he says, shifting into gear and pulling away from the curb in a sudden, jerky movement that sends me scrambling to regain my balance. “On account of the weather and all, this ride’s on me. I know just where to take you.”
I’m not sure how I feel about that. Then again, it seems like the least of my concerns, considering the circumstances. And with every step down the aisle, I become more and more convinced I’ve just volunteered for all kinds of trouble.
The trolley is even crazier on the inside than it was on the outside, with that same graffiti theme painted all over the walls and twinkling red and green Christmas lights lining the ceiling, circling the poles, and draped along the seatbacks.
I slink toward the very last row and take a moment to study the finer points of operating the emergency exit in a way I haven’t done since I was a kid and my parents made Holly and me memorize it.
The driver shifts gears, singing “Jingle Bells” along with the trolley sound track all the way through until he switches to “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”
A few choruses in, he lowers the volume and asks how I’m doing, which makes me even more suspicious than I already am.
I mean, let’s get real. Despite my reputation as a Brainiac Nerd, I’ve just made the stupidest decision of my entire life by agreeing to ride with this crazy, sunglasses-wearing stranger driving a bizarre trolley in this insane storm while I huddle in the back, hoping I’ll arrive home in one piece. And now he wants to chat.
If Dougall were here, I’d probably view this as an adventure, something we could laugh about later. But Dougall’s not here, and I can’t even imagine laughing at the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
Still, I force an enthusiasm I don’t really own, saying, “Great!” Best not to let on how I’m really feeling, since everyone knows that crazy people, like animals, can smell fear from a mile away. “But I’ll be even better when I arrive in one piece and my bodyguard is waiting for me!”
I don’t know why I added that part about the bodyguard. It’s not like I have one. Though with the matching Christmas sweater, hat, gloves, and mittens—an ensemble that at my school would surely mark me as bully bait—I definitely look like a person in need of one. I guess I was hoping it would make the driver think twice about messing with me. But he just nods and smiles as though he can’t wait to meet him.
I press my nose against the window, allowing my breath to fog up the glass before I wipe it clear with my hand and peer at a landscape so vague and white I can’t make any sense of it.
“Hang on, kid,” the driver calls, forfeiting a rousing chorus of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” “This storm’s about to get wild!”
The next thing I know, the trolley is violently rocking as the snow pounds from all sides, making it impossible to see out the windows.
“I’m feeling thankful for snow grilles right about now, how ’bout you?” The driver laughs, a light, slightly melodic sound that somehow grates on my ears.
And what the heck are snow grilles, anyway?
I check my cell again. No service, same as before.
But the note app still works, so this is the moment I decide to thumb-type everything that took place, exactly as I experienced it, from the moment the trouble started until the moment I decided it was a good idea to accept a ride from a mental hospital escapee.
Provided Crazy Trolley Guy doesn’t decide to destroy all the evidence, including my cell phone.
When I finally finish, I close my eyes tightly and pray I’ll live long enough to regret this decision.
I stay that way for what feels like forever. Eyes shut. Hands clenched to the point where my fingers go numb. Rocking back and forth like a baby, hoping that just this once, on the undisputed worst day of my life, Lady Luck will do me a solid and get me out of here alive.
I guess I must’ve fallen asleep, because that’s exactly how the driver eventually finds me—a huddled, shivering mess—as he reaches out to grab my arm, his long, gnarled fingers clawing at my shoulder.
“Heya. Wake up, kid. We’re here!” He gives me a shake, looming over me and grinning like the lunatic I’m convinced that he is.
I blink one eye open. The other follows. Then I blink them both again, this time adding a head shake and face rub for good measure. But the scene outside my window stays exactly the same.
“Where the heck am I?” I stare at a landscape of sunny skies, a few fluffy white clouds, and miles of palm trees stretching as far as the eye can see. While I may not know where I am, one thing’s for sure: this is not Greentree. “Where the heck have you taken me?” I glare at him accusingly.
“You’re exactly where you wanted to be.” The driver heads back down the aisle as though he expects me to follow.
“I asked you to take me home!” I shoot eye daggers at his back, outraged in a way I can barely contain.
“Did you?” He stops and glances over his shoulder, lifting his glasses to shoot me a long, hard look before anchoring them in his dreadlocks. “Good luck to ya, kid!” He pulls a lever, and the front door springs open with that same horrible, squeaking protest as before.
“Unh-uh. No way.” I shake my head vehemently, fully aware of the irony of how I prayed for the chance to escape, only to get it and refuse to budge from my seat. “I am not going out there!”
The driver cocks his head and narrows his eyes, reminding me of Sir Dasher Dashaway when he sees something confusing. “Ride’s over, kid. Nowhere to go from here. This is it. The end of the line. Your final stop.”
“But you have to take me back! Back home. To Greentree. You can even drop me at that same bus stop, and I’ll walk the rest of the way. I don’t care how much it’s snowing!”
The driver shakes his head, eyes glinting. “That wasn’t the deal. I upheld my end, now it’s time for you to uphold yours.” He motions to the door.
“But I don’t even know where I am!” I’m acting panicky, childish, but it’s not like I care. The only witness is a lunatic. Besides, I have good reason to panic.
“Ride’s over,” he repeats. “This is the end of the—”
“Stop saying that!” I check my cell, ready to call my parents, Dougall, 911, even Plum if she can get me out of here, but not only does it no longer have service, it’s completely dead, which means I can’t even add more evidence to my notes. Which also means, I can’t leave any more clues for my parents to find me.
“Can you at least tell me where I am?” I ask, my voice sounding as defeated as I feel.
“Exactly where you wanted to be.”
I shake my head, so frustrated I could cry.
“And it looks like that bodyguard you mentioned is waiting, just like you said.”
The driver uncurls a long, gnarly finger bearing an even longer, gnarlier fingernail and gestures past the door to a shiny black superstretch limo bearing a personalized license plate that reads NICK. He’s the biggest dude I’ve ever seen and is wearing a black suit and holding a sign reading NICK DASHAWAY.
“That’s you, innit?”
“Yeah, but…” My voice fades. I have no
idea what to say.
“Best not to keep ’em waiting. It’s been a pleasure having you on board, though.”
He gives me a little nudge that’s really more like a shove, and, left with no other option, I make my way down the steps.
“Oh, wait up there, kid. I almost forgot!” He slaps his forehead in a ridiculous, cartoonish way, with his head shaking and eyes rolling. “This is for you.”
He thrusts into my hand a piece of paper that looks like any other ordinary bus ticket except for the sprigs of holly etched around the edges.
“Your return ticket,” he tells me. “It’s good for five days and five days only. Take good care not to lose it. It’s your only way back.”
“Can I use it now?” I ask, ready to turn it over and get back to Greentree.
“Nah. You and I are done for today. You just keep it somewhere safe.” He rubs his chin, casting a worried glance toward the limo. Then quickly replaces it with a mile-wide grin that exposes every shiny gold tooth in his mouth. “Five days, kid. ’At’s all ya got.”
I do a quick calculation. “So, Christmas?”
“When Christmas Eve turns to Christmas—one minute past midnight.”
I shove the ticket deep into my hoodie’s hidden inner pocket, wondering if I’m about to make the same mistake all over again by getting into a car with some guy I don’t even know. But when I shoot the driver a pleading look, he just shakes his head and shoves me down the steps into the stifling heat. Not knowing what else to do, I say a little prayer, shield my eyes from the glare, and head for the shiny black limo and the driver holding the sign bearing my name.
5 Days, 11 Hours, 2 Minutes, and 22 Seconds till Christmas
WE THREE KINGS
From the looks of it, I’m pretty sure the big hulking guy holding the sign with my name on it is not just a bodyguard but also doubles as the chauffeur. Which would explain the black suit, mirrored sunglasses, and hat.
He also looks strangely familiar.
Not that I actually know anyone with that many muscles who dresses like that, but there’s something about his mouth, chin, and jaw (which is pretty much all I can see on account of the glasses and hat) that makes me squint and think, Hmmm.
I slow my approach, not entirely sure what I’m about to get myself into. Figuring I should start by introducing myself, maybe saying something like Hi, I’m Nick Dashaway—the guy on your sign. Or better yet, the guy whose name is on your sign, since it’s not like I’m on his sign, which is how it sounded before. But I guess I’m overthinking it, because before I can say anything, he’s tucking the sign under his arm and swinging the limo door open, checking the inside before motioning for me to climb in.
I slide onto the smooth leather seat and drop my backpack onto the floor between my feet. As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness I notice the shadowy figure sitting just opposite, with big beefy forearms resting on his knees, slicked-back hair that looks like it’s been glued to the sides of his head using one of the sealants from my dad’s store, and a set of squinty eyes facing imminent invasion from a pair of unruly brows threatening to overtake them.
And just when I’m about to bolt, it hits me—it’s Ezer. Ben Ezer. Josh Frost’s manager.
“Nick, what the heck kinda stunt you pulling?” His gaze glints on mine, like we’re continuing a conversation I don’t remember starting.
My whole face squinches. Clueless doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.
“Keeping us waiting like that.” He makes a tongue-clicking-teeth sound, like he’s the headmaster and I’m the delinquent student about to be suspended. “You better not be letting your star power go to your head. You’ve been warned. I won’t stand for that kind of thing. Business is business, Nick. You need to keep it professional. Keep your ego in check. Don’t ever forget, I’m your manager, not one of your adoring fans.”
Fans?
I glance around the limo, trying to see beyond the tinted windows, but I only end up more confused.
“You’re my manager?” I gape, sure there’s been a mistake.
“Cute.” Ezer snickers as he leans back in his seat and steeples his fingers. “Real cute, Nick.” He shakes his head once, twice, then sinks a hand deep into his briefcase, only to resurface with a big fat pile of papers he shoves right at me.
“What’s this?”
“Contracts—product licenses for that line of sunglasses—that commercial in Japan—your new book deal. We’ve been over these already. Just sign where I’ve tagged ’em.”
Japan?
But what comes out instead is “I’m writing a book?” Even though I know it’s not real—even though I’m pretty sure I fell asleep at that bus stop and have ended up in some kind of bizarre dream—the idea sends me into a panic.
I’m already maxed out on my schoolwork, not to mention the extra-credit projects I’ve taken on. And now I’m supposed to write a book?
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ezer shakes his head like I’ve said something stupid. “That’s what ghostwriters are for. They do all the work. You get all the glory. Now sign.”
He wags one of his thick, hot-dog fingers at the mountain of papers piled high on my lap, but all I can do is stare at them with a growing sense of bewilderment.
“What’s the hesitation? You’ve done this a million times already. Nick, I need these signed before we get home. The shoot’s already been delayed because of you—we can’t afford to waste any more time.”
I gaze down at the papers, then back at him. “The shoot?”
“Have you been drinking?” He slides to the end of his seat and sticks his face close to mine, his nostrils twitching as he sniffs for fumes.
“I don’t think so,” I say, wondering if someone slipped me something without my knowing. Maybe that’s why I’m stuck in this bizarre otherworld? Maybe Plum’s candle let off some kind of hallucinogenic fumes? If I wake up ten hours from now, begging for coffee and aspirin like I once saw Holly do, then I’ll know that I’m on to something. But for now I’m as confused as Ezer.
“You don’t think so.” He shakes his head again, like it’s some kind of inside joke only he understands. “Mojo, Nick. The correct answer is always Mojo. You’re being paid a pile of money to endorse that brand—don’t you forget it.”
“Listen,” I say, setting the papers aside. “As much as I dreamed of a moment like this, now that it’s happening, I’m not all that comfortable. I think there’s been some kind of mistake. Even if this is a dream, it’s starting to feel really weird.”
Ezer rubs his eyes with his knuckles in a way that looks really painful, then sighs long and deep, as though I require the kind of patience he just doesn’t own.
“I mean, I clearly heard Josh vote for me and all, but the last time we spoke, you specifically said I didn’t have it. You know, that thing, that indefinable thing that makes someone a star. You told me to do myself a favor and find another dream. You said there was nothing wrong with knowing my limits. You said—”
“That right?” He lifts his head and looks at me with eyeballs turned red and spidery around the whites. “I said all of that. To you?”
I nod. It’s the one thing I know to be true.
“Okay, Nick.” He rubs a meaty hand across his face, his fat gold watch practically winking at me. “Here’s the thing. I’m tired. It’s been a long day—a long day of waiting for you, I might add. But if you’re feeling insecure and need a little pep talk, just say so. Stop playing games about imaginary conversations that never took place, deal?” He crosses his legs and runs his tongue along a set of teeth so white and straight they look like they fell out of a box of Chiclets. “Here goes.” He clears his throat like he’s preparing to give a very long monologue. “Nick Dashaway, you are an immensely talented performer. From the first moment I saw you, I knew you were destined to be a star. Sure, you were rough around the edges, but it was nothing a little coaching couldn’t fix. Turns out, I was right, and because of it, you are now the bigg
est teen star in the world. Your endorsements alone have made you a millionaire many times over, females from eight to eighty think you’re adorable, and your reality show, Dashaway Home, enjoys worldwide syndication. In fact, it’s so successful we’re about to begin shooting the Twelve Days of Dashaway Christmas Countdown edition, which we’re all very excited about. Apparently more excited than you, since we were all on time for the shoot.” He takes a deep breath. “That enough? We good here? You feeling pumped enough to do some actual work?”
I stare out the window, taking in a seemingly never-ending stream of mansions, sunshine, palm trees, and a big green-and-white sign that reads TINSEL HILLS, POPULATION 34,000. Though just as we’re about to pass, I swear I see the number change to 34,001.
I’m caught in a dream.
There’s no other way to explain it.
“Now, if you can please get it together long enough to sign these papers, I’d be forever grateful. We got a show to produce, and we’re way behind schedule.”
I thumb through the thick wad and try to make sense of what I’m reading. But the print is so tiny, and every single page is written in a language that only lawyers can translate.
This may be a dream, but I’m still not sure I’m willing to sign something legally binding.
“Shouldn’t my parents take a look at this first? You know, just to make sure it’s okay?”
From the look on Ezer’s face, it’s pretty much the comment that just might flip his switch.
His features scrunch. His hands grip his knees so tightly it looks like his knuckles are about to burst through his skin. “Your parents? Real funny, Nick. I hope you’re enjoying yourself, because trust me, I’m not. Your parents work for you. They’re employees of the show. They kept getting in the way, so we had you emancipated. I’m the one who guides you now. So come on, let’s get to it already. We’re almost home, and the cameras are waiting. Where’s that fancy pen I gave you?”