by Alyson Noel
“I really did mean it. I really did want to kiss you.”
I close my eyes briefly. Five days ago I dreamed of hearing Tinsley Barnes say those words.
Today they’re just another delay I cannot afford.
“But I understand if you’re into Plum. I’m sure she’s perfectly nice once you get to know her.”
I shake my head. That’s where she’s got it all wrong. “There’s nothing perfect about Plum.” I pull myself up another two feet. “But that’s what makes her so cool. She never tries to pretend to be something she’s not.”
Tinsley grows quiet, taking that in. “Sounds like you really like her,” she says, and, if I’m not mistaken, she sounds a bit jealous.
“I don’t even know her,” I reply, realizing it’s true.
“Anyway…” Tinsley pauses so long that for a moment I think she might’ve gone. But she remains right in place, hand shoved into her pocket, as she sways from side to side. “I just wanted you to know that,” she says. “You know, before you go away for good.”
I squint, not quite understanding.
“I swear I had nothing to do with it. I’m not even sure I believe this Greentree place really exists.”
She lifts her face toward me, and between the soft golden glow of the yard lights below and the shining full moon above, she’s probably the prettiest I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying a lot. Only it no longer affects me the way it once did.
“Come down from there, Nick.”
I pause, unsure what to do.
“There’s no way you can get past those spikes at the top without causing some serious damage to yourself. Those aren’t decoration, you know.”
I look up and see that she’s right. In my rush to flee, I never once considered how I’d get past those razor-sharp points.
I drop to the ground. Aided by gravity and the weight of defeat, I land before Tinsley.
“Before I open the gate, just tell me one thing—” She slips her hand from her pocket, revealing the remote control she holds in her palm. “What’s she like? You know, the other me—the one you told me about by the pool. Is she nice?” Her voice lifts with hope, like we’re just two normal people having a conversation about an alternate world.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never even talked to her. She has no idea I exist.”
“Then she must be an idiot.” Tinsley grins.
“Nah, she’s just a girl.” I shrug, realizing the same goes for this version of Tinsley. I convinced myself she was perfect, then pretty much the opposite of perfect, only to realize she’s like most people—somewhere in the middle.
Her face grows thoughtful, then more resolved, as she pushes the button that opens the gate. And just as I’m about to slip past, she calls me right back. “Will this help?” She pulls a skateboard from the bushes and offers it to me. “I keep it hidden so I can sneak away when Ezer gets on my nerves, but I can always get a new one.”
“Thanks.” I flip it into my hand and sprint for the street like my life depends on it.
It does.
24 Minutes and 52 Seconds till Christmas
VULTURE, MEET PREY
The worst thing about being an International Superstar on the run is that I’m easily recognized.
The second worst thing is that I’m so used to being chauffeured around town I have no idea how to navigate the city on my own.
And to make matters worse, I pretty much suck at skateboarding.
Then again, I’m really not that great of a singer either, and in this dimension I’m considered one of the best. So maybe it’ll be the same with skating.
Turns out it’s not.
Still, that doesn’t keep me from barreling down the Tinsel Hills sidewalks in search of Dougall and the stolen ticket. Though considering how he rides a skateboard more often than me (from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty much his go-to mode of transportation when Sparks isn’t chauffeuring us around), he definitely has the competitive edge. I mean, I barely ever ride the skateboard I own back in Greentree.
Despite the late hour, the streets are surprisingly busy, and I’ve barely gone a few blocks when I spot a crowd of paparazzi swarming the corner just a few feet ahead, as drawn to my failure as they were to my success. My blood is in the water, and every shark in the vicinity is swimming right for me.
I’m just about to change course when I see Dougall trapped in the center of them. The paparazzi jostle around him like vultures hunting their prey.
This is perfect.
They’ve got him right where I want him.
It wouldn’t take much to jump him and steal the ticket right out from under him. The paparazzi wouldn’t even try to stop me. They’d be too busy filming.
I curl my hands into fists, ready to pounce at the first opportunity.
“Tell me, Dougall,” one of them shouts. “Is it true you were only pretending to be Nick’s friend so you could enjoy all the perks?”
What?
That’s not at all what I said. Though, if I’m going to be honest, I have to admit it was definitely what I implied. It’s how I’ve felt this whole time.
“Dougall, hey—over here!” Another one shoves his camera into Dougall’s face. “Are you really just another wannabe celebrity?”
Before Dougall can respond, another one edges in. “What will you do, now that your former best friend has turned his back on everyone, you included?”
I freeze, unsure what to do. I had every intention of knocking Dougall down to get my hands on that ticket, but now, seeing the way the photogs harass him, I can’t help but feel like this is my fault. If I hadn’t done what I did, said what I said—if I hadn’t called him out as an insincere fake on TV, he wouldn’t find himself at the center of a paparazzi feeding frenzy.
All I wanted was to return home to Greentree, and in my desperation I went completely overboard with the insults.
Dougall holds his skateboard before him, wielding it like a shield, as his eyes dart frantically in search of escape.
He looks trapped.
Scared.
A little confused.
He looks like a kid who wanted a crack at the spotlight with no idea of the cost.
A kid just like me.
I check the time on my cell. With only thirteen minutes to spare, it’s not looking good. And yet there’s no way I can go, knowing I’ve left him to deal with this mess on his own.
I speed toward them, fighting like heck to stay upright, and it doesn’t take long before Dougall sees me and shouts, “Hey—Nick’s the one you really want, and he’s right behind you!”
In less than a second, they surround me in a hail of flashbulbs and taunts, and now that the focus is off him, Dougall hangs around to see how it plays out.
“Nick! Nick—over here!”
“Why did you do that, Nick? Why’d you make a fool of yourself on TV?”
“Do you really hate your family that much?”
“Is Dougall really as phony as you claim?”
I push through them until I’ve reached Dougall. “No,” I tell them. “Turns out I had it all wrong.”
Dougall frowns, rolls his eyes. He’s distrusting and wary, and I can’t say I blame him.
“Nice try.” He makes a face, hocks a loogie that lands just shy of my feet. “But it won’t get you that ticket.” His face is red, his expression hectic, but there’s no doubt he means every word.
“Maybe so,” I tell him. “But with or without you, I’m boarding that trolley.”
“Good luck with that.” He chases the words with a laugh. “You’ll be stuck here forever—only now, instead of being an International Superstar, you’ll be known as the infamous loser who had everything and threw it away.”
His words nail me like a brutal game of dodgeball. It’s true that I did have everything, even if it wasn’t perfect, and yet I couldn’t wait to turn my back on it all so I could come here.
“I was wrong about a lot of things.” I angle t
he board under my foot. “Still, we had some good times, mostly thanks to you.”
He screws his mouth to the side, his expression transitioning from hateful to skeptical, which is probably more than I deserve. So without another word I push past him, hoping I’ll find my way to the trolley before it’s too late.
The paparazzi chase alongside me as a bunch of cars screech to a stop, the drivers all reaching for their cell phones in hopes of capturing a celebrity meltdown in the making. I decide to bail on the board and settle for running instead, hoping for a Christmas miracle that’ll send me in the right direction. And once I really get going, my arms and legs pumping, I start to believe I just might pull this thing off. Until my left heel comes down wrong and I’m fighting to keep my balance, my hands windmilling wildly before me, as the photogs close in, capturing every embarrassing moment.
Somewhere nearby, a squeaky horn bleats, followed by a voice shouting, “Move it, losers! Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?” I turn and see Plum, cutting off an old bald guy driving a Ferrari as she jumps the curb and sends the crush of photogs running and screaming.
“Why are you just standing there?” She pulls up beside me on Holly’s pink Vespa. “I thought you were in a hurry.”
It takes a moment to process, but once I do, the next thing I know I’m hopping on the back of the scooter.
“Ezer let me go just after you left, and I found this abandoned outside.” Plum gives an affectionate tap to the side mirror. “Apparently Holly didn’t like it as much as she pretended on TV. And if she doesn’t want it, I figure I might as well keep it.”
“You do know it’s pink?” I gesture toward her all-black ensemble.
“Yeah. So? Just because I dress like this, you think that makes me antipink?”
I start to say yes but, knowing better than to assume, I swallow it instead.
Seemingly satisfied, she grins and says, “So tell me, Nick Dashaway, where are we going? I assume you found the ticket?”
It doesn’t take long for the photogs to regroup and resume taking pics. And when the continuous flash of their bulbs captures Plum’s image too, that’s when I decide I can’t let her do this. It’s bad enough they’ll ruin Dougall. I can’t let them destroy her as well.
I mean, first she gets caught going through Tinsley’s purse because of me, and now she’s stolen Holly’s Vespa in order to help me—all of it documented in a way that’ll haunt her for eternity.
It’s too much.
I’m grateful, but I can’t let her get more involved than she already is.
“What’ll it be, Nick? Are we gonna sit here and pose for pictures, or are you going to tell me where you want me to take you?”
She twists around until she’s facing me, and…I don’t really know how to explain it, but when her eyes find mine, my gut does this thing that makes it go all jittery and squiggly, like there’s a jellyfish living inside.
I take a deep breath and climb off the bike. “Thanks,” I say. “But I think it’s better if you leave while you can.”
I’ve put a handful of steps between us when she shouts, “Don’t be such a whiny little loser, Nick Dashaway. You want to get out of here or not?”
I do. More than anything, I do.
I turn, a gazillion yeses written all over my face.
“Then get back on the bike and let me worry about the rest. I’m doing a good deed—and isn’t that how all angels get their wings?”
For a moment I can’t help but wonder if she’s serious. But when she laughs, I realize that’s just Plum’s bizarre sense of humor at work.
“Oh, and you better wear this.” She unbuckles the helmet, the pink helmet that matches the Vespa, and hands it to me.
“I’m not wearing that!” I push it away.
“Really, Nick? Don’t you think it’s maybe a little too late to start worrying about your image? Besides, what would you rather do: wear a pink helmet that no one will look twice at or ride around as your highly recognizable self on the back of a pink Vespa? Yours to decide.”
Without another word, I dump the helmet onto my head.
After seizing the moment to indulge in a little laugh at my expense, Plum revs the motor and says, “So, the trolley stop?”
My eyes widen. “How did you know—?” But before I can finish, I say, “Of course! Your mom’s friend’s cousin Chantal is married to Sparks!”
“How’d you know that?” She squints her eyes and screws her lips to the side. “I don’t remember ever telling you that.”
“I do.” I grin.
“I know because I overheard my mom talking with Sparks. All this time I thought it was just some crazy, made-up story. I’m still not sure I believe it, which is one of the reasons I’m here. Some things you just need to see for yourself.”
“Well, if you get me there on time, not only will you get to see it, but you’ll also never have to see me again.”
“Kinda hard to miss you when your face is plastered just about anywhere a person could look.”
Her words stop me cold. I never thought about what happens when I’m gone.
Does this entire world just vanish as though it never existed?
Or does it continue to go on with alternate versions of everyone I know playing their roles?
It’s exactly the kind of hypothesis Dougall would love to ponder.
Maybe someday I’ll ask him.
She steers the Vespa toward the curb, about to merge onto the street, when Dougall skates up beside us.
6 Minutes and 16 Seconds till Christmas
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS…
“Wait!” Dougall shouts, his voice hoarse, out of breath, as he jumps right in front of us, blocking our way. “Just give me a second.” He lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, a few seconds, but that’s all, I swear.”
I shake my head. I did my best to make things right, but now he’s really testing my patience. “If you think you can stop me from getting on that trolley—” I start, but before I can finish, he reaches into his pocket and hands over the ticket.
“Whatever happens from here, I’ll deal,” he says. “But you should go while you can.”
“You! I should’ve known it was you!” Plum whirls on him in outrage. “You’re such a little—”
“It’s all right.” My gaze meets Dougall’s. “We’re good. Everything’s good.” Then, switching to Plum, I say, “You should really cut him a break. Tinsel Hills is a tough town, and true friends are hard to come by.”
Dougall shoots a hopeful look at Plum as she rolls her eyes at me and says, “Are you done being all mushy so we can finish this thing?”
When they both laugh, it reminds me of that first day in my kitchen when they made fun of some dumb thing I said. Only this time it doesn’t bother me. If it brings them together, it’s worth a little fun at my expense.
Dougall moves out of our way. “Good luck, Nick,” he says, and this time I can tell that he means it.
Plum charges onto the street and drives like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic, passing on the right, even using the sidewalks when necessary, anything to beat a red light.
But when a teen driving a white Rolls-Royce with a Christmas wreath attached to the trunk cuts her off at a yellow light, she waves her fist and calls the driver a string of unrepeatable names, then settles in for the wait.
“Sorry, Nick. But we’re close, really close, so don’t worry.”
“I should be the one who’s sorry. I—” I try to thank her, try to apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused, but she waves it away.
“Just tell me one thing.” She twists around until she’s facing me. “Is it better there? The place you’re going back to—is it so much better than here?”
I take a moment to consider the question. At the very least, I owe her the truth.
“No,” I say. “The place itself is neither better nor worse. The thing is, I’m better there than I am here.”
She studies me for a long whil
e, then places a hand on either side of my helmet and kisses me smack on the lips.
A real kiss.
One that lasts more than three seconds.
One I’m reluctant to end.
“I thought you hated me.” I say, eventually pulling away.
“Guess I was wrong about you.” She grins. “Also, I figure you deserve to be kissed by a girl who truly wants to kiss you.”
Her face grows soft. She lingers in my space. Exhibiting all the signs that she wants to do it again, and believe me, I’m willing, but when the sound of “Jingle Bells” suddenly blares through the street and the trolley stops at the curb just ahead, the moment is lost.
“Go, Nick Dashaway,” she whispers in a voice turned suddenly hoarse. “Go—before it’s too late!”
Still wearing the helmet, I jump off the Vespa and race toward the trolley, dodging in and out of oncoming traffic and setting off a riot of horns and thinly veiled threats from the motorists. Aware of Plum’s muffled voice cheering me on, the shouts of paparazzi chasing behind me, and the asphalt beneath my feet growing increasingly slippery.
First my right toe, then my left, nearly skid out from under me, caught on something wet, squishy, and white.
And that’s when I see it.
The impossible manifesting before me.
Despite this being a place of permanent sunshine, the sky is unleashing a torrent of snow that falls so hard and fast it reminds me of the storm in Greentree just five days before.
From somewhere behind me, Plum whoops and hollers, urging me to get up, keep going, as I stumble, unable to gain any traction, my humiliating escape carefully documented by a crush of paparazzi that continues to multiply. I can only imagine the headlines to follow.
None of which will matter if I can just board that trolley.
Running, gasping, falling—I shout at the top of my lungs, begging the driver to stop as the snow begins to pile up all around me. But still I continue well past the point when my legs begin to go numb and my lungs expand so much I’m sure I’ll implode. Running toward the life I truly want and away from a dream that never really fit.