Carols and Crushes

by Natalie Blitt

  “Um, yes.” I’m choking on the words, but at least I’m speaking. Apparently, the rest of the group is struck dumb. “The thing is, we aren’t really a group group.”

  “Speak up, I can’t hear you.” This time it’s a bald man at the other side of the cluster of people.

  “Um …” I say to him. My mom hates it when I say um, but in this case it’s the only word I can get out.

  Disaster. This is going to be a disaster. I turn to my dad, but he’s deep in conversation with Mr. Carlson and another man, one who looks awfully like an older Matthew from a distance.

  “Oh, Hank, don’t be ridiculous,” the blue-haired woman says to the bald man. “You know perfectly well that you can hear just fine. You just wanted that pretty girl to talk to you!”

  The rest of the crowd chuckles, but it’s not the awkward laughter of a situation that’s getting out of hand. It’s the sound of a group of people who are really close. The blue-haired woman stands up, using the back of the seat in front of her for help. Holding on to the shoulders and hands of her friends, she takes the ten or so steps necessary to get to where we’re standing. She glances up at me, and her smile is pure radiance.

  “Don’t you let us intimidate you. We’re just having some fun because we get bored easily. We know you aren’t a real group, that you’re practicing for your holiday concert. We’re just here because we love music.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Hank calls out. Looks like she was right, he can hear perfectly well. “I’m here because they promised cookies.”

  “Come on, then.” The woman takes my hand, and it’s only then I notice that she’s swaying slightly. Her grip is firm and cool on mine. “Let’s do some caroling. Do you have a repertoire or do you just wing it?”

  I’m staring in disbelief at this tiny woman with bright blue hair, holding my hand. But then Matthew comes up from behind me and joins in our little line.

  “Hi, Francine,” he says, moving to take her other hand.

  “Matthew, don’t you flirt with me. There are girls here who are far more appropriate for you.” Francine gives me a wink and I can’t help but blush.

  The crowd chuckles, and then before we know it, Eric has brought a chair for Renee, and our little quartet has become a quintet with Francine in the middle.

  “Can we start with ‘Silent Night’?” Francine looks up at Matthew, who glances at me, and I can see Renee and Eric nodding as well. “It was my George’s favorite.” Her voice shakes a little, and I feel an odd pulling sensation from inside my chest, like suddenly my heart is too big for my body.

  Matthew counts us in, and Renee takes the lead. Her voice is rusty at the beginning, but I can feel it fill out as Matthew joins her, and then Eric and then me. We’re singing it the way we practiced in school, and while there are some missteps—like the fact that apparently Francine can’t remember all the words—there’s something special about the way it sounds in this room, with this group.

  When our voices die down, we immediately jump into “Let It Go,” as though we’re singing on the street again. If this had been a performance, we would have allowed for a few moments in between the quiet stillness of “Silent Night” and the exuberant “Let It Go.” But after our experience caroling, we know it’s best not to let the crowd mourn the end of one song, not to let them think too much.

  But also, it’s for us as much as them. There’s a sadness to “Silent Night” that makes it a hard act to follow. But somehow the simplicity and pure happiness of “Let It Go” is the perfect antidote, and I feel the crowd with us as we sing. Several of the people in the front row are tapping their feet, their hands gently clapping. And of course Francine remains front and center between us, as though she is as much a part of our group as any of us.

  From there, we move into “Hanukkah, O Hanukkah,” and then Eric and I step up and we launch into “Blue Christmas.” And even though things are still odd and strained from last week, there’s a lightness when we sing this together. There’s something that feels very alive as we join our voices together in the song.

  Just before we’re about to end the set, Matthew steps forward.

  “This is one of our favorite carols,” he announces to the audience. “And I think you’ll all be wowed by Charlie and her amazing rendition of ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ ”

  My stomach gives a small flip. I smile gratefully, not sure how to understand that introduction. But instead of dwelling on it, I take an extra moment to center myself, to get into a space where I can lead the song.

  This is my song.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “Come, they told me,” I start. And just like every time, I’m amazed by the sound that Matthew, Eric, and Renee make when they sing “pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.” The music fills all the spaces around me, loosening my body, relaxing me.

  “A newborn king to see …”

  “Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,” they sing.

  I’m not even pausing; the timing is perfect. It’s as though they have their music and I have mine, and I’ve gone on to “our finest gifts we bring” in time for them to start up their pa-rum-pum-pum-pum again. It feels so much better to sing this song in the warmth of the atrium rather than the cold outside. And even though I know we’re not on stage and this isn’t a concert, I can’t help but feel the moment of perfection. We head into the last pa-rum-pum-pum-pum and I end with “me and my drum.”

  There’s silence, a great big giant moment of silence. And before I’m even aware of what I’m doing, I turn to Matthew.

  His smile is wide and happy, and nothing else really matters.

  I’m faintly aware that the audience has burst into applause.

  “That was beautiful, dear,” Francine says, and she takes my other hand so that now she can squeeze both hands. “My mother used to sing just like that. My George used to like it sung faster, but I’ve always been partial to the slower version.”

  I don’t know if it’s her age, or if she’s remembering her mom or her George, but her eyes are bright and watery. And maybe it’s contagious, but mine are now watering, too. Our audience is slowly filing out, and Renee, Eric, and Matthew are accepting their thanks.

  I can’t move. I want to bring Francine home, bring her to my mom so she can tell her what she told me. It’s the song that brought back the memories. This simple song that took her back to listening to her mom sing it and to maybe arguing with her husband about the tempo.

  That’s the power of songs. They’re traditions. More memory keepers than a collection of notes and words.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to Francine. Her smile has none of the strength of Matthew’s, but it’s somehow more powerful.

  Hank comes over to our makeshift stage area and offers Francine his arm. “You still sing beautifully,” he tells her and I don’t know if I just didn’t notice her rouge before, but her cheeks are a deep pink now. “Are you ready for dinner?”

  Francine pulls me close, and I bend my knees slightly so I don’t tower over her. “Thank you for letting an old lady have some fun,” she tells me. “Now I’m off to a dinner date.” And she winks at me again, and maybe this isn’t intentional at all, maybe it’s nothing really, but she shifts her gaze from me to Matthew.

  Did she see me smile at him?

  It’s only later that night, much later, in my bed when I’m trying to fall asleep, when I ask myself the question that has been brewing in the back of my mind.

  Why did I look at Matthew?

  I can’t wait to go back to Auburn to sing some more.

  But Monday brings its own surprise, which I discover when Renee pulls me by the arm down the corridor.

  There are many wonderful things about Eleanor Roosevelt Middle School, but natural light is not one of them. Thankfully, the school invested in bright lights to make the hallways seem less dingy. But still, if you asked most kids in the school, they’d admit to walking out of their way in order to pass the huge picture windows at the end of the
A wing. Today, it seems like all those kids not only walked past but couldn’t help themselves. They stopped to stare.

  Snow. And not just flurries. And not a gray slushy mess.

  Pure, white flakes. Snow that sticks.

  “Wow,” I whisper, my breath creating a fog circle against the windowpane. It took a bit of maneuvering to reach the front of the crowd, but I’m willing to use my elbows in order to see the snow. “How long has this been going on?”

  “I think it started just after first bell.” Renee’s voice is wistful, and I imagine her injury is feeling even worse than before now. No skating on the park rink. No sledding. Not to mention, it’ll be even harder to get around on crutches.

  Normally, Renee’s favorite way to walk on snowy days is to go through the deepest part of the snowdrift. It’ll take her four times as long and she’ll be exhausted afterward. But she’ll be grinning like a madwoman.

  The warning bell goes off and if I’m going to make it to my last class on time, I’ll have to majorly book it across the building.

  “Meet you after school by our lockers?” I ask, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her head bob. It’s hard to look anywhere but the glittering white surface covering the field. It’s already at least a foot deep, and it’s still coming down. I don’t know how I missed the forecast for today. Or rather, I do know. I’ve been pretty focused on rehearsals.

  “It’s a good thing we moved our caroling to Auburn,” I say.

  While I’ve managed to pull myself away from the glass, Renee remains where she is. And I realize that I need to find some way of giving her a snow adventure even with her broken leg.

  * * *

  I slide into my seat just as Mr. Gerstein begins class, and luckily, he’s just going over the homework assignment he’d given us last time.

  In the corner of my notebook, I doodle a sled and little hills of snow. I can tell that this snowfall is the perfect sledding weather. It’ll pack down nicely, and I can already imagine the sensation of whizzing down the hill at Point Pleasant Park.

  I draw a string on my imaginary sled and stare at it for a long moment. It might not be safe for Renee to go shooting down the hill at Point Pleasant. But what if we could make a fake sleigh ride for her? She’d be so excited. I could grab the battery-operated twinkling lights and attach them to the big sled we have for when we double up …

  I’m so deep in the daydreams of sledding that I don’t hear Mr. Gerstein’s question until he’s standing right in front of my desk.

  “Charlie? Do I need to speak louder?” He’s wearing a smile, but he’s not at all amused. The rest of the class, on the other hand …

  I smile meekly. “Sorry, Mr. Gerstein. It’s just the first real snowfall and—”

  “We live in a climate that is going to be plagued by snow for the next three months,” he growls. “I don’t see what the excitement is all about.”

  Maybe we should take Mr. Gerstein on the fake sleigh ride. The thought of his lanky body folded up on our kiddie sled makes me snort out a laugh. “Sorry,” I mutter, flipping my notebook to hide the sketch I made. I keep my head down.

  Even though I can’t see my English teacher’s face, the sigh he lets out speaks volumes.

  “Now,” he goes on, “I was asking who here had time to read the short story …”

  I manage to focus and answer Mr. Gerstein’s question.

  But I don’t stop thinking about sledding.

  * * *

  I’m the first one out of class when the final bell rings. This probably doesn’t improve Mr. Gerstein’s opinion of me, given my earlier behavior. Especially since I’ve spent the last seven minutes with my filled backpack on my lap.

  All I can think is that Matthew would understand.

  The hallways start to get crowded as people slowly leave their classrooms, but I’m single-minded in my determination. I zigzag around kids stopping to chat, and if I could have, I would have leapfrogged over Addison Sinclair, who stopped to tie her shoelace. (I veered around her instead.)

  “Hey!” I blurt out when I reach Matthew’s locker, panting. He’s still fiddling with his lock, so he couldn’t have gotten there much before me.

  “Hey!”

  His smile is wide and genuine, and I wish I could talk right now instead of needing to focus on breathing in and out. I probably should have planned this better.

  “Need … your … help,” I gasp.

  “You okay?” He leans against his locker, no longer trying to open it. His brows furrow and I realize I must appear to be in bad shape.

  “Fine,” I nod, trying to seem less desperate to breathe. I really need to go back to swimming or running. Or something. “It’s Renee. She loves sledding. With her broken leg, I want to figure out how to give her a sledding experience.”

  His head bobs up and down, and now that I know Matthew, I know this means he’s processing all this information.

  “I’m assuming you’re thinking we need a sled she can’t fall out of, like one of those old-fashioned ones? We can tie a rope through the front and …”

  Now it’s my turn to lean against the locker bay, because when Matthew gets excited about something, it’s fun to just step back and get out of the way.

  * * *

  By the time we meet Renee at my locker, my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, and both Matthew and I are waving our arms excitedly.

  “Wait, I can’t understand either of you! One at a time,” Renee demands.

  I turn to Matthew and he to me. And looking at his flushed face, I know that his excitement mirrors my own. Two weeks ago, I couldn’t have imagined that Matthew and I would be able to get through a rehearsal together. And now it’s almost like we’re … friends? I stand back to let him explain our idea. And it’s totally awesome.

  Except Renee says no to our convoluted plan to get her on a sled. Apparently, she doesn’t want to take the risk of injuring herself again, which totally makes sense. Except, I really wanted to go sledding.

  “Just because I don’t want to go barreling down the hill with an already broken leg doesn’t mean I don’t want to come along to watch,” she says, her words tumbling over themselves as she catches sight of my disappointed look.

  By now, Eric has joined us at the lockers.

  “Why don’t we sit on the bench,” Eric says to her. “I’m personally not one for barreling down a hill, broken leg or not. But I’ll keep you company?”

  I wait for the normal jealousy to rush in, but … it doesn’t. Instead, I laugh.

  “Why are they making it seem like sledding isn’t the most fun thing ever?” I ask Matthew in an overexaggerated whisper.

  “No idea.” He shakes his head and then shrugs. “You going to back down?”

  “No way.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Matthew and I are standing at the top of Magic Mountain, the big hill in the park next to school, with a few dozen other people. Actually, a lot of Matthew’s popular friends are here. But he’s still standing beside me.

  We’ve chosen a spot on the far side of the hill, because it’s close to the path and the park benches, which makes it much easier for Renee to cheer us on. Well, Renee and Eric, that is. I wait to feel a pang when I see them deep in conversation, but I can’t find it. I should be upset, but in reality, right now it’s hard not to grin.

  Especially since Matthew is trash-talking me.

  “Listen, if you want me to go slowly because this is your first time out on the snow, I mean …”

  “Stuff it, Yee,” I answer. “I was practically born on a sled.”

  He wrinkles his forehead.

  “Too much?” I grin. “Maybe you should sit this run out if you’re feeling queasy.”

  He winks at me. “Let’s do a few practice runs and then we’ll see who should take it easy.”

  I drop down to my sheet of cardboard and I cross my legs in front of me. Then I wrap my scarf around my nose and mouth, securing it under my jacket by rote.

&nbs
p; Matthew just ties a solid knot in his scarf, and flings the ends behind him.

  “No way, mister,” I admonish. “No getting strangled on the first run down.”

  And then before I know what I’m doing, I’m leaning over to where he’s sitting on his sheet of cardboard. I balance on one knee on my “sled” and I quickly undo his knot.

  “Chin up,” I say as I carefully wrap his scarf around the bottoms of his ears and up to cover his mouth and nose. I’ve done this dozens of times for Sadie, and it’s not until I’m tucking the ends deep into the collar of his jacket that I realize I’m touching Matthew Yee. I’m arranging his scarf. I’m—

  Oh. My. Goodness.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, and drop back to my cardboard. “Um, let’s go!” My cry is halfhearted, but my desire to escape from the moment is strong. As a result, I dig my mittens into the soft snow, trying desperately to propel myself down the hill. I know it’s not really a fair start, but the mortification keeps me going even as I hear Matthew behind me.

  I can’t believe I did that.

  But I don’t have much time to dwell, because the plastic that Matthew insisted we tape onto the bottom of our cardboard is whizzing me down the hill, and it’s all I can do to hold on. The crisp air is sharp against my exposed skin, but it feels amazing. I don’t know if it’s just the air or the fresh snow. Or Matthew. But halfway down the hill, I let go of all my anxiety and start screaming like a banshee.

  Why can’t I spend my life sledding?

  I finally come to a stop about twenty feet beyond the bottom of the hill, and I don’t move.

  Wow.

  “Holy moly, you were fast!” Matthew says, slowing his improvised sled by leaning to the side. He skids to a stop beside me, and his eyes are bright and twinkling. His words are muffled by his scarf (oh my goodness, I did that!) but his glee comes through loud and clear.

  “The plastic bottoms worked great,” I croak out, and he winks. Matthew Yee winks at me.