How the Grinch Stole My Heart

by Annabelle Costa

“No,” I say in a voice that I hope does not invite further exploration of the topic. I glance at Shannon Williamson. “I’m sure there are other people in the building who would really enjoy this, but I’m working now. I’m very busy.”

  “Yeah, let’s go,” the blond girl, Future Destroyer of Men, mutters under her breath.

  Go, please go. I can’t stand here while these three kids sing songs for me because they feel sorry for me. And about my least favorite holiday.

  Christmas. Taylor used to love Christmas.

  That tree we had six years ago was the last one that’s ever been in my home.

  I wonder if Taylor’s got a new tree. I wonder if she’s got presents stacked under the tree for her new husband. I wonder if they’re going to have sex on Christmas morning.

  “My favorite is Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the dark-haired girl tells me.

  “Ugh!” the blond girl huffs. “I hate that stupid song, Katie!”

  “It’s funny,” the brunette, Katie, insists. “You have to do it with the funny lyrics.” She looks at me, her brown eyes wide and earnest. Somehow she reminds me of Taylor—what Taylor might have been like when she was a little girl. “So after the lyrics, ‘Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose,’ someone else would say—”

  “Like a lightbulb,” I finish, without meaning to. I spent a good year of my childhood singing that song. Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, you’ll go down in history—like George Washington! When I was nine, that was the height of comedy. I wish anything could make me as happy now as that song made me when I was a kid.

  Katie beams at me. “Yeah! You know it?”

  I didn’t mean to encourage her. But now it’s too late. This little girl is singing—singing her heart out. She’s off-key but what she lacks in pitch, she makes up in enthusiasm. She’s belting out the most boisterous version of Rudolph I’ve ever heard while her friends reluctantly sing along. It’s cute—I’m not going to say it’s not cute. But I’m not in the mood for this shit. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

  And even if I didn’t have anything to do, I’m still not in the mood.

  When they finish the song, Katie does jazz hands. She looks really proud of herself. The corners of my lips twitch, almost smiling but not quite. It’s possible I’ve forgotten how.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. “Okay, well, goodbye—”

  “What song would you like next?” Katie asks me.

  I look over at the blond girl, who is twirling one of her braids around her finger, her blue eyes lifted skyward. “God, Katie,” the girl says, “he doesn’t want any more songs. Let’s just go.”

  “But…” Katie juts out her little chin. “We’re supposed to do three.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got work to do, so…”

  “We’re supposed to do three,” Katie insists.

  “Look, I don’t—”

  Her eyes brighten. “What about The Twelve Days of Christmas?”

  No. No. “I really don’t—”

  “Katie, honey,” Shannon says through her teeth, “this man says he doesn’t want any more songs.”

  “You said we’re bringing Christmas cheer to people who don’t have friends and family,” Katie says pointedly. Well, she’s got my number. No friends, no family. Just me, my computer, a plant I keep forgetting to water, and soon a bagel guillotine. “You said three songs, Mommy.”

  Shannon lets out a strangled laugh. “Katie…”

  “On the first day of Christmas,” Katie begins, her clear voice ringing out through the hallway, “my true love gave to me…”

  Why is everything this week straining the very limits of my patience? I could have listened to one more quick song, but doesn’t this song have like a million verses? Or at least… you know, twelve verses? Which is a lot.

  I don’t have time for this. And what’s more, my right leg is tightening up to the point where I’m worried I won’t be able to stand much longer. I don’t want to face-plant in front of these girls.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, even as Katie is still belting out the lyrics, “I really don’t have time to—”

  “…a partridge in a pair tree…”

  She’s not stopping. For Christ’s sake…

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  And then? I shut the door in her face.

  Yes, I slam the door in the face of a little girl. Who is trying to sing me Christmas carols because I apparently have no friends or family. Two weeks before Christmas.

  I’m worse than Mr. Wilson. I’m Scrooge.

  But in my defense, “The Twelve Days of Christmas” is a really fucking long song.

  Chapter 4: Noelle

  “Henry! Stop fiddling with your jacket!”

  Walking home with my child from his school five blocks away is an exercise in learning to control my temper. When I picked him up, he insisted he didn’t want to wear his winter coat because it was “so hot.” After spending five minutes trying to persuade him he couldn’t go out in a T-shirt in sub-freezing temperatures, I decided to just go with it. I assumed within one minute, Henry would crack and put the damn thing on.

  After two blocks, Henry was still happily walking along next to me in his T-shirt. My iPhone was reporting the temperature to be twenty-nine degrees, but my child was somehow perfectly comfortable with no coat or even sweater. Does he have some problem with his temperature regulation? Is his internal thermometer broken? Is that a thing?

  People were starting to give me some serious dirty looks. One woman barked at me that she was going to report me to Child Protective Services. Finally, I was the one who cracked. I shook Henry’s blue Cars-themed jacket in his face and barked, “You need to put this on! It’s too cold!”

  “I’m not cold!”

  “I don’t care!”

  Not my best parenting moment, that’s for sure. And then once Henry put the damn coat on, he couldn’t figure out the zipper. The cold wind slapped me in the face as I got down on my knees to inspect the little zipper on Henry’s coat. I don’t understand why all the zippers on children’s coats are dysfunctional. Is that too much to ask for? A working zipper?

  Of course, two minutes after I got it zipped, Henry had unzipped it because it was “so hot!”

  By the time I get to our building, I’m ready to climb into bed and hide under the covers for the next week. My job as the manager of a busy restaurant is stressful enough, especially since one of the waitresses no-showed and I had to sub in for her shift. I’m just lucky they let me adjust my hours so I’d be able to leave early enough to pick up Henry when his afterschool program ended.

  At least the lobby is warm. The heat fills my cheeks and my fingers tingle as the circulation starts back up. Also, they’ve put up a Christmas tree in the lobby, which fills my chest with a warm, good feeling. I love Christmas. I mean, you pretty much have to if you have a name like “Noelle.” We only have space in our tiny apartment for a half-sized tree, but this one is full-sized or even plus-sized, lit with multicolored bulbs and ornaments hanging off every branch. Unfortunately, they’ve pushed it all the way to the side of the lobby so you can barely see it.

  “Katie, honey, I’m sure he was just really busy…”

  I look over at the plush red couches at the far end of the lobby, where there’s a little dark-haired girl in a pretty, green velvet dress, who is sobbing loudly while a woman attempts to comfort her. Henry nudges me when he sees them, “Mom, that’s Katie from school!” He raises his hand at her. “Hi, Katie!”

  Before I can tell my son to leave the poor girl alone, I’ve made eye contact with the woman comforting her. She shoots me a pained look, and I feel obligated to go over there. After all, I don’t know many people in the building yet. I should probably try to make some friends. It seems like Greg got all our old friends in the divorce.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask. “Anything I can do to help?”

  The woman rubs the little girl’s back. “We had a caroling mishap.”
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  “I was just trying to do three songs!” Katie bursts out.

  The woman sighs and tucks her blond hair behind her ear. “The girls were trying to sing for this man on the fifth floor who… well, he was busy, I guess. He shut the door in our face in the middle of Katie singing.”

  I gasp. “How awful!”

  “We live on the fifth floor!” Henry volunteers. He looks up at me, his eyes widening. “Mom, I bet it was the mean guy in 5B!”

  “It was!” Katie exclaims, wiping tears from her eyes. “It was 5B! He didn’t like our songs at all.”

  “I hate that guy!” Henry exclaims.

  “Henry,” I say sternly. “We don’t say ‘hate.’ That’s not a nice word.”

  “Yeah, but he’s really mean!” My son juts out his lower lip. “He slammed the door on Katie while she was singing. That’s rude, right, Mom? And he was mean to me too!”

  “Still,” I say.

  The woman’s eyebrows are scrunched together, so I tell her, “This guy heard Henry playing with his ball in the hallway and threatened to take it away.”

  “Oh wow!” She shakes her head. “That’s terrible. I’ve seen that guy around, and if I knew it was his apartment… well, I certainly wouldn’t have knocked. He’s not very friendly. I’ve shared an elevator with him, and he doesn’t even say hello. He just grunts if you talk to him.”

  “Probably better to stay out of his way.” I offer a smile. “By the way, I’m Noelle. My son and I just moved in to 5H.”

  I reach out my hand and the woman clasps it in her own as she smiles at me. She seems nice. I want to make some new friends. I don’t want to admit how desperately lonely I’ve been in the last year.

  “I’m Shannon,” she says. “Katie is my youngest—I’ve got an older son too. We live in 8F. Welcome to the building.” Her smile widens. “A few grouches aside, it’s a nice place to live.”

  “I love the Christmas tree.” My eyes go back to the large tree at the far end of the lobby. It’s really beautiful. It reminds me of the trees we used to have when I was growing up, before I was relegated to tiny apartments in the city. “Why does it have to be all tucked away back there though?”

  “I know!” Shannon cries. “I was thinking the same thing!”

  The doorman, Joe, is flipping through a magazine at his desk. Joe is always reading or fiddling with his phone or dozing off. I feel like at the price we’re paying to live here, he should be constantly at attention like those guards in front of Buckingham Palace. I stride over to the desk and clear my throat until he looks up.

  “Oh, hi, Ms. Moore,” he says. “What’s up?”

  “That tree.” I point to it with my embarrassingly bitten fingernails. My bad habit is really getting out of control. I hope Shannon doesn’t see. “Is there any way we could have it moved so that it’s where people can actually see it?”

  “I can see it,” Joe says.

  Helpful. Very helpful.

  Katie has stopped crying and joined my son to admire the tree up close. Just looking at that tree makes me tear up. Honestly, this holiday has been rough for me—it’s the first Christmas since my divorce. But it’s funny how something simple like a beautiful Christmas tree could make me remember there are still things I enjoy in life, even if my ex is a total wanker.

  I’m going to enjoy this holiday. In spite of Greg.

  “You could move it right there,” Shannon suggests, pointing to a spot more central in the lobby. “That would be a much better spot.”

  “There’s no outlet there.” Joe shrugs. “Gotta plug the tree in, right?”

  Shannon raises her eyebrows. “You don’t have an extension cord?”

  I have to hand it to Shannon. She doesn’t let up until Joe digs out a huge extension cord that traverses the length of the lobby and repositions the tree in a more central location. Shannon steps back to admire it.

  “That’s so much better!” she exclaims.

  Joe looks doubtfully at the tree, then down at the extension cord. “Someone could trip on this cord.”

  Shannon snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a tiny little extension cord.”

  I’m not so sure. It does seem possible someone could trip on that cord, but Joe finally shrugs and leaves it as it is. I suppose if he thinks it’s okay and so does Shannon, it’s probably fine.

  Chapter 5: Jeremy

  Every week, on Wednesday night, I get groceries delivered from Peapod. There’s a discount if I’m willing to accept the delivery any time during a six-hour window, and since I never, ever leave my apartment, I always opt for the longer window. The Peapod delivery guy comes into my apartment, deposits my groceries on the kitchen counter, and I tip him a tenner. If the delivery guy is running ahead of schedule, sometimes after he sees the ten-dollar bill and gets a good look at me, he’ll offer to help me put the groceries away. I never say no.

  Of course, I don’t cook most nights. Make that, I don’t cook—ever. The groceries are mostly cereal and milk, bread, cold cuts. If I want a hot meal, I get delivery. I live in Manhattan, where the choices for takeout food are endless. There’s no shortage of able-bodied delivery guys willing to bring food directly to my door, thus enabling my inevitable trajectory toward being completely homebound.

  Tonight, I feel like a burger.

  A juicy cheeseburger, grilled to a medium, slathered with cheese and bacon. I don’t work up much of an appetite sitting around my apartment all day, so I skipped lunch, and now I’m starving. I might even get a side of French fries.

  There used to be a diner five blocks away that was my go-to for a good burger, but they shut down during the summer, so I haven’t had a decent burger since then. The only burger I’ve had recently came with the Number Five meal at McDonald’s. Yes, even McDonald’s delivers now. Really, there’s no reason to ever venture outside.

  I asked Luis about it, and he told me that there’s a diner a few blocks away that makes a decent burger, so I look up the number and give them a call. The girl who answers the phone sounds very young, and I can hear her popping her bubble gum on the other line.

  “Uh, hi,” I say. “Do you deliver?”

  The girl cracks her gum loudly. “Yup. What do you want?”

  “Bacon cheeseburger. Medium. Side of fries.”

  “Okay,” the girl says. “And how do you want that burger cooked?”

  I grit my teeth. “Medium.”

  “Oh.” She pauses to hopefully write it down. “And do you want any fries with that?”

  My temple throbs. Maybe I should just hang up and get Thai food. “Yes, I do.”

  “Name?”

  “Jeremy.”

  “All right,” she says. “So it’ll be, like, fifteen minutes?”

  I’m about to tell her my address but then I realize I’m talking to a dead line. What the hell? This is why it’s better to order online—you don’t have to deal with a gum-popping idiot.

  I call back the number, hoping to get someone else, but not at all surprised when the same girl answers the phone. My right arm tenses up against my will, my fingers squeezing into a tight fist. “Hey, I just put in an order for delivery,” I tell her. “But you never took my address.”

  “Yeah,” the girl says, “that’s ‘cuz we don’t deliver. You have to pick it up.”

  A vein throbs in my temple. I asked her if they deliver. I may not be as sharp as I used to be Before, but I know I asked her that. It was the first thing I said when I called. I want this burger, but it might cost me my sanity. “You told me you guys deliver.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I assure you, you did.”

  I can almost hear her shrug. “Well, we don’t. Do you want the order or not?”

  Maybe I could try out Uber Eats, which I’ve heard good things about. They’ll bring the food right to my door for a nominal fee. If I set it up right now, I’m sure they could get the burger and bring it back to me within the hour. If not, I could call another burger place that doe
s deliver.

  As I’m weighing my options, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. This diner is two blocks away. Two blocks and there isn’t even snow on the ground yet. But here I am, frantic to find some way to have the food brought to me so I don’t have to get it myself. If I can’t make it two blocks, I’m in trouble.

  I’m going to end up one of those people who’s scared to even leave the building. Sooner than I’d thought.

  I’m too young to let that happen to me. My lifestyle is becoming unhealthy. Two blocks shouldn’t be an insurmountable obstacle for me.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll come get it.”

  Chapter 6: Noelle

  Shannon is a godsend. I have to work late today at the restaurant, and she agreed to pick up Henry while she was getting Katie. Apparently, Henry and Katie are getting tight. I believe my son may have his first crush. It’s adorable.

  But other than that, my day at the restaurant is horrible with a capital H. It’s not even the end of the lunch rush, and it seems like every customer had a ridiculous complaint we can’t figure out how to address. Right now, I’m standing in front of the table of a man wearing a suit jacket and bowtie, with Harry Potter spectacles resting on his nose, and I’m having the stupidest argument I’ve ever had in my life.

  “I can’t eat egg yolks,” the man is saying. “It’s a health issue. I’m surprised in this day and age you can’t accommodate such a simple request.”

  “We have an egg white omelet,” I explain patiently. “But we can’t make you a sunny side up egg with only egg whites.”

  “Well, why not?” the man demands to know.

  This is literally the eighth or ninth time I’ve explained it to him during this conversation, but for the tenth time, I say, “Because the ‘sun’ in a sunny side up egg is made from the yolk.”

  “You’re telling me you can’t make it from the egg white though?” The man seems astonished. “You’re not able to fulfill that simple request?”

  “I…” I don’t know what to say. We could make him an egg white omelet and call it sunny side up, but he could say we didn’t give him what he ordered, which would technically be true, since there’s no way to give him what he ordered. “No, we can’t. But I’d be happy to get you an egg white omelet, or if you’d like—”