Jingle Boy (10 page)

“Are you kidding? We’re on a roll here!” Dirk said, his head twitching violently to the side so that his ear almost touched his shoulder.

“Yeah! A roll!” Rudy exploded, bouncing up and down like a boxer.

“What else you got for us, Dirk?” Ralph asked. He leaned his head back slightly so that his neck seemed to disappear.

Dirk’s eyes slid left and right, taking in the little circle of followers that was gathered around him, the steam from our breath mingling in the air. Suddenly all the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. There was a new, disturbing vibe rushing between all of us.

One twitch, then Dirk spoke. “I happen to know where they’re keeping all the floats for the Wooddale Christmas parade,” he said.

Flora’s eyes lit up and Rudy let out an “Awww, yeah!”

I glanced at Holly and her eyes mirrored mine. The Wooddale Christmas parade? It was a tradition. It was an institution. It was a joyous event my parents and I had attended together every year since birth. People came from all over the area to watch the parade down Wooddale Avenue. Kids from local dance schools would dress up as elves and sugarplum fairies and dance down the street. A brass band played Christmas carols. Santa had a new and more elaborate float every year and Mrs. Claus would throw candy into the crowd from the seat next to his. There was a Hanukkah float and a Kwanza float and a float with the baby New Year. They even had real reindeer. I’d never missed a Wooddale parade in my life.

And Holly used to come with us. Until a couple of years ago, of course. It had always been one of the most happy, Christmassy nights of the year. We’d watch the parade, go out for hot chocolate afterward, drive around looking at light displays. . . .

“You in, Paulie?” Dirk asked. The way he said my name always made me feel like I was an extra on
The Sopranos.

Ralph, Rudy, and Flora all looked at me with anticipation. My heart turned in my chest. Stealing decrepit Santas was one thing, but could I really take down the Wooddale parade?

“You don’t have to do this,” Holly told me quietly.

But when I looked into Dirk’s eyes, I knew I did. These people were my friends. My brethren.
Mi amigos.
They were helping me deal with Scooby. They’d taken me in when I felt like my whole world was falling apart. I couldn’t let them down now. I had to show anti-Christmas solidarity. Besides, it wasn’t like my family was going to make it to the parade this year—not with my father in Christmas-mishap traction. I glanced at the deflated face of my Scooby stand-in Santa and nodded.

“I’m in,” I said.

My heart in my throat, I climbed into the cab of Ralph’s truck with Dirk. He clapped his hand on my shoulder like a proud Godfather and we headed off to Wooddale.

DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL

AS I WALKED THROUGH THE ICU ON FRIDAY MORNING, I got more than a few disturbed looks from the nurses on duty. Not that I could blame them. My cut had closed up, but my shiner was rather shiny, I was sporting a bit of stubble, and my eyes were bloodshot. Add that to the fact that I was still wearing my rumpled, dirt-stained jeans from the night before and that I hadn’t even been home since our anti-Christmas adventures, and I probably looked like a crack addict who’d wandered in off the street.

But there was still an hour to kill before school and I wasn’t sure I was going to get to see my dad later. Besides, I’d just spent hours sabotaging the Wooddale Christmas parade—only my father’s favorite out-of-house tradition. The guilt was killing me. Maybe chilling with my father for a while would make it ease up a little.

I walked over to the doorway to my father’s room and stood there for a moment, my mouth completely dry. Dad was staring toward the window on the far side of the room, the blinds drawn across it. He hadn’t seen me yet and that gave me a chance to find my voice and figure out what to say. My state of total exhaustion made standing there looking at my weakened, prone father even more difficult. I still couldn’t believe this was happening, but the eyes didn’t lie. My dad was lying there wearing a thin cotton gown, he was hooked up to at least three machines, and his skin was as waxy as a surfboard.

When I felt tears prickling my eyes, I cleared my throat. “Hey, Dad.”

He turned his head, winced, then turned it more slowly. At least he could move a little more now. That was an improvement over the last time I’d been here. His entire face lit up when he saw me. Well, as much as it could, considering how difficult it still was for him to move his face muscles. His eyes twinkled for a second, then darkened.

“Son! What happened to you?” he asked.

My hand flew to my black eye. “Oh, these kids at the mall didn’t like my Santa impression,” I told him, stepping tentatively into the room. Not exactly a lie. “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Actually, it was worse than it looked, but who was I to complain? The man was being forced to use a bedpan, for Christmas’ sake! (I really have to break myself of that phrase now that I’m anti-Christmas.)

“I’m glad you’re here,” my father said, reaching for the remote attached to the bed. He hit a button and the mechanism whined to life, pushing my father into a seated position. His face turned red and I could tell the movement was painful for him, but he was trying not to let it show.

All this because of a stupid Christmas lights mishap.

“Your mother tells me you slept at a friend’s last night?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. That was the story I’d told my mom when I’d called her from the cab of Ralph’s truck to tell her I wouldn’t be coming home. Of course I
had
been with friends all night, but sleep hadn’t been part of the festivities.

“I understand why you might not want to be home,” my father said. “I know the house is a mess— your mother told me about your room. . . .”

I looked down at my muddy Pumas. I sensed a guilt trip coming on.

“But Paul, your mother really needs you, especially without me there,” my father said, causing my chest to ache. “And I’d really like it if you’d at least put up a few strands of new lights . . . maybe around the doors and windows,” he continued. “Just so the kids who come by won’t be too upset. And I also think it would cheer your mother up a bit—start getting things back to normal.”

I glanced at my father to see if he was being ironic, but no. His face was quite serious—even hopeful. Who was he kidding? Things were never going to be back to normal.

“I know I can count on you, Paul. I’m so glad that you’re full of the Christmas spirit. I think it’s really going to help you get through this,” my father said, expending some serious energy to move his hand toward me.

I sat down in the chair next to his bed and put my hand on top of his. My heart felt like it was ripping open. My poor, delusional father. My Christmas
spirit
was going to help me through this? What were they doing in this place, spoon-feeding him hallucinogens? Christmas was the cause of all our misery! If anything, my father should see that more clearly than anyone else. He was the one lying here practically paralyzed with needles sticking out of his arms! All because the Christmas spirit had turned
against
us.

“So, you’ll help your mother decorate the house?” my father asked, his voice growing harsh. I could tell this conversation was taking a lot out of him.

“Yeah, Dad,” I told him, even though I could think of nothing I’d less like to do. “I will.”

“Everybody’s staring at my eye,” I said to Holly as I followed her toward our usual lunch table on Friday afternoon.

Turk and Randy were standing a few tables away and they bent their heads together, talking as they looked me over. Turk said something to Dinuka Samarasinghe and he turned in his seat to check me out. I might as well have had the words
Kindergartners’ Punching Bag
tattooed across my forehead.

“That’s because I told them you got it fighting off a gang that tried to hold up Krauser’s last night,” Holly said, swinging her hair behind her shoulders as she sat down next to Marcus.

My mouth dropped open in awe. “You are my hero,” I told her.

“I’m aware,” she said gleefully, stealing a fry from my tray.

“Wait, so it’s not true?” Matt said, joining her in her fry poaching. “I’ve been telling everybody!”

“Please, like Paul could beat up a gang by himself,” Marcus said with a scoff as he brought his burger to his mouth. “It was probably a couple of fifth graders lifting gum.”

“Whatever, dude. You weren’t there,” I said, the heat rising in my face. He was just a little too close to being on the nose with his assessment.

I sat down and pulled my wallet out of my back pocket. I’d dropped my change on the tray as always and when I went to put it back in my billfold, I could barely jam the few dollars in there.

“You really need to clean that thing out,” Holly said, grabbing a few more of my fries.

“I’m aware,” I shot back. I pulled the rather large, white Holiday Ball ticket out of the billfold and tossed it unceremoniously onto the table. Then I shoved the money in and sat down. Holly was looking at the elaborately lettered ticket and trying to look like she wasn’t.

“Okay, let me have it,” I told her, reaching for a french fry. The moment I picked one up, my stomach rumbled dangerously and I put it down again. What had I been thinking, ordering fries?

“Let you have what?” Holly asked.

“I know you want to slam me for wasting my money on that thing,” I told her, lifting my chin and crossing my arms over my chest. “Give me your best shot.”

Holly shrugged and took a bite of her burger. “Actually, I was just kind of surprised you still had it.”

“Yeah, you’re not still going, are you?” Matt asked. “We’re playing poker at Marc’s tonight.”

“We are?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Marcus said. “You’re bringing the jerky. Didn’t you get my e-mail?”

“Dude, my computer currently has the consistency of Cheez Whiz,” I said.

“Sorry,” Marcus said, raising his hands. “Are you in or what?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”

I picked up my grape soda, and my eyes naturally traveled across the cafeteria to the table where Sarah had been sitting all week, ever since our breakup. Morosely I wondered which mystery cafeteria dish she was trying out today. Or maybe she’d given in to the habits of the girls at her table and was only eating salad and drinking water. Not-so-lovingly nicknamed the Hair Spray Table, it was home to some of the wealthiest, snobbiest, bitchiest females of our time. Sarah was sandwiched between Britney White and Britney Stein, wearing her new Scooby cashmere. Lainie Lefkowitz pointed to something in the pages of a glossy magazine and they all squealed, laughed, and high-fived. Everyone except Sarah. She merely smiled and sipped her milk. Milk. Good. Her inability to fully immerse herself in their behavioral patterns made my heart pang—at least she was still her own person.

Of course, after everything that had happened, I wasn’t sure I knew who that person was. I tore my eyes away. What was the point?

The two things you
do
know are that she’s materialistic and she’s a Scooby lover. Just remember that,
I told myself.

“Look, Paul . . . if you still want to go . . . ,” Holly was saying as I took a gulp of my soda, “I’ll go with you.”

I snorted in surprise and grape soda came right out my nose. Matt and Marcus cracked up laughing and Matt slapped me on the back.

“Ugh! Get a trough!” Holly said, pushing herself away from the table. I scrambled for a napkin and held it under my nose. The pain was excruciating. You really don’t want to send sugar and bubbles up your nasal passages. It’s not a fun sensation.

“Are you kidding me?” I said through the flimsy napkin, which was now stained purple.

“Yeah, Stevenson,” Marcus said. “You’re not exactly a school dance kinda girl.”

“Really, Marc? Then what kind of girl
am
I?” Holly asked, leveling him with a glare.

“You know, the tackle football kind of girl,” Marcus replied, unfazed.

Holly blinked. She had been known to play tackle football with us on occasion. “Okay, true,” she said. She gazed down at the Holiday Ball ticket. “But it could be kind of cool.”

Kind of cool? This had to be a joke. The thought of Holly at a Holiday Ball was wrong on so many levels. The anti-Christmas level, the joiner level, the girly level . . .

“Do you even own a dress?” I blurted out, dropping my hand away from my face.

Matt and Marcus laughed again. Holly picked up a fry and tossed it at my forehead, where it bounced off and landed in her Jell-O.

“Come on!” she said, her green eyes dancing. “It could be fun to get dressed up and act like a normal human being for once. Besides, you already paid for it. And you practically organized the whole thing! Don’t you want to see how it turns out?”

She had a point there. I
had
worked my butt off on the plans for this shindig, painstakingly ensuring that anything that had gone wrong at the last three balls would not be repeated. We’d splurged on a caterer to avoid being fed reheated lunch food, we’d ordered an extra helium tank so that everyone could suck the gas to their heart’s content during setup and we still wouldn’t run out like we had last year, and I’d hand-picked all the chaperones. (Turk Martin’s uncle had volunteered two years in a row and had hit on the head cheerleaders both times. Not pretty.)

I looked down at the ticket and realized all at once that there was no reason why we shouldn’t go.

“Sorry, guys,” I said, glancing at Matt. “You’re gonna have to get your own jerky.”

“Yeah?” Holly said, raising her eyebrows.

I started to smile and looked up at her, the inside of my nose and throat still stinging. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

Holly grinned and I felt something I hadn’t felt in days. I actually felt kind of happy.

“Oh, Paul, you look so handsome!” my mother told me, giving my tie a little tweak as we stood in the front hallway.

Her face was practically gleaming with pride and I didn’t have the heart to point out the big purple-and-yellow stain around my eye. The swelling had gone down, but the colors had shifted and I now looked like some kind of deranged Batman villain. Huh. That could actually be kind of cool. I could be the freak that Christmas had wronged, taking out my pain on all of society. But what would I be called . . . ? The Christmas Revenger? The Jingler? The Snowblower?

“I’m so glad to see you getting back into the spirit of things,” my mother told me. “I was worried about you for a few days there.”

I forced a smile and bit my tongue. It wasn’t like I was going to stand there and tell her that this was a fluke. That I wasn’t actually in any spirit of any kind. That Holly and I would probably last half an hour before all of the Christmas carols and mighty-good-cheer irritated us to the point of insanity and we had to make our escape.

“Did you hear about the Santa robberies last night?” my mother asked suddenly, her hand fluttering to her throat. “It’s so horrible. Seven towns lost their town Santas. Can you imagine the type of person who would do such a thing?”

You’re lookin’ at him,
my brain said, and I felt my cheeks flush with the secret.

“I gotta go, Mom,” I told her, turning away before she could read my face. “Thanks for letting me borrow the car.”

“Anytime, sweetie!” my mother called after me as I jogged down the path toward the driveway. Her chipper, happy, trusting voice made my shoulders curl forward. What would my mother think if she found out that her precious Christmas-loving son was exactly the type of evil Santa-stealing person she couldn’t even imagine? The guilt settled in hard on my shoulders as I waved to her, still standing in the open doorway, before pulling out. What was I doing? Was all this anti-Christmas stuff worth losing the respect of my parents?

Don’t think that way,
the little voice in my head told me as I drove toward Holly’s house.
Christmas has forsaken you. You can’t feel guilty about forsaking it right back.

By the time I pulled up at the foot of Holly’s curving driveway, I was a mess of frayed nerves. A battle was being waged in my head between the old Paul and the new, and my eye was starting to throb. Maybe this Holiday Ball thing had been a huge mistake. Did I really want to immerse myself in an elaborate Christmas party after I’d spent last night waging war against the holiday?

I was so thoroughly confused that I leaned on the horn extra hard and extra long, trying to get out some of my aggression. I was deciding how to bail on this whole thing when the front door of Holly’s house opened, and every last one of my warring thoughts went out the window.

Holly was standing there in a floor-length black velvet gown with a high neck and no sleeves. She had some sort of cape or wrap thingie draped over her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back with a few curls dangling around her face. Even from this distance I could tell she was wearing some kind of glittery makeup that made her whole face sparkle. And lipstick. The girl was wearing lipstick.