Jingle Boy (2 page)

“Why would you intimidate her?” I asked absently. I was busy scanning the stores we were passing by. Yankee Candle Company, no. Sunglass Hut, no. Bebe . . . eh . . . maybe.

“Because, moron, I’m a girl, I’m a babe, I’m your best friend,” Holly said flatly. “Do the math.”

I had to stop for that one. “You think she’s
jealous
of you?” I asked, grinning at the ridiculousness of the idea. “You think she thinks that you and me—”

Another eye roll. Holly’s face turned red beneath her freckles. “No one ever said she was intelligent.”

I had to sit on the rim of one of the potted plants until I stopped laughing uncontrollably.

“Hey! It’s not
that
out there,” Holly said. “People have been picking on us about being a couple since the third grade.”

She had me there. That was what happened when your best friend was a girl. But the thought that Sarah would take it seriously was just funny. Sarah knew she was the only girl I wanted.

“Come on,” Holly said, clearly out of patience just two minutes into our trip. She swept past me into an accessories store. “There has to be something ugly and pink you can get her in here.”

I caught my breath and followed Holly inside. As predicted, there was a ton of ugly pink stuff— furry headbands, huge earrings, purses shaped like boxes with pink zebra stripes. None of it exactly screamed, “Sarah!” Most of it actually screamed, “Landfill!”

“I don’t think so,” I said to Holly, turning to go.

“Wait! Get her this!” Holly called out.

She picked up a tiny rubber pig from the counter and squeezed it. A little rubber piece of poop squirted out of its butt and was then sucked back in. Holly laughed as she made it poop over and over and over again. My face twisted up in disgust.

“Are you even a girl?” I asked her.

“Killjoy,” she said, slapping the pig back down on the counter with about twenty others that were marked down ten times. Maybe I
would
have had better luck if I’d brought Marcus and Matt.

We walked back out into the mall and a huge guy dressed in head-to-toe Jets gear rammed into Holly’s shoulder and sent her spinning.

“Ow! Look where you’re going, loser!” Holly shouted, gripping her arm. He didn’t even turn around. She trudged over to me and we both sat down on the end of a wooden bench in the center of the mall. “I hate Jets fans,” she muttered under her breath. She took one look at my profile and sighed. “You have no idea what to get her, do you?” she asked.

“None,” I admitted. All I knew was that it had to be perfect. The perfect present for the perfect girl.

“I’m going to be here for the rest of my life, aren’t I?” Holly added.

“Probably,” I replied.

“Okay, what you need is a plan,” she said. She pointed past my face toward the Sears wing. “We start at that end of the mall and we hit every single store. I don’t care if it’s a tobacco shop or a porn outlet, we are going everywhere. We leave no piece of chintz unturned. And if we don’t find a present by the end of the day . . .”

She reached into my jacket and pulled out my Santa hat, twirling it over her head gleefully. “. . . I will eat your hat.”

“How did you know it was in there?” I asked, turning beet red.

“Like you could really leave the house without it,” Holly said, standing. “Now, let’s go. There are at least twenty more people in this place just
waiting
to walk into me.”

I stood up and followed her, my confidence in the mission renewed. Somewhere in this mall was the perfect gift for Sarah. All I had to do was find it.

OH, YOU BETTER WATCH OUT, YOU BETTER NOT CRY . . .

“PAUL! HOLLY!” MY MOM EXCLAIMED FROM BEHIND the front counter at Fortunoff. Then her face fell. “What’s wrong?”

I walked up to her, folded my arms on her glass-topped counter, and collapsed. We’d been at the mall for two hours and thirty-seven minutes and I had nothing to show for it except a stomachache of Cinnabonian proportions.

“He’s all malled out, the poor thing,” Holly said with false sympathy, patting my back. “I told him not to get the extra icing, but does he ever listen?”

My mother laughed. She loved Holly. According to my mom, Holly had that whole “teen angst thing going on.” She regarded my best friend with a sort of anthropological fascination.

“Sweetie, my manager’s looking,” my mother said under her breath.

“Sorry.” I straightened up and tried to look like a paying customer. “What can you show me in a solid gold noose?”

“It can’t be that bad,” my mother said in her perpetually positive tone. “Tell me all about it.” She patted my hand, then folded hers together on the counter, smiling sympathetically.

At this point, let’s take a moment to appreciate my mom.

Worked on her feet all day, every day, dealing with what may be the most demanding, bitchy, jewelry-buying market in the country, yet there she stood— unwrinkled, unbroken, lipstick perfectly applied. And later she’d go home, scoff about the customers and the managers and the power-drunk mall security guy who hit on her every day (“Wanna try on my hat, little lady?”), and serve up a perfect dinner. Then tomorrow she’d get up and do it all over again. What a woman. Just looking at her made me smile.

“I can’t find a present for Sarah,” I said dramatically, gunning for some motherly sympathy.

“That is so not true!” Holly exclaimed. She turned to my mother, ready to make her case. “
I
have found
dozens
of perfectly good gifts for Sarah. It’s your son here who—”

“Like I’m really going to get her a towel warmer,” I said.

“Who doesn’t like a toasty-warm towel when they get out of the shower?” Holly asked innocently.

My mother laughed again. “Well, honey, you still have a lot of time,” she said. “Don’t let it get you down.”

“Excuse me, miss?” a guy said to my mother. “I’d like to see something in this case over here.”

“I’ll be right back,” my mother told me before following the man around the cash register station and out of view.

I turned and pushed myself away from the counter. “I don’t know, Hol, maybe I should just give up. I mean, I—”

And then I saw it. The most perfect, glittering necklace ever forged by man. Marge Horvath, one of my mom’s managers, was holding it up over the counter and it caught the light from overhead, causing a spark so bright I almost had to shield my eyes. At that moment I could hear the angels singing. One flawless, heart-shaped, deep red ruby set inside a heart-shaped gold pendant. Of course! Red for Christmas! A heart for love! Could it
be
any more perfect? I could feel it in my soul. This was it. This was the gift I’d been looking for.

It was classy. It was beautiful. It was all too easy to picture it draped around Sarah’s neck, dangling nice and low between her perfect—

“How much is that?” I asked Marge, taking one giant step over to her.

Marge was slightly older than my mom and had orangy tan skin, a product of the Hollywood tanning salons that have been popping up all over the place lately. I’d only met her once before and I didn’t like her. She had perpetual coffee breath and the most affected smile I’d ever encountered. As I stood before her, salivating for the piece of jewelry dangling from her hand, she eyed me up and down with what could only be called disdain.

“I’m sorry,
sir.
I believe the lady was here first,” she said in a nasal voice.

For the first time I noticed a slim woman with dyed-blond hair and perfectly applied eyeliner, wearing more gold jewelry than they’d had on the set of
The
Mummy.
A Jersey Mall Mom. A Jersey Mall Mom who wanted my necklace.

She inched closer to the counter, pointedly ignoring me as Marge handed her the necklace. The moment her fingers touched the pendant, I had an incredible urge to deck her. She tilted back her head and looked down her nose at it.

“I’m not sure . . . ,” she said.

“I am! I’m sure! I’ll take it!” I exclaimed.

The woman shot me a look of death. “Excuse me, do you mind?”

Flushing, I took a step back to give her a little more space and started praying, my fingertips tapping the glass counter.
Please don’t let her buy it. Please don’t
let her buy it. Please don’t let her
—

“Paul, are you serious?” Holly asked suddenly, stepping up next to me. She stood on her toes to see over my shoulder and the woman shot her an impatient look. “After everything we’ve been through today, you’re gonna get her
that
?”

“Yes, I am,” I said to her under my breath. “It’s perfection.”

“All right,” Holly said skeptically, raising her eyebrows. She leaned one elbow on the counter and looked up at Marge. “How much for the rock?”

“Excuse me,” the Mall Mom said. “I was here first.”

“Whatever, lady,” Holly said dismissively. “You need another piece of jewelry like this woman needs another ten minutes on the tanning bed.”

They both sucked wind. The customer’s heavily ringed hand flew to her chest, while Marge’s fingers fluttered toward her orange face. Once they got over their shock, they both looked out for blood.

“You’re not helping!” I singsonged under my breath, smiling at the Mall Mom. I also glanced over my shoulder for my own mother. She probably wouldn’t be happy with Holly insulting the customers. But she was still out of sight somewhere, helping that guy.

“Yes, I am,” Holly replied.

“Look, there has to be more than one, right?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

“No,” Marge answered. “This is a one-of-a-kind piece.”

“We’ll take it,” Holly said. She reached over my shoulder and pulled the necklace right out of the Mall Mom’s grasp.

“Who do you think you are?” the Mall Mom protested, hands on hips.

“Lady, aren’t you late for a lip wax or something?” Holly said impatiently.

The woman turned about six shades of red, spun on her high heels, and stalked away. I made a mental note never to bring Holly to the mall again. She’d clearly hit her other-people threshold for the day.

Handing the necklace over to Marge, Holly stood up straight. “Ring this up, please,” she said politely.

“You can’t be serious,” Marge responded, now holding the necklace away from her like a smelly diaper.

“More serious than a bad hair day,” Holly said, her eyes flicking up to Marge’s perfect bun.

Narrowing her eyes like a true villain, Marge slowly turned toward the cabinet to find a box for the necklace. It was at that moment that I realized I was actually going to get it. It was as good as mine!

“What’s going on over here?” my mother asked, reappearing from around the cash register.

“I found something for Sarah,” I told her. Marge turned and looked from me to my mother and back again.

“Marge, this is my son, Paul. You remember him,” my mother said with a smile.

It was clear from Marge’s stunned, slightly disgusted expression that she did not, in fact, remember me. For a split second I thought she was going to tell my mother what Holly had said to the Mall Mom, but apparently escaping from us was more important to her than tattling. She handed my mother the necklace.

“Good. Then you’ll take care of this, won’t you?” Marge said. “I have some bookkeeping to do.”

She was gone before anyone had a chance to answer her.

“Paul, there’s no way you can afford this,” my mother told me gently.

Holly reached over and slid the necklace from my mother’s fingers, then flipped the price tag over.

“Whoa,” she said. “You sure you don’t want to go back for that pig?”

I glanced at Holly. I had to admit, I didn’t have a lot of disposable cash at the moment—I’d already spent most of my saved-up allowance on the ticket to the Holiday Ball, a new suit, and a red tie with the subtle outline of light strands all over it. But how much could one necklace be?

I looked at the price and gulped.

“I can afford it,” I lied, my voice squeaking out. I
could
afford it. If I got an advance on my next six years’ allowance, sold my entire DVD collection on eBay, started panhandling outside Neiman Marcus, and maybe sold my soul to the devil.

If I did all that
plus
took out a loan against my college fund, then yeah, no problem.

“Well . . . you get an employee discount, right?” I asked my mother in my most innocent voice.

“Ten percent. But Paul, I can’t let you spend that much,” she said.

“But Mom, it’s perfect,” I semiwhined.

“Paul—”

“It’s one of a kind.”

“Paul—”

“Pleeeeeeeeze?”

I’m not ashamed to admit I pulled out the big guns. I threw in the puffed-out bottom lip, the sorrowful puppy-dog eyes. I’m only human.

She took a deep breath. I had her.

“Do you even have the money to pay for this?” she asked.

Okay, so maybe
she
had
me.

“No . . . ,” I admitted. “But I will!”

“So how do you expect to pay for it now?” she asked warily.

I grinned the hopeful grin of penniless kids everywhere. “I was thinking . . . maybe . . . you could put it on your credit card and I could pay you back?”

Holly scoffed unsupportively and my mom blinked. But it wasn’t like this was unheard of. I would never have gotten my dirt bike if she hadn’t charged it and then waited for me to mow a summer’s worth of lawns to pay her back. Which I
had,
by the way. My credit rating was golden!

“All right,” she said finally, taking the necklace from Holly. She shook her head as she walked to the register. “But sweetie, I really hope you’ve thought about this. You’ve just met this girl. Are you sure she’s worth it?”

“Come on, Mrs. Nick,” Holly said. “You’ve met Sarah, right? I bet she’s never in her life gone out with socks that didn’t exactly match the color of her top. She deserves the love of a good man.”

My mother, clearly confused, shook her head and laughed. “All right,” she said. Then all I heard was the glorious sound of the register buttons beeping away. My mother swiped her Visa through the register and the transaction was complete. The necklace was mine!

“You so owe me, Nicholas,” Holly said, turning around and leaning her elbows back on the counter. “You owe me big.”

I smiled my agreement, but I was no longer listening. I was too busy imagining the look of elated adoration that would come over Sarah’s face the moment she opened her one-of-a-kind gift. She’d wear it to the Holiday Ball. And whenever anyone asked her where she’d gotten it, she’d sigh and say, wistfully staring off, “A Christmas gift, from my boyfriend, Paul. He’s not only the most handsome, talented, intelligent guy in school, but he’s the best kisser in the world, he knows
American Pie
by heart, and he rides a skateboard like nobody’s business. How did a girl like me get so lucky?”

This really was going to be the best Christmas ever. My chin was held high and I clutched my Fortunoff bag, feeling like the sugar daddy I was. Okay, it’s tough to be a sugar daddy without a car, but I
had
just laid out serious cash to buy jewels for my woman, so that was something. I was Affleck to her J.Lo. Bobby to her Whitney. Billy Bob to her Angelina.

Okay, never mind.

“God, you are such a geek,” Holly said, grinning at me. “You’d think you just became the first male to give birth or something.”

“Hey, give me a moment to bask in my glory, all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Holly said. “Can we just get out of here already?”

As we approached the center of the mall, the crowd grew thicker, the decibel level louder. We were getting closer to the North Pole. Or the North Pole as re-created by the creative director of Paramus Park. Santa’s red velvet chair was set up in front of a little “snow”-covered hut and surrounded by velvet roping. The music was louder here, but it was almost drowned out by the wails of frightened children. I never understood why some kids were afraid of Santa. According to family lore, I’d taken my first step the second I’d seen him up there waiting for me.

And now I was going to
be
Santa.

“We have to go check this guy out,” I said, making my way around the fenced-off fake snow area.

“Please tell me you are not going to go sit on Santa’s lap.”

“Give me a little credit,” I shot back. “I just want to see if they got an actual old guy instead of some zit-infected fifteen-year-old. Whoever it is will be showing me the ropes next week.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to be Santa,” Holly said as she followed me. “It’s like hero worship in its purest form.”

When we came around the corner of the roped-off area, my stomach clenched with disappointment. Santa was sitting on his big red velvet throne with a pudgy-faced kid on his lap. His bowl-full-of-jelly padding was convincing enough and his beard was somewhat genuine looking, but it was totally clear to me that underneath it all, the guy was not in the Santa spirit. He looked bored. And he was not ho-ho-hoing.

“Okay, I hear ya. You want a pony,” he said to his knee rider. He wasn’t even trying to mask his clearly adolescent voice. “But what are you going to listen to on your personal CD player while you’re
riding
your pony?”

The kid gave him a blank-eyed stare, folding his fingers together in his lap.

“That’s right!” Santa announced, reaching down into a box at the side of his throne. He pulled out a cheap CD jewel case and handed it to the kid. “You’re gonna listen to
Santa’s
favorite rapper, Scooby. Scooby is way cool. And this is his first album! All ya gotta do is ask your mom to give me nine ninety-nine plus tax and you can listen to Santa’s favorite music!”

The kid’s eyes grew bright. He jumped off Santa’s lap and ran off, waving the CD above his head. “Mom! Mom! I need nine ninety-nine plus tax!”