5. Cinnamon Twist
5
Cinnamon Twist
Santa’s station wasn’t too busy during weekdays. The early birds got their worm (and photo) and got out. I spent most of the afternoon giving directions to mall goers. Jolly Santa waved at the kids walking by, chatting amicably with Mr. Hoynes about substitute teaching.
I climbed onto a fake present next to where Chestnut rested against a planter of poinsettias. “Did you see another one of the charity trees sold? It was the one with all the dog treat ornaments. I think it’s from the animal shelter.”
“That makes sense.” Chestnut craned his neck to peer around our trees and yawned.
I nudged him with my giant shoe. “So, what would you ask Santa for this year?”
“A hot date with a hot guy.” He gestured to his red and green uniform. “But this outfit isn’t doing me any favors.”
I laughed. “Stop saying that. It’s for the kids.”
He rolled his eyes and plucked his tunic-shirt. “And somehow, you still manage to attract all the single dads.”
“I guess.” I dangled my legs back and forth, trying not to think about the last time that happened. Why did people always peg me as a troublemaker?
“Hey, you could get a sugar daddy.” He flicked the fuzzy tip of my cap. “Hang up your hat. Bet he’d want you to keep the outfit for dress-up.”
“I like my job.” I tugged the hat over my brow. “And I don’t think of any of the parents like that.” A dad was different from a 'Daddy.' Most dads saw girls like me as easy targets: free babysitting, affection vending machines, any kindness confirming they 'still had it.' A 'daddy' would care about my job, my feelings, and what I needed… not just if he could 'get' me.
Then there were 'non-daddy' guys like barista meanie who didn’t want to take care of me in any capacity. Not that I needed a lot. Anything beyond casual dating usually increased my anxiety. But I did miss hand-holding. Hand-swinging, more accurately.
Chestnut frowned. “Why do you like this job so much? We work at the mall. Basically minimum wage, dealing with kids and entitled parents, and I’m barely exercising my theater degree in progress.”
“It’s all about your attitude.” I watched the families strolling through the mall: parents carrying tired kids; friends telling each other they look great in whatever they bought, teens telling jokes on their way to the movie theater. Tons of examples of love and happiness.
Being at the mall made me feel alive. It showed me the infinite varieties of life. Let me be part of an experience.
Chestnut and the barista would probably think that was too cheesy.
I tapped my toes together for the reassuring tinkle of bells. “I don’t know. It’s magic.” I glanced over my shoulder at Santa and the sparkly ornaments. “I always used to look forward to winter because of the transformations. Everyone was so nice and the decorations were so pretty. But my family stopped taking me to visit Santa in sixth grade. When I did come to the mall, no one wanted to wait in line or look at the decorations with me.”
“Why?”
I sighed and looked up at the hanging snowflakes. “My cousin Zack said it was embarrassing. I was too big to sit in a stranger’s lap."
“Try telling that to the single dads.” Chestnut snickered.
I pushed him towards the poinsettia plants.
Mr. Hoynes waved his clipboard. “Sugarplum, go take ten. Err–check on Dasher.”
“Do you think I’m in trouble?” I whispered to Chestnut, slipping off the giant present.
“Nah, he probably just wants us both here for the post-dinner rush.” Chestnut yawned behind his fist and resettled against the planter.
“Want me to grab you a coffee again?”
“Would you? Thanks.” He clapped the side of my arm.
My heart skipped a beat, and it wasn’t because of Chestnut’s touch. That barista… Would he remember me?
I gnawed my way through a candy cane on my power walk from the break room to the coffee shop. Inside, the tall guy with the olive cap stood at the register. My chest tightened. I hid a couple feet behind people in line and held my breath.
Maybe he didn’t see me. Although he would when I went up to order. Maybe they had a mobile app? Just as I pulled out my phone to check, a woman shouldered her way past me.
“Excuse me,” I sputtered.
The lady fanned herself with her coat and craned her neck to see past the few people ahead.
I frowned and scooted up so no one else would bypass me. Maybe she thought I wasn’t in line, just looking at the menu or waiting for someone. Whatever. It wasn’t worth getting all worked up over. Wiping my sweaty palms on my jacket, I started ordering on the app to see if that would be faster. Should I put ‘Sugarplum’ on the name portion? It was less common. And it might make someone smile. I chewed my lip.
The lady in front of me didn’t wait for Olive Hat Guy to greet her. “I’ll take two cinnamon twists.”
He scratched his forearm. “We sold out of cinnamon twists this morning. Can I interest in you in some–”
“What do you mean you ran out? It’s on the menu.” She jabbed a finger at the hanging sign behind him.
“Yes.” He sighed. “Everything is ‘while supplies last.’ Those sell out fast.”
“You’re supposed to bake daily.”
“We do,” he said flatly.
She flicked her wrist to shoo him away. “So, go in the back and make some more bread.”
“We can’t just–”
“Yes, you can. I’m a paying customer, and I want cinnamon bread.” She crossed her arms. “Can you do your job or do I need to speak to your manager?”
I tightened my grip on my phone, my pulse skyrocketing. How did people get like this? It reminded me of when parents yelled at me about wait times or that rude lady accused me of hitting on a dad. Anger didn’t help the situation. There was nothing I could do about it. There was probably nothing Olive Hat Man could do about this situation, either.
This was bread . She ought to show some compassion.
His nostrils flared. “Ma’am, our policy–”
“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me! I’m a Top Reviewer. Can I expect you to be able to do this simple thing? I mean, if it always sells out, why wouldn’t you bake more? Doesn’t your company know that? What’s your name? I want to report this.”
I shimmied out to address her. “If you’re looking for something sweet, the carrot cake is–”
The woman whipped around. “Did I ask for your opinion?”
“N-no, but…” I ground my teeth as she turned to lay into the barista again. I wouldn’t let her get away with this. My voice and body trembled with determination. “If you keep being mean, I’m going to tell my manager.”
“And who’s that?” she scoffed.
I unzipped my coat and flung it open, my uniform swishing around my popped hip. “Santa Clause.”