22
The carnival section of the festival hums with a cheerful vibe.
Just behind the big Christmas tree, the buzz of neon signs, the clatter of tokens spilling into metal trays, and the digital bleeps of a dozen arcade machines compete for attention with the piped-in Christmas tunes.
The air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and greasy pizza, just like a childhood memory.
The Skee-Ball machines are at an outside stall, next to a stall where players throw darts at balloons.
As Robbie sinks another five-hundred-point shot on the Skee-Ball machine, I’m starting to think the time-loop gods are messing with me. The old-school game erupts with a triumphant retro melody, and its lights flash on and off to announce Robbie’s winning score.
“Fine. Best out of five,” I groan.
“MGS is a bit rusty,” Robbie teases. “Old age will do that to you.”
I hip-check him out of the way for my turn.
“Watch it,” he grumbles, rubbing his leg. “Hope you’ve got collision insurance for those hips.”
I snicker. “Be prepared to be dominated, Robbie Morrow.” I bend my knees, winding up my pitch.
“I like when you talk tough,” he whispers into my ear.
The heat of his breath on my neck and the closeness of his body make me jolt. I yelp as the Skee-Ball slips from my hand and launches backward instead of forward.
Someone behind me curses in shock, and the live holiday music that had been playing abruptly stops.
I whip around to find the source of the yelling—a man in a Christmas tree costume is clutching his guitar like a shield. His mouth hangs open in shock between cheeks painted with ornaments. I realize, with dread, I almost hit his guitar. Or worse—him.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
The man glares at me. “Yes, but your ball almost hit my guitar.”
Before I can reply, Robbie points. “Uh… I think it hit that instead.”
I follow his gaze to a wooden Santa Claus cutout. I wince. The Skee-Ball has cracked Santa’s neck clean across.
Santa’s head now droops sickly to the side.
“That’s going to haunt kids’ nightmares,” Robbie says, clearly amused.
I cover my face and groan. “I almost decapitated Santa!”
“Good thing you missed my guitar,” the musician mutters, setting his instrument on a stand and tugging off his star-topper hat. He wipes his sweaty forehead—just as a loud snap splits the air.
I scream as Santa’s wooden head tips forward and lands face-first onto the guitar with an earsplitting crack.
The crash echoes, the wooden body of the guitar splintering beneath Santa’s weight. Its strings splay out in twisted directions like tangled Christmas tree lights.
“What did you do?” The man’s horrified gaze goes from his ruined instrument to me.
“I’m so sorry,” I cry, rushing toward him. “I’ll buy you another one, sir!”
Robbie appears at my side. He’s already holding out a business card. “My parents own Morrow Music in Hopewell Crossing. We can try to fix this one. Or replace it. Whatever you need.”
The man’s anguished face, ornaments and all, softens at Robbie’s calm tone.
“I’ve been to your family’s shop. Great place.” He scratches his head. “I’ll take you up on your offer.”
I sigh with relief.
“Except…” the guitarist says, eyeing the destroyed instrument, another wave of anguish crashing on his face. “Man, this is bad. First my singer ditches for Christmas with his ex, then my keyboardist calls out with the flu, and now this. Christmas is ruined.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my stomach souring.
“Santa’s tree-lighting ceremony!” the guy moans, the ornaments around his head jingling. “We were the supposed to be his live music. It starts in ten minutes and there’s no one to play and I can’t sing.”
Oh no. I look beyond him to the Christmas tree.
Crowds have already begun to gather around the low stage before it.
I remember Mrs. Morales saying that Santa’s tree lighting is a big deal, the whole reason they attended the festival today in the first place.
But now they won’t have their live music, because of me.
Christmas really is ruined.
I look at Robbie guiltily, but I can already see the wheels turning in his head. “The tree lighting ceremony needs musicians?”
“Just three songs,” the guy says. “Santa’s entrance, the tree lighting, and Santa’s exit. It wasn’t going to be a big deal, but we have to have music for Santa!”
Robbie smiles. Of course, I know what he’s thinking.
“We got you,” he says to the guy. “Just Christmas songs, right? Any one will do?”
“Yes,” the guy says, “but what are you saying—”
“Don’t worry. We’re professionals.” Robbie turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. Jolts of energy shoot through my arms. “Ready to save Christmas, MGS?”
“No.” I whisper shout at Robbie as he walks me toward the stage. “Absolutely not.”
Despite the chill in the air, my palms are sweating.
“It’s just three songs.” He grins at me. I recognize the light in his eyes—performing brings him to life.
Me, on the other hand, I’m melting like a snowman in summer.
“You’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly, but his words have zero effect on me.
“Robbie, no—” I chase after him, but before I can finish my statement a frazzled-looking woman appears before us. She’s wearing a holiday red suit, an earpiece headphone, and a too-wide panicked smile.
“Are you the pair who are saving Christmas?” she asks, glancing between us. I must look as terrified as she does.
“Yes, we are. I’m a professional Broadway musician,” Robbie says with confidence, “and Marygrace is… one of my bandmates.”
“Terrific.” The woman thrusts the microphone in my hands. “The keyboard is already set up behind you. Stay where you are, I’m going to get you costumes.”
“Robbie,” I hiss when she’s gone.
“What?” He grins at me. “It’s true. We were in the same band in school.”
“In high school,” I protest, nerves flaring up inside my chest. “That was over eight years ago!”
Even though it’s likely that everything happening today will get erased thanks to my time-loop curse, this still feels very real.
And no matter where I wake up tomorrow morning, I’ll still remember this moment and probably relive bombing out onstage, just like what happened at the Battle of the Bands, except this time in front of the entire town of Piney Junction—Jamie included—for years in the future.
Oh god, Jamie. I lift onto my tiptoes and scan the crowd. Where is he? He’s probably upset at me for ditching him for so long.
“Hey.” Robbie grabs my arm, grounding me. “MGS, what’s going on?”
I look up into his brown eyes, wishing I had the same kind of calm he did. I take a big breath and confess to him. “I haven’t sung in public since the Battle of the Bands.”
“Wait.” He draws back, brow furrowed in confusion. “That can’t be right—”
Robbie’s face drains of color. He exhales, shaky and unsteady, like the memory still has teeth.
“Oh no, Marygrace.” His words are barely a whisper. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I remember that day vividly. I’m sorry. I feel terrible for insisting you sing. You were right when you yelled at me. I was an asshole.”
The pain on his face is immediate and unmistakable, and it squeezes something tight in my chest.
“You didn’t know,” I say gently, remembering the way this fight played out in the last cycle. I won’t let it end the same way. “You were just trying to help me do something for myself. I shouldn’t have been so focused on Dale’s band. I should have fought for myself… not him.”
He shakes his head anyway, stubborn as ever. “You have an amazing singing voice. When you quit glee club, I was so sad I never heard it again.” He swallows. “But I was wrong to push you.”
Then he looks at me, really looks at me. No teasing. No bravado. Just sincerity.
“You don’t have to sing tonight,” he says. “I’m never going to force you—or guilt you—into doing anything you don’t want to do. Ever again.”
I suck in a deep breath, the weight of his words settling somewhere tender. It feels like an apology, but also like a promise.
“I didn’t hear that message that day, Robbie,” I admit. “All I heard was someone insisting he was helping, when what it sounded like was that he didn’t believe in me.”
His forehead creases with concern. “No. That’s not what I meant at all.” He stops, recalibrates. “I meant you’re so good. I wanted everyone else to hear it, too.”
I nod slowly. “I see that now.” I pause.
The realization lands softly but firmly, like something clicking into place.
This whole time loop—it’s been about choosing who to love, yes.
But I’m also learning about choosing what makes me happy and trusting my voice again, in every sense of the word.
I hold his gaze. “Back then, the real problem was that I didn’t believe in myself. ”
The distant crackle of speakers pulls me back. “Five minutes until the Santa tree lighting,” someone announces.
“Marygrace, you absolutely don’t have to perform if you don’t want to,” Robbie says. “I can handle it.”
The crowd has thickened, pressing closer. Even from the stage, I can feel the energy building, Christmas magic humming in the air.
I close my eyes for half a second. It’s like the Battle of the Bands all over again, but this time I want to sing.
This is Christmas. And I love Christmas. I can do Christmas songs in my sleep.
I open my eyes and meet Robbie’s gaze. “I’m game, RoMo,” I say, my voice steadier than I expect. “Let’s save Christmas.”
The smile that spreads across his face is pure, unguarded joy, and it sends a flutter straight through my chest.
“Let’s do this, MGS.”
We grin at each other. And my heart brims with happiness at the thought of performing with my best friend again.