Chapter When I was fifteen （1982）
When I was fifteen
I glanced at the alarm clock next to my bed.
Almost midnight. That meant he could already be downstairs.
I could still remember how wonderful I’d felt two Christmas Eves ago when I’d crept into the living room to discover it hadn’t been a dream, and Santa was standing by the fireplace, drinking milk.
And the following year, there he’d been again.
Part of me reasoned there would come a day when I’d walk in there and the room would be empty—I was fifteen, and childhood was slipping through my fingers like sand on a beach—but until that day came, I meant to enjoy every chance I got to see him.
I snuck a peek at Ben, but he was fast asleep. I threw back the comforter, and walked as silently as I could manage to the door, praying it wouldn’t creak. Once outside the room, I could hear muffled sounds from below.
He’s here.
I ran down the stairs and into the warm living room. Then I saw why it was warm—he’d lit a fire.
“How can you go up the chimney if there’s a fire going?” I asked.
Santa turned his head to give me that glorious smile. “Good to see you too, Anthony. And if you remember, that wasn’t how I left you the past three Christmas Eves.” There was that familiar twinkle. “What did I tell you about not believing everything you hear?”
I went over to the rug in front of the fire and sat cross-legged on it. “So you really can do magic?”
“How else do you think I can do this job?” Santa sat in my dad’s wide, padded armchair, still holding the glass of milk. “You’ve grown since last year.”
I snorted. “Yeah. Mom keeps complaining about how often she needs to take me clothes shopping.”
He gave a nod. “I prefer these pajamas. Star Wars is very popular.”
I beamed. “Mom let me choose them. I told her I was too old to have her choose everything I wear.”
Santa smiled. “Fifteen. Oh my. You must be dating by now.”
My stomach clenched. “No, I’m not.”
His brows furrowed. “Why not? You’re a fine-looking young man. There must be plenty of girls wanting to date you.”
As much as I’d enjoyed our previous three encounters, I wasn’t ready to bare my soul. Three short conversations about school, books, movies… that was okay, but I wasn’t happy about getting into the personal stuff.
Especially that stuff.
He keeps telling me I shouldn’t believe all I hear. Well, who knows what he’s really like? Maybe Santa has different ideas.
Maybe Santa was like my parents. Now there was a thought.
To my relief, he held up his hand. “It’s okay, Anthony. You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s not of my business. But… are you happy?”
“Yes and no. But I really don’t want to talk about this.” My stomach roiled.
“That’s fine. Then we won’t.” His eyes met mine, and for a second, it felt as though he could see into my heart. “But if there comes a Christmas Eve when you need to talk to someone, I’ll be here, okay?”
He meant it. I could hear it in his voice.
My throat tightened. “Thank you,” I croaked.
He pointed to the plate on the mantelpiece. “I left you a cookie, same as last year.”
That made me smile. “Thanks. Chocolate chip this year, right?”
He grinned. “Delicious.” Then he cocked his head. “Ben stopped believing in me, didn’t he?”
I nodded, amazed as always at how he knew stuff. “But then, he doesn’t know what I know.” My secret brought warmth and comfort to me, especially on those days when nothing went right. Our fourth encounter was every bit as magical as the first, and I loved how… right it felt to talk with him.
“This chat will have to be shorter than the last times,” Santa confided. “I seem to have more deliveries to make than ever before.” He rose to his feet. “But I’ll be here next year.”
“Do you have to go right now?”
He frowned. “Is something wrong?”
I bit my lip, then held my arms wide. “Could… could I have a hug?”
He smiled. “Of course you can.”
I leaped to my feet, hurrying over to wrap my arms around him.
He enfolded me in a tight hug, and I was surrounded by warmth.
There was a scent that clung to his cloak, something I couldn’t place, but it seeped into me, calming my nerves, instilling in me a sense of optimism that things really would turn out okay.
“Have a good day tomorrow.” His voice rumbled through his chest.
“Thank you. And you, have a rest.”
He laughed as he released me. “You can be sure of that.” He clicked his fingers, and he was gone.
I stared at the spot where he’d stood.
Maybe next year I’ll be brave enough. I couldn’t find the courage to tell my parents, but maybe I could tell Santa I thought I was gay.