Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Max
Narrator: The back spasms have not stopped since his trip over the table.
The embarrassment he felt has yet to subside.
And the humiliation of Storee telling Betty he likes her eyes is the only thing that has kept him from sticking his head in a pile of snow, because he saw the look on her face.
He saw the blush in her cheeks.
He heard the compliment about his eyebrows.
It gives him hope. Hope that their plan might work. That he might be able to create enough time for Martha and Mae to find something, anything to block them from creating this farm.
Only time will tell.
Storee: Reporting in.
Max: Christ, it took you long enough. I’ve been thinking about your talk with her all day.
Storee: I know. The seventeen texts asking were unnecessary.
Max: Sorry if I feel like you’re the key to saving my farm. And it was sixteen texts.
Storee: Remember what I told you about being dramatic?
Max: You’re right, I’m sorry. This morning was humiliating, and I think I was trying to see if I fucked it all up.
Storee: No, I think the trip over the table was perfection.
She seemed genuinely concerned. I told her you would be thinking about it all day, and she was surprised by that.
I then gave her a brief, and I mean very brief, snapshot of who you are and how you took Cole in but left it at that. Planted the seeds.
Max: And now I need to water them.
Storee: Please, let’s not be corny.
Max: You’re the one who said “planted the seeds.”
Storee: And like always, you’re the one who took it too far. You could have just left it at that.
Max: You’re right. I’m sorry again. So it went well?
Storee: Yeah . . . she’s actually . . . really kind of cool.
Max: Um, pardon?
Storee: I’m serious, she’s cool. Sweet. Fun to talk to. Has a sense of humor . . .
Max: Are you sure we’re talking about the same person, because the soda wielder I know has no sense of humor and is a beast when it comes to soft beverages.
Storee: We’re talking about the same person. I could see you two getting along.
Max: Oh no, you don’t. Don’t be getting any ideas. This wooing is pure business. There is nothing personal about it.
Storee: I know. But just let me state it now: If you were to date, she’d be a great match. I could see you two having a lot of fun together. I don’t think she’s this hard-ass that you think she is.
Max: I don’t think she’s a hard-ass. I think she’s a devil. The mistress of sin.
Storee: You’re being dramatic, but I’ll just let her change your mind, because mark my words, it will happen.
Max: Anyone trying to put my family out of business will always be the devil to me.
Storee: Very mature.
Max: We’re getting off track. Enough about this stupid attraction thing. We’re on a mission, and that mission is to bide time and make her feel guilty for what she’s doing. So the seeds have been planted. What’s next?
Storee: Another BTMC of course.
Max: And this is why I’m working with you.
Storee: No, you’re working with me because I’m the only one who would.
Max: A simple “you’re right” would have sufficed.
Betty
Storee: I’m on the right-hand side of the bleachers. Got a spot for you.
Betty: Thank you, see you there.
Gosh, it’s busy. I shut my car door and close my jacket tighter as I make my way through the high school parking lot toward the gymnasium.
During my coffee with Storee, she was telling me all about the Christmas Kringle competition and how it’s one of the best things to experience while living in Kringle.
She said that all the competitions are open to the public.
What better way to experience the town than with a Christmas competition?
So she invited me to watch the fruitcake challenge with her.
Never had any serious thoughts about fruitcake—I always hear how bad it is—so it might be fun to see if these competitors can change my mind.
I open the door to the high school and follow the signs toward the Christmas Kringle competition, taking in how even the halls are decorated for Christmas. Is it like this year-round? Or just for the season?
What I like is that they made a garland out of cutout hands.
It seems they traced every hand in the school on green construction paper, stapled them all together, and taped them to the top of the wall.
It’s a really festive and inexpensive way to decorate that adds character to the space.
Not to mention every door is decorated as well but with different movie themes.
The Home Alone one is my favorite because they have Harry sticking his head out of a fake doggie door.
Obsessed.
When I find the gymnasium, there’s a coat check at the door.
Fancy.
I give them my coat and then make my way to the right side of the bleachers, where I see Storee, Cole, Florence, and . . . ugh . . . Atlas.
Why?
She spots me and waves, so I put on my smiley face and head on up to them. Storee offers me a hug, and I give Cole a small wave.
“Good to see you,” he says in a generic way.
Atlas is next with his no-teeth smile. I return it and then take a seat next to Storee. Evelyn is with her sister. I know this because Storee said her sister wanted baby time.
“Wow, this is intense,” I say as I take in the scene in front of me.
Rubber mats run along the gym floor while five individual cooking stations are set up, one right next to the other, equipped with a working sink, burners, and ovens. It’s like The Great British Baking Show, but right here in Kringletown, Colorado.
“Oh, it’s very intense. Just wait. They just did the intros, and they’re about to start the competition. That man over there in the red Santa suit—that’s Bob Krampus.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him around a bit. He’s like the town mayor, right?”
“Yup. He’s a good guy to have on your side. You don’t want to mess with him or his town, or Christmas for that matter. He takes it very seriously.”
Noted.
“And that guy over there in the black galoshes, holding the shovel, that’s his son, Bob Krampus Junior, or BKJ as everyone calls him.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him around. Uncle Dwight has pointed him out.”
“Very nice guy, but also serious about the work they do here in the town. And that . . .” She pauses and then swats her hand over her face. “Dear God in heaven. Cole, is that you?”
I lean over to look at Cole, who is holding Florence.
“Fuck no, that’s your daughter.”
“What is happening?” Storee asks.
“Do you want me to take care of it?” Atlas asks, about to take Florence.
“Uh . . . let me check.” Cole pulls open the back of her pants and then snaps them back shut. “Nope, you’ll gag like the last time you tried to help.”
Atlas squeezes his nose with his fingers, making me smirk, because what a stupid and ridiculous thing to do. “Don’t remind me.”
“Babe, I think this might be a two-person job. Grab the diaper bag,” Cole says.
“Uh, excuse me while I take care of my daughter’s bowel movements.”
Storee and Cole work their way past us, leaving a wave of stench in their path. Oof, good luck to them.
Atlas glances over at me, and I glance over at him, only to quickly turn away as an awkward and unsettling feeling sets in.
I hope they’re back soon.
Because I can’t imagine sitting here the whole time, with Atlas that close and having to—
“This your first time at a Christmas Kringle competition?” I hear him ask.
Great, let the awkward conversation commence. I’m not good at this. I’ll ramble. I know I will. Not to mention I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t know what to say.
Maybe if I keep it short and sweet, he will get the hint.
“Yup,” I say, keeping my eyes facing forward.
“Not mine. Been to many.”
Good for him.
“Probably because you lived here your whole life,” I say, and it comes off bitchier than I want it to.
And even though I’m not a fan of Atlas Maxheimer, it doesn’t mean I should make snide comments.
So I look in his direction and attempt to adjust the tone of my voice and the sharpness of my words.
“Which, you know, gives you time to attend such events like this all the time, but people who just come to visit, it’s hit or miss, you know, but you live here so you get to go all the time, and that’s neat. ”
That’s neat?
Yup, let the rambling begin.
“It is neat,” he says with a nod as his eyes dart away. “I was actually in the Christmas Kringle competition last year.” He makes eye contact with me. “I won.”
I don’t know why, but the way he says it with such pride, like he’s flashing a gold medal he won at the Olympics, makes me laugh. Which in turn causes his brows to turn down.
His bushy brows.
“I’m serious. I won. You can ask anyone around us.” He taps the guy in front of us. “Who won the Christmas Kringle last year?”
The man with a rather thick mustache under his nose looks Atlas up and down. “I don’t know . . . Santa Claus?” Then he turns around on a huff, causing me to laugh even harder.
“Clearly not a townie,” Atlas grumbles. “I can look it up on my phone.”
“It’s fine. I believe you.”
“But do you really?”
“Does it actually matter?” I ask. “Not even sure why we’re talking to each other.”
He shrugs. “Awkward silence.”
“Not really silent. The competition has started,” I say.
He glances out toward the gym and then back at me. “Guess so.” Then he leans forward on his quads and focuses on the competition, leaving the awkward silence to fill up between us again.
I’ll be honest, I don’t like awkward silence either, but I know if I let myself try to fill it, I’ll end up saying things that I shouldn’t be saying or that I don’t want to be saying to him.
Like . . . how when I was six, there was a brief, and I mean very brief, moment in my life that I would collect my hair from when I got it cut, and I would put it in a clear box as a memento.
That’s not something anyone needs to know.
But that’s what the rambling does to me.