Chapter 3
JOY
Istood in the elementary school cafeteria holding a clipboard like it was a shield, trying to look like I had any clue what I was doing.
The smell of lingering fish sticks and crappy tater tots hung in the air.
Or maybe that was my own childhood trauma.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that special shade of institutional beige that made everyone look slightly ill.
I had gone to this school just like every other kid in Calton Hill.
We only had one elementary school in town.
I supposed that could be a good thing. Everyone knew everyone.
We all had to be friends. There were no rivalries with other schools—except for Templeton.
They were about fifty miles away. They beat us almost every year in high school football.
I looked around the cafeteria that was still the same as it was twenty years ago. I remembered standing in line and someone let out a bunch of frogs. It was chaos. Another time I tripped and fell and my mashed potatoes flew and landed on Cindy Levine. They got all in her blond hair.
Boy had she been pissed.
Another time I spilled my juice and it soaked Bobby Bishop’s lap. He had to walk around looking like he peed his pants for an hour.
The place held many memories for me but I couldn’t call them fond.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Joy Murphy,” Aunt Victoria announced to the small crowd of volunteers scattered around folding tables covered with poster board and markers. “She’s going to be taking over as our new Yuletide Festival organizer.”
I forced what I hoped was a confident smile and gave a little wave. Inside, I was screaming. Every pair of eyes in the room turned to study me like I was a science experiment gone wrong.
“Oh, wonderful!” chirped Mrs. Clark, the first-grade teacher who still wore seasonal sweaters with actual jingle bells sewn on them. “We have so many ideas for this year’s festival. The pet parade needs to be moved to earlier in the day because last year Mr. Hunter’s goat got loose and—”
“Actually,” interrupted a woman with perfectly blown-out hair who I vaguely remembered from high school.
She was definitely a mean girl. I couldn’t remember her name.
She must have traumatized me and I blocked her out of my memory for good.
“I think we should focus on the craft booths first. The spacing was terrible last year. My sister-in-law couldn’t even fit her jewelry display properly, and she paid the same booth fee as everyone else. ”
A man in a flannel shirt raised his hand. “What about parking? We need more parking. People were walking six blocks last year just to—”
“The real issue,” cut in another voice, “is the sound system. Nobody could hear the quartet over by the gazebo.”
I stood there nodding like a bobblehead, my smile growing more strained by the second. These people had opinions about everything, and they all seemed to think I had magical solutions tucked away in my back pocket.
I didn’t even know what they were talking about. All their complaints meant nothing to me without context.
“Those are all… great points,” I managed. “Maybe we could, um, make a list?”
Aunt Victoria mercifully stepped in. “Why don’t we focus on getting these posters made first? Joy, the cocoa station is all set up for you over there.” She pointed to a table in the corner where I could see hotplates and what looked like an industrial-sized can of cocoa mix.
Right. Cocoa. How hard could that be?
I made my way over to the station, grateful for something concrete to do. The setup looked simple enough—three electric hotplates, a stack of paper cups, and a can of cocoa powder the size of a paint bucket. There were also several pitchers for water and some plastic spoons for stirring.
I filled the first pitcher at the sink and carried it back to the hotplates. So far, so good. I plugged in the first hotplate and set a large pot on top, then poured in the water. While I waited for it to heat up, I wrestled with the industrial can of cocoa powder.
The thing weighed about twenty pounds and had a lid that apparently required an engineering degree to open. I twisted, I pulled, I considered finding a hammer, but finally the stupid thing popped free with enough force to send cocoa powder puffing into the air like a chocolate dust storm.
I was still coughing and wiping cocoa from my face when I saw one of the kids staring at me. She actually shook her head before walking away.
“Oh girl, you have no idea how fucked up life is going to be,” I muttered under my breath.
I got started with heating water, managing to spill some. The water mixed with the cocoa powder spread over the silly plastic tablecloth with snowmen all over it. Now, it looked like the snowmen had pooped everywhere.
Great. Fucking awesome.
Ten minutes later, I found a rhythm. Kind of. It was messy but I’d managed to serve about ten cups of cocoa.
The cocoa wasn’t supposed to be smoking. I was ninety percent sure about that.
But it was. Smoke curled up from the battered silver hot plate.
It smelled less like chocolate and more like burnt marshmallow.
And plastic. I was no expert on cocoa making but something told me it was bad.
I waved my hand through the air like a lunatic trying to clear it, but instead the smoke thickened, and the smoke detector overhead began to shriek.
“Perfect,” I muttered. “First event of the Yuletide Festival, and I’ve burned boiling water. I’m making history.”
Kids squealed, teachers gasped, and the shrill alarm echoed off the cinderblock walls of the elementary school multipurpose room. The smell of something burning filled the air. It was an acrid, sour smell that I had a feeling was going to linger for a long time.
My aunt, bless her unflappable soul, unplugged the hot plate. “It’s fine,” she said over the alarm. “Nobody died.”
“Yet,” I said. “Give me five more minutes and I’ll burn the building down.”
The teachers were already shepherding the kids toward the exit, their voices rising above the alarm.
“Come on, let’s go outside! You guys know what to do. Out to the parking lot!”
“Everybody line up, mittens on!”
“Leave the markers!”
Unlike me, the kids weren’t panicked. Not in the least. They were thrilled. They moved toward the doors like they were part of a parade. They were laughing and making jokes about the lady that was burning down their school.
Me. I’m the lady that’s going to burn down the school.
I grabbed a rag and dabbed at the spill that had started it all—half a scoop of powdered cocoa, tipped onto the burner when I leaned too far while stirring. Apparently, cocoa mix turns into an angry little smoke bomb when given direct heat. The water hit the cord and shit just went all to hell.
I was humiliated. “This is another job AI will take and I will happily give it. I’m a hazard to myself.”
“Joy.” My aunt’s hand settled on my shoulder. “Stop fussing. Just let it air out. There’s no harm done. We can get a new hotplate.”
“I can’t believe I did this,” I whispered, watching the last kid dart out the double doors. “This was supposed to be cocoa and cookies. Fun and cozy. Instead, it’s smoke and chaos. I shouldn’t be anywhere near an event with children. Or anything flammable.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said, tugging the rag from my hand. “They’re having the time of their lives. Look.”
I followed her outside. The cold air slapped my cheeks.
The playground stretched white and untouched beyond the shoveled walkways.
The kids were already in it, rolling snow into lopsided boulders instead of lining up in the parking lot.
Everyone knew there wasn’t a real fire. Some kids collapsed to the ground and started to make snow angels.
Others were pelting each other with snowballs while the adults tried to maintain a semblance of order.
Their laughter drowned out the alarm still blaring inside the building.
“They’re supposed to be drinking cocoa,” I muttered.
“They’re supposed to be happy,” Aunt Victoria corrected. “And they are. Happier than if they were sitting at tables coloring posters. Look at them. Today’s event is supposed to be fun. There are no rules.”
I crossed my arms against the cold, fighting the urge to shrink into myself. “I’m not cut out for this. First event and I already look like a complete disaster. I think you need to pass the torch to someone else.”
“First event and no one got hurt, the children are laughing, and you discovered that cocoa powder smokes a lot. I call that a success.”
I groaned. “Only you could spin a fire hazard as a life lesson.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s what coordinators do.”
Before I could respond, the distant wail of sirens split the air.
Oh no.
Every kid froze mid-snowball and turned toward the street, eyes wide. And then they cheered. Full-throated, gleeful cheers, like a celebrity was about to walk the red carpet.
The fire truck rounded the corner, lights blazing against the snow, siren yowling. It felt a little dramatic for my little cocoa catastrophe.
“I’m going to melt into this snowbank,” I muttered.
There wasn’t actually a fire. But because it was a school and the freaking fire alarm was going off, the fire department had to respond.
“Don’t you dare,” Aunt Victoria said, patting my back. “Stand up straight. They’re just doing their job.”
“They’re doing their job because I spilled Swiss Miss on a burner. And then water on an electrical cord while using a hot plate manufactured in the fifties.”
She ignored me and watched the scene unfold. My face felt fire-engine red.
The truck pulled up in front of the school. Kids went berserk, jumping and waving like they’d summoned Santa himself. And then the first firefighter climbed down from the truck, and my humiliation found brand-new depths.
Of course. Of all the firefighters in this town, it had to be him.
Cooper Frost.
My lungs forgot how to function for a second.
In his coat, his shoulders looked broader than I remembered.
His jaw was just as sharp, his sandy hair just as unfairly good.
Cooper Frost, my high school crush. The one I could never have because he was my best friend’s brother.
The one I had spent years carefully avoiding while secretly daydreaming about him anyway.
“Oh my,” Aunt Victoria said in a delighted whisper. “Is that little Cooper Frost?”
I choked. “Do not call him little.”
There was nothing little about the man. My God.
I thought boys stopped growing at sixteen. I was certain he must have had a growth spurt after I left.
He was huge.
She grinned like a cat. “I haven’t seen him since he was all knees and elbows.”
“Well, he’s not knees and elbows anymore,” I hissed.
My face felt hot despite the cold. The fire alarm had gone mercifully silent behind us, but my embarrassment was just warming up. Cooper was striding across the snow with a purpose, two additional firemen behind him.
And me? I did what any rational adult woman would do in this situation.
I ducked behind a snowman.
The snowman was short and lumpy, leaning to one side, with two rocks for eyes. I crouched behind it anyway, hoping maybe Cooper would be too distracted by the children to notice the idiot who caused this.
Aunt Victoria’s laughter floated over the snow. “Joy, you’re hiding.”
“No, I’m… inspecting this snowman,” I muttered from behind its crooked head. “Very professional coordinator thing to do.”
She just chuckled.
I peeked over the snowman’s rounded shoulder. Cooper was kneeling now, talking to a kid who pointed dramatically at the school building. He listened, nodded, then stood, sweeping his gaze across the snowy playground.
I ducked again.
If he saw me, if he realized it was me who set off the alarm with bad cocoa making, I might actually combust.
Some crushes faded. Some high school embarrassments turned blurry with time and distance.
But Cooper Frost? He had been the sun in my teenage solar system.
Too bright to look at directly, too far out of reach.
And now he was very real and very close.
And the first impression I got to give him as an adult was that I was still a klutz and I nearly burned down a school.
Not the best setting for a reunion.