Chapter 5
Iwas right on the money.
Inviting Ally to the pageant-planning committee meeting (which consists of exactly four people: me, Eben, Ally, and Missy) was the best idea I’ve ever had.
Mainly because, when Allison gets involved, she takes over, and I can sit back and space out.
Or, in this case, hang the ornaments I bought from the flea market, plus a few things from home I thought might perk up their scraggly Charlie Brown tree.
I add gold, red, and green glass ornaments, a few strands of tinsel, and a red velvet ribbon.
I drape pre-lit garland over the mantle and set out a few gold candleholders, though I hope to God no one lights them.
I don’t need to be responsible for burning the place down.
When I’m done, I take a few steps back to admire my handiwork.
It’s not the Plaza Hotel, but I’ve definitely added some charm.
The tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand up.
I glance over—and catch Eben watching me.
He looks away fast, pretending to be fascinated by the peeling yellow wallpaper.
Interesting.
I smile to myself and wander back to the table, plopping down in the last open chair between him and Missy. His knee bumps mine and stays. I glance over—his eyes are closed.
Huh.
Ally’s been talking for a solid twenty minutes straight. Hardly anyone else has gotten a word in, aside from occasional exuberant “ooh” or “ah” from Missy—she can scarcely believe her luck that a senior publicist showed up to her meeting pro bono.
It’s one of the many reasons Ally and I became friends. Right now she’s running this whole after-school project like the pro she is—hip-friendly party games, collabs with local businesses, and a neighborhood-backed cookie bake sale.
It takes me back to elementary school, when we were paired up for the fifth-grade science fair project.
Allison titled it “Decomp Delight,” and we studied how different foods decomposed over time.
The kids went gaga for our project thanks to a McDonald’s French fry and Big Mac combo that remained unscathed by the forces of nature for a full six weeks.
We got an A (uncommon for me in science), and first place out of dozens of projects—something that had never happened before and would never happen again for me, not for Ally, who now works in public relations and regularly wins awards at her firm.
There were plenty of sleepovers during our science-fair era, and when the project ended, the sleepovers didn’t—and never really have.
It’s rare to meet your best friend in elementary school and keep them into adulthood, but it’s also rare to meet someone with whom you can be totally yourself—no pretending, no pretense.
We share a sense of humor and a level of honesty we couldn’t have with our parents or siblings.
We are non-romantic soulmates—soul sisters, if you will.
I know, I know. Try not to gag.
That’s why when I get a text from her that says:
WTF mel
I shoot her a glare from across the table. She glares back and keeps typing. I sink lower in my chair, paranoid Eben will see our texts, even though he’s barely conscious.
u left out the part that santa claus is a sex bomb
I type back: he hates xmas. talk about a boner killer.
Ally: you didn’t celebrate christmas until you were 22.
Me: yeah and now I can’t stop won’t stop.
Ally: you don’t have to like him to fuck him
I sit up straight, glaring daggers at Ally. She shrugs and keeps typing.
Ally: time to get your paws on that Claus.
She makes a claw gesture and curls her lips in a silent growl.
“Ladies, are you listening?” Missy asks, eyes ping-ponging between us.
No.
“Yes,” we both say in unison. Between us, Eben is slouched in his chair, eyes still closed. Why isn’t she berating him for not paying attention?
“As I was saying,” Missy snarks, “the ultimate goal of our Christmas pageant is to get enough donations to buy Christmas presents for all our seniors.” She hands us printed copies of what appears to be Santa’s list for the seniors.
“This is their Christmas wishlist, and as of now, we don’t have enough to cover it. ”
Well, that’s depressing. Forest Park doesn’t have enough funding to cover a few Christmas presents?
I glance over the list. We’re not talking diamonds and Cartier here—just a few simple presents per resident: board games, new pillows, and Netflix subscriptions.
Also disturbing: these folks don’t have families to bring them presents?
As if reading my mind, Missy says, “We only get enough funding to cover basic costs. Anything extra is extra.” She shifts in her chair. “And not all our members have family close by. Or family at all.”
Her eyes flick to Eben, still slouched, eyes half-mast, expression unreadable. Bored, even.
“Next up,” she says. “The talent show—our biggest money-maker. The community turns out, and the seniors shine. Tomorrow the residents pick their talents, and then it’s up to the staff—” She looks pointedly at the three of us.
Ally and I trade a look. Um, we are not staff. “—to get everyone performance-ready.”
Ally leans in and whispers, “This is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Speaking of waiting, do you at least have an ambulance waiting outside?” I cover a snort.
Missy shoots us daggers.
“We’ve been running this pageant for ten years and nothing bad has ever happened—in fact, when Eben’s—”
Eben’s eyes snap open, and he sits up straight. He and Missy share a look I can’t decode. She clears her throat. “Five years running, and not a single mishap. Not even a snagged pair of pantyhose, let alone an ambulance call,” she finally finishes.
While I’m busy clocking Missy and Eben’s weird little exchange, Ally—the science freak/comms genius/math whiz—has been running numbers on her phone.
“So,” she says, business pants on, “just looking at the wishlist, number of residents at Forest Park, and what the talent show earned last year—there isn’t going to be enough to cover everything from the show alone.”
Missy sighs. “I guess each senior can only get one thing.“
My heart sinks. Isn’t it bad enough to be stashed away in some overpriced raisin ranch—either a gazillion miles away from family, or worse, a mile away from family that just doesn’t give a crap about you—and then on top of that, the home you pay eight grand a month to wait-to-die in can’t even afford two Christmas presents from CVS? Not on my watch. I am fired up.
“I mean, we could set up a donation booth at the Cherry Bowl,” I offer, locking eyes with Ally. I’m there every other weekend anyway; might as well set up a table for a few hours and collect donations for a good cause.
Her face telegraphs that I’ve overstepped and forced her to overcommit. Whoops. Then I watch disgruntled turn to delighted. Her eyes sparkle. Her lips twist. Uh oh.
“Why, that’s a great idea, Melody!” she chirps to Missy, with whom she’s now thick as thieves. “Eben and Mel can play Mr. and Mrs. Claus for the children at the flea market.”
“WHAT,” I say it so loudly that an old lady walking by with a walker startles, and nearly tips. Missy bolts upright, ready to intervene. But the woman regains her footing and resumes inching along, but not before shooting me a dirty look.
Eben leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “With all due respect, pretending to be Santa Claus for two days out of my weekend is my personal hell.”
I open my mouth to agree, but Ally scrunches her face and scoffs at both of us. “With all due respect,” she says, mocking him, “it’s like four hours each weekend for what, less than a month? You’ll survive.”
The smirk on her face is infuriating. She knows exactly what she’s doing—trapping us in a situation with no easy exit.
“Think of the children,” Ally intones.
“And of the seniors,” Missy adds, unhelpfully. She makes meaningful eye contact with Eben. He exhales a long, weary breath.
“Fine,” he says, dropping his arms and sinking lower like a deflated balloon.
“Seriously?” I look from face to face. They wait for my list of reasons Ally’s idea is terrible.
It doesn’t come. Because I remember my secret goal: to convince Eben Claus (I still don’t know his last name) that Christmas is indeed the most wonderful time of the year.
And there’s nowhere like the Cherry Bowl at Christmastime.
There’s hot chocolate and carolers and Christmas booths selling antique ornaments.
Okay, you know what? This could be good.
Never mind that my partner in this endeavor happens to be one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever seen in person. I shove that part to the back of my brain.
“You know what? Fuck it, I’m in,” I say. My eyes wander over to meet Eben’s. The smile on his face is almost undetectable, but it’s there. Ally claps gleefully.
She’ll be getting an earful from me later.
The ride home is excruciating. Not because I’m mad at Ally (I’m not), but because she will not stop going on and on about Hot Santa.
“Why didn’t you tell me he’s like ten feet of pure Adonis?”
I try not to throw up in my mouth.
“Okay, calm down, he’s barely six-foot-three and he’s good-ish looking, I guess,” I lie.
Ally’s jaw drops. “You’re joking, right? He’s objectively gorgeous. An absolute ten out of ten.”
I shrug. “But he hates Christmas. Like, hates, hates, hates. So it’s ten minus a hundred. He’s a negative ninety.”
Ally hits me with the look—the incredulous you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look only a best friend can deliver.