by Alyson Noel
“Better make it quick,” my dad whispers, still waiting for my guess.
I just shrug. Seeing Mac Turtledove has wiped the fun out of me.
My dad shoots me a look of concern, but a moment later he’s crossing the room to shake hands with Mr. Turtledove, who, believe it or not, he knew back in high school.
That’s the thing about Greentree. Most of the people who live here were born here, and I guess they got too lazy to leave. It’s definitely not the kind of place anyone would ever choose to move to, other than Dougall and his dad, but I guess they had their reasons.
Mr. Turtledove shoots me a quick nod and wave, but honestly, I doubt he even knows my name. He’s the kind of guy who’s big with the hellos and the meaningless chatter, but he never really remembers your face unless he’s been looking at it for the last thirty-some years, like my dad’s. Also, he’s more of a seasonal shopper, coming in for pool umbrellas in the summer or fire logs in the winter. He’d hardly be considered a regular.
But tonight, according to him, he’s here for a tree.
Let the festivities begin.
“Gotta tell ya, Dashaway”—he hitches his thumbs into his belt loops like he’s some kind of rugged ranch hand instead of a real estate agent with his picture posted on notepads and bus stops all over this town—“I ventured over to The Depot, just to check out their stock, only to discover their trees aren’t nearly as impressive as yours. I gotta hand it to ya, Dashaway, you always seem to outdo yourself.”
Aside from being a photogenic real estate agent, Mr. Turtledove is also a former jock who calls everyone by their last name.
“So how about you take me to the biggest tree on your lot, and you and I can work out a price?” He shoots my dad this enormous grin, all white teeth and gold fillings.
This again. I allow myself a smirk. Every year it’s the same routine. Turtledove asks for the biggest tree on the lot, while my dad steers him to the second-biggest tree, thereby saving the biggest for our family.
It’s one of the major benefits of running a Christmas tree lot.
I head for the office, figuring I’ll do my dad a solid and get his dinner nuked so it’ll be ready when he’s finished dealing with Turtledove. I pull the microwave meal from the cooler pack and notice that my mom included Plum’s gift when I wasn’t looking, which must mean it’s edible, not that I check.
Once the meal is in motion, the carousel circling slowly, I pass by the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of my dad duping Turtledove yet again, when Turtledove says, “And this year, I don’t want your second-biggest tree. I want your absolute biggest tree.” He smiles in a way that only his lips are participating. “Jig’s up, Dashaway. I know you’ve been saving the best for yourself, but this year I’m paying top dollar. With the way things are going, now that The Depot’s moved in, you might want to reconsider this little game of yours.”
I smash my cheek against the cold glass, watching as my dad—without the slightest hesitation, without even putting up a fight—leads him straight to the tree we tagged as ours.
And it’s only a few moments later when he’s standing in the doorway, saying, “Come on, now’s your big chance. I need some help loading up a tree, and it turns out you’re just the man for the job.” He tries to make it sound like a reason to celebrate, but one look at his face and it’s easy to see just how much this is costing him.
“What about Steve, or Rick?” I say, refusing to budge from my place. “Or whatever high school kid you hired this year?”
My dad squints in a way that makes his hazel eyes—eyes that look just like mine—sort of recede. “Didn’t hire anyone.” He wipes a hand across his brow. “Figured you were the only man I needed.” When that still doesn’t convince me, he says, “Nick, what gives?” His voice betrays his irritation. “You’ve been begging for this job since you were five. Your wish came true. Now let’s go—Turtledove’s waiting!”
My wish came true.
Wrong wish, but hey, what’s the difference?
I really want to stand my ground. Say no way José and point out the all-too-obvious fact that between my dad, King Turtledove, Prince Turtledove, and yeah, even Queen Turtledove, they should be able to handle it themselves. I mean, if they’re so intent on stealing our tree (never mind that he’s paying top dollar for it), then surely they can manage to heave it into His Majesty’s customized truck.
But when the lines on my dad’s forehead sink even deeper, there’s really no choice but surrender.
I mean, what’s one more humiliation in an otherwise completely humiliating day?
It’s not until I’m already outside and see Mac leaning against his mom’s Mercedes in that annoying movie-star way, phone still glued to his ear, that I remember I’m still wearing the extremely unfortunate homemade Christmas sweater.
The one featuring a giant reindeer with a bright red nose made of an actual pom-pom.
The second he sees it, Mac starts howling. Hand-clutching-belly, doubled-over howling. Stopping long enough to snap a cell-phone pic, probably so he can text it to all his cool-table friends, before he starts howling again.*
I duck my head and push past him. I mean, he’s already seen it, so there’s no use hiding. I follow my dad deep into the lot, and we practically kill ourselves hauling the monster tree into the bed of Turtledove’s truck while His Highness stands on the sidelines, giving us repeated warnings to be mindful of his customized paint job.
When it’s finally over, Mac is still going on about my sweater as he decides to ride home with his dad. Mrs. Turtledove, having eyeballed the horizontal tree from the comfort of her Mercedes, squints her approval and leaves. My dad and I are now stiff with sap, itching from pine needles, and staring into the Turtledoves’ dust as the family caravans off the lot.
“So, what’d you think?” my dad says. “Was it everything you dreamed it would be? Biggest one on the lot. It can only get easier from here!” He grins and slaps a friendly hand on my back, going to great lengths to make the situation seem so much better than it is. But it’s clear he’s feeling as defeated as I do.
My first impulse is to say something crummy, but I don’t have the heart. I’m tired of the Turtledoves. Tired of today. Tired of seeing my dad look so tired.
I smile weakly and follow him back inside the shop. His cell phone starts chiming, and my mom’s voice blares through the speaker, asking how soon she can expect the tree to be delivered.
“Why don’t you go hang out in the office?” My dad presses a hand over the speaker. “Clean yourself up. Take a load off.”
“But what about your dinner?” I say, wanting to stick around, see how he’ll break the news to my mom. “I put it in the microwave. It should be ready by now.”
“I’ll get to it.” He winks, turning away and moving to the far side of the store, where I won’t be able to eavesdrop so easily.
I head into the small bathroom and try to clean off, though there’s not much I can do about the sap on my jeans; it hardens like glue and makes the legs so stiff I walk like a robot. Then I sit in my dad’s chair and spin in circles, which gets old pretty fast, so I call over Sir Dasher Dashaway and spend my time alternately petting him and clearing the air with peppermint-scented spray. And though my dad does his best to speak in hushed tones, every now and then I can hear him mumble things like “back taxes” and “year-end financials” in a voice thick with worry. It seems like every conversation they have reverts to those things.
When he’s done talking to my mom, he steps into the office, looking even wearier than before. “Why don’t you head on home, Nick?” he says. “You’ve done enough for your first night on the job. Save some of that energy for tomorrow. I need you here bright and early.”
“But what about you?” I ask, refusing to budge. We always go home together. It’s a tradition. We can’t break it now.
“It’s going to be a late one.” He forces a smile. “You know, Christmas rush and all. Besides, your mother needs help
finishing the decorations. If you leave now, you can still catch the bus. I’ll get your bike home. Better hurry, though. Last bus leaves in fifteen minutes.”
Against my better judgment, I grab my stuff and head out. When my dad gets that determined, there’s no point arguing.
I’ve just reached the door when he calls me back. Thinking he changed his mind, I turn excitedly, only to find him standing behind me with Plum’s gift in his hand.
I wave it away. “It’s all yours,” I tell him.
“No, it’s definitely yours,” he says. “There’s a note inside with your name on it.”
He shoots me this sort of twinkly look, which instantly makes me feel queasy. I mean, if the note was from Tinsley, I might be all twinkly-eyed too. But the fact that it’s from Plum…well, I wish this stupid box would just disappear.
Of course I end up taking it. He’s pretty much insisting. So I carry the dumb red-and-green box all the way to the bus stop, where I plop down on the seat, lean my back against a picture of Mr. Turtledove’s smiling face promising to sell you the home of your dreams, and wait for this day to be over.
* * *
* I really, really hate Mac Turtledove.
7:46 P.M.—8:16 P.M.
RUN, RUN, RUDOLPH
The first time my parents let me ride the bus by myself, I was ten years old and felt like I’d finally arrived.
Everything seemed better than it was. The seats were cleaner. The driver was friendlier. The fellow passengers were happier. And every window offered a view so spectacular I didn’t want it to end.
That was nearly three years ago, and now I’m just hoping the bus will show up. Then I can get back to my room and barricade myself inside until winter break is over and my parents are forced to smash through the door and drag me back to school.
A blast of cold wind curls down the street, delivering a chill so intense I pull the hoodie I’m still wearing over my head. When it fails to provide the kind of insulation I need, I reach into my backpack for the hat, scarf, and mittens that match the sweater, red pom-poms included. Every year my mom makes a new set, presenting it with such excitement I don’t have the heart to tell her the years of Plum, Dougall, and I coordinating our Christmas-themed sweaters are over. The only reason I’m wearing this now is sheer desperation.
I put the hat on under the hood, pulling it so low and the scarf so high that my eyes are the only things left uncovered. Any other day I’d seriously choose death by hypothermia over wearing one of my mom’s Christmas creations.*1 But since I’ve pretty much reached the place known as Rock Bottom, I figure I have nothing to lose. If I’m doomed to be a Brainiac Nerd for the rest of my life, I might as well be a warm and toasty one.
I’m about ten minutes into the wait when I notice that not a single car has gone by, which strikes me as strange.
Not like I’m expecting a traffic jam. Greentree Avenue is hardly Times Square or Hollywood Boulevard. Still, even a small town like ours usually sees a little more action than this, especially on a Friday night.
After about twenty minutes I start to wonder if my dad got the schedule mixed up. I grab my cell, about to call my mom and ask her to come pick me up, only to discover that my phone has no service, which is really weird, since that’s never happened in this area before and it’s not like I’m in the middle of nowhere.
This bus stop is smack in the center of the Greentree business district, which, while not nearly as impressive as it sounds—it’s basically two short blocks stuffed with storefronts and office buildings—is not exactly Siberia.
From what I can see, I’ve got three options:
#1: Head back to the store and wait it out until my dad’s ready to leave.
It seems reasonable on the surface, but if I leave now, I’ll risk missing the bus, which may show up at any minute.
Not to mention it will probably make my dad feel like he needs to leave the store early, which means he won’t get his work done, which will only add to his stress level, which is high enough already.
#2: Suck it up, deal with the cold, and start walking home.
Only this option isn’t nearly as reasonable as it seems, since it’s seriously cold out, and even with the scarf, hat, and mittens, I’m pretty positive I’ll keel over from frostbite well before I get home.
#3: Stay right where I am—hunkered down in the shelter of the bus stop with Mr. Turtledove’s face grinning into my back.
After careful consideration, Option #3 is clearly the winner.
But as the snow starts to fall and actually sticks, I’m seriously starting to think this could very well be the end of me, when I remember Plum’s gift—or, more important, the candle that’s supposedly waiting inside.
I crack the box open, and sure enough, there’s a birthday candle with red and green swirls running all along the sides and a small box of matches, just like she said.
Oh, and there’s also a cupcake decorated with a giant gold star, like she was sure I was going to win the talent show.
Or maybe it means that whatever happens, I’m still a star in her eyes.
Whatever. It’s not like I’m planning to eat it.
There’s also the note my dad mentioned, but the second I read
Dear Nick, I hope that when you blow out this candle, your greatest wish will come true….
I lose interest, toss it aside, shove the candle in the middle of the star, and strike a match on the side of the box, only to watch it instantly fizzle.
The ones that follow meet the same fate until I’m down to the very last match, which I cradle like a baby, making a shelter with my hands like I’ve seen my dad do when he’s lighting a campfire. Not daring to so much as breathe, I hear the quick bursting sizzle of flame meeting wick. The tiny blaze glimmers for a handful of seconds before it settles into a small but adequate flame that warms the tips of my mitten-covered fingers.
I sit like that for a while. Probably looking like some demented Christmas clown, all huddled over a cupcake candle, having finally reached the ultimate level of dorkdom yet vowing to remain on this bench until the candle burns out—which shouldn’t take long—and if the bus still hasn’t come, I’ll get my butt moving and risk hypothermia.
Fat globs of wax drool onto the icing, dotting the bright gold star with sludgy red and green circles that turn this ugly maroonish color the second they mix. The candle continues to shrink as the sky vomits a torrent of snow the likes of which I’ve never seen. Then a muted jingling sound drifts from the far end of the street.
I lean over the candle, careful not to smother the flame, as I peer down the long stretch of snow-covered pavement, trying to see where the music is coming from. But other than hazy swirls of white, it’s impossible to see much of anything.
The candle continues to liquefy as the noise grows increasingly louder until, seemingly out of nowhere, a blaze of color and sound bursts through the haze and a crazy graffiti-covered trolley with “Jingle Bells” blaring from overhead speakers that, strangely enough, are shaped just like antlers skids to a stop right before me.
Definitely not the bus I was waiting for, which is exactly why I stay put.
The front door springs open in a cringe-inducing metal-meets-metal shriek that has me gritting my teeth and willing it to end.
“Heya!” comes a disembodied voice from inside. “Whatareyawaitinfor? Climmaboard!” The words all slur together, and I can’t make out who said them until there’s a break in the snow and I’m staring into the face of some old guy with long white dreadlocks, a red-and-green tie-dyed sweatshirt, and a pair of colorful sweat pants bearing the same Christmas-themed graffiti art that marks the sides of the trolley.
And don’t even get me started on his insane glasses, which look more like sunglasses than eyeglasses, except for the spirals that keep going in and out of focus.
It’s all I need to see to convince me to do my best to ignore him.
The entire scene stinks of trouble. This is pretty much every warning
every mother has ever given her kid rolled into one.
Any second now he’ll offer me some ice cream and a peek at the puppies he keeps in the back.*2
I’d rather take my chances on frostbite.*3
I wave a hand in dismissal, hoping he’ll take the hint and move on. But he continues to sit there, grinning like a lunatic, so I raise my voice over the noise and say, “I’m waiting for another bus.” Emphasis on another.
“Then you better get comfortable.” He laughs, the sound coming from the depths of his prominent belly. “I’m the only one allowed to drive tonight, and that’s only on account of these glasses. They let me see through the veil.” He taps the right lens, causing the spirals to change direction so they look like they’re receding into his head. “Big storm’s about to come in. Big. Didn’t ya hear?” Only, the way he says it sounds like Dinnitchahear? “Way I see it, you got two options. You ride with me, or you turn into a human snowman. Yours to choose.”
I check my phone again—still no service. What is going on? Though he’s right about the storm. It’s definitely what you’d call big. I’ve lived in Greentree my whole entire life, and I’ve never seen it come down this hard.
I calculate the possibility of my making it home without losing my nose to the cold.
The odds are not in my favor. And frankly, I seriously doubt I can make it back to the store without meeting the same fate.
I imagine my face with a big blank space smack-dab in the middle where my nose used to be.
Also not in my favor.
Still I sit, frozen, watching what remains of my birthday candle as it drips down to nothing.
“C’mon! Whereyawannagota, kid?”
I take a moment to mull the question, and figuring I have nothing to lose, I decide to answer honestly. “To a different, better, much cooler life,” I say, watching as the fog of my breath shoots straight for the flame, effectively snuffing the wick, as the snow continues to slam so hard it doesn’t even seem like snow anymore.
