12 Days of Christmas: A Christmas Collection

by Laura Greenwood

  Jason is the reason why my parents sent me to this school. The moment they learned that he played the drums they found me a tutor so I could impress him. Now is my chance. I need to get his interest back. If I can put in a good performance tonight maybe he will let me give him a private show later on, and I can finally get the ball rolling. Princess Scarlett has such a nice ring to it. Preferably a diamond encrusted one.

  I am technically a very proficient drummer, but it’s hard to muster much enthusiasm for a musical instrument that involves smacking it with sticks. I’d always dreamed of learning the piano or the violin, something a little more elegant. You would think the classical instruments would hold more sway with the supposedly sophisticated upper class, but apparently they no longer concern themselves about keeping up appearances. Now it’s all tweeting and selfies on private jets.

  I’m doing the best that I can, but a quick glance up confirms that Jason’s not paying any attention. He’s staring at something on his phone. I wish I knew what it was. I best not find out it’s that tramp Sarah. She’s always sniffing around. I’ve come too far to let him slip through my fingers now.

  A few people clap as I stand up. At least they appreciate the effort.

  Miss. Duckworth makes a few notes and says, “Thank you. Next please.”

  Jason

  Oh god, Scarlett’s making that face again. The one where she is trying to impress me. It’s not a natural look, she looks almost constipated with concentration. I wish I knew how to make her stop. She is relentless. No amount of polite diversion seems to deter her, if anything it only makes her try harder. She is throwing herself at me with an ever growing enthusiasm, and yet deep down I know that I am stringing her along.

  I’m never going to settle down, get married, add to the dwindling royal lineage. My interests lay…elsewhere. I glance across at the door that Paul stormed out of. I’m only here because of him. I want him to see how good I am at something, that I am not just an empty crown. Even just admitting that makes me feel foolish. He is a commoner, a nobody, so why can’t I stop thinking about him? He haunts my every waking moment. Every class without him feels like an eternity. I have memorized his schedule to improve my chances of ‘bumping’ into him. Each chance encounter gets me a little bit closer to him noticing me.

  There was always an assumption in my family that I would follow the old ways, that they would have a say in who I love, who I marry. That my soulmate would have a certain pedigree. As if that is how it works. They have prepared themselves that I might love a commoner. The narrative is already in place for the rags to riches story that the public love, but I am not sure they are ready for my twist on the tale. I don’t care.

  Everyone is staring and I realize it is my turn. I am distracted. I don’t even want to be here, I only came because Paul did. Why am I still pretending? It’s time I was honest with myself, and with him. I can’t stand the thought of him leaving for 2 weeks on Christmas break while I stay here stewing. I don’t know if he feels the same way, but I need to find out. I get up and stroll right past the drum set and out of the door that he left from.

  Scarlett is right behind me. She shouts, “Where are you going?”

  “I have something to do.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’m sorry, I need to do this alone.”

  “Is it Sarah?” Her tone is accusatory. Where do I even begin? How can I make her understand that no matter how hard she tries, her charms will never work on me? Knowing her, she would consider a sex change if it got her one step closer. I place my hand gently on her shoulder. “Please, I just need a moment. I’ll come find you later and explain.”

  She hesitates, stuck between grasping on to me and giving me my space. Eventually she nods and says, “Take as long as you need. I’ll be waiting in your room.” This is accompanied by a devilish grin and she saunters off. Such a shame.

  I round the corner, hoping to find some clue as to which way Paul went, and I nearly trip right over him. He’s huddled in a ball on the ground, his face streaked with tears. I would know that look anywhere. He’s heartbroken. As we make eye contact he smiles and then chokes back the tears. He wobbles to his feet, clears his throat with a manly cough and says, “Damn allergies.”

  There’s a lot I want to say, but before a single word escapes I lean in and kiss him. It catches us both by surprise. I wait for him to push back and thump me, but he leans into it. His mouth is softer than I was expecting. Suddenly everything feels right with the world.

  Mary

  There’s some kind of commotion going on upfront. The next lad up has bolted from the room without playing. Their teacher seems flustered and she’s doing a lousy job of hiding it.

  I slouch in my seat, trying not to be noticed. I don’t belong here. I don’t mean that in an insecure way, I mean it in the literal sense. I don’t go to this school. I couldn’t even afford a day trip here. My school is on the other side of town, in an area that these people wouldn’t even dare to drive through. I’m supposed to be there right now, but I’m busy Christmas shopping.

  My little brother is not excited for Christmas, why would he be. Every year Dad does his best to get us something, but there’s no money in the budget for toys or gadgets. You can’t eat a smart phone. He is doing everything he can since Mum left, but he’s already working every hour he can just to pay the bills. I couldn’t sit back and let another Christmas go by without Santa paying a visit, so I’ve taken matters into my own hands.

  Getting a uniform wasn’t hard. The dry cleaners by my house is the cheapest in town, so of course all the rich people’s servants use it. The owner takes his smoke breaks very seriously, so it was really just a question of timing. He is going to cop it when some snooty kid realizes her blazer is missing, but it’s not like they can’t afford to replace it.

  Security at the school is top notch, but they don’t dare look at the kids. One wrong glance can end a career. That may have encouraged me to let my guard down, and it almost cost me. It’s not hard to stock up on gifts here, every single room is packed to the rafters with the latest tech, some of it barely used.

  I had almost finished filling my backpack when one of the kids walked in on me. He’d barely shouted the word security and there they were, three of them, ready to pounce. I’m quick on my feet, but I don’t know my way around here. I managed to shake them by hiding in a crowd, and that’s how I found myself in these auditions.

  The teacher is staring at me now. She’s trying to remember my name. This strikes me as the kind of place where forgetting a kid’s name is a big deal, so I try to use that to my advantage. I jump out of my seat, still clutching my backpack. “Is it my turn?”

  The teacher nods.

  I can’t possibly do worse than some of the crazies that have already gone before me, but I don’t want to be memorable. The trick is to be average. Nobody remembers the middle of the pack. I’ve never touched a set of drums before, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not exactly hard to figure out how they work. I slowly tap out a rhythm with my left stick, setting a beat, and then I try out all the other drums with my right stick. It’s not going to win any awards, but it does the trick. Nobody looks impressed, which means it worked.

  I shrug and casually stroll out the back exit, as if I already know I won’t be chosen. Nobody stops me. I walk around the corner to see two boys kissing passionately, completely oblivious to everything else around. I step around them and slip out the back door. I wave at a security guard as I nonchalantly stroll through the gate and back to the real world.

  Rasha

  The nice teacher lady is pointing at me. She stares, waiting for me to do something. The truth is, I have no idea why I am here. I saw a line of kids outside the room and thought it might be for food stamps. Every time I see a line I am compelled to join it. It’s a hard habit to break. In Syria, standing in lines was the only way to survive. Sometimes I would stand in a line that turned out to be for another line.

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nbsp; The good news is I wasn’t wrong, there were a lot of delicious sandwiches. The teacher made sure everyone got one, so it was fair. When she turned around I snuck a couple of extras into my bag for later. Like I said, old habits.

  Everyone else has gone to the front and banged on the drums. Perhaps this is some kind of British ceremony. I slowly make my way to the front, not wanting them to think I’m ignoring their culture. Things are strange here. These children have everything they could ever need or want, but they do not smile. I don’t understand the words they are saying, but I know enough to know they are complaining. About what, I have no idea.

  I remember standing in the adoption agency a few months ago, tears running down my face as I am told I have a new Mum and Dad. It’s a hard thing to process. The lady was very nice and explained that my new parents were going to take me far away from the fighting and the death. It wasn’t easy to leave home behind, but everywhere I looked I saw darkness creeping in. All of my friends had fled or been killed. There was almost nobody left. I made my choice. I would start a new life in England and never look back.

  Except my new parents immediately shipped me off here. This is supposedly for my benefit. My new Father used his computer to tell me this in a robotic voice that spoke broken Arabic. This school will set me up for the future. What it doesn’t do is stop the nightmares now. I can barely close my eyes without hearing the gunfire and the screams. So much screaming. It took all my self control not to run when the other children banged the drum. My legs twitched instinctively, like they always did when I heard gunfire in the distance.

  I reach the stage and pickup the drumsticks. Such simple objects that wouldn’t exist in Syria. They would have long ago been used as firewood to stave off the cold in the winter months. I’m still staring at them when someone from the front yells something I don’t understand. Some of the other kids laugh, I am assuming at my expense. I tap the drumsticks on the nearest drum several times until I am satisfied that I have met my cultural obligation. Then I retreat back to the snack table and stash some extra cookies in my pockets.

  Miss. Duckworth fires a warm smile in my direction and says a lot of words I don’t understand, ending in Sarah.

  Sarah

  God, look at all these losers. As if any of them stand a chance. When did this school start letting in such uncultured riffraff? That last kid is from some war torn country and didn’t seem to have the faintest clue what was going on. Clearly she hasn’t assimilated to British culture yet, so why is she here? There really should be some kind of etiquette test as part of the entry requirements. That would solve so many of our problems. They will never go for it though, apparently we have to be politically correct now. Perhaps there is another way. I’ll have a chat with Daddy about raising the tuition fees again. That should at least thin the herd. I’m sure he can convince the board, they really don’t like to upset him.

  It’s insulting that I even have to try out for this stupid spot. Granddad’s donations paid for every instrument in the band. Our family name is on the concert hall. Not on one of those stupid plaques that slightly rich people buy, I mean it’s called the Springer Concert Hall. Granddad cut the opening ribbon back in 1962. I’ve seen the pictures of him with his bowler hat and power suit. Everyone else in the picture looks terrified, as well they should. He has a terrible temper. I would know, I’m the current target of his scorn.

  The only thing he ever loved was his music. How was I supposed to know he would assume we all shared in his passion?When he asked what instrument I was playing in the Christmas concert I thought he was joking. He didn’t take kindly to my muffled laughter. Next thing I know, my credit card was cancelled. I won’t be able to show my face in Tiffanys again for weeks.

  I really don’t want to be any part of this, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I pick up the drumsticks and bang out a quick tune. It’s not as flashy as everyone else, but it doesn’t need to be.

  I stroll up to Miss. Duckworth and pull the envelope out of my bag. I hand it to her and say, “Here is my assignment on economic stimulus, sorry it’s late Miss. I’ll look forward to you posting the results.”

  She glances inside the envelope and smiles before tucking it in her pocket.

  It’s the last of my pocket money, but if it gets me back on the gravy train it is worth it. Like they say, you’ve got to spend money to make money.

  Dwayne

  I stare around the room at the worried expressions, each kid distraught in their own unique way. What is the matter with them? Has nobody told them how lucky they are? We attend one of the most prestigious schools in the country. The waiting list is pages long. The connections required just to get in here will be more than sufficient to set every one of us up for life. Nobody here has anything even remotely worth worrying about, and yet I can see the stress written all over their faces. Whether it’s fame, fortune, winning at all costs or battling demons, they all have a reason to fight for this. I don’t. I just want to play the drums. There’s no hidden motivation, no deep dark desire, no life or death stakes. I just like playing the drums. It’s what I do for fun, which is what we are supposed to be doing. We are still kids, despite our trust funds and padded C.V.’s. When did we let someone decide we are just small adults, with all the burdens that brings?

  I get told every day to grow up. I take it as a compliment. I’m in no rush. There’s plenty of time for responsibility, for pension planning and life insurance. That time isn’t now. Now is a time for making mistakes, figuring out who we are, and being in a rock band. I want a room full of people to scream my name, not because I’m the best drummer in the history of the world, but because I’m enjoying myself.

  I smile as I pick up the drumsticks. I’m the only kid to do so. I know, I watched. This isn’t a job to me, or a stepping stone in some intricate 5 year life plan. Being up here is my reward. I play my heart out, because it’s the only way I know how.

  I don’t get the same ovation as some of the others. I’m not gifted, well connected or even all that popular. Miss. Duckworth does look impressed though. Her eyes are wide open, a small grin on the corner of her mouth. She sees how much I enjoyed myself. I think it’s enough.

  I’m about to sit back down when a couple of the other kids bolt from the room clutching their stomachs. There is the distinctive sound of retching in the hallway, followed by an acidic smell. It’s enough to set a couple of the other kids off. Sarah manages to hold down the vomit, but it has to come out somewhere and she unleashes all hell from the other end. I start to laugh, but then I feel it too, that deep gurgle in my gut. I swallow hard, but it is only a temporary reprieve. I need to find a toilet, and now. I run past Rasha, who is the only one seemingly not affected. She simply shrugs and eats another sandwich. She is made of tougher stuff than the rest of us.

  Miss Duckworth

  I stand before the Principal, my hands trembling.

  Principal Thistle looks at me as if I forgot the olive in his Martini. “Food poisoning? All of them?”

  “Yes sir. I have already alerted the kitchen and they have thrown away all their sandwich meat and have done a complete scrub down of all surfaces. The good news is, the children aren’t contagious.”

  He shakes his head. “It won’t be good news when I start getting the phone calls. Do you have any idea how high maintenance these parents are at the best of times? They’ll demand someone’s head for this.” I can see him mentally rattling off the list of people to fire, a week before Christmas. I just hope I’m not on it.

  After a moment he says, “Who is going to play the drums in tomorrow’s concert?”

  “I don’t know sir. Every child in the school that had any interest was at that audition. There simply isn’t anyone else.”

  He reaches for his phone. “I suppose we’ll just have to hire a professional.”

  “I already tried sir. This close to Christmas there was very limited availability of the calibre of musician that the school would require.
I recommend we just postpone the concert until after the holidays, when everyone is better.”

  “Miss. Deckforth, we will do no such thing. This school has had a Christmas concert every year for the last 73 years and I will be damned if I am the one to break that tradition. I remember from your interview that you were a competent drummer. You will just have to play.”

  “But sir…”

  “My mind is made up. Do not make me repeat myself.” He returns his gaze to the newspaper that is sprawled out on his desk. My time here is done. I slink out of the room with my tail between my legs.

  Every day I park next to cars worth more than my house. I got a flat tire last week and can’t afford to replace it. Fourteen years I’ve been working here, and the Principal still doesn’t know my name. That little shit Sarah gave me ten grand like it was chump change, but the sad part is it won’t even pay off my credit cards.

  I make sure I wait until I am back in my room before I let the smile creep onto my face. That is all going to change. I will finally get my shot in front of Mr. Jenkins. After all the rejected audition tapes, all the failed talent shows, all the lousy bar gigs that paid us less than we spent to get there. I’ve stacked the playlist with the most epic drum solos, this is my chance to shine. It’s my ticket out of this joint.