by Kieran Scott
“We’re next,” Holly whispered to me, sending a thrill of anticipation down my spine.
I could just imagine the look on Scooby’s face when he was covered in kiddie pee. I wondered which of my new little friends would be the one to get him. Roger was starting to jump up and down, but Mandy appeared to be the front-runner. She had her knees clamped together and her face was turning a bright pink to match her Powerpuff Girls sneakers.
“Paulie! We have a situation here,” Dirk said under his breath.
I glanced up. Melissa Maya, the assistant mall manager (say that ten times fast), was whispering something in Scooby’s ear. They both scanned the area and when their eyes fell on me, Melissa snapped her fingers frantically and waved me over. My friends and I were standing right at the head of the line and now Doogie, too, was starting to squirm.
“I’ll be right back,” I told them, walking up the velvet carpet.
Melissa barely looked at me. “Peter, we need your help.”
“It’s Paul,” I said.
“Like I care,” she replied. “Mr. Papadopoulos wants to talk to Scooby and he wants to talk to him now, so you gotta get in costume and take the throne.”
My face must have gone white. “Now?” I asked.
“We just had a Santa break. We take another one and the little freaks’ll go berserk.” Melissa eyed the children in line. “Buncha little chunk munchers.”
Clearly she wasn’t a kid person.
“But what if they recognize—”
“Look, Percy,” Melissa said, suddenly turning on me with dilated pupils that I swear flashed red for a split second. She had little lines around her eyes that looked like pitchforks. “Either you get your butt in that shack right now or I’ll fire it. If I have to stay down here one second longer with these money-wasting freaks, I’m going to explode and I’m going to take you with me.”
Clearly not a mall person, either. Kinda makes you wonder how she ended up here.
I glanced helplessly back at my friends, now surrounded by four dancing, squirming children, and walked into the Santa Shack. I changed my clothes slowly, trying to think of a way out, but when I glanced out the window, Melissa Maya was standing there waiting for me and Scooby was on his way upstairs. There was nothing I could do. I was going to have to play Santa for four full-bladdered kids.
“All set,” I said, emerging from the shack moments later.
“Okay!” Melissa shouted. “Santa’s back! Next child, please!”
Holly, Dirk, and Ralph didn’t move. Holly was looking at me, her eyes wide, willing me to tell her what to do. I held my breath and shrugged. With one of my bosses standing right there, we were trapped.
“Santa’s waiting!” Melissa said impatiently. Ralph, who was busy downing the last of the bottles of soda, nearly spat it all out.
Holly scurried forward with Mandy and deposited her on my lap.
“I have to go to the bafoom,” Mandy said, squirming.
“Ho ho ho,” I said quickly. “Okay, then, what do you want for Christmas?”
“My own ’puter,” Mandy said. She clamped her hands between her legs.
“Get her out of there!” Dirk mouthed down at the end of the carpet.
“Okay, your own computer, you got it,” I told Mandy. “Merry Christmas!”
Holly hustled Mandy away and Ralph walked up to me, holding Roger up against his massive chest. He sat him down on my legs without a word, raised his eyebrows in a what-can-I-do gesture, and turned away.
“Ho ho ho,” I said. “What do you want for Christmas?”
Roger burst into tears. “I want my mom! I want my mom ! ” he screeched.
“I need some Advil,” Melissa Maya said. She turned and stalked away, holding a hand to her forehead.
I got Roger off my lap and waved frantically at Dirk to bring me Davy. The kid sat there calmly and stared at my beard, then toddled off. I breathed a sigh of relief. The danger was over. Dirk walked up to me, deposited Doogie on my lap, and squeezed my shoulder.
“You made it,” he said.
That was when Cousin Doogie relieved his tiny yet oddly high-capacity bladder all over my leg.
“Just go inside, take a shower, and you’ll feel much better,” Holly told me as she pulled the car to a stop in front of my house. She turned away, hiding her mouth with her hand.
“You can laugh,” I told her. “It’s not like I don’t see the humor.”
“I’m sorry,” she said through uncontrollable giggles. “I’m really sorry, I just . . . I can’t stop thinking about your face!”
Her laughter made me smile. I couldn’t help it.
“See? Everything’s going to be fine!” Holly said, finally managing to contain herself. “Ooh! I have an idea!” She brought her gloved hand down on my knee. (I’d washed off in the mall employee bathroom and changed back into my jeans.) “I’m sitting for the Hurleys tomorrow. Why don’t I bring them to see Santa?”
“Oh, I love your brain!” I said, my face lighting up. “They’ll crucify Scooby.”
The Hurleys are the most infamous group of pre-pubescent delinquents around. The oldest one was caught stealing cigarettes at the ripe age of eight, and the youngest had been written up in the papers last year for punching the Thirty-fourth Street Macy’s Santa in the face and breaking the guy’s nose. Scooby would be powerless against their inherent wickedness.
“Holly, you are the best,” I told her.
“Just wait until tomorrow night,” she said. “The Underground is getting together to steal all the Santa displays from Midland Park to Montvale. Sounds like it’s gonna be fun.”
“I’m there,” I told her. “See you tomorrow!”
I climbed out of the car and jogged up to the house, trying not to look up at my hole of a bedroom. All I wanted to do was take that shower, put on my pajamas, and crawl into the pullout bed in the den. Maybe I could get my mom to bring me my dinner in there and I wouldn’t have to move for the rest of the night. I still couldn’t believe my first Scooby plan had crashed and burned, but all would be well. With Holly and the others on my side, there was no way I could lose.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, walking right by the kitchen.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard her call out my name, in a tone that suggested she thought I might have lost my mind.
“What’s up?” I asked, turning to find her standing just outside the kitchen door. She had one hand on the doorjamb and one hand flat against her apron on her thigh. Her expression was concerned.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m . . . making fudge,” she said, her eyebrows coming together.
“And?” I asked. Suddenly I could smell it. In fact, the smell had filled the house like it always did. It seemed to be coming out of the wallpaper. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it the second I walked in.
“When was the last time you walked by the kitchen when I was making fudge?” my mother asked.
“Probably never,” I said, wanting this conversation to be over. I was suddenly very tired. Not even Christmas fudge appealed to me.
“Well, when I visited your father this afternoon, he mentioned he’d like us to bring him some. And I’m also making the gift packages for the family,” my mother said, wiping both hands on her apron.
A stab of guilt hit my chest. I was going to go over to the hospital after work, but after the peeing incident, I hadn’t been able to think of anything other than taking a long shower. Now visiting hours were over and I wouldn’t get to see my dad until tomorrow. Could this day get any worse?
“Do you want to help?” my mother asked.
“Not tonight, Mom,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m just really tired from work.”
“Well, speaking of work, it looks like I won’t be completely unemployed for the holidays,” she said. “Vivian’s going to let me pick up some shifts.”
“Vivian Black?” I asked, my stomach turning. “Mom, you don’t mean—”
“Paul, it’s
not that bad,” my mother said, turning to stir the fudge on the stove top.
Not that bad! I thought. Vivian Black ran the Hickory Farms kiosk and made all her employees wear head-to-toe reindeer outfits, complete with antlers and red pom-pom noses. Not only that, but the kiosk was right across from Fortunoff. All of my mom’s old coworkers were going to be watching her hand out sausage samples in that humiliating outfit. I could just imagine the look on That Awful Woman’s face.
“This is all my fault,” I said, closing my eyes.
“Paul, none of this is your fault,” my mother replied. “And it’s just for December. In the new year I’ll find something else.” She turned around and flashed me her ever-bright smile. “Everything’s going to be just fine. You’ll see.”
Part of my brain snapped at her to wake up and smell the coffee. Everything was not going to be fine! But I didn’t say it. My mom hadn’t done anything to me, after all. So why did I feel so angry all of a sudden?
“Okay,” I said. “I’m gonna go do my homework.”
As I headed for the bathroom, I realized it wasn’t just anger. On top of the anger there was guilt. Whatever my mom said, it was my fault. She never would have been fired if she hadn’t tried to return that necklace for me. And on top of the guilt was something else. I couldn’t help feeling . . . sorry for my mother. I mean, how could she still be into all that cheery Christmas crap after everything that had happened? Making gift packages for the family? She’d been falsely accused of stealing and then fired! She’d gone from selling diamonds to hawking cheese! And now she was in there humming carols. How naive could she be? Christmas had turned on us. There was nothing to be merry about anymore.
I walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water, stripping off my clothes. As soon as I had sloughed off about ten layers of my skin, I was going back to work on Project Scooby. Tomorrow I would have my revenge.
DO THEY KNOW IT’S CHRISTMASTIME AT ALL?
“ALL RIGHT, EVERYONE, GOOD JOB,” MR. MCDANIEL called out as he closed the Les Misérables music we’d been working on. “Let’s turn to the carols.”
“Don’t faint on us now, Rudolph,” Turk Martin said under his breath, leaning half an inch toward me. His smaller, more hyper sidekick, Randy Cook, cracked up laughing as I felt my face start to redden.
Both Randy and Turk totally got off on picking on me at Christmastime every year, trying to get me all riled up so that I would start spouting my “Most Wonderful Time of the Year” arguments. Little did they know that I was over it. Big-time. And I wasn’t going to take their crap anymore.
“Shut up, Turk,” I said.
Randy stopped laughing abruptly as some serious tension filled the air.
Turk turned toward me and gave me this confused look, as if my telling him to shut up was so absurd he couldn’t quite process it. Of course, I understand why it would be difficult for him. No mere mortal has even looked him directly in the eye since the third grade. (That was the year he started shaving.) Turk Martin is one of those square-jawed angry kids who always has this perpetual squinty-eyed look like he’s deciding whose butt to kick next.
I stood there, trying not to notice how much bigger he was than me and waiting for him to hit me with a right hook, but then McDaniel started the intro to “Deck the Halls” and I was saved by the music.
I sang my part with about one-tenth of the enthusiasm I usually had while singing carols. Usually at this time of year I wanted choir to last all day. Today I couldn’t stop looking at the clock and wishing the second hand would hurry it up already. The moment the song was over, Turk turned to me again.
“Dude, what the hell is wrong with you? You’re all off-key,” he said as Mr. McDaniel turned his attention to the sopranos. He started going over their part of “Deck the Halls” with them, as if they needed any help.
The sopranos were the ones who always got to sing the melody line of every song—the one we’ve all been hearing our entire lives. It’s the rest of us who were stuck learning sucky harmonies for these sucky carols.
“Maybe I’m all fa-la-la-ed out, okay?” I snapped back.
Whoa. Did I just say that?
“Dude, what happened to Mr. Christmas?” Randy said, sounding almost disappointed. I guess he was wondering what he’d do to pass the time now that he had no reason to think up lame yuletide jokes.
When I didn’t respond, Turk and Randy turned away. As soon as they did, my masochistic ear tuned in to Sarah, who was standing next to me, showing off the Scooby necklace to any alto chick who would listen. She was even wearing a red shirt with a cleavage-revealing neckline to accentuate the pendant. As she gushed on and on about how great Scooby was—
“He’s taking me to the Z100 Jingle Ball! Front-row seats! How lucky am I?”
—I could feel the ticket I’d bought us for the Holiday Ball burning a hole through my wallet in my back pocket. Why I was still walking around with the thing, I had no idea. It was only a souvenir of shame, a monument to my dorkiness, proof positive of my ultimate loser status. I couldn’t believe I wasted all that money on Sarah, who, it was becoming increasingly clear, couldn’t have cared less about me.
“I’m going to the mall again today,” Sarah explained, gazing down admiringly at the heart-shaped pendant. “Scooby has another gift for me. Isn’t he just the best?”
The girls around Sarah oohed and aahed. How could I not have seen this before? Holly was right all along. All Sarah cared about were presents and cars and clothes and jewelry. That was why she was so focused on the gift aspect of Christmas and nothing else. That was why she was so psyched about my Jeep and why she’d stolen my sweater (which she’d yet to give back). That was why the first thing she’d asked me about after the fire was if I’d been able to save my stu f. I bet if I had handed her a credit card right then and there, she would have come right back to me. After making sure it had an inflated credit line, of course.
Sarah might have a few good qualities, but at heart all she cared about was being the one with the most packages under the tree.
“Okay!” Mr. McDaniel said, clapping as he walked to the center of the room. “Let’s get to work on ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’!” He turned and slid a piece of paper from the top of his piano, then scratched at his short red beard as he scanned the page. “Now, I’ve assigned all the different lines as solos to various students. We’ll all sing the ‘partridge in a pear tree’ line together. Turk, I’d like you to take ‘two turtledoves’; Danielle, ‘three French hens’; Paul, ‘four calling birds’; Sarah, I think you’ll be perfect on ‘five gold rings’. . . .”
Who better to sing about the only monetarily valuable item in the whole song? (There was a reason Jim Henson gave that line to Miss Piggy in John Denver & the Muppets—A Christmas Together.)
Well, let her have her little moment in the sun with her little song line. Suddenly I couldn’t wait for that afternoon. Holly, the Hurley boys, and I were going to have some fun with the fabulous Scooby, and it would be all the more gratifying now that Sarah was going to be there to witness it.
That afternoon, as Matt and I walked toward the Hickory Farms kiosk, I told myself to just smile and try to be upbeat. But the second I saw my mother standing there in her reindeer costume, all I wanted to do was disappear. Could this be any more humiliating?
“Hey, Mrs. Nick!” Matt called out, walking up to her. “Can I get some of that Monterey Jack?”
Okay, so at least the outfit didn’t faze him.
My mother’s face lit up when she saw us. “Would you like to try some, sir?” she asked me, holding out the tray as Matt munched on his second cube.
“This is good stuff, man. You should try it,” he said, his cheek bulging.
“That’s okay, Mom,” I said. I’d just come from seeing my father, who was still in bad shape. Now I was confronted by the image of my mom as a furry reindeer in a green-and-red apron, and in five minutes I was going to be executing the next step in Project Scooby. My
stomach was not well.
“So, how’s your father?” she asked as a few elderly women took some cheese from the tray.
“He’s . . . fine,” I lied, my mind flashing on an image of my dad flat on his back on his bed, sipping a chocolate malt through a very long straw. He’d tried to act positive, but he could still barely move. It was tough to play along with the Dad’s-just-fine game everyone else was so good at playing.
“The nurses only let us stay for five minutes, but he was joking the whole time. Same old Mr. Nick,” Matt, who had been my taxi that afternoon, told her. “Your dad is so cool, man.”
My mother smiled at this news, then looked at me with sympathy in her eyes. It looked kinda ridiculous over that big red nose she had on. “I know it’s hard to see him like this, sweetie, but he’s going to get better.”
“Sure, Mom,” I said, swallowing back a lump in my throat. I glanced at my watch conspicuously. “Well, better go. I’m gonna be late to meet Holly.”
“I’m gonna go buy my mom’s present,” Matt said, stuffing another cube of cheese into his mouth. “Bye, Mrs. Nicholas. Later, bro.”
He reached out and slapped my hand. “Thanks for the ride,” I called after him as he melted into the crowd. I forced a smile at my mom. “I might be late tonight. I’m gonna study for the big history exam with the guys,” I lied. I felt bad, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. I couldn’t tell my mom that I’d actually be on a crime spree with the Anti-Christmas Underground.
“Okay, sweetie,” she said. “You have fun.”
“Thanks,” I replied. Then I turned and hoofed it toward the North Pole as fast as I could. Just looking at my mother made me feel guilty on so many levels, I couldn’t even deal.
A few minutes later I was standing on the outskirts of the North Pole, behind the Santa Shack, watching Holly’s slow trek through the mall as she tried to wrangle all six Hurley boys and keep from being mowed down by shoppers at the same time. Luckily the hyper, scary kids, at least one of whom always seemed to be beating up another, created a sort of buffer zone around her. No intelligent adult who valued his or her life would come within a five-foot radius.
