by Kieran Scott
“Is this the guy?” the bigger man said, scratching at his itchy beard as he lifted his chin at me.
“This is the guy,” Christopher replied, shoveling fries into his mouth.
“What guy? ” I asked, irritated by the refrain.
“The guy who destroyed the Santa Shack,” the woman said as if I were completely exasperating. “Didn’t Christopher tell you? He’s going to interview you on the air. We’re from News Twelve. We want you on the live six o’clock broadcast.”
Wait a second, they wanted to interview me? Live? With a black eye? While the reporter was ingesting a carton full of power laxative? I glanced over at Scooby, who was watching me intently. I swear for a second there I felt like he could read my mind. God, I hated him.
But I couldn’t focus on that now. I had to get out of this. I had to—
“Okay, black-eye kid, you stand on Christopher’s left,” the little woman said, grabbing me by both arms and shoving me up next to Christopher. “Lumberjack kid, you stand to Christopher’s right,” she said, manhandling Scooby as well.
I felt like my heart was going to pound right through my chest. The large men trained the camera on us and I wiped my palms on my jeans, staring at the dwindling number of fries in Christopher’s carton. He was starting to slow down, but he was still eating. This poor guy. He had no idea what was about to happen.
“Nervous?” he asked, letting out a little belch.
“Uh . . . kind of,” I said. Scooby, of course, laughed.
“Have a fry, you’ll feel better,” Christopher told me. When he held out the carton to me, my stomach lurched. Green gas bubbles danced in my head.
“Uh . . . I don’t think so,” I replied, stuffing my hands under my arms. My black eye started to throb and I felt prickly sweat forming along my hairline.
“Come on, have one,” Christopher said.
“No . . . no, really.” I took a step back.
“What’s the problem, loser?” Scooby asked, looking over Christopher’s head at me. There was a suspicious glint in his eyes. “Why don’t you want to eat them?”
All of a sudden a wave of realization came over me. Scooby knew something was up. And if I didn’t eat at least one fry, his suspicions would be confirmed. And when Christopher went running for the bathroom, Scooby would know I’d done something to the fries and then the frantic producer lady would call the police and I’d be arrested for giving the News 12 reporter food poisoning, I’d be pegged as a delinquent, and they’d know I took down the Santa Shack not entirely by mistake. I was going to jail. And then I’d never get back at Scooby.
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
I took one fry—a small one—said a little prayer, and popped it into my mouth.
“Huh,” Christopher said. “I don’t feel so good.”
He placed the fry carton on the ground at his feet and came up holding his hand over his stomach. I swallowed with difficulty. Just don’t let him get sick on the air. Just don’t let him get sick on the air—
“And we’re going live in five, four, three, two . . .”
The woman pointed at us, the red light went on over the camera, and Christopher let out the loudest, longest fart imaginable. And I used to bunk under Fat Willy after he ate four sloppy joes at dinner back in camp. There was a moment of silence, then the smell came, and then Scooby collapsed in convulsive laughter.
“Uh . . . this is News Twelve field reporter Christopher Wallace, coming to you live from Paramus Park mall in Paramus, New Jersey, where tonight, shoppers witnessed a Christmas tragedy of sorts—”
Ppppppttthhhhhhhllllllllttttt!
Scooby was crouched to the floor, one hand braced on the linoleum, the other arm over his stomach as he laughed. His Adam’s apple bulged dangerously. Christopher was sweating buckets and seemed to be scanning the area for a method of escape. The producer woman held her nose. She was turning red, but she waved her free hand frantically at Christopher, trying to get him to talk. Amazingly, Christopher continued.
“Dozens of children were in line to see Santa Claus when they heard a terrifying noise—”
Pppppttthhhllllllaaaaatt! Phlat . . . pppt . . . pppt . . . ppppt!
My stomach shifted dangerously. Between the smell that was now thick in the air, my nerves, and my own french fry starting to work its magic, I felt like I was about to throw up.
“Uh . . . Paul!” Christopher practically shouted my name in desperation as he turned to me. He bent slightly at the waist, clearly trying to . . . well . . . hold things together. “Why don’t you tell us what happened here tonight?”
Phhhlllloooot!
That time it was me.
Scooby pulled himself into a fetal position on the floor, laughing uncontrollably. The guys behind the camera were almost choking. The producer threw up her hands and turned away.
“Okay, this is Christopher Wallace, signing off,” Christopher said. He waved his hand at the camera-men, his eyes bulging. Somehow he waited until the red light went off. Then he ran. My stomach, now a mass of shifting bubbles, told me to follow and so I did, running as fast as I could, leaving a noxious trail of green bubbles behind me.
“Go! Go! Go!” Dirk whisper-shouted later that night from his lookout spot behind the train station in the center of Montvale. Rudy and I emerged from the bushes across Grand Avenue, the awkward, seven-foot-tall plastic Santa balanced between us. We hightailed it across the street and chucked the Santa into the back of Ralph’s Toyota pickup, where it landed with a crack on top of seven other Santas.
My stomach instantly cramped up and I doubled over just as Rudy tried to high-five me. He caught air and nearly threw himself off his feet. Dirk rushed out from behind the train station and jumped into the passenger seat of the truck.
“Paul, what are you doing? Get in the car!” Holly demanded, leaning out the window of her Bug. A car raced by, but luckily they didn’t seem interested in the fact that there were two vehicles in the train station’s handicapped lot at one o’clock in the morning.
The truck peeled out and Rudy and I lurched toward the VW, gravel shifting under our feet. Rudy stuffed himself into the backseat next to Flora, and I slumped into the front and slammed the door.
“Are you okay?” Holly asked, pedal to the metal to catch up with Ralph.
“Fine,” I replied. I didn’t feel the need to tell her that I’d taken twenty Pepto-Bismol pills since six o’clock and was now fairly certain that I was never going to have another bowel movement for the rest of my life. I couldn’t believe the effects of one fry! And poor Christopher Wallace had been hospitalized for dehydration. I was officially a menace to society.
“Whooooo!” Rudy shouted in the backseat, raising his fists. “How great was that? We are the anti-Christmas kings!”
He raised his hand for another high five and looked at us hopefully. Holly was driving and I was moping, so Flora finally leaned forward a bit, slapped his hand, and then sat back to look out the window again.
“What’s wrong with you people?” Rudy demanded. “We kick butt! Don’t you love how it feels to kick butt?”
“Yeah!” Holly said with a laugh, now that we were speeding along Kinderkamack Road with no police lights flashing in the rearview. “Santa is history!”
Rudy whooped in joy and I looked at Holly out of the corner of my eye. She smiled over at me, but when she saw my face, her forehead creased. She stopped at a red light and put the car into neutral.
“What is up with you, Nicholas?” she asked, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’ve been out of it all night.”
“I just don’t get it,” I replied, flicking the heat vent open and closed. “It’s like Scooby has some kind of personal force field.”
Holly let out a sigh and shoved the gearshift into first as the light turned green. “Will you get over it already?” she asked, focused on the road. “Scooby is just one guy. We just pulled off a major act of anti-Christmas mayhem here! Seven town Santas! I mean, come on
, Paul!”
“Yeah!” Rudy shouted, grabbing the back of my seat and leaning forward so that his smiley face was right next to mine. “We rule!”
I couldn’t help smiling back at him. Rudy is one of those infectious-energy guys. “You’re right,” I said, sitting up. I watched the Santa bodies bouncing up and down in the bed of Ralph’s truck up ahead. “Christmas is going down, baby! Yeah!”
“Whooo-hoo!” Rudy shouted. He looked at Flora. “Come on, say it one time with me—”
“Whooo-hoo!” they both shouted again.
Holly laughed and turned on the radio, loud, and we sped back through the deserted streets of Washington Township, rapping along to P. Diddy at the top of our lungs. By the time we piled out of the car in Dirk’s driveway, my mind-set had readjusted. I was elated. Euphoric, really. Here I was with my best friend in the world, along with all these new friends, and we had just pulled off a serious rebel act without getting caught. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever done anything rebellious before in my life. It was kind of . . . freeing.
Ralph and Dirk started to unload the Santas, leaning them against the side of the truck like a North Pole police lineup. As Ralph sat the last Santa down on the ground—a hollow plastic one with a chipping face and a faded red suit that had clearly been used for one too many seasons, I felt a surge of hatred course through me. As I stared at the Santa, its bulbous face suddenly morphed into Scooby’s laughing one.
Laughing. Always laughing.
I looked at Dirk. He twitched and smirked, like he knew what I was thinking.
I pulled back my fist and sank it right into Scooby’s nose. His entire face collapsed around my hand and everyone cheered. It felt very, very good.
And suddenly I was completely exhausted.
“I think it’s time to go home,” Holly said, putting her arm around my shoulders.
“Are you kidding? We’re on a roll here!” Dirk said, his head twitching violently to the side so that his ear almost touched his shoulder.
“Yeah! A roll!” Rudy exploded, bouncing up and down like a boxer.
“What else you got for us, Dirk?” Ralph asked. He leaned his head back slightly so that his neck seemed to disappear.
Dirk’s eyes slid left and right, taking in the little circle of followers that was gathered around him, the steam from our breath mingling in the air. Suddenly all the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. There was a new, disturbing vibe rushing between all of us.
One twitch, then Dirk spoke. “I happen to know where they’re keeping all the floats for the Wooddale Christmas parade,” he said.
Flora’s eyes lit up and Rudy let out an “Awww, yeah!”
I glanced at Holly and her eyes mirrored mine. The Wooddale Christmas parade? It was a tradition. It was an institution. It was a joyous event my parents and I had attended together every year since birth. People came from all over the area to watch the parade down Wooddale Avenue. Kids from local dance schools would dress up as elves and sugarplum fairies and dance down the street. A brass band played Christmas carols. Santa had a new and more elaborate float every year and Mrs. Claus would throw candy into the crowd from the seat next to his. There was a Hanukkah float and a Kwanza float and a float with the baby New Year. They even had real reindeer. I’d never missed a Wooddale parade in my life.
And Holly used to come with us. Until a couple of years ago, of course. It had always been one of the most happy, Christmassy nights of the year. We’d watch the parade, go out for hot chocolate afterward, drive around looking at light displays. . . .
“You in, Paulie?” Dirk asked. The way he said my name always made me feel like I was an extra on The Sopranos.
Ralph, Rudy, and Flora all looked at me with anticipation. My heart turned in my chest. Stealing decrepit Santas was one thing, but could I really take down the Wooddale parade?
“You don’t have to do this,” Holly told me quietly.
But when I looked into Dirk’s eyes, I knew I did. These people were my friends. My brethren. Mi amigos. They were helping me deal with Scooby. They’d taken me in when I felt like my whole world was falling apart. I couldn’t let them down now. I had to show anti-Christmas solidarity. Besides, it wasn’t like my family was going to make it to the parade this year—not with my father in Christmas-mishap traction. I glanced at the deflated face of my Scooby stand-in Santa and nodded.
“I’m in,” I said.
My heart in my throat, I climbed into the cab of Ralph’s truck with Dirk. He clapped his hand on my shoulder like a proud Godfather and we headed off to Wooddale.
DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL
AS I WALKED THROUGH THE ICU ON FRIDAY MORNING, I got more than a few disturbed looks from the nurses on duty. Not that I could blame them. My cut had closed up, but my shiner was rather shiny, I was sporting a bit of stubble, and my eyes were bloodshot. Add that to the fact that I was still wearing my rumpled, dirt-stained jeans from the night before and that I hadn’t even been home since our anti-Christmas adventures, and I probably looked like a crack addict who’d wandered in off the street.
But there was still an hour to kill before school and I wasn’t sure I was going to get to see my dad later. Besides, I’d just spent hours sabotaging the Wooddale Christmas parade—only my father’s favorite out-of-house tradition. The guilt was killing me. Maybe chilling with my father for a while would make it ease up a little.
I walked over to the doorway to my father’s room and stood there for a moment, my mouth completely dry. Dad was staring toward the window on the far side of the room, the blinds drawn across it. He hadn’t seen me yet and that gave me a chance to find my voice and figure out what to say. My state of total exhaustion made standing there looking at my weakened, prone father even more difficult. I still couldn’t believe this was happening, but the eyes didn’t lie. My dad was lying there wearing a thin cotton gown, he was hooked up to at least three machines, and his skin was as waxy as a surfboard.
When I felt tears prickling my eyes, I cleared my throat. “Hey, Dad.”
He turned his head, winced, then turned it more slowly. At least he could move a little more now. That was an improvement over the last time I’d been here. His entire face lit up when he saw me. Well, as much as it could, considering how difficult it still was for him to move his face muscles. His eyes twinkled for a second, then darkened.
“Son! What happened to you?” he asked.
My hand flew to my black eye. “Oh, these kids at the mall didn’t like my Santa impression,” I told him, stepping tentatively into the room. Not exactly a lie. “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Actually, it was worse than it looked, but who was I to complain? The man was being forced to use a bedpan, for Christmas’ sake! (I really have to break myself of that phrase now that I’m anti-Christmas.)
“I’m glad you’re here,” my father said, reaching for the remote attached to the bed. He hit a button and the mechanism whined to life, pushing my father into a seated position. His face turned red and I could tell the movement was painful for him, but he was trying not to let it show.
All this because of a stupid Christmas lights mishap.
“Your mother tells me you slept at a friend’s last night?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. That was the story I’d told my mom when I’d called her from the cab of Ralph’s truck to tell her I wouldn’t be coming home. Of course I had been with friends all night, but sleep hadn’t been part of the festivities.
“I understand why you might not want to be home,” my father said. “I know the house is a mess— your mother told me about your room. . . .”
I looked down at my muddy Pumas. I sensed a guilt trip coming on.
“But Paul, your mother really needs you, especially without me there,” my father said, causing my chest to ache. “And I’d really like it if you’d at least put up a few strands of new lights . . . maybe around the doors and windows,” he continued. “Just so the kids who come by won’t be too up
set. And I also think it would cheer your mother up a bit—start getting things back to normal.”
I glanced at my father to see if he was being ironic, but no. His face was quite serious—even hopeful. Who was he kidding? Things were never going to be back to normal.
“I know I can count on you, Paul. I’m so glad that you’re full of the Christmas spirit. I think it’s really going to help you get through this,” my father said, expending some serious energy to move his hand toward me.
I sat down in the chair next to his bed and put my hand on top of his. My heart felt like it was ripping open. My poor, delusional father. My Christmas spirit was going to help me through this? What were they doing in this place, spoon-feeding him hallucinogens? Christmas was the cause of all our misery! If anything, my father should see that more clearly than anyone else. He was the one lying here practically paralyzed with needles sticking out of his arms! All because the Christmas spirit had turned against us.
“So, you’ll help your mother decorate the house?” my father asked, his voice growing harsh. I could tell this conversation was taking a lot out of him.
“Yeah, Dad,” I told him, even though I could think of nothing I’d less like to do. “I will.”
“Everybody’s staring at my eye,” I said to Holly as I followed her toward our usual lunch table on Friday afternoon.
Turk and Randy were standing a few tables away and they bent their heads together, talking as they looked me over. Turk said something to Dinuka Samarasinghe and he turned in his seat to check me out. I might as well have had the words Kindergartners’ Punching Bag tattooed across my forehead.
“That’s because I told them you got it fighting off a gang that tried to hold up Krauser’s last night,” Holly said, swinging her hair behind her shoulders as she sat down next to Marcus.
My mouth dropped open in awe. “You are my hero,” I told her.
“I’m aware,” she said gleefully, stealing a fry from my tray.
