Getting Kole
for
Christmas
KIMBERLY KREY
Getting Kole for Christmas
Copyright © 2015 KIMBERLY KREY
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by KIMBERLY KREY © 2015
Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
ISBN: 1517610729
ISBN-13: 978-1517610722
DEDICATION
To Rob,
my own best friend crush.
Twenty-one years and counting.
Love you forever
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A world of thanks to every
one of my betas.
How grateful I am for you!
“Green spaghetti?” I say, looking down at my plate. Thick, red sauce coats a tangled mass of green noodles. Connie’s new holiday dish – with its unique vomit-like blend of color – is far from appetizing.
My mom’s face scrunches up in apology mode. “I know. It didn’t turn out how I wanted. It looks disgusting, but I swear it tastes good.”
Dad inspects the blob on his own plate while reaching for his fork. “Guess you’re going to have to rule this one out, right Connie?”
She nods, looking anything but discouraged, and shoves a forkful into her mouth. I sigh, dreading all of the holiday meals in our near future. Mom (AKA Connie in the Kitchen) goes on the local news station each week to share clever new recipes with all the kind folks in Shadow Springs. Now’s the season for festive food, and we here in the Bronson home are like rats in her test lab.
Tiff takes a bite. “You’re totally right, Mom,” she says, covering her mouth while she chews. “This actually tastes good if you can get past the nasty look of it.”
Trina, Tiff’s literal twin, sloshes her pile from one side of her plate to the next. “Seriously? There’s no way. Can’t you just make smaller portions of whatever new thing you’re trying so we don’t have to eat it?”
“Nope, she can’t,” my dad sings cheerily. “I don’t mind one bit that your mom tries new holiday recipes on us. Just gets us into the Christmas spirit all the more. Right, Kylie?” He shoots me a grin.
I shrug. I have no idea why Dad calls on me for backup; he never gets the answer he’s looking for. I reach for the parmesan and bury my food beneath a heaping mound.
My younger sister, Melanie, smears butter onto a slice of French bread. “I’m already in the Christmas spirit.”
Once I can no longer see the clashing color of my food, I dig in, glad the green pasta isn’t flavored like spinach or something gross like that.
“So, Kylie,” Dad says, “have you figured out what you’d like for Christmas yet?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“Need any new soccer gear? A bounce-back goalie box? Iron shin guards? A spinning display case for all your trophies?”
I give him a sardonic look.
“C’mon, Ky-bear, Santa needs to know soon. He’s been done shopping for your sisters for two months. There’s got to be something you’ve been wanting for a while now.”
An image of Kole seeps into my mind. Brown eyes, dark hair, and a smile that sinks a dimple into his cheek every time we talk. I sigh. “I’ll let you know.”
“I think Evan is going to ask me to the Christmas dance,” Tiff announces with a squeal.
I try to hold back an eye roll, but fail. Of course Evan Timberson is asking her to the dance. Tiff and Evan have been dating for months.
“Oh, you’re so lucky,” Trina says with a pout. “I’m positive that nobody is going to ask me this year.” She stares her twin square in the face. “Positive.”
I stab my food once more while the twins – just fourteen months older than me – tell one another how perfect they are, which is totally conceited because they’re identical twins. Hello-oo.
“Trina,” Tiff says with a ring of finality, “let’s face it: You’re perfect, and you will totally get asked.”
I don’t think Trina is anywhere near perfect, but I know she’ll get asked to the dance. She always does. I’m the one who will be dateless on dance night, and the truth of it makes my eyes sting.
It’s not so much the I-won’t-get-asked-part; it’s how certain I am that I won’t get asked – like, it’s not even a possibility.
“I wish someone would ask me,” Melanie says. She’s too boy crazy for her own good; she takes after the twins, not me.
I throw her a glare. “You’re not a sophomore yet, Mel.”
“Yeah, but I’m in high school now.”
“I can’t believe that all of my babies are in the same school again,” my mom says, that dreamy smile on her face. “It won’t ever happen again, so you girls better enjoy it.”
Enjoy it? In what universe? Having all four of us Bronson girls crammed into the same school only makes me stand out more than ever. If we all lined up in birth order, let the average prepubescent at West Ridge High evaluate us as they walked by, it would go something like this. (I’d be standing second to last.)
Hot.
Hot.
Not.
Hot.
I don’t flirt and cheer and throw my hair and if that’s what it takes to be seen as hot in my school then I’ll gladly be among the nots until I’m through.
“Mom, I’m in high school now,” Melanie persists, “so that means I can go, right?”
“Who cares if you’re in high school,” I snap, “you’re only a freshman.”
Melanie and I are obviously not twins, but when she gets her blue eyes glaring with all that angst and heat, she looks a whole lot like me. Only with brown hair instead of blonde.
“Mom says if I get asked she’ll let me go.”
I shoot my mother a look. “You never said I could go before sophomore year. I thought that was the rule. No dating until sophomore year.” I hate that I’m throwing Melanie under the bus, but even more, I hate the idea of her getting asked to all the dances too, while I sit here, the only one not getting asked. I’m nearly two years older than she is. She should have to watch me get asked out first. Something is wrong with this picture and I want to break it before it gets hung on the wall for all eyes to see.
My mom stands her fork upright in the heap on her plate. She smooths a hand over her dark brown hair while pulling a face I recognize from her live cooking segment. It’s the face she makes whenever her uber-hyper co-host puts her on the spot.
“Well…” she says, “that’s still the rule. But I figure that a Christmas dance is different. Christmas is the most special time of the year. And if some poor boy goes to all the trouble to ask her to a dance, the least she could do is say yes.”
“Poor boy? You say that like she’s getting asked by Tiny Tim.”
Tiff covers a laugh and I’m pretty sure my dad does the same.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I say. I’m on my feet before anyone can protest, yet just as I stomp past my dad he pipes up. “Why don’t you finish your dinner first, Kylie?”
I bolt down the stairs, knowing he only says it out of obligation. He knows I won’t stay.
I flick on my music and yank open the window to get some fresh air. Beyond the glass, a layer of snow covers the gravel at the base of my window well. The sight reminds me of how depressing this season was last year. Tiff & Trina getting asked to the dance (after they’d already gone to homecoming, no less). And then there was me, finally old enough to go and wonder
ing if I’d get asked too.
I flop onto my bed and sink into my usual, pre-dance dumps. “Now even Melanie’s going to go,” I mumble. Being in the same family as the Bronson twins is not an easy thing. They’re loud and flirty and boys flock to them at every turn. I’ve always told myself that I’m just … not like them. And that’s why I don’t get asked out or followed around or desired by even one guy in that school.
I flip onto my stomach, reach for my cellphone, and type out a text to Kole.
Watch out Shadow Springs. Connie in the Kitchen is already gearing up for the holiday with festive food ideas.
I stare at the screen, waiting for him to reply.
Well if it’s any consolation, my mom’s boyfriend just gave her a spank right in front of me and the little bro. Thought that whole barfing in the mouth thing was impossible until this moment.
I laugh. Kole always knows how to make me smile. I think back on the way he cheered me up when I hurt my ankle and had to sit out a game. He came over, arms loaded with Oreos and jerky (my favorites) and every flavor of Dorito known to man (his favorite). We watched the freakiest show Netflix had to offer while Kole forced me to try each kind of chip. He insisted I close my eyes and guess which flavors were which.
No matter what else I experience in this life, that night will hold a secret spot in my heart ‘til I die. Right beside the handful of times he showed up to watch me play soccer when it wasn’t even a home game.
I sigh, forcing myself to get back on track. I decide to hint to the object of my real distress with a simple lead-in:
Prepare yourself for a shock, but word on the street says that Evan might *gasp* ask Tiff to the Christmas dance!!!
My heart starts to race as I look at the text. My palms get cold and clammy. Sure, the subject just came up at dinner, but I’ve been thinking about Kole and the Christmas dance for months now. Wishing he would just ask me to it. Magically. You see, he’s not my boyfriend. He never has been. He’s a platonic friend who’s also the boy I’ve had a crush on for two solid years.
I bring the phone back up to eye-level as his reply beeps in.
Shocker. Wonder if she’s going to put tinsel in her hair again.
I smile and text back.
How did you know she did that?
Pictures.
Oh. That’s right. My parents have this horrible mess of a montage in the upstairs hallway where they paste wallets of all my sisters’ dance date pictures. I hate how it looks on the wall and yet I can’t help but wish I had at least one stupid picture in the thing.
My dad, bless him, evens things out by hanging my soccer pictures along the same wall. What he doesn’t realize is that he may as well be taking a fluorescent Sharpie and highlighting the drastic contrast between me and girls guys actually ask out.
My phone lights up with another text.
Why do girls get so worked up over getting asked to a dance? I don’t know what the big deal is.
Whoa. The question feels like dangerous territory for me. On one hand, I don’t know what the big deal is either. But at the same time it is a very big deal to me. The Christmas dance is all I can think about lately. If I could come up with an accurate comparison for Kole – aka baseball extraordinaire – it would go something like this: Say he’s in a game and he’s up to bat. The pitcher is holding onto that ball, cupping it in his hands, whirling it around like his life depends on it, and ready to let it fly in a beat.
No matter what is said or done in those moments, Kole would not take his eyes off the ball. Ever. (I know this because I’ve seen him in action; he’s magnificent.) It’s like that with me – my ball is the Christmas dance. And for whatever reason, I cannot strike out this time.
I climb off my bed and walk over to the full-length mirror, checking my skin for breakouts while I think of what to say back. At least I don’t have any pimples coming to the surface. My skin might be pale, but at least it’s clear. At last I force myself to answer.
I don’t know. I guess it’s just because dances are kind of a limited-time thing. I don’t see my parents going to any dances. Just high school kids. You know?
I leave the message there while the cursor flashes at me, daring me to hit send. This is something I have spent an extensive amount of time thinking about. I’ve told myself time and time again to stop caring about the stupid dances but I can’t stop caring. I didn’t go to one dance my freshman year. Not one during my sophomore year. And with the lack of a homecoming invite this year I’m already zero for one. My life is slipping away before me.
In the moment of panic, my thumb presses send. Immediately I read over it again, this time out loud, to see what it might sound like to him. “…don’t see my parents going to any dances. Just high school kids.”
My stomach is sick. “I can’t believe I just sent that.” Will Kole see right through my comment? Will he somehow know that I pray with all my hurting heart that he’ll ask me to the Christmas dance this year?
The doorbell rings, and I hear Tiff give out a squeal.
Oh, joy. It’s tonight. The miserable part of me wants to stay in my bed and stare at my phone and listen for everyone’s reaction to whatever display stands beyond the front door. The masochist in me wants to cause myself even more pain by running upstairs to witness the display for myself.
I don’t know how it’s done in normal towns with normal kids, but here, guys don’t just come out and ask girls to go to a dance. They have to participate in a doorbell ditching ritual where they leave things behind that ask the question for them. It must include a cryptic little note that gives clues she must solve to discover who is asking her to the dance. The girl is to answer back in a similar fashion.
I decide to take the back door. This way my family won’t see me and hopefully I can avoid getting one of those looks from Mom and Dad. Those I’m-sorry-nobody-ever-asks-you-out looks. I’m glad to leave my phone behind; who even wants to think about what Kole might reply to my latest text? Not. Me.
I push open the back door in time to hear oohing and ahhing galore. I’m pretty sure I cut through my top lip in the moment of irritation, not that it matters. I won’t be going to a dance and getting my picture taken and having it shoved into that monstrosity in the hallway.
I tip-toe through the dark carport, hopping from one dry spot to the next until I can lean far enough around the edge to see.
At least three dozen red and green balloons are tied to a two-liter of soda, making the lone bottle look like it’s about to float away. When I secretly wish it would, I curse myself for being such a jealous sister.
I stretch my neck out to see better as my entire family gathers around Tiff. She picks up a big poster that must have been lying on the ground and reads it aloud.
“Tiff, I don’t know what I’d Dew if you didn’t go to the Christmas dance with me. Say yes, and I’ll be floating on air.” She and Trina squeal in unison while jumping up and down.
“Aw, that is the sweetest,” Melanie cries. I can see hope and excitement in her eyes. And for a moment, I can see me in those eyes too – years of watching my sisters get asked to one dance after the next while I dream of being at the receiving end of those invitations.
It should make me wish that she’ll get asked too, but I’m just not kind enough or evolved enough or whatever I’d have to be to hope for such a thing. Because all I can think of is how nice it will finally be to have one other person in this world who understands just how hard it is to be compared to the Bronson twins. Sorry, sister. Life isn’t always fair.
Tiff clears her throat and finishes reading with her loud, happy voice. “It says, pop all the balloons and you will find, slips of paper that I signed. Match up the letters to spell my name, I hope that you enjoy this game.” The girls squeal again.
I groan. Pop the balloons? This is going to take hours. And is it even worth doing? It’s not like we don’t already know whom it’s from.
My dad laughs that big hearty laugh of his as he circ
les the display. “What a clever idea.”
“I’ll run and get a pin,” Mom says. “Bring it all inside and Dad will snap some pictures of you girls popping the balloons.”
Everyone shuffles in through the open doorway. Everyone but my dad. He glances in my direction and though I’m not sure he sees me I’m too scared to blink or breathe. Just when I think he’s seeing shadows of the neighbor’s ugly cat, his eyes land right on me. The porch light illuminates his face, and I wonder how much of it reaches mine.
I shrink my neck into my shoulders, hoping to dodge ‘the look’ but I’m too late; pity is already etched on his face.
“Tell me you’re kidding.” The dry tone of Kole’s voice makes me smile.
“I’m not though. That’s exactly what it said.”
Kole rolls his eyes. “Pop the balloons? Bet that was fun to listen to.”
“Yeah. I was flinching from each hideous balloon pop until I could get my music loud enough to drown it out. By then Trina came down and said I was ruining the recording.”
Kole throws me a questioning glance so I elaborate. “They were filming her – as if there was actually an ounce of suspense as to who’d asked.”
“Hey, Kole-ster,” Mike says, barreling down the hall. I look up to see Chase isn’t far behind.
“Well, I better go,” I say, not wanting to compete with his friends.
“Hey, Kylie,” Chase bellows.
“The Kyster,” Mike says next.
Kole shoots me an apologetic look as they surround us.
“So will you two be attending the Christmas festivities put on by our very own West Ridge High?” Chase asks, sounding exactly like Mr. Rainer.
“Definitely not,” I snap without hesitation. My answer – compelled by sheer panic at the topic – causes the group of guys to let out a loud oooohhhh sound.
Getting Kole for Christmas Page 1
