The Wrong McElroy

by KL Hughes

  “I knew Jessie’s weird rant in the living room sounded ominous,” she said. “You should have told me this was part of the deal when you asked me to come down here with you.”

  “Would you have still come?”

  “Would I have had the option to opt out?”

  “That’s not really a thing here.”

  “Then no. I wouldn’t have come, and I’m currently considering stealing your car keys and fleeing back to downtown St. Louis, where they diligently scrape all the snow off the streets into big, dirty piles and no one has to play, or die, in it.”

  “Relax.” He bopped her frozen nose with the tip of a gloved finger. “I told you. You’ve got this.”

  “I grew up in Los Angeles, Michael.” Each word produced a tiny puff of fog. “The closest thing I ever had to a snowball fight was when Heidi Burch threw one of those Hostess Sno Ball cakes at me in fifth grade because I didn’t send her a valentine.”

  Michael roared with laughter. “That’s brutal. What’d you do?”

  “I ate it,” Fiona said, not even looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on Jessie, who was still churning out snowballs behind her little white wall like a rage-powered, automated assembly line.

  “The fact that your sister, who I was almost certain was a robot you guys kept around for comedic relief, keeps laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West is making me feel like I should get back on my old anxiety meds.”

  “Oh, she’s definitely a robot. She mostly just grunts and stares at her phone and, you know, occasionally threatens someone, but the Christmas snowball fight is like her crack. She loves it more than she loves any of us. Maybe even more than social media, Candy Crush, and making fun of people.” He looked over at her. “And she’s totally cheating! What the hell?” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “You’re not allowed to start building your arsenal until Mom blows the whistle!”

  “Mind your business, Ginger!”

  Michael snorted. “Why are you yelling at yourself?”

  “Better yet, why are you yelling at the whole family?” Brian called from his own little corner, shared with Grace, where the two of them were working on a protective wall. It wasn’t very tall, but they could hide behind it well enough if they kept to their knees.

  Michael patted Fiona’s marshmallow arms again. “Look, all you have to do is duck most of the time. I’ll do all the throwing, if you want. Just stay behind me, and if I say run, run.”

  “Run? Seriously? What if I can’t keep up? Look at me in this coat! I feel like a penguin raised on a diet of jumbo shrimp and blubber, not to mention the fact that these giant boots your mom made me wear keep sinking into the snow. How does anyone run in all this stuff?”

  “Hey, we got lucky this year,” he said. “We hardly ever get the good, deep, powdery stuff. It’s usually more sludge or ice, and not very much at that, so we have to improvise. One year, Dad got one of those fake snowmakers. Didn’t really do so great with the snowballs, but it was still pretty fun. Another year we did hot-water balloons. Now, that was awesome.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “If you get hit, it’s really not a big deal. I mean, nothing to be scared of or anything. Like I said, it’s good soft snow this year, so it shouldn’t hurt unless you take it to the face, and even then, it only stings for a second.”

  “Oh, great.” She wasn’t inspired. “Well, as long as it only stings for a second, then, you’re right. Sure. No big deal.”

  “Stop being such a wuss, Fi. You’ll love it. I promise.”

  Fiona grumbled and waddled along behind him as he led her to the trunk of a dogwood tree. It was gray and barren from the effects of winter, and each branch was blanketed by a layer of fresh snow, but, to Fiona, it was beautiful all the same. She had always had a thing for trees in winter—something about their nakedness and how it made them seem so lonely yet so resilient. It wasn’t something she got to enjoy in Southern California, but in Missouri, there were trees aplenty. Clearly, it was the same for Arkansas.

  “I’m telling you,” Michael said as he quickly began building up a miniature protective wall beside the tree, “this is the best spot. I’ve won four different Christmases at it. It’s lucky.”

  “Good.” Fiona crouched down beside him to help with the wall. “’Cause I’m not taking any snowballs to the face.”

  “I make no promises.” Michael grinned at her, his cheeks and nose a bright pink from the cold. “We have to leave the base if we want to get any hits.”

  “Why do we need hits?”

  “It’s like dodgeball. If you get hit, you’re out, though Mom usually lets us take two hits before calling us out. She’s the ref. Dad’s the scorekeeper. Anyway, if you get hit, you’re out, so we want to hit as many as we can, and we’ve got to leave base to do that. We just come back here when we need to replenish our arsenal or take quick cover. Got it?”

  “What if someone takes our spot while we aren’t here?”

  “Not allowed. Once you set up base, it’s yours. No one’s allowed to steal any of your snowballs or take cover behind someone else’s wall. It’s cheating. You gotta make your own ammo and shelter. It’s every McElroy for himself out here, unless you’re on a team, but even then, if your teammate gets out, you’re still in until you get hit.”

  Fiona patted the last bit of snow onto the top of the short wall while Michael began making snowballs beside her.

  “Can you please stop using words like arsenal and ammo? It’s a snowball fight, not World War III.” She sounded as disbelieving of her own words as she felt. She knew from her own observations and from the look Michael was giving her that it absolutely was World War III: The McElroy Family Christmas Edition. Shit.

  “Didn’t you just get on your sister about that being against the rules?” She nodded toward the pile of snowballs Michael had already completed. “Don’t we have to wait for the whistle?”

  He shushed her. “Everyone else is cheating, so we gotta keep up.”

  “I can’t take part in such tactics, Michael. I’m an honest woman.”

  “Sure you are, girlfriend.”

  She cackled and shoved him over in the snow as the loud sound of a throat clearing echoed about the yard. Fiona popped her head up over the wall to see Rosie standing in the middle of the yard, holding a bullhorn to her mouth. No wonder the throat-clearing was so loud. She wore a coat that was striped like a referee’s shirt, and a silver pipe whistle dangled from a thin black rope around her neck. At the sight of both, Fiona snorted so hard she choked. “Where the hell did your mom get that coat?”

  “I’m pretty sure she made it.”

  “All right, kids,” Rosie announced into her bullhorn, “I want a clean fight. You know the rules. No stealing bases or ammunition. No tree climbing or getting on top of the shed. No tackling. Two hits and you’re out. Winner takes all.”

  “No tackling?” Charlie stood from behind the lopsided snow wall he was building with his two daughters. The little girls sat on each side of him, the oldest smacking blobs of snow onto the top of the wall while the youngest ignored the wall altogether. She plopped onto her back instead and raked her arms and legs through the snow to make a snow angel. “Since when?”

  “Since always,” Sophie called out as she exited the back door of the house with a stack of winter clothes and accessories. She shoved a beanie onto Brian’s head as she passed his and Grace’s base. “Just because you and Brian don’t follow the rules doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She then tossed a pair of thick gloves to Lizzie, who, until that point, had been completely silent. When Fiona followed the flight of the gloves with her eyes, she saw why.

  Lizzie was almost completely hidden behind a massive wall of perfectly sculpted snow bricks. How she’d managed to build it in such a short time was beyond Fiona, and all she could do was sit and gawk at the gleaming wall.


  Michael, on the other hand, was annoyed. “Lizzie, what the hell is that?!”

  She stepped to the side of her wall and, with a cocky grin, held her arms out toward the work as if revealing a prize or piece of art.

  “Like that, do you? Living near the beach has its perks. I’ve been practicing with sandcastles.”

  “That’s cheating!”

  “No, it’s not,” Rosie said. “There’s no rule against practice.”

  “Yeah!” Charlie Sr. hollered from his cushioned chair on the back porch where he sat beside a large dry-erase board for keeping score. “So quit your bellyaching, all of you, and focus on the game. Countdown’s ’bout to start, and, like your mom said, winner takes all, so get ready.”

  Fiona looked to Michael. “There are prizes?”

  “Heck yeah, there are prizes. You think Jessie, of all people, would willingly get cold, wet, and potentially smacked in the face with a ball of ice for nothing?”

  “Ten!”

  A spark of panic ignited in Fiona’s gut as Charlie Sr. began to shout out the countdown. “Oh shit,” she said. “Oh shit. Oh shit. I’m not ready. Michael, I’m not ready.”

  “Nine!”

  “Yes, you are. Just stay behind me. If we get separated, try not to get hit.”

  “Eight!”

  “Uh, yeah. Okay.” Fiona glanced over the wall, her gaze hopping from base to base and passing over each determined face of all Michael’s excited siblings. The only faces not riddled with rabid glee were those of Charlie’s youngest, Maddi, who was still making snow angels, and Sophie and Grace, who wore only soft, amused smiles as if happy just to be with their family, no matter the circumstances.

  “Oh,” Michael added, “and stay the hell away from Charlie and Brian, if you can.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Five!”

  “They like to tackle, then pretend they didn’t.”

  “Even me? But I’m tiny and a girl. I’m practically the same size as your nieces!”

  “Yeah, they don’t care.” Michael laughed. “And what’s with the ‘I’m a girl’ crap? Lizzie would tackle you just as soon as Charlie or Brian would.”

  “Three!”

  Fiona ignored the feel of her eyebrow ticking up, of the flutter in her lower stomach and the rush of heat in her chest at the image conjured to mind. “Well, then, why didn’t you say to stay away from her, too?”

  “’Cause there’s no staying away from Lizzie. If she wants to, she’ll get you, one way or another. For the most part, though, she sticks to her base.”

  “One!”

  Michael jumped up from behind the wall, three snowballs balanced in one hand like a tennis player ready to serve and one ready to throw in the other. “Go!” he shouted as Rosie blew the whistle, and Fiona instantly gave a hair-raising scream. She didn’t look around but simply ran, eyes fixed to Michael’s back, her short legs doing their best to keep up with his leaping steps. She didn’t even bother grabbing a single snowball.

  The McElroy’s massive backyard became a blur of shining white and the shifting, bouncing material of Michael’s coat. Squeals and shouts and laughter rung out left and right, mixed with the crunching sounds of heavy boots plowing through settled snow.

  “Take cover! Take cover!”

  Fiona didn’t know who shouted out the command, nor did she know to whom it was directed, but she listened all the same. She threw her body to the ground, squashing herself against the snow in a pile of puff and anxiety, and threw her arms over the back of her head. The next sound she heard was Michael’s delighted laugh as he jerked her by her arm back to her feet.

  “Not you, you big dork. Brian was shouting at Grace. I got her anyway.”

  Fiona clutched the back of his coat as he barreled through the snow. “Already?”

  “Yeah, she never lasts long. It was only her first out, so she could’ve stayed, but she always sits out after the first. We’re pretty sure she does it on purpose because she doesn’t really wanna play.”

  “Can’t imagine why.”

  He led her quickly toward the side of a large metal barn, rusted in some places but otherwise standing firm and solid. He lowered his voice a bit as they slunk along the side toward the back of the barn. “If you’d stop covering your eyes and screaming, and actually play, you’d like it.” He peeked around the corner when they reached the edge. “Clear.” He turned back toward her, his shoulders dropping. The tension eased from his brow. “You know how much you like to win.”

  Fiona inclined her head. “True, but I also know how much I hate being cold or wet, especially at the same time.”

  “So don’t get hit,” he said as if she hadn’t just been thrust into battle with experienced competitors who knew the game, knew each other, and likely also knew a hundred different ways to knock her on her ass using nothing more than powdery white rain.

  “Sure. ’Cause it’s so easy not to get hit.”

  “It’s not easy,” Michael said, “but it’s not hard either. You just have to pay attention. You do that, and you can dodge a lot.” As he spoke, Fiona caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. A flash of red hair. A retracted arm, ready to throw. Her stomach dropped, and she knew they were doomed.

  “Duck!” The word leaped up her throat almost of its own accord, though she knew it was too late. Any second now, a fat ball of snow would smash into the side of Michael’s face like a cold, angry fist, and down he would go. Then, it would be only Fiona, and there was no way she could survive on her own.

  Michael, however, was fast on his feet. His reflexes had him on the ground in an instant, as if dropping to do pushups at Fiona’s command. Fiona shrieked as the snowball whizzed by his head and smashed with a near-silent whoosh into the back wall of the barn. A second later, Michael was on his feet again, whirling around just in time to catch Jessie skittering away like a cockroach caught in the light.

  “Yeah, you better run,” he shouted after her, then turned back to Fiona. “See! Like that! That was awesome. Just pay attention like that, and we’ll take the game, easy.” He motioned for her to follow him as he inched toward the opposite side of the barn. “Ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Let’s go,” he said, without answering, and Fiona had to fight back the urge to scream again. He darted out from behind the cover of the barn and sprinted across the yard, chucking a snowball as he went. Fiona had no idea where it flew or who it hit or if it hit anyone at all. She was too busy trying to keep up with Michael’s long strides, which wasn’t easy to do on flat pavement, let alone when plowing through thick snow. They’d nearly reached their base to gather more ammunition when Fiona’s boot snagged on something in the snow—a stick, maybe—and down, down, down she went.

  It felt like something out of a movie, as if the entire world slowed to watch her embarrassing descent, and all Fiona could do was watch the ground fly up to meet her. Her knees hit first, followed quickly by her pelvis, stomach, chest, and, finally, her chin. She barely had time to register being face-first on the ground before a snowball smacked into the space right beside her face, missing her by an inch, no more.

  “Damn!” Fiona rolled onto her knees just in time to see Charlie squatted nearby, quickly patting together another snowball to finish the job he started. She knew she was done for, but before Charlie could launch another one her way, a softball-sized snowball exploded in his face. Fiona gaped as Charlie spluttered, spit out snow, wiped his eyes clean, and shouted.

  “Dammit, Jessie!”

  Jessie stood at the side of the barn, partly covered, partly exposed, with a ridiculous number of snowballs clutched in one arm and the other readying another to throw. She cackled as she had done earlier, the sound still just as unsettling in its wicked glee. Fiona couldn’t help but laugh as well, though. Jessie was just enjoying herself so much. It was
terrifying but infectious.

  “That’s your second one, Charlie,” Rosie called from near the house, bullhorn positioned in front of her mouth. “You’re out.”

  “That wasn’t my second, Mom. I’ve still got one more.”

  “Brian hit you earlier.”

  “It didn’t hit me,” Charlie said. “I swear.”

  “Like hell it didn’t,” Brian’s disembodied voice echoed from the far side of the yard. His hiding spot was truly effective.

  “I saw it hit you,” Charlie Sr. said from behind his coat and scarf. The coffee cup in his right hand steamed in the cold air. His left hand held a fat, black marker, which he used to cross out his eldest son’s name. “I didn’t raise you to be a sore loser, son.” He motioned toward a large carafe on the small table beside his chair. “Come on now. There’s coffee. Come join your sisters and warm up.”

  On the other side of the table sat Grace and Sophie, both bundled in a single shared blanket and swaying slightly on a white wicker porch swing. “Give it up, Charlie,” Sophie yelled and patted the space to the side of her. “There’s a spot for you here on the losers’ swing.”

  While Charlie was grumbling his way to the porch, Fiona ran as fast as she could to Michael’s side.

  He put an arm around her. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” His attempt at keeping a straight face failed horribly. His cheeks bloated so severely that he looked like a puffer fish. “That was just, you know, quite a fall.”

  “I swear to God if you laugh, I’ll—”

  The obnoxious laugh that burst free reverberated around the entire yard as if the snow had turned to rubber and sent the harsh melody bouncing about in all directions, back and forth with no end. Fiona set her jaw. “All right,” she said. “You asked for it.”