Midnight Movies: A YA Holiday Story

by Rusty Fischer

Midnight Movies:

  A YA Holiday Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

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  Midnight Movies

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2015 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © nyul – Fotolia

  This title was formerly released as “Now Showing in Snowflake”.

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar! Happy reading… and happy holidays!

  Enjoy!

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  Midnight Movies:

  A YA Holiday Story

  “I warned you this was a bad idea,” frowns Mr. Kerns, rubbing his long, pale hand nervously over his scruffy bald head. “I even showed you the numbers from the last three Christmas Eves, remember? No one comes out to see movies on Christmas Eve, Sasha; no one!”

  He’s pacing, too, back and forth between the ticket window and the cheesy game room. That is, if you call Galaga, Centipede and air hockey a “game room.”

  “People will come, Mr. Kerns,” I insist stridently, as I’ve been doing for the last two hours straight. “At least the kids will… I think.”

  “I don’t know why you keep saying that,” he says, pointing broadly to the empty parking lot and wide, even emptier sidewalk in front of the Snowflake Cinema’s double doors. “Despite all the evidence to the contrary!”

  Mr. Kerns is short and, well… plump.

  He wears baggy gray slacks, every night.

  That and a snug red dress shirt with a gray tie, every night.

  He wears a gray sweater vest over the red shirt and gray tie, every night.

  His shoes are black sneakers with the heels worn down on the right sides and he’s wearing them down even more tonight as he paces, to and fro, back and forth, on and on.

  “Here’s how it works, Mr. Kerns,” I say, again, for about the 100th time. “On Christmas Eve, everybody eats dinner, trims the tree, has a glass of champagne or makes hot cocoa, whatever. Then, around 8 or 9, all the kids in town wonder what they’re going to do for the rest of the night, where they’re going to go to meet up. Should they sit around with the family playing Yahtzee? I don’t think so. So, what do they do? Come out and see a movie! It’s the perfect Christmas Eve solution!”

  Mr. Kerns turns to me, eyes wide with distress and whines, “But why did I let you convince me to switch out all the top-run movies with… with…”

  It’s like he can’t bring himself to say the words or something!

  “With… Christmas movies?!?!”

  Yeah, see; that’s where I screwed up.

  Big.

  Time.

  Everything was going so well.

  It was all going to plan.

  A couple cars full of kids have actually pulled up, stepped out, squinted up at the marquee, read titles like Patches the Christmas Elf or Silent Fright Night 3, shook their heads, shot me dirty looks as I lingered, hopefully, by the ticket stand and then gotten back in the car and peeled off toward parts unknown.

  The Snowflake Sweet Shop, probably; that’s the only other place open at this godforsaken hour on Christmas Eve. Or maybe the Books ‘n Beans.

  “Let’s just pack it up,” sighs Mr. Kerns, actually loosening his tie before clocking out for the night.

  (What is it, Christmas Eve or something?!?!)

  “But… but… look,” I say, spotting a familiar red sports car sliding into a (handicapped) space out front. “Here comes someone now.”

  “Someone?” he asks, barely looking back toward the front door. “Listen, you’re an assistant manager now, Sasha. Though I might be demoting you after looking at tonight’s receipts tomorrow morning. You can handle one customer and, when he finishes watching the last 40-minutes of Randolph the Gassy Reindeer, well, you can give him a complimentary candy cane and shoo him out on your own, can’t you?”

  “Are you s-s-sure?” I ask, a little worried about the “demotion” comment, although I’m 90% certain – make that 80% certain, okay more like 75% – Kerns was joking.

  “You do it all the time, Sasha,” he sighs, grabbing his blue blazer from just inside the employee break room door and walking back toward me on his wobbly sneakers. “Why should tonight be any different?”

  “Well, what if I’m right and we get swamped, Mr. Kerns?”

  “It’s nearly 11,” he points out, eyeing one of my classmates as he saunters toward the front doors on those crooked sneakers of his. “How busy do you think it’s going to get? Besides, it’s Christmas Eve; I’ve got a family waiting on me at home and, well…”

  He lets his voice trail off, but I finish his sentence for him in my head: “And, well… you don’t. Not really…”

  “Merry Christmas,” I murmur as he rushes out into the night, barely holding the door open for none other than Dart McKee, star swimmer for Snowflake High School.

  “Bah humbug,” murmurs Dart to Mr. Kerns’ back.

  I chuckle, but I’m so nervous it comes out as a snort.

  Dart barely looks up as he steps toward the old-timey ticket widow, the kind with the hole in the glass and the little dip underneath where you’re supposed to slide the money.

  But then, everything at Snowflake Cinemas is old-timey; from the ticket window to the old-fashioned popcorn popper to the outdated candy to the rickety seats and the giant burgundy curtains used to “sound” proof the side walls in each of our six “spacious” theaters.

  “Welcome to Snowflake Cinemas,” I coo as Dart finally looks up. “How can I help you?”

  Dart’s brown eyes narrow, then grow soft with recognition.

  Then he avoids my eyes completely and says, “Oh, uh, thanks.”

  Sheesh, I know we don’t exactly hang with the same crowds, you know (not that I have a crowd or anything), but… it’s Christmas!

  Couldn’t he at least fake like he thinks I’m human?

  “Can I help you with something?” I ask, still using my fake Snowflake Cinemas voice, as if Mr. Kerns was still around and might dock my pay for sounding like an actual teenager.

  He’s got his wallet half out of his back pocket, half in and I watch as he shoves it back down and begins to turn.

  “Naw,” he says quietly, gently. “I… I… changed my mind.”

  “What?” I squawk, before I can stop myself. “But… you came all this way. Don’t back out now!”

  He’s half turning, all 6’ 2” of his fine self, 175-pounds of swimmer muscle poured into hot chocolate colored chords, tan leather sneakers with a swish down each side and an off-white fisherman’s sweater with a collar that covers half his throat and keeps scratching the dirty blonde Christmas break stubble that covers his dimpled chin.

  His crooked smile only curves halfway up his hollow cheeks as he arches one dark, inquisitive eyebrow.

  “But… I’ve never come to the movies alone before.”

  “You’re… alone?” I mock gasp.

  He nods his head all serious like, turning away all over again.

  “I’m kidding. I mean, it’s not a crime, you know? People do it all the time.”

  “No, I know they do,” he says quickly, as if he thinks I’m making fun of him because he didn’t get my joke – or maybe just because he’s alone. “It’s just, kind of… sad
… you know?”

  “Sad? I’ll give you sad; try working at the movies alone. On Christmas Eve. Choking on stale popcorn fumes. Now that’s sad.”

  “You’re… alone?” he asks, finally taking his eyes off his buttery leather shoes and peering inside the deserted lobby.

  “That was my manager who almost ran you over just now,” I explain, leaning forward on the ticket counter until my face is closest to the little air-hole window thingy.

  “Well, yeah, but… you’re getting paid to be here alone,” he points out, finally looking back at me with his dark chocolate eyes. “That’s the opposite of sad.”

  “Really?” I ask, leaning back up and spreading my eyes wide to reveal the marvel, the wonder, the splendor that is… Snowflake Cinemas! “Really?”

  He kind of chuckles, but there’s a lot of work left to do if I’m ever going to lure him all the way inside.

  After all, he’s still as close to his car as he is to the ticket window.

  That means I’ve got about a 50-50 chance of this being the night of my dreams… or just another sad shift at Snowflake Cinemas.

  “Think!” I say to myself. “Here is your chance to spend Christmas Eve with Dart McKee; THE