All I Want for Christmas (Underlined Paperbacks) Page 3

  Now he looks around. “Friends? Where are they?”

  “They went to the bathroom and to get hot chocolate,” I tell him, waving my hand in the direction of the concession stand. I feel a flush come up my neck.

  “You need to learn how to fall,” he tells me before I can formulate any more words. “It’s a fine line between falling too far forward and landing on your bum.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding. I reach back and brush some ice off my left butt cheek in what I hope is a nonchalant way.

  “And you don’t want to flail around. Like a fish.”

  “No, of course not!” I blurt out, horrified at the mental picture he’s painting for me. Of me. Is that what I was doing? Why didn’t I go with Caitlin and Mellie? Now he’s studying me, his hazel eyes focusing intently on mine.

  “Why didn’t you go with your mates?” he asks, and his adorable British accent makes my knees weak. “Let me guess. You’re the rare creature who doesn’t like hot chocolate.”

  Mates. “Oh, no. I wanted to stay on the ice. Get my money’s worth,” I say, cringing inside at how much I sound like my dad at this moment.

  “Fiscally responsible. Quite admirable, really.” He leans back, resting his elbows against the white ice-rink wall. “So I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Bailey.”

  “I’m Charlie,” he says, flashing a dimple at me.

  And I just kind of stand there, people whizzing by us.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you, Charlie,” I say, feeling awkward. “Thanks for saving me.”

  “Anytime,” he tells me. “Everybody falls. Sometimes you just need someone to pick you up.” And then he’s gone, pushing off from the wall and melting into the crowd.

  “Bye! Thanks again,” I call after him.

  My blood is pumping and I feel a little breathless. The whole encounter felt like something I’d swoon over in one of the romance novels I love—except the chapter ended way too soon. I’m still dreamily gazing in Charlie’s direction when I hear a familiar squeal.

  “Move! Move! Move!” Mellie cries as she stagger-skates toward me. People do their best to get out of her way as she careens up to the wall, hitting it with a loud thud. Caitlin glides to a stop behind her.

  “I thought you said you took lessons,” I tell Mellie, giggling as she puts her hands on her hips and bends over, breathing hard.

  “That bathroom line was so crazy,” Caitlin tells me. “Mellie wanted to sneak into the men’s room, but we saw Mr. Richards there, so we couldn’t.” Mr. Richards is a math teacher at our school.

  “Did you guys get hot chocolate?” I ask.

  They both nod. “And I burned my tongue because I couldn’t wait.” Caitlin winces. “They weren’t kidding about the steaming part. Now I need ice cream to feel better. Who’s in?”

  “Me,” I say, but as I answer, I’m trying to see if I can spot Charlie in the sea of faces skating past us.

  Mellie’s looking at me with an intensity she usually reserves for antifeminists. “No offense, Bailey, but…you look weird.”

  “Uh, gee, thanks,” I tell her. “I love it when you boost my ego.” There’s still no sight of him.

  Now Caitlin is studying me like a specimen in bio lab. She skates up close so we’re almost nose to nose. “No, I get what she means. You look—I don’t know—preoccupied and swoony. Like you did after we watched The Notebook at your slumber party last year.”

  My cheeks are already ruddy with the cold, but now I can feel them slowly start to blotch. “You guys are so dumb,” I tell them, trying to brush it off. I don’t want to tell them about the freaking skate-god angel. Charlie. Because really, there isn’t that much to tell.

  “What is it? What happened while we were away?” Mellie asks, pouncing. She looks around the rink. “You were talking to someone, weren’t you. Who? Tell us!”

  Caitlin skates in a circle around us. “Spill the tea.”

  I let out a sigh. “I almost fell down, this guy skated by and saved me from humiliation, and then he skated away.”

  “Saved you?” Mellie echoes. “In what way?”

  “From embarrassing myself in front of the entire rink,” I say, miming an exaggerated fall.

  “Where’d he go?” Caitlin asks. She points to what appears to be a fourth grader. “Is that him?” She and Mellie crack up.

  I roll my eyes at them. “No idea. I guess back to his friends,” I say, shrugging. Despite my covert efforts, I haven’t seen him circle past since he skated away. Maybe he went to get some hot chocolate himself. Or maybe he’s had enough skating for the day and left.

  “I wish we’d seen him,” Caitlin says breathlessly.

  “Me too,” I say. “He was so good-looking. And he even had a British accent.”

  “No!” Mellie shrieks, shoving me and almost knocking me down. An older couple skating by gives us dirty looks. “You didn’t tell us he had an accent!” One thing my friends and I always have agreed on is that if a guy has a British accent, he’s instantly a zillion times more attractive.

  Not that Charlie needs any help in that area.

  “I know,” I moan, replaying his voice in my mind.

  “Tall, handsome, saved you from disaster, and British?” Mellie lets out a low whistle before poking me with a gloved finger. “He sounds too good to be true.”

  I think back to Charlie’s smooth blond hair, his easy smile, the way he dressed, the attentive way he led me over to the wall, concerned for my well-being, his British accent…

  “You know,” I tell her, blowing out my breath and pushing off on my skate blade, “I think maybe he is.”

  Me: Heyyyy

  Mellie: ????

  Me: So Sam Gorley told me about a party tonight at Joe Shiffley’s house. Any chance you party animals wanna go?

  Caitlin: I have to study. Sorry

  Mellie: Going to the Winter Cabaret at the Gideon tonite with the fam. Woooooooooo

  Phoebe: A party? Not really into it. We could hang out and watch a movie but I’m kinda tired

  Me: How did I know you guys would all turn me down?

  I hit backspace and delete the last message before sending it. Then, I text them the expressionless face emoji and flop back on my bed, staring at the Fun Bunch group chat. The Fun Bunch isn’t all that fun tonight. I usually don’t go to parties because my friends aren’t really into them and who wants to go to a high school party alone? But somehow knowing that there is a party tonight, and that I could be there if I wanted to, makes it weirdly compelling—especially if I consider the alternative. If I stay home tonight, I can pretty much predict what will happen:

  I’ll study. But I don’t have a lot of homework this weekend and what I do have I can always do tomorrow.

  I’ll watch a Hallmark Christmas movie with my sister (not a bad way to spend the evening but we did that last weekend. And the weekend before that. So…)

  I’ll try to clean my room but will end up making piles of stuff, moving it around, and really getting nowhere.

  I’ll take a nap.

  I pick up my phone and text Sam. U still going to that party?

  * * *

  • • •

  Joe Shiffley’s house is a split-level on a curved block, and judging by how many cars are parked on the street, there are a lot of people here. I drive past the house to make sure it’s the right address and park a few houses away. Then I turn off the lights and text Sam.

  I’m here!

  I take a quick look at myself in the sun visor mirror. Okay, not bad. I run my fingers through my hair and swipe on some lip gloss, and flip the mirror up fast to make sure no one saw me. I can’t deny it: I’m feeling excited. What if I meet a cute guy tonight and we talk or dance…or kiss? It could happen. Sam’s friends with an entirely
different group of people than I am. Maybe my holiday romance is waiting for me behind the wreath-covered door at 317 Willow Tree Lane.

  Sam sends me a Snap of her wearing crazy purple sunglasses and a cat sticker that says AWWW YEAH. Then a text: I’m in the basement.

  I take a deep, steadying breath and get out of the car. I hate having to walk into the house by myself, but knowing Sam is already inside and waiting for me gives me the courage I need. When I get to the front door, I debate ringing the bell and then decide against it and just walk inside. I can hear music and muffled loud talking, but I don’t see any people and I pray that I haven’t walked into the wrong house. A woman with dark curly black hair waves to me from the dining room, where she’s typing away on her laptop, a coffee mug beside her. “Basement door is straight ahead,” she calls out.

  “Thanks,” I say to the woman, who I assume is Joe’s mom, giving her a half-wave.

  Dance music is playing downstairs, and it’s more crowded than I expected. A couple guys I recognize from school are standing around a foosball table debating something foos-related, and there’s a group of people sprawled on a massive sectional in front of a wall-mounted TV playing a video game that looks complicated and violent. A couple of pizza boxes sit on a fancy-looking built-in bar, where Abby Holmes and Lauren Albanese sit on stools, filming themselves doing a goofy dance and laughing. I stand there for what feels like an hour but is probably ten seconds, trying to decide my next move.

  Thankfully it’s decided for me.

  “Bails!” Sam shouts, coming up and giving me a hug. “I didn’t think you were gonna come.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” I say, relieved to see her and thankful that she seems happy to see me. Her hair is in short braided pigtails and she’s wearing a low-cut striped top that is definitely cuter than what she wears at school and the bookstore. She even has on eye shadow, which is very un-Samlike. “So, um, which one is Joe?”

  Sam points to a guy wearing a black sweatshirt and baggy red shorts, sitting on the couch holding a PlayStation controller.

  “Oh,” I say, nodding. “Cool.”

  “Check out the guy in the gray flannel shirt,” she says under her breath, tilting her head toward a kid next to a large speaker that’s flashing with strobe lights.

  “Isn’t that Karl Bartlett?” I ask, squinting at him. He was in my freshman English class. Very quiet, very smart, very into jazz. I’m surprised he’s even here.

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” Sam says. “I wanna go talk to him. Come with me.”

  We amble over. “Hey, Karl,” I say, raising my voice over the music. He smiles back.

  “Did you bring that?” Sam asks.

  “No, it’s Joe’s. He asked me to be on aux tonight,” Karl says as a deep punchy bass groove thrums out of the speaker.

  “Oh, cool!” Sam says. “Show me your playlist.”

  Karl pulls out his phone and the two of them bend their heads over it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s not long before Karl’s normally pasty white skin is turning pink and Sam keeps snorting and socking him on the arm.

  I decide to give them some space. Trying not to draw attention to myself, I drift over to a large pillar and lean against it, watching a group of guys having a sword fight with what appear to be curtain rods. The duelers are laughing like maniacs as—whack!—curtain swords slam into each other. One of the duelers is Jacob Marley. He spins around holding the curtain rod, which looks longer than he is tall. Then he leaps onto an ottoman, twirling and thrusting the “sword” back and forth.

  “Bruh!” One of the guys, a beefy-looking kid in a Tufts sweatshirt, runs up the basement stairs and then jumps off, sailing through the air with his sword. “You’re going to wish you’d never been born,” he says to a kid who isn’t Jacob. The kid grins back. Then the two of them drop their swords and begin wrestling around on the floor.

  I’m observing all this with fascination and horror. This is why I’ve never hosted a party at my house—people do things they’d never do in their own homes. The thought of having a group of sweaty rude teenage boys rolling around on our carpet, spilling drinks, sliding down banisters, touching my dad’s antique train collection—no thank you. Not to mention, my parents would probably kill me.

  Jacob can’t stop laughing, but he tries to pull it together when Joe Shiffley comes over, looking annoyed. “Idiots, my mom just got those at Pottery Barn. She’s gonna freak if you break them.”

  “Sorry, man,” says the Tufts kid, panting. His face is redder than a boiled beet.

  “Yeah, sorry,” says his opponent, dropping the curtain rod and holding up his hands as if he’s being arrested. Jacob just shrugs.

  “No harm, no foul,” Joe says, fist-bumping Jacob, who suddenly seems to notice for the first time that I’m here. Jacob seems unsure what to do—say hello? Avoid me? Challenge me to a duel?

  “Ain’t no laws when drinking White Claws,” someone yells, holding up a koozie-covered can.

  Jacob walks over to me, slightly flushed from battle. “Did you see that?”

  “It was hard to miss,” I say. “My brother and I used to have lightsaber duels in our kitchen.”

  “Let me guess—you were the dark side?”

  Instead of answering, I cross my arms. “Find your wallet?”

  The smile drops off his face. “I told you, that was an innocent mistake. I wasn’t trying to waste your time.”

  Just then, beefy Tufts guy comes running up behind Jacob and tackles him. They fall to the ground and begin rolling around in a manner that I guess is their way of having fun.

  Talk about a waste of my time. With a huff, I turn on my heel and walk toward the stairs.

  Did I really think I was going to find holiday romance in Joe Shiffley’s basement?

  My phone buzzes. It’s a Snap of Sam and Karl in elf outfits.

  They’re already using Snapchat filters together? I let out a resigned sigh. I guess it’s not impossible to find romance in a cellar…but tonight, it is for me.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s starting to snow when I leave the party. Big, fluffy flakes fall softly all around me, and I feel a little bit like I’m in Frozen as I walk to my car. It’s a lot colder than it was when I got here, and I zip up my coat, quickening my pace.

  I take out my phone to check the time—almost 10:45—and see a text from my mom: Drive safely!

  I like it and shove my phone back in my pocket.

  I let the car warm up for a minute and pull out, turning the radio to a channel that plays Christmas music 24/7. The comforting sounds of a classic—“Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”—fill the air, and naturally, I sing along at the top of my lungs. A lot of people complain about holiday music starting in November. They’re sick of turning on the radio or walking into a store only to hear The Waitresses or Mariah Carey or Michael Bublé crooning a holiday classic.

  I am not one of those people.

  During the year, I listen to pop and country music, and even the occasional rap mix, but when November hits, all I want are Christmas tunes, the more Christmassy the better. I would never admit this to my friends, but sometimes I like to pretend that my life is like a holiday movie.

  The snow is coming down hard now, and the wind is kicking up. I put the wipers on full speed. It would normally take me about ten minutes to get home, but it’s getting really hard to see and I’m driving super slow. I scoot forward in the seat, my gloved hands gripping the wheel. No one is on the road—I guess everyone else got the memo that it’s not a good night to be out driving.

  I’m making a left turn onto Big Tree Road when suddenly the back of my car starts to skid. “Shoot!” I yelp, knowing I should stay calm as my heartbeat ramps up. A million thoughts flood my brain. What if I hit somebody? Or what if somebody hits me? I desperately t
ry to remember what my driving teacher, Mr. Dave, told me. Do I brake? Steer into it? Or give it gas?

  I decide to brake and push my boot down on the pedal. But I press too hard and the car slides in the opposite direction. “No, no, no,” I beg to the car gods. “Don’t want to go that way!”

  I flash back to my driving course with Mr. Dave, his unruffled demeanor and monotone voice coming to me just when I need it.

  Stay calm. Brake softly and slow down. Gently turn the wheel in the direction you’re spinning. Come to a natural stop.

  Everything is happening simultaneously at warp speed and slow motion.

  I’m on autopilot. Like a robot, I remember and follow Mr. Dave’s instructions. Well, everything but the stay calm part. I’m braking, I’m slowing, I’m turning…I’m spinning, and then—whack!—I’m smashing into a guardrail and skidding to a stop in a snowdrift.

  “Ahhh!” I shriek.

  In an instant the car is stopped. I’m pretty sure I’m alive. At least—until I get home and my parents see the car.

  I sit there, blinking, heart racing, hands shaking. I’m okay, but the guaranteed nice-size dent in my front bumper will make my dad threaten to take away my car keys.

  In the distance, there’s a car coming toward me, its headlights like soft glowing orbs in the snow. My car is pointed in the right direction, facing the car on the opposite side of the road, but I’m parked far onto the shoulder. The car pulls off the road on the other side of the highway and the driver turns on its blinkers. It’s a full-on whiteout now, but I’m pretty sure someone gets out of the car.

  Instinctively, I reach out and lock my doors. I’ve watched too much Dateline. You can’t be too trusting—even in a blizzard.