My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(72)
Russell lifted up her hair and kissed her on the bony ridge of her neck. She shivered. “To the Rolling Stones,” he murmured. At that moment, not even Mick Jagger could’ve sounded sexier.
“And not always getting what you want,” Sophie said.
“But sometimes getting what you need,” Russell said.
She kissed his lips then. They tasted of apples and cheese, of the revelation of things you never imagined going so well together. She tasted meting ice cream, too, melting defenses, herself melting into Russell.
She kissed him, not knowing if the kiss would go on for a minute, an hour, the whole night. She kissed him not knowing what would happen next semester, next year. But at the moment, none of that seemed to matter. The kiss was what mattered. Not just the kiss, but what the kiss said. What it unlocked. What the night unlocked. What they had unlocked.
Tomorrow would be different. Sophie understood this.
There really was no such thing as a minor miracle.
The whole mess started when I lit the church on fire.
To be precise, I didn’t strike a match, and it wasn’t the church proper, but the barn beside it. The one that Main Street Methodist used to store all the equipment for the annual Christmas pageant. Well, the barn they used to use.
Put this on your list of things to know: the combination of tinsel, baby angel wings, and manger hay burns like weed at a Miley Cyrus concert.
My questionable reputation was established in the first grade. Vaughn Hatcher, the boy who covered the class rabbit with paste and a liberal coat of glitter and set him loose in the faculty lounge. It turns out, teachers think of glitter as the herpes of the craft world—impossible to contain or exterminate. Hippity Hop was sent to a petting zoo, and I was sent to the principal’s office. But it was too late. I’d already experienced the hijinks that could ensue when my creativity was put to good use. I was hooked.
I was the guy who taught the other kids how to egg houses, roll yards, and glue mailboxes shut. And the older I got, the more elaborate my pranks became. In middle school, I filled the clinic with Styrofoam peanuts. Last year, my junior year of high school, I decorated the town Christmas tree with neon thong underwear.
My list of achievements is quite impressive, if I do say so myself.
My failures equal one.
If I could justify casting off blame, it would belong to Shelby Baron. Shelby is a boy, by the way, and before I was kicked out of organized sports, he was the first-string quarterback. I was third. In basketball, he was starting center, and I cleaned up spilled Gatorade behind the bench. All of that, and he dated Gracie Robinson. He’s just always been better than me, so therefore I don’t like him. At least he’s not better looking. He’s Beefy Viking. I’m Tall, Dark, and Inappropriate.
On the day of the incident, I drove by the church and noticed that Shelby happened to park his Mini Cooper—seriously, a dude named Shelby who drives a Mini Cooper—underneath a tree. Said tree had a large flock of pigeons roosting on its branches, and there I was with a glove compartment filled with fireworks. I saw an opportunity, I predicted an outcome, and I had to see how it would all go down.
A lot of bird shit went down.
And, thanks to a wayward spark, I set the church on fire.
For the first time in my life, I was in real trouble. The juvenile system kind of trouble. But then something even more unexpected occurred—the pastor of Main Street Methodist swooped in and made a deal with the authorities. I was given a choice. If I’d agree to give up my Christmas break and help the church reboot the pageant, the incident would be expunged from my record.
For forty hours of community service.
I’d mowed a zillion lawns to save up for a winter-break trip to Miami. If I took the deal, I’d have to cancel it. No beaches. No nightlife. No bikinis. The most frustrating part was that I wouldn’t be able to get out of celebrating Christmas with my family.
All two of us.
But my alternative was possible probation or worse. I had the grades to get into my top college choices, but way too many admissions counselors were concerned about my reputation, and I was concerned about getting any letters of recommendation. Setting a church on fire is the kind of news that gets around. College would get me out of this town. Away from my house. Away from my reputation. The judge said I had a choice, but it wasn’t a real choice.
It had to be the pageant.
*
I couldn’t stop staring at Gracie Robinson’s pregnant belly. Well, not hers, exactly. Mary, mother of God’s.
Gracie has dark hair, innocent blue eyes, and skin like butter. She’s not yellow. I’m just sure if I ever got my hands on her skin, it would be soft. Not that I was planning on touching her or anything. Her father was the pastor of Main Street Methodist—the same pastor who was the reason why I was here, at the Rebel Yell, two days before Christmas.
The Rebel Yell was a dinner theater show that served fried chicken and beer in feed buckets. It featured a rodeo complete with clowns, tricks, and stunts, as well as rousing musical numbers. The theme pitted the Union against the Confederacy. Patrons picked sides and rooted for their favorite team—basically reducing the Civil War to a football rivalry. I hated generalizations about the South, but the Rebel Yell did make me embarrassed for my home state of Tennessee.
Though the church wouldn’t be sharing a venue with these carpetbaggers in the first place if I hadn’t destroyed their barn.