My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(86)

“Who do you really want to yell at?”

“Ugh. I don’t know. Candy, maybe. Her dumb, creepy boyfriend, definitely. My mom and Rick, sometimes. And I’d share my tips with you, but I don’t have any, which means I worked all afternoon for nothing.” I rest my head on the tabletop.

“No one tipped you?” He finally sounds outraged.

“Everyone tipped me. But I gave it all to Candy.”

“Well, you earned a cookie.”

“I don’t like gingerbread.”

“That’s because you’ve never had my gingerbread.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is that some sort of chef pickup line?”

He blushes. The way the red blooms in his cheeks as he struggles for an answer is almost too sweet to handle, so I grab a cookie to let him off the hook.

“Díos mío. What did you put in these? Are they laced with crack? Gingerbread cookies are supposed to be hard and crunchy. Not good. These aren’t normal.” They’re soft, not quite cakelike, more like the consistency of a perfect sugar cookie. The spices zing my taste buds without overwhelming them—a dusting of powdered sugar counteracts the fresh ginger—and the whole thing is warm and wonderful and tastes like Christmas used to feel. How did he do that?

“See?” he says. “Not a pickup line.”

“Good, because that would’ve been super lame.” I take another cookie and lean back into the cushioned booth. Usually at the end of a shift I feel heavy, leaden, and ready for bed. But right now I feel light and soft. Like these cookies.

So I take a third. And, feeling generous, I decide to be nice to Ben. It’s not a hard decision. He’s kind, and even if he weren’t the only guy around my age in Christmas, he’d still probably be the prettiest one. “Everyone loved your food.”

His voice is shyly delighted. “I’m glad.”

I’m glad, too. He’ll make the time until I get out of here far more bearable. Maybe even exciting. “So, where’d you learn to cook?”

“Juvie.”

I sit up. “Juvie? As in juvenile detention?”

His face loses none of its pleasant openness as he nods.

“When were you in juvie? What for? Did my mom hire you straight out of their kitchen or something? I knew there was a reason why you were willing to work here.”

He laughs. “I’ve been out for six months. I applied for this job because I love Christmas, and it felt like … fate. Or serendipity. Or something. And I don’t like thinking about the person I used to be, so if it’s okay, I’d rather not talk about it except to say that I wasn’t violent.”

I wilt under the weight of my curiosity. “Fine. But it’s gonna kill me.”

“It’s not, and neither am I, because again, not violent.”

I flick some crumbs at him. “I gotta get cleaning.” I stand, stretching, and remove my apron. Ben is staring at me. I raise my eyebrows. He looks away quickly, embarrassed, but I’m more than a little glad I’m not wearing my uniform tonight.

I survey the damage. Not too bad. Mostly it’ll be dishes, but I’ll mop up and wipe down the tables first.

I switch off the sound system in the middle of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

“Thank you!” Ben shouts from the kitchen. “That song is the worst.”

“I know, right?”

“Also terrible? ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’”

“Santa as Big Brother. Just imagine his posters, staring at you from every wall. SANTA IS WATCHING.”

“I love Christmas, but Santa is creepy.”

“Thank you, yes! No one understands. If someone is watching me sleep, it had better be a hot vampire, otherwise I’m calling the cops.”

Ben laughs and dishes start clanging. He must be prepping some food for tomorrow. I put in my earbuds and clean, dancing along to Daft Punk. Candy introduced me to them back when she still liked music. When I finally finish, I wheel the yellow mop cart to the kitchen, bone-tired and not looking forward to the dishes.

But the kitchen is pristine. All the dishes are done, the counters wiped. Even the handles to the massive freezer have been sanitized. A few trays of dough are out to rise overnight, but there’s nothing left for me to do. A sticky note is stuck to the door, with a big, sloppy happy face drawn on it.

I clamp a hand over my smile, try to wipe it away. Because I don’t like Christmas, so I can’t like anyone here. Not even talented cooks with crooked noses.

*

Normally I drag out my after-school routine—locker, bathroom, library—as long as possible before shuffling to the car. But on Monday I practically sprint there.

You’re excited about the tips, I remind myself. Not the cook.

Rick jumps in surprise as I throw open the passenger-side door. I buckle my seat belt as he fumbles to remove the tape that’s already in the deck. “Quieras bailar conmigo?” a woman asks in a soothing, slow tone. There’s a pause, and then Rick manages to get it ejected.

“What was that?” I ask, reaching for it. “Are you … learning Spanish?”

“Nothing. No.” Rick tucks the tape into the pocket of his button-down shirt, clears his throat, and puts the car into drive. I watch him suspiciously but he doesn’t even look at me. Spanish is my territory—the thing my mom and I share that he doesn’t. Even if she won’t speak it with me anymore. I don’t want him there.