An Ex for Christmas(2)

“Happy holidays, Madison.”

One of the perks of working in a private school is we don’t have to tread as carefully around the issue of avoiding religious versus secular holidays. The teachers are encouraged to teach their students about all the December holidays, and to take direction from each individual student in their preferred salutation.

Madison scampers out of the room, and Jackie Reyes sticks her head in. “That the last one?”

“Last one.”

Jackie, a friendly fortysomething coordinator who’s responsible for making sure all the kids go home with the right adult, checks something off her clipboard, then moves to follow Madison out to the pickup area. She backtracks and sticks her head in the door, a wide smile on her face. “Almost there.”

She disappears again, and I glance down at my glitter snowflake with a smile.

It’s not that I don’t love my job. I do. I’ve wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember, and I can’t ask for a better teaching environment than Emory. If I were to rate my professional life on a scale of 1 to 10, I’m easily in the 9 range, and could be a 10 if Principal Mercedes would just increase my tech budget the tiniest bit.

My personal life, though?

We’re hovering in the dank 3 region.

Two weeks to focus on me is exactly what I need.

Well, that and the boozy eggnog.

And Christmas lights.

And Michael Bublé’s Christmas album.

And maybe something tall, dark, and handsome to hold my hand while begging to listen to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” just one more time?

Hey, a girl can dream.

Humming “Let It Snow,” I get to work tidying up my classroom—a surprisingly daunting task, considering I just cleaned up last night and today was only a half day. There’s bright green cupcake frosting on the desks, crushed candy canes on the floor, and endless scraps of construction paper, courtesy of this morning’s holiday-card-making session.

For a second I consider taking down some of the holiday decorations adorning the walls, since class doesn’t resume until January 3, but I just can’t do it. Taking down Christmas decorations before the holidays is just wrong. I’d rather come back in late December to clean up than kill my holiday mojo before it’s even started.

Instead, I tidy up my desk just enough so Principal Mercedes can’t find something to complain about if she checks in later.

I’m locking up the cabinets, my song selection now on to “Deck the Halls,” when a lower alto joins my fa-la-la-la. What it lacks in on-keyness it makes up for in enthusiasm.

I turn and see Jessica Trenton, first-grade teacher and work best friend, hopping up onto my desk.

There’s a pretty gold-wrapped present in her hand, a suitcase by the door. Jessica and her fiancé are both from Chicago and are heading home for the holidays.

“See? I told you your flight wouldn’t be canceled,” I tell her.

“Yeah, I had immense faith in your tea leaves,” she says.

“And yet they were right!” I gesture toward the window. “Rain, but not a snowflake in sight.”

“Fair point. Are you aware that you have glitter on your tits?”

I glance down at my black sweater and gray slacks. Sure enough, Madison’s snowflake has left its mark.

“Third-grade hazards,” I say, swiping pointlessly at the glitter.

“I hear you. I found an open container of Elmer’s in my purse the other day.”

“You carry glue in your purse? Very badass.”

“I didn’t put it there. I don’t know which of the little monsters managed to get it into my bag, but my money’s on Hillary Garrett.”

“The sweet little redhead?”

“You’re just saying that because her dad’s hot. She’s beastly.”

“You love the tricky ones. And I thought her dad was gay.”

“He is. Still hot, though.” Jessica waggles her eyebrows. “But on to more important things. Are you going to open your gift now, or are you going to insist on being that weirdo that refuses to open gifts until Christmas morning?”

“I stand by my weirdo policy,” I say, pulling a forgotten jacket off the coatrack. “Opening presents before the actual day lessens the Christmas magic.”

“Or does it merely extend the season?” Jess taunts, picking up the shoebox-sized gift and shaking it enticingly at me.

I purse my lips. It’s not a terrible point. And I could really go for a present right now. . . .

“Let’s ask Magic 8,” I proclaim.

She rolls her eyes but obligingly reaches behind her and pulls open the first drawer of my desk. Her hand emerges with a Magic 8 ball.

“Remind me,” she says. “How many of these do you have? Fifty?”

“Just three.”

“Three too many, Kell. Three too many.”

It’s an old argument, so I don’t bother to point out that it’s not too many—I need one for home and one for work, and the small one fits on my key chain for when I’m out and about. Obviously.

You never know when you’ll need fate’s assistance.

“All right, Magic 8, let’s hear it. Should our girl open her present now, or wait until Christmas morning?”