Page 31 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
“Yes,” I say. “And I was just about to go help.”
Now look who’s the suck up.
Points at self.
“You’re a good lad,” Bob says as he makes his way toward his chair. Helets out a huff, a gruff, undoes the belt buckle that cinches his waist, and then flops back into his chair, the footrest following with a lift to his legs. “That’s the good stuff,” he says.
Looks like Santa is taking a break, so I head back to the kitchen, where Sylvia is starting to pick up a tray full of mugs.
“Here, let me get that for you,” I say before she breaks one of her brittle bones trying to lift it.
“Why, thank you so much, dear.” She pats my cheek. “You know, I’m rooting for you, Cole. When I saw your name appear in the applications, it truly warmed my heart. After everything you’ve been through with your parents, seeing that Christmas spirit reawaken within you, it just…well, it brings a tear to my eye.”
I smile kindly at Sylvia. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” And I mean that, even though her compliment makes me feel like shit. Because little does she know the real reason I’m doing all of this.
She presses her hand to my back and together we head back to the living room, where we hand out hot chocolate to everyone, the biggest cup going to Bob.
He sits up in his chair, takes a large sip, and then sighs as the chocolate sticks to the hairs of his mustache. With the back of his beefy hand, he wipes it away and then addresses us.
“Mrs. Claus will hand you all folders. Ursula, Jimmy, and Beatrice, you’re familiar with the folder, but for you newbies, it will have everything you need to know about the contest. The dates of each competition, how the competition will be judged, and who it will be judged by. These will be your bibles moving forward, so don’t lose them, because they won’t be replaced.” He pauses as Sylvia makes the rounds with the sacred folders. “Please open them up to page one.”
Fumbling with our hot chocolate and the folders, we all manage to get them open.
“By turning in your application, you’ve accepted the responsibility ofholding this tradition and this town in the best of lights. Meaning you are a representative now of Kringle, of the businesses, the people, and of Mrs. Claus and me. Under no circumstances will we tolerate anything less. This is your code of conduct. Moving forward, we expect you to stand out among all of the holiday tidings. We want people walking around town knowing you’re a Kringle-ee, which is why we’ve decided to make you wear sashes this year.”
Sashes?
What kind of sashes…?
Sylvia opens a trunk in the middle of the room and pulls out handmade, freshly stitched sashes in a vibrant gold that have bold lettering down the length, designating us as the Kringle-ees.
And fringe is at the end of each…with dangling pom-poms.
Yikes.
“If you appear in public, these must be worn. Get used to them, because they’re your new adornment. Consider yourself a tree and this your tree topper. You can’t go anywhere without it. If you are caught not wearing your sash, then points will be marked from your grand total, so keep that in mind. We have increased the number of spies this year as well, who will keep an eye on what you’re doing, what you’re saying, and how you’re acting around town. So always think to yourself: Someone is watching me.”
Perfect, just what I want as the man who likes to hide out in the reindeer barn, away from humans.
What did I get myself into?
“And if you have any questions, feel free to come visit me and Mrs. Claus during off hours. And if you do come to visit, we’re no strangers to cookies as a gift.”
He’s really not. I learned that the hard way.
Bob takes a sip of his drink and then leans back in his chair. “Any questions now?”
If we ask, do we need to bring you cookies later?
Jimmy raises his hand, and Bob calls on him. “Yes?”
“Um, will the Eggnog Wars be alcoholic again this year?”
Bob shakes his head. “No. After nearly poisoning our judges last year, the competition has now switched to nonalcoholic.”
“The judges were almost poisoned last year?” Storee asks.
“Yes, if you lived here, you would know that,” I mutter to her, which grants me a serious side-eye.
