Page 60 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
The sound starts, and just as planned, Max “gets on his hind legs” and pants like a goddamn moron while I toss out the clothes. The crowd laughs, but it does nothing to boost my confidence because I know what I look like.
Painted all in green, sporting these fucking green hairy sideburns Max said were necessary, and wearing goddamn lederhosen, I feel like a dick.
Especially since Max said there was no way he was going to allow me to wear a mask. “They need to see your handsome face,” he said.
Well…they’re going to see it all right, and a whole lot more.
With the crowd roaring and Max panting like an asshole out on the stage, I wish I at least had a bag covering my face so no one knew my real identity.
The sound halts, and just as Max planned, “I Am the Grinch” by Fletcher Jones starts playing—my cue to join Max onstage. I glance behind me and catch Storee staring at me, arms crossed, looking none too pleased with the setup. It’s the last bit of courage I need to walk out on that stage, because I’ll be damned if Storee wins this.
So I flash my leg to the crowd, teasing them with the green lederhosen, wool socks, and hiking boots, and when it’s time, I walk out in front of what looks to be the entire town, way out of my goddamn element.
But the hoots and the hollers that ring out over the crowd…they do something to me.
And I’m not proud of this, okay? But fuck…it gives me a pep to my step, a boost in the britches…a lift in the lederhosen. And before I know it, I’m going for it. The music plays in the background, the cardboardbackdrop we made last night adds flair to the scene, and Max pants next to me, hands held up to his chest like the good little dog that he is.
It just…
It…makes me think…
And up on the stage, Cole thought of something he’d never thought before:
Perhaps he’s been missing out, perhaps…these cheers, he wants more.
And then what happened next? Some in Kringletown might say
that Cole’s repressed ego grew three sizes that day.
I spin around—the catcalls resound through the park.
I flash my jazz hands—the squeals feed my brimming mood.
And when I smooth my hands over my backside and give it a wiggle, I feel a pulse of adrenaline shoot right through me. I turn toward the crowd, their hands raised joyfully in the air, smiles stretching across faces, mouths agape…
I am killing it!
I am entertaining.
I am owning this fucking audience!
And as the music builds and builds, I know what’s next.
I spin again, point to Max, and with a wink from him, I turn back to the crowd and end the show with a solid pelvic thrust, right into the air.
The crowd goes wild.
Mae Bawhovier faints into Martha.
And Sherry leans on the edge of her judging chair, licking her lips.
She wants this.
They want this.
Everyone wants this!
Max stands from his squat, takes my hand in his, and we both raise our arms and take a bow as we soak in the chants, the cheers, the praise for a job well done.
