Page 30 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
“I think he said earlier that he’s taking you down,” Max says, leaning toward Storee.
“I did not say ‘take her down.’”
“I think you did,” Max argues.
“I don’t think so.”
“Ehh, I think so.”
I open my mouth to disagree once again when Storee steps in. “What’s the hate for? Last I remember, we were pleasant to each other back…oh wait.” Storee rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh my God, is this because I called you Connor at the Kringle Krampus?”
“She called you Connor?” Max says with such a large smile on his face that it grates on my nerves. “You didn’t tell me that, man.”
“Probably because he was too embarrassed,” Storee says.
“I was not embarrassed,” I say.
“Um, you seemed embarrassed.”
“Oh really?” I ask, folding my arms. “Please tell me what that looks like.”
“Okay,” she says and then shakes out her body. Then, on a deep breath, she puckers her entire face, clasps her hands in front of her—shoulders inward—and then shifts side to side, making a fucking show of it.
It’s ridiculous.
Absurd.
And has Max bending over—actually bending over—in laughter.
Jesus.
Christ.
“That’s not what I looked like,” I scoff.
Storee pauses. “I mean, maybe your face was a little sourer looking, but it’s hard to mimic.”
Max is still laughing, his hands on his knees as he gasps for air. I nudge his shin, reminding him whose holly jolly sidekick he is—because at the moment, it seems like he’s forgetting.
“Oh, that’s amazing.” Max nods. “Yup, I’ve seen that face before.”
“Bullshit,” I shout just as Bob Krampus walks into the house, his overwhelming presence sucking the air right out of the room.
“Now, is that part of the Christmas spirit?” he booms in the small space.
“It’s not,” Storee says, shaking her head. “Very much the opposite.”
“You are correct, Storee.”
Jesus, suck up much?
“This is a gentle reminder that you are now my special elves. Not everyone is picked out of the applicants to be a Kringle-ee. We have room for five contestants, and because of that, you must hold up your end of the bargain, which includes not shouting ‘bullshit’ in Santa’s house.”
I swallow, feeling a hard lump rise in my throat. You never want to be told off by Bob Krampus. The baritone of his voice alone will make your nerves shiver. “Sorry,” I mutter.
He offers me a curt nod. “Now, where is my wife?”
“Getting us hot chocolate,” Max says and then elbows me.
