Page 52 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
“But I think you liked ita lot,” Taran says.
“It seems that way,” Aunt Cindy continues. “I think she liked it so much that she cried.”
“I did not cry,” I say with an annoyed roll of my eyes.
“It felt like she was going to cry,” Taran says.
“I could sense the emotions,” Aunt Cindy replies.
“The only thing I sensed was a victorious swift kick to the air in celebration as Cole stared at us, dumbfounded.” I bring my coffee to my lips and take a sip.
“Ah-ha!” Taran shouts, scaring the shit out of me and making me spill my coffee into my oatmeal.
“Jesus, Taran,” I say as I try to clean up the mess with my cloth napkin. I fail miserably, because cloth napkins provide zero absorption. “Why did you yell like that?”
“I didn’t yell,” she says. “I’m pointing out the obvious.”
“And what would that be?” I ask while I continue to clean up the mess.
“That you’re overjoyed about beating Cole last night, so much so that there’s color in your cheeks.”
“There’s color in my cheeks because it’s freezing here and my body is attempting to self-regulate,” I say.
“But also…because we beat Cole, right?” Aunt Cindy asks.
I look between Aunt Cindy and Taran, their expressions hinting at celebration. They clearly want me to say it’s because of Cole and, well…damn it…it is!
I smile. “Yeah, because we beat Cole.”
And then as one, we cheer.
We clasp our hands together, shake them in the air, and celebrate this one solid win.
We celebrate the concoction we made. And itwasdelicious, especially if you dipped one of those cookies into it. Yum.
We celebrate the dreary and sad expression on Cole’s face when he saw our win.
We celebrate it all.
Once we’re settled, I sit back and clear my throat. “Just because we won the first challenge doesn’t mean we can get cocky, though.” I dip my spoon into my mostly coffee-less oatmeal. “This is a great starting point. From here, we need to keep pushing forward, which means we need to go over the next competition.”
“I could not agree more,” Aunt Cindy says. “Taran, the board, please.”
“The board?” I ask.
Aunt Cindy nods while Taran walks over to the buffet table, which she’s decorated with one of Aunt Cindy’s many Christmas villages, and from behind, slides out a piece of cardboard with a towel draped over it and props it on top of the buffet and against the wall.
“Shall I unveil it?” Taran asks Aunt Cindy.
“You shall.”
What the…
Taran flips the towel over the cardboard, revealing an intricate display of the competitors and the competitions, strings stretched all over like a spider’s web, connecting people to illustrated Christmas staples such as a tree, a candy cane, and the dreaded fruitcake.
“What is this?” I ask. “And when did you make it?”
“It’s my board that I adjust every year,” Aunt Cindy says. “It helps me keep track of who’s involved, what competition we’re gearing up for, who the judges are, and who is in the lead.” She gestures to Taran. “Can you grab the binder as well?”
