Page 13 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

“What needs to be switched?” I asked.

Isaiah sat down at our table with his tray. “And what do you mean life? Town’s doing fine.” He swatted at Sam’s hand, which was reaching to take a roll.

Jo started counting on her fingers as she listed things. “The clock tower’s been broken for years. Phineas never changes his menu at the diner. The ‘new books’ display at the library is about three years old, and most of the Holly Days stuff is the stuff we do every single Christmas.”

“What’s wrong with what we do for Christmas?” I asked. I loved the Holly Days traditions and how they hadn’t changed in over a decade.

Just like Christmas movies, it didn’t matter that you knew what was coming.

You always watched them because the familiar brought you joy.

True, we hadn’t drawn as big of a crowd the last couple of seasons, but Nona said that most people just preferred to shop online rather than with small businesses in person. It was probably happening in other small towns, too.

Right?

“Nothing is wrong with Christmas in Mullings Creek,” Jo said, patting my arm. “I’m just saying maybe this is the year we do things a little…differently.”

“It would definitely look and feel different without The Market at the center of it all,” Isaiah said between bites of mashed potatoes. “I don’t see a Trader Joe’s or Starbucks fitting in here, do you?”

No, not at all.

That scene from A Charlie Brown Christmas about his own dog going “commercial” flashed in my head, and my heart felt a pang of sadness.

We stayed quiet for a moment before Sam spoke up. “I can’t speak to what will take the place of The Market, but my dad did let slip who’s taking Mr. Paxton’s job as Santa.” Sam set his fork down and took a swig of his milk. “Hal volunteered to do it.”

“Hal?” I accidentally yelled, making a few tables in the cafeteria look our way. I lowered my voice to an almost whisper. “He can’t be Santa. He smells like…like rust and stale bread and WD-40!”

They all laughed before Jo spoke. “He does not, G. And anyway, he doesn’t have to smell like Mr. Paxton did to be Santa.”

Yeah, but it wouldn’t hurt. Since Mr. Paxton smelled like peppermint year-round.

The bell rang for lunch to end, and we all stood and moved toward the exit.

“Like I said”—Sam banged his tray against the trash can before setting it on the counter to be cleaned—“I’ve got a bad feeling about all of this.”

Much as I hate to admit it, you and me both.

Later, during study hall—my last period of the day—I ran errands for the main office, one of which led me to the Shop classroom, delivering mail to Mr. Hernandez. Sam waved me over to his table as he switched off his sander and lifted his goggles onto his hair.

“What do you think of this plant stand?” he asked me as he held up a beautiful corner stand with six rounded tiers.

“I love it.” I ran my hand over the smooth finish. “Is this for your parents?”

“Kind of.” He took off his gloves and set the stand onto the floor in between us. “I was thinking of making a few pieces for my parents to sell during the springtime. Mr. Hernandez said he’d order some wicker strips, so I could learn how to make some baskets as well. Maybe some small pieces of furniture.”

“That’s a great idea!”

“Thanks.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just trying to figure out the best way I can help them.”

“You already help them out plenty.” Sam helped everyone, in fact.

I may have been “Steadfast G,” but Sam seemed to know what people needed even before they knew it themselves, and if you made a big deal about it, he’d just brush it off. He was as eager to please as a golden retriever but ten times quieter about it.

I reached across the stand to wipe sawdust off his shoulder and immediately drew my hand back because the same zippy feeling happened again.

What the heck was wrong with me?

He lifted the plant stand back onto the table. “I just hope it’s enough.”