My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories (29 page)

“It’s too bad we couldn’t get the barn repaired in time,” she said. “We tried.”

A pang of guilt, somewhere below my left rib. Maybe I could work in some public self-flagellation. I doubted it would help. I gestured to the confederate flag and the mini-cannon, which were shoved into a corner. “How exactly did you guys end up … here?”

I didn’t say Rebel Yell, because I couldn’t without wincing at the Civil War–as-entertainment reference.

Gracie pursed her lips. “We ended up here thanks to Richard Baron.”

Father of Shelby.

“He owns this franchise,” she said, not meeting my eyes.

Right. Of course he did. He bought his son a Mini Cooper. Obviously, sound judgment climbed high in that family tree.

She continued, “When we figured out we wouldn’t get things running in time, he offered us the venue for the two nights of the pageant. It’s the only place around here that’s big enough.”

“I’d say.” It had stadium seating and a huge, dirt-floor arena.

“Even so, claiming our own territory has been hard.” She shook her head. “But I guess you’d know about that.”

The job parameters of my community service ran the gamut. I’d done everything from helping the church move in the remaining props that I hadn’t set ablaze to serving as a stagehand for the actual production. Sorting out what belonged to whom involved pawing through an eclectic mix of Confederate memorabilia, oversized scrolls, and shepherd’s staffs. I still didn’t know if the trumpets belonged to the Civil War buglers or a heavenly host of angels.

“I’m surprised your father didn’t cancel it,” I said.

“It would’ve been easier, but this is the pageant’s twentieth anniversary. So many people were looking forward to it that Dad didn’t feel like he could turn down Mr. Baron, especially after he offered to pay for all the new materials we needed.”

Put another jewel in the Baron family crown. “Why did he offer?”

“Shelby is playing Joseph.”

“Gotcha.”

Just then, Gracie’s father rushed to the center of the stage, holding a clipboard and an enormous cup of coffee. He looked too young to head up a congregation of five hundred people. Like, boy-reporter young. Gracie shared his dark hair but not his eyes. They looked older than the rest of him.

He waved to get the attention of the people arranging the set. “Okay, let’s finish blocking these scenes so we can do a run through. I’m sorry, but that horse—when it’s replaced by a donkey—will have to take a left, behind the Wise Men, after they approach the Holy Family. Can you move that bale of hay to make it easier? Donkeys don’t jump.”

As adept as I am at predicting outcomes, I had to ask the obvious question. “What happens if that horse poops?”

As if it had been cued, the horse lifted his tail and took his evening constitutional.

“Wow,” Gracie said.

Pastor Robinson’s coffee sloshed onto the ground as he tucked the clipboard under one arm. I waited for the anger—for him to yell at someone to clean it up, to throw the clipboard, or to slam down his coffee cup. I’d never seen him show anger, but that’s what would happen if someone screwed with
my
dad when he was conducting business.

I heard Pastor Robinson’s reaction before I saw it. It didn’t register because it was illogical, to me at least. When he lifted his face, it was wet with tears.

A horse dropped a dump in the middle of his rehearsal, and the man was laughing.

“Not … what I expected,” I said. Humor wasn’t a typical emotion at my house even when my dad lived with us. Especially when he lived with us.

“If you don’t do bathroom humor, we can’t be friends.” She elbowed me in the side. When I didn’t respond, she said, “It’s funny, so he’s laughing. People do, you know.” Like she knew what I was thinking. Like she understood the differences in the ways we were raised.

Pastor Robinson’s hand rested on his shaking, Christmas-plaid-covered stomach. His wedding ring shone on his finger. It surprised me. Gracie’s mom had died when we were in the second grade.

“Vaughn?” She touched the top of my hand. “You can laugh, too.”

“Right.”

I pulled away and grabbed a shovel.

*   *   *

My family didn’t react to calamity with laughter.

My dad left when I was eight, and my mom never recovered. I’d tried to convince myself that it wasn’t my fault he left, but I never succeeded. I was hell at eight, in trouble all the time, and I’d always wondered what kind of strain my behavior put on their marriage. I had a distinct feeling that my dad didn’t like me, but he’d always been the one to handle the teacher’s conferences and suspensions. He made sure I had food and money, but that’s where penance for leaving his family stopped.

On the medication wagon, my mom could handle things like balanced meals and clean clothes. When she was down, she could barely take care of herself, much less her kid, and when she was up, she was a lightning strike—beautiful and unpredictable. I worked hard to keep her condition private, which is not a thing a kid should have to do. Fodder for country ballads, but also the reality of my life.

Shame leads to secrets, and secrets lead to lies, and lies ruin everything. Especially friendships. No kid wants to explain that his mom can’t bring snacks to class because she ran out of Xanax before the pharmacy would refill the prescription. Other parents stop inviting you to birthday parties, because you don’t reciprocate. No one asks you to join sports teams, because you never meet the registration deadlines, and if you do, no one ever remembers to pay your league fees. Soon enough, people forget you altogether.

So you do things that
make
them remember.

*   *   *

I kept my head down as I scooped the horse’s early holiday gift into a rusty wheelbarrow. It had seen its fair share of manure. The wheels squeaked, but it rolled just fine. The wooden handles were worn and sturdy. I shook the contents into the compost pile, turned the wheelbarrow up against the wall, and washed my hands in the utility sink backstage. I jumped when Gracie’s fingertips grazed my shoulder.

She was a toucher. I hadn’t noticed before.

“Why did you do it?” Gracie asked.

“Um, the displeasing aroma?” I yanked on the paper towels too hard, fifteen came off in my hand, and the roll detached from the holder. “Because all the church robes drag the ground? Because somebody had to?”

“You know what I mean. The firecrackers.”

I studied the paper towels, lining up the edges as I rolled them back onto the cardboard. “I do lots of things without a specific reason. I was bored. I wanted to see what would happen.”

“Experiments are why you take a chemistry class, not why you blow up a bunch of pigeons.”

“I wasn’t trying to blow them up.” I faced her. “I don’t abuse animals.”

“Hippity.” She raised one eyebrow. “Hop.”

“That wasn’t abuse. That was art. Unfortunate, six-year-old art. As for the birds, I just wanted to scare them out of the tree.”

“It worked.”

“And they all lived.”

Gracie took the roll of paper towels from my hands and hung it back up. “You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

Pointed questions were not part of my plan. My plan was to make it through the next two days and get a pass from the judge, not to reveal my longstanding crush or expose my deviously jealous ways. My mind raced, desperate for another way out besides the truth. “Okay. So have you ever seen
Sherlock Holmes
?”

Her eyes narrowed at what she assumed was a subject change. “Television or movies?”

“Either,” I said.

“Both,” she answered.

“You know how Sherlock sees things that shouldn’t go together on the surface, but once he makes all the connections, the answers become obvious to him? The camera always shows it as a fast pan from one subject to another.” I gestured for her to follow me back to the tangled lights.

“Ugh. That kind of camerawork makes me nauseated.” But she smiled and crossed her arms over her womb. “So, what you’re saying is that your mind works faster than everyone else’s.”

“I’m just saying … I’m good at seeing connections that could cause trouble.” I sat down on a wooden crate and took stock of our surroundings. “For example, lighting. I could change the directions of all the spotlights. Or I could switch up the tape on the stage that marks the places for the actors. Rearrange the props table or just hide it all together. Mixing up the angels’ wires could cause all kinds of interesting problems—not for the baby angels, of course, but for a free-swinging adult in wings? That sounds like a party.” And a little dirty.

“So, chaos. Is that your ultimate goal?”

“Those were examples, not intentions. Is it
your
goal to play Mary for the rest of your life?”

“Definitely not.” She stood. “But when your dad is a pastor … well, people have expectations.”

“I assume the flawless skin and baby blues kick it over the edge?”

Her nose crinkled at
flawless.
It was an expression I’d seen before, usually when someone paid her a compliment. “Maybe. But the real Mary was Middle Eastern. And closer to twelve. The real Joseph was probably thirty.”

“Gross.”

“The Wise Men were astronomers, and they didn’t show up until Jesus was around two, and no one knows how many there were. The manger was likely a cave.”

Gracie was getting fired up, speaking faster and gesturing with her whole body. “And I’m pretty sure Jesus cried,” she said. “He was a
baby.
It’s ridiculous that we have to keep perpetuating these myths because of people’s commercialized expectations.” She thumped back down on the wooden crate beside me.

“Then why do you participate?” I looked at her. “Because of your father?”

“You’d think it’s because he makes me. But he doesn’t.” She dropped her face into her hands, and then she peeked at me through splayed fingers. “You’re going to think I’m terrible.”

I paused, waiting for the middle school choir to pass. Once they were through, I said, “It’s impossible to think badly of you, Gracie Robinson.”

She sat up straighter. Maybe she blushed a little. I’d paid the compliment with too much admiration in my voice. “It’s just … sometimes it’s nice to be the one everyone pays attention to.”

I tilted my head to the side, all cocker spaniel. “You were
homecoming queen.
”

“That was a fluke. If Ashley Stewart and Hannah Gale hadn’t been suspended for breaking into the principal’s office and e-mailing all the teachers to tell them they were fired, I never would’ve won. They were the shoo-ins for the homecoming court.”

I took a moment to check out my cuticles.

Her eyes widened.
“Vaughn.”

“I made a suggestion. Flippantly. And, possibly, handed over a skeleton key.” Sometimes it’s nice
not
to be the one everyone pays attention to.

She punched my arm. “Did you do that for me?”

I rubbed my bicep. “It wasn’t entirely coincidental.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her expression told me she was trying to figure out if she should yell at me or thank me. “I don’t need to be front and center. I know I’m loved, and that I shouldn’t seek out approval. But secretly?” She sighed and lowered her voice. “I suspect I tell myself that so I’m not sad when I don’t get noticed.”

“Do you want to be noticed or not? Because it sounds like you’re talking out of both sides of your mouth.” I dared to nudge her shoulder. “I’m not criticizing.”

Gracie didn’t move away. “When you’re a pastor’s daughter, guys tend to put you in the ‘untouchable’ category and never look at you again. I just like to feel special every now and then. You know?”

“Anytime you need to feel special, you come find me.” The words were out before I could stop them—a cartoon bubble over my head that wouldn’t burst.

Her brows pulled together in a frown. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I’m sorry.” I felt my face getting red. My face never got red. “Did I take it too far?”

“No. You took it exactly far enough.” The frown slipped into a grin. “I’m just trying to figure out the most effective way to flirt with you.”

A rush of adrenaline shot through my body. I didn’t know how to volley back, so I changed the subject. Because I was a chicken. “Speaking of flirting, where’s your husband?”

She blinked.

“Your fictional husband. Your real-life boyfriend.”

“My … you mean Shelby?” Gracie groaned. She slid her hands into her hair, clutching her head like it ached. “He is
not
my boyfriend.”

“Oh, really?” I crossed my arms and sat back to listen to this one.

“Have you ever seen us holding hands? On a date? A real, official date that wasn’t church-sanctioned or a school event? No, you haven’t. Because we’ve never been on one.”

“Then what’s the deal?”

“I’m a cover for Shelby’s real girlfriend.”

I almost fell out of my seat. “His
real
girlfriend?”

“She’s a very nice, liberal, feminist Christian named Ellie from New Jersey. They met at Bible camp two summers ago.”

“Do they
make
liberal feminist Christians?”

Gracie rolled her eyes. “They make all kinds.”

I understood why Shelby would need to use Gracie as an alibi. The father of a good old Southern boy would lose his mind if his son dated someone from New Jersey, let alone a liberal feminist from New Jersey.

“If you’re just a cover, why is he so protective? Protective to the point of being an ass”—I quickly corrected myself—“
mean
to anyone who looks at you?”

“He feels
brotherly
toward me, and my dad takes advantage.” She paused, watching a volunteer bedazzle the gift box that held the myrrh for baby Jesus. “What’s Shelby ever done to you, anyway? I know he’s a football player, but he’s not a stereotype. He’s not cornering you in the bathroom and giving you wedgies, is he?”

I shook my head.

“Does he stuff you in lockers? Duct tape you to flagpoles? Put Bengay in your jock … er … yeah. That kind of thing?”

I grinned. “You’re cute when you blush.”