Page 36 of The Kiss Class

With a cough, I answer, “Classes are classes.”

“I was talking with Joel Meyers, a CSU alum who graduated from the law program, gosh, years ago now. Anyway, he’s looking for an intern this summer. It means you’d stay in California, but?—”

Nervous sweat nips my neck, choking off my voice. I sputter, “Oh, cool. Please thank him for me. I’ll—” My phone beeps with a message. I remind myself that Knight in Shining Armor isn’t Nolan. It’s my knight in an ugly Christmas sweater, aka Pierre.

Knight in Shining Armor: You inspired me to start a new tradition. I grabbed an Elf on the Shelf from the store and left it on the Zamboni sitting on top of a basket of corn cobs and fruit. This morning, it appeared in the locker room sitting on top of a pyramid of hockey pucks.

Me: Epic! What did you name the elf?

Knight in Shining Armor: I went with Puck because of hockey and the mischief maker in Shakespeare.

Me: That’s perfect.

Knight in Shining Armor: Do you have any ideas for what I should do next time I get my hands on it?

Me: My sister’s husband gets credit for this, but you can plastic wrap the toilet, toss in a few Christmas candies—the peppermint starlight mints could work, or chocolate chips—and position the elf on the edge. I’ll let your imagination fill in the rest, but it seems like locker-room humor.

Knight in Shining Armor: Good one. I’ll use it. I’ve got a joke for you. Why do elves make good listeners?

I giggle.

“Want to share what’s so funny?” my father asks.

“Oh, um, my text pal made a punny joke.” I tell him and return squarely to reality in the truck.

“I told that one at practice this morning.”

I stiffen in my seat. “I didn’t know you told the guys’ jokes.”

“It’s the holiday season, and with nearly back-to-back games before and after Christmas, I’m trying to keep up morale because most everyone won’t be able to travel home this year. Speaking of that, I booked your ticket to Colorado for the Blizzard game on the twenty-sixth so we could be together since Anna, Ilsa, and their respective husbands are going to the Caribbean.” His tone drops with faint sadness at our family being apart.

“They’re sure to send a postcard that says, ‘Wish you were here.’” And, boy, would I rather lie on a sandy beach in the tropics than be with my father and Pierre at the same game.

“So, what was the answer to the joke—why do elves make good listeners?”

“Because they’re all ears,” my dad says.

I’m afraid he’s paying especially close attention to everything I say and my lie about Pierre drives down deep with guilt.

When we pull up to the Christmas tree farm, the pine scent breezes past today’s problems, bringing with it memories of being a child and carefree.

My sisters go to the little cottage for hot cocoa as per tradition to keep their hands warm while we search for the perfect evergreen, which feels pointless since we’ll only be home on Christmas Eve.

After I get my cocoa, I find my father waiting for me by the entrance with a bow saw in his hand.

“Hey, Badaszek, everything okay?” he asks.

I fidget with the paper cuff around my cup. “Yeah. Why?”

“I feel like that’s something your mother would’ve wanted me to ask right now.”

Tears pierce my eyes but freeze in the cold.

He claps me on the back. “I’m sorry if I was hard on you and Arsenault the other day. He’s a good kid from a good family. Country boy up in Quebec. I think coming here, and becoming a hotshot hockey player went to his head. You know how I am, keeping a short leash on the team so they don’t get into trouble.”

“Dadaszek, I’m sorry for, um, not being entirely truthful.” I can’t quite come clean about our massive lie, but it’s a start.

“I understand. Ricky hurt you. That’s what your sisters say, anyway.”

---