Page 8 of The Grumpiest Elf

Shaking my head, I take a bite of my stew, contemplating as I chew and swallow. “It’s a fun job, you know? The kids, the families, Santa and Mrs. Claus themselves …” I wave my spoon around. “All of it. It’s so festive and cheerful, and here comes Elfie, stomping in and frowning at everyone and everything. I half expected ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch’ to start playing the moment he walked in.” Mom’s cackling, and her mirth is infectious. Covering my growing grin with the back of my hand, I shake my head. “Honestly, when it did come on over the speakers at one point today, I had a hard time not shooting him pointed looks.” I straighten my spine, dropping my shoulders and smoothing my face into calmness. “But I kept it professional. I didn’t tell him what I was thinking—that I’d expect him to be the Grinch’s son rather than Santa’s.”

Sighing, Mom shakes her head at me, though she’s still smiling. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Maybe he was just having a bad day?”

“Maybe,” I concede, though I don’t think that’s it.

“Just keep being your usual self,” Mom suggests. “I’m sure you’ll win him over.”

I hum noncommittally. I’m not sure that’s true, considering he asked me to tone down my usual self at lunch. But there’s no point telling Mom that. Instead, I reach for the remote. “What should we watch tonight?”

CHAPTERFIVE

Dylan

I endup working with Lydia for the next three days in a row. I confirmed her name from the schedule, because I didn’t want to look like an ass asking her to tell me what it is again when she clearly remembered mine.

“Isn’t she great?” Nora says as we watch Lydia taking pictures of a fussy toddler. She’s playing peek-a-boo from behind the camera, a reindeer plush with weighted feet draped over her shoulder. She jumps out so quickly that the stuffed animal falls off her shoulder, and she makes a big dramatic show of picking it up and brushing it off. It looks like all her attention is on what she’s doing, but when the lights flash, it’s obvious that she was keeping an eye on the kid after all and saw the smile. The lights flash a couple more times while the tot points and reaches for the toy, which Lydia scampers out and hands to him, then takes another shot of the little guy showing the toy to Dad, who’s making appropriately appreciative faces.

My dad’s great with kids, yet another trait of his that I didn’t inherit. Honestly, I think the only thing we have in common is our desire for plans and order. He’s the reason the Christmas Emporium and ChristmasFest took off like they did. Mom’s the Christmas lover, though Dad’s no Scrooge, who thought it would be a good niche for the little town intent on bringing in more tourism. But Dad’s the one with the eye for detail and planning sense who crafted the business plan and got things profitable, working construction in the warmer months to make up for the seasonal slowdown of a Christmas-based business.

He was able to quit construction when I was in elementary school, because the store and ChristmasFest made enough that we didn’t need the extra income anymore. It made it so Mom and Dad could arrange the schedule so one of them was always home with us until Nora was old enough to let Ty or Sarah babysit for short stints after school.

I know my parents are right that I should be more grateful for the store that’s given my family a good life and a place in the heart of this community. And it’s not that I’mungrateful, exactly. I’d just prefer a more behind-the-scenes role. But Sarah’s got all that covered. And I don’t want to take it from her—she loves the Christmas Emporium and has always wanted to take over running it—I just wish I could work there full time on my school breaks instead of here.

Having extras like Lydia only makes it more obvious to me that I don’t belong in Santa’s Workshop. I could never act as ridiculous as she does on a regular basis all in the name of getting a kid to smile. And she’s not self-conscious about it at all.

Why would she be? All anyone says to her is how wonderful she is at her job. And she is. There’s no denying it.

I grunt in response to Nora, who rolls her eyes at me as she finishes making sure all the last client’s photos are uploaded to the website where the family can download them later. “Dude, seriously,” she says, eyes on the computer. “You need to get over yourself. Life is what you make of it.” Turning to me, she lays a hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t a bad gig. It’s only a few weeks. And it pays well. Besides,” she drops her hand from my shoulder, “this is your last Christmas as a college student. You really want to be a grumpy Grinch and ruin the holiday for everyone?”

When I give another grunt, she sighs. “Guess so,” she quips. “See ya later.” And with that, she’s gone, waving at babies and high-fiving preschoolers as she heads past the line to take off. She and I are splitting a shift today, and apparently Lydia has the dubious pleasure of working all day. More hours means more money, obviously, but it’s all dayhere.An enclosed area with the same fifteen Christmas carols on repeat, screaming kids, loud and sometimes rude parents, red and green and glitter fuckingeverywhere. Who can really blame me for getting tired of it after years of doing this every Christmas?

Meanwhile, my friends get to relax, watch movies, hang out, maybe go to a Christmas party or two, and only brave these kinds of venues for short stints to get a few gifts.

That sounds fantastic to me, but even after I’m done with college, there’s no chance of getting that kind of Christmas. Mom and Dad work all the way up to Christmas Eve, with even longer hours on Saturdays, because the Fest opens earlier—ten instead of noon—and still stays open until eight.

A wide smile stretched across her face, Lydia turns to glance at me, and when she sees I’m the one at the computer instead of Nora, the smile dies. It’s almost painful to watch a glacier descend across her features as she gives me a nod of greeting. I nod back, turning away to greet the next family in line. “Merry Christmas.” I give the mom my best customer service smile. “Which package are you getting?”

The mom studies the menu while Lydia comes over and says the little girl in her plaid Christmas dress can come tell Santa what she wants for Christmas. Once the mom tells me her selection, I process her credit card, turning to watch as Lydia works her magic, the coldness that came over her at the sight of me melted under the natural warmth she offers everyone else.

It’s fine, I tell myself. I don’t want her to try to win me over with her sunny personality and warmth. I’m the one who told her she didn’t need to use the cheerful elf routine on me, right?

Right.

But for some reason watching her interact with everyone else and only offering me monosyllables irritates me all day long. I just can’t figure out why.

* * *

Nora sticks her tongue out at me at the kitchen table the next morning as we eat our breakfast. “Stuck with you all day, bro,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m sorry,you’restuck withme? I think you meant that the other way around.”

She tilts her head like she’s considering my statement, humming thoughtfully, then she shakes her head definitively. “Nope. Definitely meant it the way I said it.” She sips her coffee, studying me. “Seriously, though. Did something happen at school? I know you’ve never been excited about the elf thing, but you seem more pissy than normal.”

Shaking my head, I stuff the last of my breakfast burrito in my mouth and wipe my hands on a napkin before balling it up and dropping it on my plate. Mom makes a batch of hearty breakfasts, like burritos and sandwiches, that she stores in the freezer for all of us to eat during busy times, and ChristmasFest definitely qualifies, though she did it during the school year when we were all growing up too. In elementary school, we were recruited as assistants for the batch cooking, and by the time high school hit, we were given a slot in the rotation. I’m scheduled to make next week’s breakfast on Sunday night.

“School’s fine,” I answer after swallowing, reaching for my own mug of coffee. I take mine black, not all sugary and tan like Nora’s. I study her as I take a sip, then set my mug back on the table. “You don’t get tired of it?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Tired of what, exactly?”

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