Page 26 of A Class of Her Own

I glanced over to find her dressed in a puffy, marshmallow-man style coat and earmuffs, with her blue hair sticking up around them.

“Mr. VanOrman and the board won’t be pleased,” she muttered. Then she looked up to meet my eyes. “I love what you’re doing here, really, I do. The holidays should be celebrated. It’s just that, maybe you’ve gone a little too far.” Her left hand twitched, and I noticed she was carrying something in it . . . something that looked suspiciously like a ticket book. “I have to be honest and tell you that this was the first time Thanksgiving decor was such an issue. There was a pretty mixed response from the community to your dancing turkey, and that will be addressed at the next board meeting. But this, well, Christmas holiday code states only a wreath on the door and a single line of lights along the roofline.” She grew quiet for a second and then pointed at Frosty. “Does he sing?”

“Sing? No.”

“Do any of them play music?”

I shook my head. “They’re silent as far as I know.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Well, that’s something then. We do have an ordinance against excessive noise.”

My friends had stopped singing when Hazel walked over and were still going about their duties but with one ear clearly turned toward the conversation. Lizzie was currently on Jackson’s shoulders attempting to screw in Rudolph’s nose, and I doubted noise was going to be the real problem when all was said and done. A ticket for light pollution was much more likely when that whole thing came together.

“There goes my wish to start a garage band,” I replied, sarcastically.

She spun and put a hand on my forearm. “Don’t even joke about that. You’re on thin ice already.”

I ran my tongue over my lips. “Is this really a big deal?” I gestured at my friends stringing lights and having whispered conversations.

“Let’s cut to the chase. You’re doing this in the dark, which means you know exactly how it’s going to be received. What’s your long game here?” Hazel smacked two lips together. “This,” she gestured to my friends in the same way I had, “is a waste of time and money. There are easier ways to get your point across. Ways that make sense.”

“I’ve tried attending meetings, and I get booed out of the room.” I shook my head, annoyed.

“You’d catch more flies with honey.”

I tilted my head and gave her a look. “You expect me to go into those meetings and try to kiss up to get my way?”

“No. I expect you to be nice. Brooks is popular around here because he’s a nice man.”

“Brooks also approved that rule about wearing a uniform when hosting a garage sale.”

She shook her head. “Because that bought him the leverage to turn down overnight guest fees and the ordinance against letting pets on the common area lawns. He gave up a little thing to get more, and he did it while keeping the peace.”

Lizzie gave out a squeal, and our attention was immediately caught by a giant ray of red light, rivaling a lighthouse in a storm. It spun in circles, casting its beam all around the neighborhood before landing on my own front door and then doing it all over again.

“Oh, boy,” Hazel said, flipping open that ticket book.

Ruby burst out singing, and the others joined in as Hazel wrote out her ticket and handed it to me. I watched her walk back to her house, marching along to the tune of “Joy to the World,” all my friends screeching it into the night air. I knew I was doomed, I knew this was stupid, but somehow it didn’t keep me from joining in on the chorus.

A white paper was taped to my kitchen window the next morning. I wasn’t dressed for the cold, but I went outside in bare feet and snatched it off, shivering as I hustled back inside while reading it. It was on legal size paper, typed up precisely, and signed by Brooks VanOrman, HOA president. Things had officially gone belly up. While I was familiar with hopelesscauses and had never shied away from them, I knew it wasn’t going to be a fun road.

I dressed hurriedly in jeans and a sweater, wrapping my coat around me and tugging a cap down over my ears before I walked the two blocks over to Brooks’s house in the section of the neighborhood with single family homes. Moving my body always helped me with anxiousness, and I thought I could use the exercise before facing him down. I banged on the front door and waited for him to answer. I had his threatening little note in my hand, wrinkled and a little worse for the wear. When he didn’t answer, I knocked harder and called his name. Still nothing. I took a few steps back from the door and peeked into the front window. The house looked quiet. I called his name once more, and, this time, I was answered by the sound of his garage door opening.

I walked toward the garage and waited. He was standing near the back of his car, wearing a heavy-duty apron of some sort and pushing safety goggles up onto his head. His curly black hair got snagged on the goggles and stood up straight in places, giving him a childlike look. There were wood shavings dusting the top of his work boots, and a sweet burning smell with little puffs of smoke rose from a worktable off to the side.

“What a surprise to see you this morning,” he said with a slanted smile.

My throat felt suddenly thick at the familiar sight of all the artist’s tools. My eyes couldn’t seem to stop scouring the place. His big work bench was filled with different shapes of wood with hand-carving tools hung on a rack above it. Different sizes of wood planes rested innocently nearby. Saws hung from nails on the wall, and chisels stood upright in an old coffee can on the corner of the bench near where clamps were attached to the edge. But these weren’t the only things my eyes cataloged. There was an air compressor and a large red standing toolbox with drawers left open showing screwdrivers and hammers, measuring tapes, and marking pencils. His garage was filled with crafting tools, artist’s tools . . . the tools of my childhood.

My face must have shown something, because his stance adjusted into one less prepared for battle, and he cleared his throat. I didn’t dare look at his face, but I imagined from his tone of voice that he’d look concerned.

“I’m making a few toys to send to my nieces and nephew for Christmas.”

I nodded, feeling my head wobble as my heart started to beat hard. It didn’t make sense to have this discovery affect me so much. “You’re a lawyer, though. Right?”

When he didn’t answer right away, I finally looked at him. He was watching me with a furrowed expression. His nod was slow, and I tamped down on a scream while I waited for his reply. My hands shook, and I tucked them into my pockets.

“Yes. I’m a lawyer. This is a side hobby during the cold months when I’m not doing as much outdoors.”

---