Page 12 of The Nightmare Before Kissmas
Coal, don’t pout.
Wait, sorry, I mean:
You’d better not pout.
IRIS
you’d better not cry
KRIS
The lyrics are off.
Shit, how does it go?
You’d better not—something something, I’m telling you why.
IRIS
oh is that what we were doing, i was just telling him not to be a baby
i accept the terms of your punishment and do so solemnly swear not to carry out any payback, no matter how deserved it may be
KRIS
This text thread is legally binding.
fuck you guys
from here on out it’s gonna be me and my ugly christmas sweater against the world
Chapter Two
One and a Half Years Later Christmas Break, University Senior Year
I’m the last person in the dorm suite. None of my three roommates stays year-round, so there’s no one left to see me sprawled across the couch in our shared living room, trying to mentally transport myself to a beach in the Caribbean like one of the guys said he’ll be doing over break.
I could do it if I conjure up some mistletoe, shove it in a doorway. But all the Caribbean really makes me think about is the half-hearted Merry Christmas text Kris and I got from our mom last week—on American Thanksgiving, great timing—and the corresponding photo of her waist-deep in the ocean, not evensmiling,one of those staged influencer bikini pics. What made her think her sons would wantthatpicture of her? But the memory of it totally ruins any relaxing beach daydream.
I could always show up there. Every invitation from her has been hung with enough passive-aggressive guilt that I know she’d love holding any visit over our heads for the rest of my and Kris’s lives.“Your brother finally came to see me. Why haven’t you, Kristopher? And Nicholas, you only stayed for a week. Children who love their mothers would visit for much longer.”
I could stay at school. Pretend the rec center where I work had an influx of students skipping their winter break trips and needed me to pick up extra shifts.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes.
Yes. I could definitely get away with prioritizing minimum wage at the student rec center over my duties as Santa’s heir.
Dad said he has anannouncementthis year.
Somethingbig.
Best case, he’s only decided what role I’ll be taking on under his guidance after I graduate in the spring. But a decision like that wouldn’t warrant the maddening secrecy of abig announcement,would it? He’d have his assistant text me the details, especially with my track record of fucking up any actual involvement in Christmas’s operation—Dad would avoid the tabloid fodder of letting anyone know I’m back under his training wing until I’ve proven myself.
So what’s the worst case? My mind has been chewing on the possibilities for weeks. And I don’t like any of the stuff I come up with. Which is why I’m lying on this musty couch that smells like beer—I mean, no, we definitely did not spill beer on it because this is campus housing and alcohol is strictly prohibited—and screwing my hands into my eyes until light spots dance.
“DON’T SCREAM.”
I flail off the couch with a startled cry and slam my knee into the coffee table. Pain shoots up my leg and my phone skids across the room; my suitcase, open on the table, teeters and spills my stuff all over the floor.
