My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories

She probably was his real girlfriend. The one he told his parents about. The one he took to dances and out for pizza and to places that weren’t the backseat of his car or Penelope’s bedroom. Penny had clearly not wanted to believe the girl existed, somehow convincing herself that we were dressing up and coming all this way to prove an unprovable negative.

Wren shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

Wren had been more or less raised by her grandparents, on whose fold-out couch she slept. They taught her to skin squirrels, knee guys hard enough to rupture their testicles, and roll cigarettes as tight as ones in the store. She had no patience with the rest of us.

“Let’s go get hot chocolate,” I told them. My job was to be the negotiator and sometimes the tie-breaker, an ambassador to both their nations. In return, they didn’t call me crazy when I dreamed up stuff like papier-mâché horns, so even though I sometimes wanted to quit that job, I never would.

“No,” Penny said, with a little sob. “I don’t want him to see us. What if he recognizes me?”

Wren grabbed her arm. “Then either he’ll introduce you to his friends or he’ll stand there awkwardly until his friends introduce themselves to us. Either way, he’s busted. This is what you came for.”

Penny wilted, even though she’d come up with this plan herself. That’s why Wren and I were along—to force her to go through with her own scheme.

As we waded through the crowd toward Roth, a guy passed me. He was wearing an amazing outfit, the best I’d seen. He had on fur leggings, tight to his calves, tapering to the most amazing hooves, so good that they didn’t look like a costume. A black Utilikilt covered his waist, so the transition between fur and flesh was hidden, and despite the cold, his very fine chest was bare. He had big beautiful horns like those of a springbok rising up from his head. They were so real that I figured they were either resin molds or actual horns that he’d managed to attach to some kind of hidden hairband. His tanned skin was smeared with the deep gold of old mirrors, and his eyes were lined with black kohl.

“You look awesome,” I called to him, because he really did. If all Krampuses looked like him, naughtiness would rule.

He turned and gave me a mischievous, toe-curling smile. It was like he’d stepped out of a different, better story than the kind I knew—not the one that Roth was in, born to be a rich jerk and to reap the rewards of never rising above that. Not the kind Penny and Wren and I were in, either, where we had to be realistic all the time, whatever that meant. No, the boy with the goat legs seemed to distort reality a little in absolutely fantastic ways.

Wren had to drag me away. I grinned on as Penny and I were hauled to the hot-chocolate line.

“You guys are the worst,” Penny said in a muffled voice.

“You mean the best,” Wren told her, and then elbowed me in the side.

“Hey,” I yelled to Roth, waving. I wasn’t sure if that was what I was supposed to do to avoid getting elbowed again, but I figured Wren would be happy with any forward momentum.

Penny gave me an evil look, which looked extra evil from behind her mask.

For a moment, Roth seemed confused, then he realized how he knew me and I saw the beginnings of panic. After months of watching Penny suffer because of him, it was satisfying. “I don’t think I know y—” he started.

“Hi,” Wren said to the blond girl, interrupting him. “You must be Roth’s girlfriend. He’s told us so much about you. So much. Don’t worry—all good stuff.”

The girl smiled, which was pretty damning. None of the other kids looked at all surprised, like of course Roth would tell a bunch of people about how cool his girl was. Roth began turning a tomato red, shut his mouth and ground his teeth.

I knew Penelope was considering escaping—we were at a run, after all, so if she just ran, it wouldn’t look crazy or anything. I hoped Wren had a good grip on her.

“We’re having an absolutely brutal New Year’s party,” Wren continued, and this was why you shouldn’t bring Wren to things if you didn’t want chaos. She loved chaos above all other things. “You should all come. Roth knows how hard we go. I guarantee you’d have a good time. Right, Roth?”

Roth stammered something affirmative. He knew he couldn’t afford to piss us off. Call us scum-sucking dirtbags now, I thought. Double-dog dare you.

There was just one problem. We hadn’t been planning on having a New Year’s party. The last party I remember one of us having involved birthday cake, candles, and a Slip ’n Slide.

The blonde looked intrigued, though. We were townies and, to her, that meant we had drugs and booze and enough space to party without getting in trouble. The first one was silly, because, sure, we could get drugs. Anyone could, if they had the cash and the hookup. But at Mossley, dealers stopped by and delivered drugs straight to their door.

She was right about the other two, though. We had booze, because we had older siblings and cousins who would buy it for us, and liquor cabinets in our houses that our parents never bothered to lock, and because, compared to drugs, booze was dirt cheap.

And we had freedom. We could stay out all night for the price of a sloppy lie. No one was concerned about where we were for hours at a time and sometimes a lot longer than that. Theoretically, all of the Mossley students went home for winter break, but most of them drifted back the first week of January. After all, they spent most of the year here. Who did they know at home?

“Okay, yeah,” the girl said, looking from her friends to Roth, to me and Penny and Wren and smiling her oblivious smile. “That sounds like fun.”

*   *   *

My dad was fond of bringing home stuff he thought was still usable. Slightly moldering books from the local college, damaged sports equipment and used furniture he spotted leaning against dumpsters. He was responsible for the book that confused me about the faeries—and also got me to leave milk curdling in the sun outside Grandma’s trailer in the hopes of attracting a brownie to clean my room—and there was another book with devil stories.

The devil stories were a lot like the faerie stories. The devil was always a trickster, always seemed up for a good time, and was usually defeated in the end. In the stories where he prevailed and dragged a soul down to hell, the person usually deserved it.

He punished the naughty and rewarded the nice. Just like someone else who wore a lot of red. Scramble the letters in S-A-N-T-A and you get S-A-T-A-N.