My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories
Page 65“That’s not all.” Gracie approached her father and gently laid a hand on his arm. “The interstate north of us is already locked up, and the camels are stuck.”
“The camels.” His voice was dull, as if he’d just awoken from a nap. “Are stuck?”
“Yes, the camels,” Gracie continued. “And the sheep.”
“The … sheep?”
She broke the rest of the news quickly. “And the donkey and the ox. The traffic isn’t moving and neither are they. PETA will jump our ass—our literal ass—if we push for transport in this kind of weather.”
Everyone in Gracie’s general vicinity dropped chin. I didn’t know the church’s stance on alcohol, but Pastor Robinson looked like he could use a margarita. He took a deep breath, the kind that every teenager recognizes and fears. “Grace Elizabeth Robinson. I know that was a play on words, and your attempt at levity is noted, as is the time and the place you chose to attempt it. Now you owe the swear jar a dollar.”
Before she could reply, his phone rang. He answered, and the crowd around us broke up.
I stared at Gracie. “You just said ass.”
She shrugged. A grin followed. “I can usually get away with that one, since it’s in the Bible.”
“You said ass.”
“I’m aware of this.”
“You guys have a swear jar.”
She slid out her arms from the bathrobe, revealing a blue sweater that fit so well it deserved a vacation home in the Bahamas. “It’s an old pickle jar we keep on our kitchen counter. My mom made it mandatory for my dad when he was in seminary, and he made it mandatory for me.”
“Your father swears, too?”
“You wicked girl. You’re not at all who I imagined you’d be.”
“Ditto.” She hung her robe on a wall hook. “How many days has it been since you pulled a prank? I had no idea you could behave for such an extended period of time.”
“Maybe I’m trying to change. I’ve managed a streak of good behavoir before.” I glanced at Pastor Robinson, who was pacing while he talked. “Remember the Good Citizenship Award in fourth grade? And how every single kid was supposed to get it?”
She nodded and leaned against the wall.
“I tried so hard. Everyone had been giving me crap, saying I’d never be good long enough to get it, but during the last month of school, I earned it. I proved that I could handle myself. And then Mr. Weekly passed me over at assembly. I know my name was on the list, but he said every name but mine. No one would believe me. That’s when I realized everyone had already made up their minds about me. Why disappoint them?”
“Why not work harder?”
“I was nine,” I said drily. “‘Work harder’ sounds like parental advice, and I didn’t have the kind of guidance that you did.”
“I’m of the opinion,” she said, tucking her arm around mine, “that if you let a single life event define you, then all you need to change things—if you want them to change—is another.”
I stared at her arm on mine. And then, when I looked up, she was staring at me.
A loud commotion erupted around Pastor Robinson.
Gracie turned her attention to him. “What now?”
Mrs. Armstrong had slipped on a set of icy stairs, and she was on her way to the hospital with a broken foot. The pageant had lost its director.
“How about that,” Gracie murmured. “Double-booked venue, freak snowstorm, trapped animals. And now no director. Things are getting worse by the second.” She clucked her tongue. “It would be easy to give up. No one would blame us. Or…”
She let go of my arm, practically bouncing. “You know how to make things go wrong. You excel at it.” From anyone else, I’d have taken that personally. “Tell me you can’t figure out how to make tonight happen.”
“Are you trying to find a way to make your father accept me or something?” I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. “Are you trying to fix me?”
“Why? Are you broken?”
Gracie tilted her head.
Parts of me were. I felt like Gracie could see every single torn-up edge. I shrugged.
“You said you were trying to change,” she reminded me.
“I said maybe.”
I was glad she wasn’t holding my hand. My palms were a rain forest.
“You’re so blinded by negative expectations that you can’t see the truth. Pranks, jokes—they don’t make you bad.” She angled her body toward me. “They make you you. You have a lot to offer, Vaughn. And Christmas is about new beginnings.”
“What about you, Gracie? Since I have so much to offer, would you be willing to start something with me? Or are you afraid I’ll ruin your reputation?”
“What makes you think that I won’t ruin yours?”
I choked on my own spit.
Gracie gestured toward the chaos onstage. “So?”
“Hell, yeah!”
“Another dollar,” Pastor Robinson hollered, before returning to his phone call.
I laughed. “Isn’t that one in the Bible, too?”
“He’s not been very forgiving lately,” she said through her smile, as she gave her father the thumbs-up. “I think he’s aiming for Hawaii next summer.”
I had a flash of Gracie in a bikini, followed by one of Pastor Robinson in Speedos. I shook my head in a reflex action to push both pictures out of my brain. “You should get into costume. Where’s your foam child?”
“One of the baby angels is using it for a pillow.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward her father. “Hey, Dad! Vaughn has an idea.”
* * *
Pastor Robinson agreed to go forward.
The traffic reports from the north of town were growing worse by the second. Things to the south weren’t much better, but the traffic was moving. Pastor Robinson’s phone lit up with calls from stranded cast members. Gracie and her dad were trying to figure out exactly which cast members were missing.
I was listening, but I was also thinking. Crazy-Sherlock thinking. Looking from the Civil War soldiers to the nativity costumes, from the arena to the stage.