“I’ll get to it.” He winks, turning away and moving to the far side of the store, where I won’t be able to eavesdrop so easily.
I head into the small bathroom and try to clean off, though there’s not much I can do about the sap on my jeans; it hardens like glue and makes the legs so stiff I walk like a robot. Then I sit in my dad’s chair and spin in circles, which gets old pretty fast, so I call over Sir Dasher Dashaway and spend my time alternately petting him and clearing the air with peppermint-scented spray. And though my dad does his best to speak in hushed tones, every now and then I can hear him mumble things like “back taxes” and “year-end financials” in a voice thick with worry. It seems like every conversation they have reverts to those things.
When he’s done talking to my mom, he steps into the office, looking even wearier than before. “Why don’t you head on home, Nick?” he says. “You’ve done enough for your first night on the job. Save some of that energy for tomorrow. I need you here bright and early.”
“But what about you?” I ask, refusing to budge. We always go home together. It’s a tradition. We can’t break it now.
“It’s going to be a late one.” He forces a smile. “You know, Christmas rush and all. Besides, your mother needs help finishing the decorations. If you leave now, you can still catch the bus. I’ll get your bike home. Better hurry, though. Last bus leaves in fifteen minutes.”
Against my better judgment, I grab my stuff and head out. When my dad gets that determined, there’s no point arguing.
I’ve just reached the door when he calls me back. Thinking he changed his mind, I turn excitedly, only to find him standing behind me with Plum’s gift in his hand.
I wave it away. “It’s all yours,” I tell him.
“No, it’s definitely yours,” he says. “There’s a note inside with your name on it.”
He shoots me this sort of twinkly look, which instantly makes me feel queasy. I mean, if the note was from Tinsley, I might be all twinkly-eyed too. But the fact that it’s from Plum…well, I wish this stupid box would just disappear.
Of course I end up taking it. He’s pretty much insisting. So I carry the dumb red-and-green box all the way to the bus stop, where I plop down on the seat, lean my back against a picture of Mr. Turtledove’s smiling face promising to sell you the home of your dreams, and wait for this day to be over.
* * *
* I really, really hate Mac Turtledove.
7:46 P.M.—8:16 P.M.
RUN, RUN, RUDOLPH
The first time my parents let me ride the bus by myself, I was ten years old and felt like I’d finally arrived.
Everything seemed better than it was. The seats were cleaner. The driver was friendlier. The fellow passengers were happier. And every window offered a view so spectacular I didn’t want it to end.
That was nearly three years ago, and now I’m just hoping the bus will show up. Then I can get back to my room and barricade myself inside until winter break is over and my parents are forced to smash through the door and drag me back to school.
A blast of cold wind curls down the street, delivering a chill so intense I pull the hoodie I’m still wearing over my head. When it fails to provide the kind of insulation I need, I reach into my backpack for the hat, scarf, and mittens that match the sweater, red pom-poms included. Every year my mom makes a new set, presenting it with such excitement I don’t have the heart to tell her the years of Plum, Dougall, and I coordinating our Christmas-themed sweaters are over. The only reason I’m wearing this now is sheer desperation.
I put the hat on under the hood, pulling it so low and the scarf so high that my eyes are the only things left uncovered. Any other day I’d seriously choose death by hypothermia over wearing one of my mom’s Christmas creations.*1 But since I’ve pretty much reached the place known as Rock Bottom, I figure I have nothing to lose. If I’m doomed to be a Brainiac Nerd for the rest of my life, I might as well be a warm and toasty one.
I’m about ten minutes into the wait when I notice that not a single car has gone by, which strikes me as strange.
Not like I’m expecting a traffic jam. Greentree Avenue is hardly Times Square or Hollywood Boulevard. Still, even a small town like ours usually sees a little more action than this, especially on a Friday night.
After about twenty minutes I start to wonder if my dad got the schedule mixed up. I grab my cell, about to call my mom and ask her to come pick me up, only to discover that my phone has no service, which is really weird, since that’s never happened in this area before and it’s not like I’m in the middle of nowhere.
This bus stop is smack in the center of the Greentree business district, which, while not nearly as impressive as it sounds—it’s basically two short blocks stuffed with storefronts and office buildings—is not exactly Siberia.
From what I can see, I’ve got three options:
#1: Head back to the store and wait it out until my dad’s ready to leave.