It seems reasonable on the surface, but if I leave now, I’ll risk missing the bus, which may show up at any minute.
Not to mention it will probably make my dad feel like he needs to leave the store early, which means he won’t get his work done, which will only add to his stress level, which is high enough already.
#2: Suck it up, deal with the cold, and start walking home.
Only this option isn’t nearly as reasonable as it seems, since it’s seriously cold out, and even with the scarf, hat, and mittens, I’m pretty positive I’ll keel over from frostbite well before I get home.
#3: Stay right where I am—hunkered down in the shelter of the bus stop with Mr. Turtledove’s face grinning into my back.
After careful consideration, Option #3 is clearly the winner.
But as the snow starts to fall and actually sticks, I’m seriously starting to think this could very well be the end of me, when I remember Plum’s gift—or, more important, the candle that’s supposedly waiting inside.
I crack the box open, and sure enough, there’s a birthday candle with red and green swirls running all along the sides and a small box of matches, just like she said.
Oh, and there’s also a cupcake decorated with a giant gold star, like she was sure I was going to win the talent show.
Or maybe it means that whatever happens, I’m still a star in her eyes.
Whatever. It’s not like I’m planning to eat it.
There’s also the note my dad mentioned, but the second I read
Dear Nick, I hope that when you blow out this candle, your greatest wish will come true….
I lose interest, toss it aside, shove the candle in the middle of the star, and strike a match on the side of the box, only to watch it instantly fizzle.
The ones that follow meet the same fate until I’m down to the very last match, which I cradle like a baby, making a shelter with my hands like I’ve seen my dad do when he’s lighting a campfire. Not daring to so much as breathe, I hear the quick bursting sizzle of flame meeting wick. The tiny blaze glimmers for a handful of seconds before it settles into a small but adequate flame that warms the tips of my mitten-covered fingers.
I sit like that for a while. Probably looking like some demented Christmas clown, all huddled over a cupcake candle, having finally reached the ultimate level of dorkdom yet vowing to remain on this bench until the candle burns out—which shouldn’t take long—and if the bus still hasn’t come, I’ll get my butt moving and risk hypothermia.
Fat globs of wax drool onto the icing, dotting the bright gold star with sludgy red and green circles that turn this ugly maroonish color the second they mix. The candle continues to shrink as the sky vomits a torrent of snow the likes of which I’ve never seen. Then a muted jingling sound drifts from the far end of the street.
I lean over the candle, careful not to smother the flame, as I peer down the long stretch of snow-covered pavement, trying to see where the music is coming from. But other than hazy swirls of white, it’s impossible to see much of anything.
The candle continues to liquefy as the noise grows increasingly louder until, seemingly out of nowhere, a blaze of color and sound bursts through the haze and a crazy graffiti-covered trolley with “Jingle Bells” blaring from overhead speakers that, strangely enough, are shaped just like antlers skids to a stop right before me.
Definitely not the bus I was waiting for, which is exactly why I stay put.
The front door springs open in a cringe-inducing metal-meets-metal shriek that has me gritting my teeth and willing it to end.
“Heya!” comes a disembodied voice from inside. “Whatareyawaitinfor? Climmaboard!” The words all slur together, and I can’t make out who said them until there’s a break in the snow and I’m staring into the face of some old guy with long white dreadlocks, a red-and-green tie-dyed sweatshirt, and a pair of colorful sweat pants bearing the same Christmas-themed graffiti art that marks the sides of the trolley.
And don’t even get me started on his insane glasses, which look more like sunglasses than eyeglasses, except for the spirals that keep going in and out of focus.
It’s all I need to see to convince me to do my best to ignore him.
The entire scene stinks of trouble. This is pretty much every warning every mother has ever given her kid rolled into one.
Any second now he’ll offer me some ice cream and a peek at the puppies he keeps in the back.*2
I’d rather take my chances on frostbite.*3