I’m grateful, but I can’t let her get more involved than she already is.
“What’ll it be, Nick? Are we gonna sit here and pose for pictures, or are you going to tell me where you want me to take you?”
She twists around until she’s facing me, and…I don’t really know how to explain it, but when her eyes find mine, my gut does this thing that makes it go all jittery and squiggly, like there’s a jellyfish living inside.
I take a deep breath and climb off the bike. “Thanks,” I say. “But I think it’s better if you leave while you can.”
I’ve put a handful of steps between us when she shouts, “Don’t be such a whiny little loser, Nick Dashaway. You want to get out of here or not?”
I do. More than anything, I do.
I turn, a gazillion yeses written all over my face.
“Then get back on the bike and let me worry about the rest. I’m doing a good deed—and isn’t that how all angels get their wings?”
For a moment I can’t help but wonder if she’s serious. But when she laughs, I realize that’s just Plum’s bizarre sense of humor at work.
“Oh, and you better wear this.” She unbuckles the helmet, the pink helmet that matches the Vespa, and hands it to me.
“I’m not wearing that!” I push it away.
“Really, Nick? Don’t you think it’s maybe a little too late to start worrying about your image? Besides, what would you rather do: wear a pink helmet that no one will look twice at or ride around as your highly recognizable self on the back of a pink Vespa? Yours to decide.”
Without another word, I dump the helmet onto my head.
After seizing the moment to indulge in a little laugh at my expense, Plum revs the motor and says, “So, the trolley stop?”
My eyes widen. “How did you know—?” But before I can finish, I say, “Of course! Your mom’s friend’s cousin Chantal is married to Sparks!”
“How’d you know that?” She squints her eyes and screws her lips to the side. “I don’t remember ever telling you that.”
“I do.” I grin.
“I know because I overheard my mom talking with Sparks. All this time I thought it was just some crazy, made-up story. I’m still not sure I believe it, which is one of the reasons I’m here. Some things you just need to see for yourself.”
“Well, if you get me there on time, not only will you get to see it, but you’ll also never have to see me again.”
“Kinda hard to miss you when your face is plastered just about anywhere a person could look.”
Her words stop me cold. I never thought about what happens when I’m gone.
Does this entire world just vanish as though it never existed?
Or does it continue to go on with alternate versions of everyone I know playing their roles?
It’s exactly the kind of hypothesis Dougall would love to ponder.
Maybe someday I’ll ask him.
She steers the Vespa toward the curb, about to merge onto the street, when Dougall skates up beside us.
6 Minutes and 16 Seconds till Christmas
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS…
“Wait!” Dougall shouts, his voice hoarse, out of breath, as he jumps right in front of us, blocking our way. “Just give me a second.” He lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, a few seconds, but that’s all, I swear.”
I shake my head. I did my best to make things right, but now he’s really testing my patience. “If you think you can stop me from getting on that trolley—” I start, but before I can finish, he reaches into his pocket and hands over the ticket.
“Whatever happens from here, I’ll deal,” he says. “But you should go while you can.”
“You! I should’ve known it was you!” Plum whirls on him in outrage. “You’re such a little—”
“It’s all right.” My gaze meets Dougall’s. “We’re good. Everything’s good.” Then, switching to Plum, I say, “You should really cut him a break. Tinsel Hills is a tough town, and true friends are hard to come by.”
Dougall shoots a hopeful look at Plum as she rolls her eyes at me and says, “Are you done being all mushy so we can finish this thing?”
When they both laugh, it reminds me of that first day in my kitchen when they made fun of some dumb thing I said. Only this time it doesn’t bother me. If it brings them together, it’s worth a little fun at my expense.
Dougall moves out of our way. “Good luck, Nick,” he says, and this time I can tell that he means it.
Plum charges onto the street and drives like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic, passing on the right, even using the sidewalks when necessary, anything to beat a red light.
But when a teen driving a white Rolls-Royce with a Christmas wreath attached to the trunk cuts her off at a yellow light, she waves her fist and calls the driver a string of unrepeatable names, then settles in for the wait.
“Sorry, Nick. But we’re close, really close, so don’t worry.”
“I should be the one who’s sorry. I—” I try to thank her, try to apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused, but she waves it away.