“Just tell me one thing.” She twists around until she’s facing me. “Is it better there? The place you’re going back to—is it so much better than here?”
I take a moment to consider the question. At the very least, I owe her the truth.
“No,” I say. “The place itself is neither better nor worse. The thing is, I’m better there than I am here.”
She studies me for a long while, then places a hand on either side of my helmet and kisses me smack on the lips.
A real kiss.
One that lasts more than three seconds.
One I’m reluctant to end.
“I thought you hated me.” I say, eventually pulling away.
“Guess I was wrong about you.” She grins. “Also, I figure you deserve to be kissed by a girl who truly wants to kiss you.”
Her face grows soft. She lingers in my space. Exhibiting all the signs that she wants to do it again, and believe me, I’m willing, but when the sound of “Jingle Bells” suddenly blares through the street and the trolley stops at the curb just ahead, the moment is lost.
“Go, Nick Dashaway,” she whispers in a voice turned suddenly hoarse. “Go—before it’s too late!”
Still wearing the helmet, I jump off the Vespa and race toward the trolley, dodging in and out of oncoming traffic and setting off a riot of horns and thinly veiled threats from the motorists. Aware of Plum’s muffled voice cheering me on, the shouts of paparazzi chasing behind me, and the asphalt beneath my feet growing increasingly slippery.
First my right toe, then my left, nearly skid out from under me, caught on something wet, squishy, and white.
And that’s when I see it.
The impossible manifesting before me.
Despite this being a place of permanent sunshine, the sky is unleashing a torrent of snow that falls so hard and fast it reminds me of the storm in Greentree just five days before.
From somewhere behind me, Plum whoops and hollers, urging me to get up, keep going, as I stumble, unable to gain any traction, my humiliating escape carefully documented by a crush of paparazzi that continues to multiply. I can only imagine the headlines to follow.
None of which will matter if I can just board that trolley.
Running, gasping, falling—I shout at the top of my lungs, begging the driver to stop as the snow begins to pile up all around me. But still I continue well past the point when my legs begin to go numb and my lungs expand so much I’m sure I’ll implode. Running toward the life I truly want and away from a dream that never really fit.
With the paparazzi still on my tail, I take a spill so epic it sends me sliding halfway down the street as the trolley shrinks smaller and smaller, fading into the distance.
I drop my head in my hands, unable to watch as my last shred of hope dissolves before me and the paparazzi gather around, taking pictures and shouting my name.
I struggle to my feet, left with no choice but to face an inconceivable future entirely of my making, when my ears fill with the squealing of metal on metal, followed by the repetitive beep of an oversized vehicle backing up, the sound of “Jingle Bells” trilling nearby.
“Heya, kid!” The trolley driver sticks his head out the window, white dreadlocks swinging. “Ya comin’ or wha?”
I turn toward the shocked photogs, grinning as I say, “Tell Ezer thanks for the opportunity, but it’s time for me to go home.”
Stealing a last look at Plum, wanting to savor the memory of her swirling in the snow and waving back at me, I limp toward the bus, heave myself up the steps, and hand over the dirty, crumpled, torn, but hopefully still valid ticket.
“Sorry ’bout that,” the driver says, his crazy glasses spiraling in and out as he palms the ticket and shoots me a gap-toothed grin. “Jus’ a li’l insurance on my part. Had to make sure you’re serious about returnin’.”
“Oh, I’m serious,” I say, making my weary way toward the last row. “I can’t wait to go home.”
DECEMBER 25 DECEMBER 19
MAGIC OF THE SEASON
Just like the last time, the snow goes into full-on blizzard mode, slamming the trolley from side to side. The movement makes me so queasy I close my eyes and try to settle into the ride, only to open them again when the trolley comes to a halt. “Careful out there,” the driver says. “Big storm’s a-comin’. Looks like we’ll get that white Christmas after all. If it can hold a week.”
A week?
“What day is it?” I heave my bag over my shoulder and make my way down the aisle.
“December nineteenth. Five days to go, so we’ll see. Might wanna zip up that hoodie yer wearin’. It’s toasty in here, but it’s cold out there.”
I gaze down at my clothes. My Greentree clothes. Including the Christmas sweater my mom knit for me.
“So it’s like it never happened? I won’t have to explain anything to my parents?”