Christmas Broken: A Romantic YA Christmas Story

Christmas Broken:

  A Romantic YA Christmas Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

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  Christmas Broken

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2012 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © Maksim Šmeljov – Fotolia.com

  This story was formerly released under the title “A Silent Night in Snowflake.”

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar! Happy reading… and happy holidays!

  Enjoy!

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  Christmas Broken:

  A Romantic YA Christmas Story

  Mom is hanging the star on the Christmas tree when her cell phone starts barking.

  You heard me right; barking.

  Yes, she is one of “those” people; those people who think that the barking dog version of “12 Days of Christmas” is not only cute, but cute enough to use as their ringtone from pretty much the day after Thanksgiving to Valentine’s Day.

  “Oh honey,” she coos in her I’ve-already-had-two-glasses-of-wine-before-dinner voice, one bare foot perched precariously on the wobbly dinner chair and the other in the air as she leans into the tree. “That’s probably Derek. Can you get it and tell him I’m… indisposed… at the moment.”

  Ugghh, I hate it when she uses big words, not to mention that “come hither” voice she always adopts whenever there’s a new man in her life.

  (And, truly, when isn’t there?)

  “But Mom,” I whine, ignoring the barking phone completely as I concentrate on melting marshmallows in a fresh pot of hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas Eve. You said it’d be just us tonight.”

  “It was, honey,” she says decisively, leaving no room for argument as her short pleather skirt threatens to reveal her ho, ho, ho. “But now Derek’s back from his sales trip and it’s time for Mommy to have some fun.”

  What, like decorating the tree with your own daughter isn’t fun? I want to ask, but don’t because… seriously?

  If she doesn’t get it by now, she never will.

  “Hello?” I say, grabbing the phone before the 12 barking dogs of Christmas can get to “Three French Hens” and force me to shove the tip of a broken candy cane into my ear.

  “Hey Rio, it’s Derek,” Mom’s new boyfriend oozes way too familiarly. “How long have you been home?”

  He says “you” the same way Scrooge says “Bah Humbug.”

  “Just since yesterday,” I say. “Mom picked me up at the bus station and we’re—”

  “Hey, listen,” he says, having endured my answer long enough. “Can you get your mom for me?”

  I watch Mom teeter on the chair, the star still too crooked, her skirt still too short and say, “She told me to tell you she’s ‘indisposed’ at the moment.”

  He chuckles that throaty laugh he thinks is so sexy and says, “Ooh, I love it when she talks dirty. I’ll wait…”

  Of course you will, I think but don’t say.

  “Well,” I do say, turning back to my hot chocolate in Mom’s tiny kitchenette. “It could take awhile. We’re actually decorating the tree right now. It’s kind of a tradition my Dad started when I was a kid.

  “Every other family on the block would have their tree up by the time Thanksgiving weekend was over, but Dad would always make us wait until Christmas Eve. It used to drive me crazy when I was little but… now that he’s gone, I kind of dig it. So I’m sure you can understand why mom and I might—”

  “Derek?!?!” Mom screeches desperately, literally yanking the phone from my hand and turning her back to me to show her disappointment in my message taking skills.

  “Don’t listen to Rio. I told you she always gets maudlin this time of year. She says her father’s ‘gone’ like he’s passed away or something, not living it up in Vegas and spending my alimony check each month. So… how soon can you be over? You just have to see this tree, babe. I bought an extra string of lights and…”

  Mom’s voice gets softer and softer as she takes the cell and drifts back to her bedroom, where she shuts the door like she’s the slutty teen and I’m the Mom who shouldn’t be hearing such talk.

  I look at my cocoa for two, just now starting to simmer in all its chocolaty, bubbly gooiness, and turn off the burner with a disappointing click of finality.

  I turn toward the cozy living room, leaning back against the kitchen counter and forming my thoughts.

 

  Occasionally the sound of Mom’s harsh, guttural, “sexy” laugh gets loud enough to compete with the canned Christmas music oozing from the Yule log DVD.

  I watch as it flickers cheaply on the cheap TV.

  I knew she couldn’t do it.

  I knew she couldn’t spend one stinkin’ night of this Christmas break alone with me.

  And, gross, the idea of spending the next five hours watching Mom and Derek snuggle on the couch, barefoot, legs entwined, eyes locked while they wait for me to go to sleep so they can drift back to her bedroom and… well, just… no.

  No way.

  I peek out the front door, feel the chill in the air and slip on my socks and snow boots before sliding into my three-year-old winter coat from the hallway closet.

  I hear Mom giggling back in her room, rattling around in her jewelry box for something extra trampy to throw on and sneak toward my Christmas stocking hanging from a put-it-together-yourself bookshelf near the tree.

  There’s a new hat, scarf and mitten set wedged in there – I’d peeked while Mom was in the closet trying to find the star – and I haul it out now before she can do anything about it.

  They are a bright, vibrant red with little white reindeer heads all over them.

  On top of the bookshelf is a card addressed to me from Aunt Hazel in Minnesota.

  I look over my shoulder, see Mom’s bedroom door still shut and slide it into my lumberjack plaid backpack purse before writing Mom a quick note on the sticky pad by the phone: “Enjoy your romantic night with Derek; I’ll be home after the festivities are over. Love, Your ONLY Daughter!”

  Sure, it’s a little snarky and a lot passive-aggressive but… what does she expect?

  I’m sure she’ll discuss it ad nauseam with Derek as they snuggle by the fake TV fire, she saying something like “That’s part of the reason why I sent her to boarding school in the first place” and he grunting, “Hey, babe, how long do you think before she gets back?”

  I snort and slip quietly out the door, wrapping my scarf around my neck as I slip into the mittens on the way down the stairs.

  The streets are deserted this late on Christmas Eve, and with nowhere to go I look for the nearest landmark.

  I find it in the 12-foot-tall blinking plastic Christmas tree on top of Snowflake, South Carolina’s one and only year-round Christmas Restaurant, Café Kringle.

  I have no intention of stepping foot in that godforsaken place, of course, but it’s smack dab in the center of downtown Snowflake and even this late on Christmas Eve, there’s bound to be somewhere warm to spend the next few hours hating on Mom and spending my aunt’s Christmas money.

  It starts to snow as I round the corner of Crescent Street, tiny little flakes that tickle my nose and cling to my brows and
make me tug on my ski cap.

  Downtown Snowflake is four straight blocks of gingerbread houses, smoking bakeries and quaint little cafes, all intermingled amidst spotless walkways and old-timey street lights with black window boxes and flickering “candle” flames inside.

  Usually I think this whole town is triple tacky but tonight, I dunno, it kind of makes my heart warm to be walking around a place like this on Christmas Eve, you know?

  I hear a front door open behind me, a jingle bell wreath shatter the snowy silence, and then the laughter of family or friends as they trickle to an awaiting car.

  I smile, trying to remember what family sounds like.

  My boots scrape on the spotless sidewalk.

  Downtown Snowflake is like a Christmas card; only with blinking lights and evergreen wreaths and the smell of gingerbread coming from Café Kringle.

  I walk the four blocks, back and forth, round and round, hardly noticing as one shop after the other closes in my wake.

  The woman from the Snowflake Sweet Shop wishes me “Merry Christmas” even after I nearly run her over, and the old guy from the Snowflake Screws & Slugs (relax, it’s a hardware store you pervs!) literally tips his Santa hat