Silent Night: A YA Christmas Story, Page 2

Again.

  For the first time, I’m starting to get a little nervous. All year, I’ve been focusing on this one night. In all those dark days after he left, it’s all I had; this one night. And those eleven words: “I’ll never spend Christmas anywhere other than the Spin Cycle, Grace.”

  Suddenly, now, I’m not so sure. What if Mercy was right, all along? What if I took what he said the wrong way, and have built my entire life around a lie? So I sweep, occupying my mind, as I have every minute, every hour, every day since he drove away from that Halloween party last year and never.

  Came.

  Back.

  I’m sweeping, and sweeping, head down, trying not to cry, when I notice the music again. It’s been a couple hours since I really stopped to notice what was playing but I can swear… wow, “Silent Night”.

  Again?

  But this time it’s a bluesy version, featuring a long, sweltering, slow guitar riff, no saxophone. Weird; Mr. Graves must really dig “Silent Night.” I mean, okay, it’s a good song, but… sixteen versions of it?

  Really?

  And I’m emptying the dust pan, although there’s really nothing in it since I’ve swept up six times already since Mercy left, when I feel a gush of cold in the room and I know… I know… he’s here.

  “You’re late,” I say, turning, and he’s there, near the counter, watching me sweep.

  I gasp because he’s in the same green and red striped Freddy Krueger sweater from the Halloween party. Clean, and soft, not like it looked after the drunk driver ploughed into him going 70 miles per hour around that nasty turn out on State Road 3.

  “I never said a time,” he explains, same soft voice, maybe even softer now. He looks… real. Solid, firm… physical. And at the same time, I know, if I ran over and hugged him, he’d be just… ether. Grady smoke, and I’d feel like he wasn’t even there at all.

  “It still feels like you’re late,” I say, and I can’t help the tears that roll down my face, the choke deep in my throat, the knot unspooling deep in my stomach as my legs grow weak.

  “Don’t, Grace,” he says, but there are tears in his voice as well, just not on his face. It’s peaceful, and handsome and soft and clean, just like I remember it, maybe even a little better.

  “I can’t help it,” I gasp, choking, hardly able to breathe. “I can’t believe I’m still here, as sad as I’ve been this year…”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, staying put. I lean against the other side of counter, so close I could touch him. The air is cold, though, and I don’t. Maybe because of how I know it might feel.

  “I’m tired of being here,” I grouse, wiping my sleeve across my eyes, trying to clean up for him.

  “Don’t,” he says, nodding toward my arm, “that’s too nice a blouse.”

  It is a nice blouse; at least he notices that much. “I didn’t know what to wear,” I confess, half-chuckling, half-snorting, quite certain there’s a snot bubble forming in at least one nostril. “I never cared about dressing up for you before, but now…”

  He smirks, same dimples, breaking my heart in their hollow shadows. “You didn’t have to dress up for me,” he says. “And you shouldn’t have.”

  His voice grows dark, like he’s scolding me. “Why wouldn’t I?” I choke. “I’ve been waiting for this night all year.”

  “You shouldn’t do that either, Grace.”

  “Stop telling me what to do!” I shout.

  He doesn’t flinch, or move, or smile or frown. “Did you wait all year to yell at me, too?” is all he says.

  And, of course, no, I haven’t.

  “I’m just upset,” I explain. “No, I don’t want to yell. I’m happy you’re here.”

  “I can’t stay long.”

  I grit my teeth. “Grady, please… we only have this one night together.”

  I reach for him at last and he moves back. “Don’t,” he warns, telling me what I already know. “I’m not… here… like you think I am. You won’t like what you feel.”

  “I know that,” I say, hands in mid-air, touching nothing. “I just… wish I could hold you.”

  He whispers back, the first nice thing he’s said all night, “I wish I could hold you, too, Grace.” Then, he stiffens, as if someone else is listening and he has to behave, or maybe even read from a script. “But I can’t stay. I shouldn’t even be here. I wasn’t going to come, but you’ve made such a big deal about it…”

  “I can’t help it,” I say, voice tired and hoarse. “I can’t help anything these days. It’s like it’s just happened… all over again.”

  “For me too,” he whispers again. Then: “But still… I can’t come again. I won’t…”

  “Yes you will,” I say. “You have to. You promised…”

  “That’s not even what I meant when I said it that night,” he lies. “You’ve just turned it into some big thing.”

  “Take that back!”

  He shakes his head. “It’s true, Grace. When I said it, we’d only just started dating. You had just started here, the new girl, so you had to work Christmas. I came up here just to be with you—”

  I shake my head. “You did more than that, Grady. You brought little presents, and snacks for me, and a candle, remember? And we danced, to the Christmas music on the radio. Silent Night…”

  My voice trails off, remembering the simple, awesome, powerful beauty of that night. It’s all I have left of him, and he’s not going to cheapen it just to get me to toughen up.

  “I was goofing on you,” he lies, waving a hand casually, like it’s no big deal, the best night of my life. “I was just trying to be charming…”

  “It worked. You charmed me like crazy, Grady, and when we kissed, just before you left, I told you not to go, and you said… what you said. About us always having this place. On Christmas. You said it, Grady, no matter why. It counts… because you promised.”

  He sighs, blowing cold air all over me. I try not to shiver, but then can’t help it. He frowns. “Sorry,” he says, looking away.

  I bite my lower lip, forcing myself not to cry anymore. “Anyway, thank you for coming tonight…”

  He shakes his head some more. “You know I’m not really here, Grace.”

  “Then why can I see you?”

  He smiles, helplessly, like he feels sorry for me. “Because you want to so badly.”

  “So what?” I croak, balling my fists at my sides. “So what if you’re here or not? So what if you’re real or not? I can see you, right now. I can hear you, and talk to you, and you can talk back, that’s all that matters…”

  He shakes his head. “Stop this, now. Boyfriends die all the time, I’m not so special.”

  “You were special to me. You were the most special thing… ever.”

  “Get over me.”

  “Get over yourself!” I spit back, and we both laugh. And his laughter, that short burst of it, is him, all him. I don’t care what anyone else says, ever, again. I don’t care what they’ve said about me all year long, that laugh, that bark of pure, Grady laughter, was worth everything I’ve gone through this whole year.

  And if it’s the last thing I ever hear, it will still all have been worth it.

  “Stop thinking like that,” he says, and I gasp a little, shrinking back from him.

  “You… you can read minds?”

  “I don’t have to,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s written all over your face. And stop wearing all black. You used to hate black.”

  “It’s slimming,” I lie.

  “And speaking of… start eating again. You’re too thin.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “And go home. You should be with her, with your family. She needs you.”

  “She doesn’t need me. She has Peter now, that’s all she needs.”

  “You’re just emotional.”

  “So what? You’re dead. You’re gone. It’s Christmas. I’m allowed to be emotional one night of the year.”

&nb
sp; He leans in, whispering, cold breath on my face. “Not. This. Emotional.”

  Then he leans back, against the counter, face lean and sad and soft. “Get a grip, Grace. Move on. You’re young, you’re alive, don’t… don’t… waste it like this. Mooning around all day, saving it all up for one night—”

  “This is all that makes me happy now,” I blurt. “You. Me. This night. It’s all that works. I’ve tried everything else.”

  “There’s more to try, Grace. There’s life, all around you… like Mercy out there.”

  I follow his thumb, jerking over his shoulder, and see the orange van, Mercy and Benjy, standing slack-jawed in the parking lot.

  When the hell did they get here?

  “Shoot,” I huff, glowering. “I thought the party would last longer.”

  “Mia Heidi?” he asks, with a little chuckle. “She still has that house party every Christmas Eve?”

  “You know she does,” I prod. “You guys know everything, right?”

  He turns, face severe. “I’m not an angel, Grace. That’s not what this is. This is me coming out of your head, because you’re going crazy.”

  I laugh, and cry, all at the same time. “I’d rather be crazy for the rest of my life, Grady, than sad for another single minute.”

  “Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “Stop talking like that…”

  I wag a finger at him. “Then you stop saying you’re not an angel. I know you are. You have to be. You’re here, aren’t you? Just like you said you’d be…”

  He groans, just like he used to. “I never said that…”

  There is a sound outside, laughter, cheering, and I turn just as he turns. We walk, quietly, toward the door. Together, side by side, just like old times. His feet make no sound, his wheat colored cords – I’d bought them for him as a birthday present – don’t even swish.

  “Mia Heidi,” we say at the same time, turning.

  I smirk, not caring, because I finally have him right where I want him.

  “Look,” I say, pointing up above his head. “Mistletoe.”

  “Jesus, Grace,” he says, but he relents, either out of pity or joy or because it’s Christmas or… just… who cares?

  He leans down, always a head taller than me, and we kiss, and he’s not cold, at all. Not anymore. And suddenly he’s real, real lips, real hands, on my waist, real warmth, on my cheek.

  “Merry Christmas,” I gush, leaning back down off my tippy toes and blinking with delight. “Merry Christmas, Grady…”

  And I open my eyes, and… he’s gone. No sweater, no cords, no shoes, no Grady. I look up, and the mistletoe is still there.

  I blink, whirring around, the sound of “Silent Night,” some crazy salsa version, clanging in my ears, whirring, whirring, and nothing. No one. He’s gone…

  The laughter greets my ears, harsh and angry and hurtful. I turn toward the door and see Mia, cell phone held high, little light blinking as it records. I’m about to walk out to her, to literally yank it from her hand and shove it down her throat when Mercy knocks it to the ground and dances on it, merrily, in her clunky party shoes.

  Benjy, God bless him, follows suit, slapping the phones out of the rest of the partygoer’s hands and dancing on them in his purple hi-tops, like he’s stomping grapes in some vineyard. He and Mercy high-five each other, cheeks rosy, eyes glassy as they stumble inside the Laundromat.

  “Mistletoe,” I remind them and, as they drool all over each other in the Spin Cycle doorway, I grab my backpack purse and keys to lock the place up.

  I turn the lights off and, as I’m reaching for the sound system button I listen, over the sound of Mercy and Benjy’s smacking and… there it is, waiting for me, soft and light in the background: one last version of “Silent Night.”

  I smile, and turn it off, shoving the two lovebirds out the door as the drunken crowd from Mia’ party stumbles around, picking up the pieces of their shattered cell phones and threatening to literally kill us.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Mercy asks as we tumble into the back of Benjy’s van, making a hasty getaway before the party crowd can make good on their threats and tear us limb from limb.

  “What do you mean?” I sigh.

  “I haven’t seen you smile in almost a year,” she says.

  From the driver’s seat, cruising back down Elm Street, Benjy adds, “I’ve never seen you smile.”

  “It’s Christmas,” I explain, looking from one to the other. “Didn’t you see him?”

  “Oh no,” Benjy says, shaking his head.

  “Oh no,” Mercy adds, in tandem. “No, sweetie, he… that’s why they were all taking videos of you, Grace. You were talking, to yourself. And yelling, to yourself. And crying and pacing and wagging a finger and then… and then suddenly you were standing there, kissing nobody under the mistletoe!”

  I shake my head, smiling, Grady’s warm kiss still echoing through my lips. “He was there,” I sigh, softly, looking out the window as Christmas lights twinkle on every street, blurring slightly as my eyes tear up once more.

  Mercy sees it, squeezes my arm and then slips out of her chair.

  “Benjy, be a doll and turn on some Christmas music,” she says, sliding up into the chair next to him. He obeys and the radio springs to life, a soft guitar strumming… “Silent Night.”

  I chuckle in the backseat, alone again, surrounded by amplifiers and dirty socks and at least a dozen drumsticks rolling around on the floorboards. “That’s nice, baby,” she coos, “but… something a little more upbeat.”

  Benjy presses a button and a new station flickers on, drums and piano and… “Silent Night.”

  “Better, but… can we try one more?” Mercy prods.

  “Third time’s a charm,” Benjy sighs, flicking the same button as before.

  This time it’s a disco version of “Silent Night” and, if you’re wondering, yes, such things exist and, actually, aren’t quite as bad as they sound. I’m laughing, stomach sore from the night’s ups and downs, when I turn to glance out the van window.

  There, on the side of the road, is a boy, in a green and red striped sweater, wheat colored cords and caramel shoes.

  “Stop!” I shout, and without even asking Mercy for permission, Benjy slams on the brakes.

  “The hell?” he asks, our eyes locking behind his goofy red glasses as he turns in his seat to yell at me.

  “Don’t you see him?” I ask, yanking the side door open. Grady turns, waving softly, sweater sleeves rolled up his long, gangly arms despite the late night chill.

  “See who?” Mercy asks, following me out of the van. Benjy, ever loyal, appears at her side.

  “Grady!” I shout, pointing at him.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” he says, but I don’t care because… he’s still here.

  “He’s. Right. Here!” I shout, practically yanking on his sweater sleeve to give them proof.

  Mercy stares, looking just to Grady’s left while Benjy’s eyes wander to his right.

  Then, their eyes meet and they frown. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care if they think I’m crazy or not. I can’t blame them. If the tables were turned, if I still had Grady and she’d lost Benjy but was convinced he was standing right in front of her, but he wasn’t, I’d probably act just the same way.

  I sigh, and let it all go. Our eyes meet, Mercy’s and mine, and I smile, at last.

  “I’ll walk from here,” I say, hugging her tightly.

  “Really?” she asks, biting her lower lip the way she does. “I mean, it’s still over a mile to your place. And it’s Christmas. You don’t want to be alone, do you?”

  “That’s just it,” I whisper in her ear. “I’m not alone anymore…”

  She pulls away, shaking her head, still searching the side of the road for Grady’s ghost that isn’t a ghost. Benjy stands next to her, awkwardly, but I’m so happy I lean in and hug him as well.

  “Oh…” he says, stiff as a board, before finally loosening up
and hugging me back. It turns out he’s a surprisingly good hugger, nice and gentle, not too hard, not too soft, just right.

  “Oh…” he mumbles, awkwardly, breath warm in my ear. “Well, okay then….”

  “Merry Christmas, Benjy,” I whisper in his ear. He smells clean, like soap.

  “Thanks,” he says as we pull apart. “Merry… are you okay?”

  I sniffle. “Just crying is all. You should be used to that by now, right?”

  He smirks, blushing a little. “But this… seems different all of a sudden.”

  “That’s because these are tears of joy,” I tell him.

  He nods, disbelieving, but that’s okay. I get it now, he and Mercy, and it’s good; it’s all good. They’re good, and I’m good, so we’re all good.

  “You sure?” Mercy asks again, but she’s already climbing into the van, Benjy behind the wheel, shutting his door with a loud metal thud.

  “I’ve never been more sure,” I tell her, lazily, dreamily, like we’re talking at different speeds.

  She nods and then, turning to Benjy, nods again. He pulls off, slowly, drifting down the road, both of them waving out their open windows until they drift around bend on Oakmont Lane and they disappear, leaving me in the dark.

  I turn, and Grady is still there.

  He smiles, and the air between us is no longer cold. “If I reach for your hand,” I ask him, “will there be something there?”

  He smiles, and grabs my hand instead. His is warm, and soft, long fingers, clammy palm, just like always. “You tell me,” he says, as we begin to walk.

  No snow falls, and no Christmas music plays, but in our embrace is the magic of the season, hot and toasty, like a fire crackling between our fingers, and blinking lights in our eyes. “Merry Christmas, Grace.”

  “Merry Christmas, Grady.”

  I look up at him, eyes still soft and brown. “Welcome back,” I say hopefully, but he frowns.

  “It’s a limited engagement,” he reminds me. “One night only, remember?”

  I tug his hand, warm and soft. He’s no angel, I know that now. Which means… he’s mine. My creation. Crazy or not, he’s here, and I made it so.

  “We’ll see,” I tell him, tugging him closer. “We’ll see…”

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Rusty Fischer is the author of dozens of adult and young adult contemporary romance novels and novellas, including the Snowflake Series (MUSA Publishing), February 13th (Secret Cravings