Little Miss Santa Claws

9. Nicole

CHAPTER 9

Nicole

S anta is a fucking astronaut .

I gaze in awe at the tunnel of stars and colorful galaxies swirling around the sleigh. We’re surrounded by spirals of violet purple and dark pink, deep blue and green, all of it speckled with the brightest stars I’ve ever seen.

My hands tremble against the reins, my fingers white from twisting them in the leather. Every synchronized gallop forward nearly tugs the ropes out of my hands. We’re moving faster than I expected, as if the night itself is swelling against the back of the sleigh, hurrying us along. And soon enough, the tunnel opens again.

We pass through a mouth of shimmering blue light and drop into a frigid, dark sky.

I shiver as the temperature drops, and my eyes briefly flit to Missy. She’s curled up on the seat, her eyebrows furrowing as the cold washes over her. It’s definitely not as freezing as it should be. There’s a magical shield glimmering at the front of the sleigh, fending off most of the wind.

The world below is a blanket of twinkling lights. We’re flying over a city.

A chiming bell rings out from the front of the sleigh, and when I glance down, I see a small screen lit up with bright blue letters. Casper, Wyoming .

The reindeer dive lower, and my stomach flutters as we pick up speed. My pulse quickens. Logically, I know I’m safe. My feet are anchored to the floorboards of the sleigh, held in place by more of that hard, transparent magic. Keeping the rest of my body upright is a struggle, though. Missy must have abs of steel underneath that red shirt.

That red shirt, clinging like saran wrap to her abdomen. Riding up on her hips. Revealing that colorful ink. Those cute tattoos.

I’m practically salivating, so I force the idea of her body out of my mind.

As we close in on the city, we veer toward the side closest to the mountains, where there’s a little strip of houses.

The suburb is dressed up in Christmas lights and a thick layer of snow. We land on the roof of a one-story house in the middle of the subdivision, and I have to catch myself on the handrail as the sleigh slides to an abrupt stop.

Missy groans behind me, disturbed by our landing. She wiggles uncomfortably on the bench before falling back asleep.

When the shield around the sleigh falls and my ankles are released from the floorboards, I turn around and remove Santa’s coat. Then, I shrug off my jacket and drape both of them over Missy’s curled-up body. I remove the hat from her coat and pull it down over her elegantly pointed ears. Hopefully, that’ll help her warm up while I figure out the radio.

The cold air feels nice. I forgot what snow feels like, what it smells like. I missed it.

I perch on the edge of the bench and bring my glasses down from where they were sitting on my head. I can still feel the phantom of Missy’s fingers in my hair. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the temperature.

She kissed me. Santa Claus kissed me, and I liked it…probably more than I should have, considering how drunk she was. That’s why I pushed her away, after all. It didn’t feel right to touch her like that when she was half out of her mind. The moment I did push her away, though, I could tell I’d hurt her. No matter what I do tonight, I wind up hurting her.

I’m determined to change that, starting now.

A variety of knobs and buttons surround the screen, and a small walkie talkie hangs next to the rein hook. I grab it and press the button on its side. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

There’s no response. In fact, there’s no noise at all.

It should be making noise, shouldn’t it?

I scan the dashboard again and realize there’s a switch between the rein hook and the walkie holder, so I flick it on and smile when a low stream of static pours out of the walkie’s speaker. I press the button again and repeat myself.

The static resumes as I release the button, and it gets louder just before a high-pitched voice answers. “Who is this?” they ask.

“Nicole Strobe. Missy told me to tell you that a watcher has the reins.”

There’s a long pause of static as I wait to hear back.

When the voice comes through again, it’s quieter than before. “Is she gone?”

My brow furrows. Gone? Are they asking if she died? I guess that’s not such a ridiculous question, considering the year they’ve had, but do they really have that little faith in her? “No, no, she’s right here. She’s alive. She passed out in the sleigh and is unable to deliver presents. We’re at the next house now, but I’m not sure what I need to do. How do I deliver them?”

They respond instantly. “Oh, thank the stars. Okay, delivery is simple. Do you have her coat?”

I glance at Missy, now sleeping peacefully with her hands folded beneath her chin. “Yes, I have the coat.”

“Perfect. Put the coat on and grab the presents you need. The coat will grant you passage into the house through the chimney or whatever vent you can find on the roof. Just leap toward it, and the magic sewn into the coat will take over. Once you’ve left the presents under the tree, you can return the same way you came in.”

I nod, though the thought of jumping blindly into a chimney makes my skin crawl. “What about the present? How do I know which one to take?”

“The only presents you’ll find in the bag are the ones you need. And before you go in, make sure you have the emergency apparition whistle with you. You’ll need it if something goes wrong inside. It should be in one of the coat pockets. It’s small and shaped like a candy cane, golden.”

I set the walkie-talkie down and peel the coat off Missy’s body with a frown. I hate the idea of leaving her out here with only my light jacket to keep her warm, but there’s nothing to be done about that. Even Missy told me I would have to wear the coat.

But when I rifle through the pockets, I find nothing.

Bringing the walkie back to my lips, I say, “The whistle isn’t here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure something like that would be difficult to miss,” I retort.

Another short pause. Then, the elf replies, “Check the cookie box beneath the dash. Santa used to toss it in there by accident sometimes.”

I duck to scan the hollow beneath the dash and find the box they must be talking about. It’s a small black bin filled with dozens of half-eaten cookies. I always wondered how Santa ate all those cookies in one night. I guess he— she doesn’t.

There’s a blanket rolled up beside the box, so I pull that out and lay it over Missy before returning to my search.

I shove aside a few balls covered in powdered sugar and flat butter cookies, and my fingertips finally brush against metal. I pull it out and exhale in relief. It’s exactly what the elf described: a small golden candy cane with beautiful, snow-like engravings and a hole at both ends.

Sliding back up onto the seat, I inform the elf I have it.

They respond with, “You have everything you need, then. Keep that whistle with you at all times. That’s the only way you’ll be able to catch up with the sleigh if it takes off without you.”

That explains why Missy was screaming all that nonsense back at my mother’s house.

“Keep this radio on,” they continue. “We’ll be here if you have any further questions. Good luck, watcher.”

I grimace and drag on the Santa coat. It’s soft and warm in a way that only well-loved clothing is, but it does little to comfort me. I’m jumping into this job entirely unprepared, and I hate feeling like that. I like knowing all the most intimate details of a process, including the outcome, before I risk myself to the unknown. I prefer not to leave anything to chance.

My eyes drift again to Missy, and the tightness in my chest loosens. For her, I’ll try my best anyway.

I grab the satiny bronze ropes of the bag and tug it open, pausing when I see the darkness inside. The outside of the bag bulges like it's full, but from this angle, it looks empty. Filling my lungs with the brisk winter air, I shove an arm in. At first, I feel nothing. But then, my hand tingles as the edge of a box prods my palm. I pull it out—a rectangular box with a bright red bow. As it emerges from the darkness, the silvery corner of another box appears beneath it, so I pull that one out too, and then the darkness closes up. It makes me wonder, for a moment, if the presents those boys back at the frat house pulled out had been cursed from the start.

As I climb down out of the sleigh, I recite the elf’s instruction under my breath. “Leap into the chimney. Drop the present. Return up the chimney. This will be easy. I have a magic coat and a magic whistle. I can do this.”

The closer I get to the snow-laden brick chimney, the fuller my throat feels. My heart is trying to crawl its way into my mouth.

A thousand questions whirl through my head, all the logistics. There’s no smoke, so at least I know there’s not a fire waiting for me, but chimneys have to be closed up when they’re not in use, right? How do I get through that? What if I get stuck?

Sucking in another deep breath, I exhale slowly, forcing myself to let go of it all. Santa does this every year. The magic knows what it’s doing, even if I don’t.

My pulse hammers as I pause in front of the chimney.

I lean in to peer down the dark chute, but the instant I do, I feel myself being sucked into it head-first. I try to gasp, but the air is squeezed out of my lungs. Every inch of my body is being squeezed and contorted, and the edges of my vision glimmer with a faint blue light as I fall. If I hit anything, I don’t feel it. The descent lasts less than a heartbeat.

Then, I’m tumbling out of the brick chimney into a warmer, brighter space.

“Ugh,” I moan into the hardwood floors. “That kicked my ass.”

I lift my head and look around the room. I’ve rolled into the middle of a cozy living room, fir garlands and twinkling lights strung all around. A tree shines with multicolored lights in front of a big bay window beside me. It’s a real tree, not fake like my mom’s—a stately blue spruce by the look of it. When I was a kid, before my parents split, the blue spruce was our family’s favorite. There’s just something about the silvery-blue needles that screams Christmas Day.

With a sigh, I push myself up and collect the presents that were pitched across the room.

I skirt an old oak coffee table to reach the tree. There’s a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk on it, plus a few papers with crayon drawings. I smile at the stick figures before placing the presents under the tree.

It’s weird, being in a stranger’s house on Christmas Eve, seeing all these ornaments thrown without inhibition onto the tree. I feel the warmth of the family sleeping in the other room, the love they share. Their joy is here, all around.

The smell of fresh pine fills my nostrils as I crouch beside the tree and arrange the presents behind the ones already there.

I read the names on the presents as I leave them behind: Corey and Abigail.

The tree is decorated with red and glittery gold ornaments, a few handmade from popsicle sticks and peeling craft paint. The kids here seem to be an older girl and younger boy, one with curly red hair and the other brunette. They look so familiar.

Then, it hits me like a swift punch to the gut, and I’m left gasping.

“There’s no way,” I whisper to myself.

Now that I’m here, I remember my sister lives in Casper. It has to be a coincidence. She has kids, though, and the fact that the sleigh traveled to this city first feels way too pointed. What are the chances?

In a daze, I stand and scan the room.

My gaze catches on the family portraits hanging on the wall behind the sofa. It’s not a coincidence at all. My sister, Grace, is right there on the wall, her blue eyes staring back at me. My skin starts to feel way too warm beneath the Santa coat.

Why did the sleigh bring me here? This is some masochistic, Christmas-fueled torture.

I have to get out of here.

But as I turn to face the fireplace, I see I’m no longer alone. A little girl with knotted red hair and bleary eyes is staring at me from the mouth of the hallway. Abigail. I’ve only ever seen her in pictures, and not since she was three, but the resemblance to my sister is unmistakable. She has the same dimpled chin, the same strong nose we both have.

Abigail blinks a few times, and her little brow furrows as she looks me up and down. Then, she says in sleepy voice, “Aunt Nicole? Is that you?”

That just about knocks me off my feet. “You know who I am?” I whisper.

She nods, reaching up to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “You’re my mommy’s sister. Grandma showed us pictures of you today. She said you couldn’t come to Christmas because you were busy making toys for other kids. Is that because you’re Santa?”

I force a grin, even though tears prick the back of my eyes. “For tonight, I am.”

“That’s so cool,” she breathes, a warm smile spreading across her face before it fades into a thoughtful expression. “But why can’t you come back for Christmas tomorrow? You’ll be done delivering presents by then, right?”

I didn’t think I would ever have to do this. It was easy to keep my distance as long as my sister and her new family were only a concept, but now that her daughter is standing right in front of me, I can’t fend off the viscous guilt. I used to fantasize about being an aunt. Knowing I didn’t want children of my own, I’d relished the thought of spoiling them. I was going to be their favorite person. I had a lot of dreams like that, before the relationship between my sister and I evaporated.

After that, I knew it was better to stay away. Or, at least, I thought I knew.

“I don’t know,” I say weakly.

Abigail tilts her head. “Mommy said that too. Do you not like us?”

No , I want to say. I want to love you, but sometimes, it’s hard to break years’ worth of silence. Sometimes, it’s hard to silence your pride.

I can’t say that, though. That’s a heaviness for my shoulders, not hers.

Shaking my head, I say, “I like you just fine. Go back to bed, Abigail. This is just a dream.” Because it’s better she thinks I’m a dream instead of Santa Claus. Missy is a far better Santa Claus than me. I start walking toward the fireplace.

“It feels real,” Abigail murmurs.

I glance at her over my shoulder. “The best dreams often do. Go on, now. Get some sleep.”

“I wish it was real,” she says as she turns to the dark hallway. “I really want to meet you. Mommy tells the best stories about you.”

I’m frozen in place, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

Abigail pads back down the hallway, her little voice muffled by the distance as she returns to her room. “Goodnight, Santa.”

“Goodnight, Abigail,” I whisper.

When her door closes, my whole body exhales. A sticky darkness lingers, bubbling in my belly, and I know this is exactly why the sleigh brought me here first. To meet her . It still feels like a special brand of torture, but perhaps a necessary one.

My sister talks about me, obviously without any sort of malice.

Abigail knew who I was instantly, and I only barely recognized her.

Approaching the fireplace, I see the photographs perched on the mantle. These are older. Much older. There’s a picture of Mom and Grace when Grace graduated high school. Our dad holding both Abigail and Corey right after they were born. Pictures of Grace and her husband when they first started dating. And in the center, tucked between two of the rare family photos that survived our parents’ split, is a picture of Grace and me.

We’re so little in that picture, hugging tightly. Our grins are wide, and our hair flies wildly around our faces, electrified by the trampoline we’re sitting on.

My glasses fog up as the tears finally brim over.

I lift a hand and touch the glass pane over Grace’s face, but of course, it’s not real enough to make me feel better. The memories of our last huge fight flash across my mind. I don’t even remember what started it anymore. All I remember are the harsh words we exchanged. I called her selfish and stupid. She accused me of not having real feelings, because I guess that’s my modus operandi.

I get tired and hopeless, and then I totally shut down. It’s not that I don’t have feelings. It’s that I’m afraid to show them, or I’m not sure how.

That’s the real problem, isn’t it? If nobody sees what I feel, they can’t reject me. They can’t hurt me. But that’s an extremely lonely, joyless way to live. I wish I knew how to be better. I wish I wasn’t so afraid.