The Holiday Games

Chapter 11

eleven

. . .

Caroline

“ T he clowns are puppies!” Eduardo falls to his knees on the astroturf at the Chelsea Clown College’s outdoor campus near the Hudson River, where dozens of adorable chihuahuas in full clown costume are running amok in their enclosure, enjoying the mild winter day. “Thank you, Ishtar.” He looks up, lifting his hands toward the pale blue December sky. “Thank you, Dionysus and Loki and Sheela Na Gigs and that guy who ran the nice cult in Pennsylvania in the 1800s. If I never see another man in a clown outfit, it will be too soon.”

Beside me, Millie laughs. “Sheela Na Gigs? I know the other ones, but who’s she?”

Eduardo glances over his shoulder, his brown eyes dancing with mischief. “Pagan goddess from the British Isles. She would appear to men in her hag form and flash her hideously saggy tits. If the man decided to do her a solid and tap that old lady ass, she’d turn into a gorgeous young woman and grant him wishes. Kind of like a fairy with a little geriatric porn on the side.”

“Ew,” Millie says pleasantly.

“I don’t know,” I say, also profoundly relieved that we won’t be facing any full-sized clowns this morning. “I kind of like it. Though, I think she should have stayed in her old woman form. Old people like sex, too. I’m pretty sure my grandmother has a boyfriend in Vermont and a side piece in Maine who she shacks up with when she’s in the mood for lobster.”

“Good for her. Here’s to being sluts until we’re dead,” Eduardo says, pumping a fist in the air.

“Yes, please, talk more about that,” Jenna mumbles behind her coffee cup, her dark glasses concealing her eyes. “I’m sure the producers will love hearing you talk about what sluts you are the morning after they sent out an email warning everyone to keep their language family friendly.”

The reminder that the cameras are always rolling makes my cheeks heat.

Shit. Gran is going to kill me!

Making a mental note to keep my mouth shut about my family and friends—and to text Gran to warn her that her side-piece secret might be getting out in a few months if this show makes it to the airwaves—I take a bracing sip of my own coffee and scan the sidewalk. But there’s still no sign of Leo, a fact that’s way more disappointing than it should be.

Maybe he’s sleeping in this morning? I guess the producer doesn’t have to be on set for all the filming, especially a challenge involving cleaning up after puppy clowns. And yes, I’m very glad there isn’t a human with creepy clown makeup in sight, but poop is still poop.

Even if it’s very small poop.

“They’ll just have to bleep me, then,” Eduardo says, flicking his shaggy hair from his forehead. “I’m sex positive. Always have been and always will be. And why are you even here, Queen of Darkness? I figured you’d be back at the hotel gloating over your victory and hiding from the sun.”

“I’m required to be here to watch you losers get covered in dog shit before I’m treated to tea at The Ritz,” Jenna says flatly, before adding with a sigh, “But trust me, I wish I weren’t. Dogs are gross. Especially little ones. They’re like…tiny, barky rats.”

“Oh no, they’re not, they’re precious little angels,” Millie says, cooing at a chihuahua in a pink clown ruffle who’s come over to the fence to check us out. “Aren’t you, darling? Aren’t you the cutest thing there ever was? The cutest and the sweetest.”

“And they live forever, Ishtar bless them,” Eduardo adds. “My ex’s chihuahua lived to be a hundred and forty-seven in dog years.” He rises to his feet, reaching down to brush non-existent grass from the knees of his yellow coveralls.

We were all issued a pair to wear this morning, making us stand out like a herd of lemons in the sea of black coated commuters on the sidewalk behind us. A few of them stop to stare as they hurry past, but most New Yorkers are too busy to care about the weirdness of others.

Even weirdness that’s being filmed by a camera crew.

It’s one of the things I loved about living here in college.

In New York, you can dress up in full costume to attend a viewing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show any time of the day or night and no one will bat an eye. You can also talk to yourself, walk the park with a python wrapped around your neck, or breakdance in the middle of a crowded subway car. Not all of these things are desirable, of course, but the freedom is exhilarating.

Back in Reindeer Corners, you’re likely to earn a dirty look if you wear too much black at once or allow a single weed to grow in your front garden. My mother gets anxiety attacks every time a member of the Select Board walks past her gate on his morning constitutional.

It hits me all over again how glad I am not to be at home right now, and a sliver of concern wiggles through my chest. What if two weeks isn’t enough? What if, once the competition is over, the thought of heading back into the judgy, rural, Christmas-obsessed wilderness still feels suffocating?

Or, even worse, what if I lose a challenge and get kicked out before the two weeks are up? Kayla was a doll about covering my shifts, but once I’m out of the running, I’m expected back behind the desk at the inn.

Back in the Christmas thick of it, with the smell of cocoa and evergreen needles so strong a person could choke on it if they’re not careful…

Not going to happen, the inner voice rumbles with the confidence of a championship boxer entering the ring. You’re going to win big or die trying. No way you’re getting sent home because you couldn’t scoop poop fast enough.

“Relax,” I mutter into the lid of my cup. “No one’s getting sent home this morning.”

But there is a chance to win immunity for the second challenge, and wouldn’t that take the edge off? I’d be able to relax for three entire days, as the third challenge isn’t scheduled until Thursday.

The thought is like a cherry candy melting on my tongue, flooding my mouth with sweetness.

Ditching my coffee in a nearby trash can, I maneuver myself closer to the tent, where the prop mistress is testing the “scooping” action on several long-handled scoopers. They seem to be high-quality devices, and clearly designed to make it easier for people who have trouble bending down to retrieve their dog’s waste.

But I don’t have an issue with bending down. Back at the inn, I bend down at least a hundred times a day. A kid is always dropping their candy cane or their puzzle pieces or their entire marble collection on the floor.

That last one had both Kayla and I moving fast to clear the lobby before the marbles became a safety hazard for the other guests. It also led to a tense conversation with Jackie, the owner of the country store. Yes, I’m aware that people love buying their kids nostalgic toys from another age, but do the marbles really need to come in packages of one hundred? Especially considering most of them will lie neglected in the closet as soon as the kids get home to their screens and electronics?

But now all that scrambling after marbles might come in handy. I’m not too proud to get down and dirty in the name of taking home immunity. Besides, thinking outside the box helped me on the first challenge. Might as well keep playing to my strengths.

Once we’ve each been issued our gear, I discreetly pull a dozen poo bags from the holder dangling from the top of the scooper. A dozen should be more than enough. Scanning the astroturf, I count about twenty-five to thirty piles of the yucky stuff.

There were a few more at the beginning, but one of the clowns started eating it and had to be removed before everyone in attendance started projectile vomiting. (I love dogs, I really do, but the fact that they even occasionally devour their own feces will make me a cat woman until the day I die.)

“I know this isn’t the most enjoyable way to start the morning,” Ainsley says, once she’s welcomed us all back to set and congratulated Jenna again on her win. “But the good news is that you’re still here with us today. The better news is that one of you will win immunity for Tuesday’s challenge. Whoever scoops the most poo—by weight, not by number of bags—will be the big winner of not only the Free Pass but a special performance by the talented puppies of Chelsea Clown College.”

“Nope, no clowns. The only treat I want is that sweet immunity,” Eduardo says, nudging Millie’s hip with his. “So, watch out, sunshine. I’m coming in hot.”

She snaps her scooper playfully toward his. “Back at ya, buddy. But watch out. I worked part-time at a kennel during high school. Poo scooping is in my blood.”

“The fact that you think that’s something to brag about is disturbing,” Jenna mutters from where she’s slumped against the fence, obviously still a reluctant spectator to this entire shit show. (Literally.)

“Not as disturbing as your bad attitude,” Eduardo shoots back, earning a slow middle finger salute from Jenna that she only partially conceals behind her coffee.

“That’s not family friendly,” I remind her with a cluck of my tongue.

“Fuck off, Ms. Goodie Two-Shoes,” she shoots back. “How’s that for family friendly?”

I simply smile in return.

I’m no Goodie Two-Shoes, a fact I prove by ditching my pooper scooper the second the “go” whistle blares and sprinting past Eduardo and Millie to get to the concentrated poo area at the back of the astroturf field before them. There, I drop to my knees and begin bagging turds, fast and furious.

I’m so focused on the task at hand, I don’t realize the dog handlers have set the entire herd of chihuahuas loose on the obstacle course in the center of the space until I turn back to see Millie tripping over two white puppies in rainbow clown costumes and going down hard.

Thankfully, however, she doesn’t land in any of the yucky stuff. But I saw the knee brace she took off last night before taking her turn in the shower, and I owe her a solid for helping me with my skates.

Without missing a beat, I dash over, helping her up with one hand while I juggle my bags with the other.

“Thank you!” she says, as I press her scooper into her hand.

“No problem!” I flash her a quick thumbs-up before running toward another area of high concentration, dodging leaping chihuahuas as I go. I catch a flash of Eduardo on the other side of the enclosure, also down on his hands and knees now that he’s seen how much success I’m having, but it’s too late. There’s no way he’s catching up to my collection.

I am the Princess of Poo!

The Sultan of Scooping!

The Empress of Excrement!

“Victory is mine!” I shout, spinning to thrust my handful of full bags into the air.

I lock eyes with Leo, now standing beside Ainsley at the monitor station, just as one of my bags breaks.

I have a split second to realize what the warmth splatting down on top of my head is. The next second, I’m racing for the trash can where I tossed my coffee, praying I’ll make it in time.