“You know how you could clear this up.” The reporter cocked his head toward the basket.
Sighing, Danny made his way to the free throw line. He wasn’t a show-off, but he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, either. At least this dunking drama had distracted the reporter from the North Pole questions. Danny dribbled the ball a few times, psyching himself up while glancing over at two of his teammates, Kevin and Marcus, who were playing a little one-on-one just off to his right.
He tuned out the noises in the gym—the shouts, the cheers, the band warming up in the corner—and focused with tunnel vision on the basket. Giving up on any pretense of playing by the rules, Danny cradled the ball, ran toward the basket, and leaped into the air. Upon takeoff, his foot slipped on the freshly waxed floor, but he kept going—up, up, up. He grasped the rim with one hand, chucked the ball through the net with the other, and lost his grip. His hands fought for purchase, but for nothing. Danny was falling, and Kevin, who’d managed to get around Marcus, barreled right at him. Danny bent his knees to land gracefully, but the slippery floor sent his legs flying, and Kevin landed squarely on his right shin.
The last thing Danny remembered was the sickening crack as his tibia broke in two.
…
Friday, December 15
“I mean, how can you not love this place?” Holly and her cousin Elda had just walked past a gun store called “And to All a Good Night.” A nativity scene decorated the front window with the wise men holding assault rifles instead of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. This town was kitschy perfection.
“I know, right?” Elda bit into the warm chocolate croissant she’d initially called a “calorie bomb” when they’d picked up a few at Sugarplum Sweets a few minutes ago. Holly hadn’t hesitated for a second. Chocolate croissants were tradition, and tradition equaled negative calories. The next two weeks of her life would be full of tradition.
When she was a kid, Holly used to believe this small town in Minnesota was the actual North Pole. All the shops were Christmas themed. The clothing boutique was called Mrs. Claus’s Closet. The gas station went by Reindeer Fueling Station. People from all across the country made the pilgrimage here year after year like it was a religious experience, like Christmas didn’t exist unless it came with snowman cookies from the bakery, eggnog from the local pub, and a photo with Santa in the town square.
This place had felt like magic back then, and, if Holly was being honest, it still did. Maybe it was because she hadn’t been back here since she was ten. All her memories were good ones, preserved in her mind under a red and green glow.
Speaking of… She scanned the people they passed on the sidewalk, hunting for one person in particular, one boy she hoped to run into. Danny Garland. He’d be wearing a cast right now. Yeah, she’d done the stalkery thing and googled him. And, yeah, she felt completely pathetic about it.
“It kind of feels like Grandma’s still here, doesn’t it?” Elda asked. “This place smells like her.” Elda breathed in deeply.
“Or she smelled like it.” Cinnamon and cloves. The scent transported Holly to the couch in her grandmother’s den, where the two of them used to cuddle together and plot out their gingerbread contest plans. The scent of North Pole was pure, unadulterated nostalgia.
Holly hadn’t been back in eight years, but being here now, it was like she’d never left. Her family had stopped coming to North Pole for Christmas once the kids got older and everyone got too busy. With sports and school functions and the cost of it all, it became harder and harder for Holly’s family to make the trip from Illinois to Minnesota, and for her aunt’s and uncle’s crews to make their trips from Vermont and California. Holly’s dad and his siblings started paying to fly Grandma around the country for the holidays. She’d spend Thanksgiving in Los Angeles, Christmas in Chicago, and New Year’s in Vermont. It had made life easier for the adults, but it had kept Holly and her cousins away from each other.
She and Elda had seen each other for the first time since they were in middle school a month ago at their Grandma’s funeral in California, where she’d passed away. Back when they were kids, Holly had known Elda as “Esme,” but she’d changed her nickname because “everyone goes by Esme now. It’s so bougie. Thanks, Twilight.”
To which Holly had responded, “Twilight ruins everything.” Holly was mostly neutral on the existence of Twilight, but she jumped at the chance to bond with her cousin. The two girls hit it off marvelously, spending the next few weeks chatting and texting, reminiscing about their childhood memories, and making big plans for what to do in North Pole over the holidays when their families would make one last pilgrimage here to clean out Grandma’s home and prepare to sell it.
Elda had actually brought up Danny Garland in a text conversation a few weeks ago. She’d sent Holly a picture from one of their trips to North Pole with the message, “Remember this dorky kid?”
Holly played it off like she hadn’t. “Yeah, total dork,” she’d said.
Thinking about Danny Garland had been the only thing keeping her from utter despair over losing her grandma. She’d spent the past few weeks leading up to her family’s trip to North Pole imagining all the ways she might run into Danny—she’d know him right away, of course, but he’d know her, too, the girl who used to enter the gingerbread contest with her grandmother, the girl who came in second place to him three years running, the girl he’d smiled at sheepishly from across the room after their last competition. That smile was etched on her brain.
“I’m sad there’s no snow, though.” Elda held up a hand as if to catch a non-existent snowflake.
It was the middle of December in Minnesota, and Holly wasn’t even wearing a coat. She’d pulled a chunky sweater over the powder blue A-line dress she’d paired with green low-top Chuck Taylors, but that was it. Chicago had been the same before she left—too warm. Holly wanted snow. She wanted Christmas. This wasn’t Christmas. “Global warming is almost as bad as Twilight,” she said, calling back to their earlier conversation.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” Elda stopped in her tracks.
“What?” Holly craned her neck over her cousin’s shoulder to see what Elda was so excited about. Elda crouched down, and the grizzly scene revealed itself—a dead, mangled squirrel. Holly backed up on instinct. “Ew.”
“Not ‘ew.’” Elda examined it. “The intestines look like blooming roses.”
Well, that was one way to look at it. Holly grabbed Elda’s arm and dragged her up. “Whatever you say, my friend. Let’s grab some coffee.” Holly crossed the threshold into Santabucks, where she immediately halted in her tracks.
“You okay?” Elda skirted around Holly, leaving her standing in the doorway alone.