Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard of him, but I haven’t read much into it. I don’t like bad news.”
I took a deep breath. “Well, he’s the man who killed them—my brother and my foster parents. He broke into our house and…slashed them with a Christmas star. Why? I have no idea. Somehow, I survived the massacre. He was on the run for a few days, but eventually they caught him and put him in an institution: the Gibraltar Institute. He was declared insane, or something like that. He died there in an accident, not long after he went in. But by then…” I trailed off, the words weighing heavily in my chest.
Angela touched my shoulder gently. “That’s horrible, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”
“It’s fine. I’m just trying to drift along, trying to keep my spirits up.”
As I turned to look at her, really look at her, her eyes were misty as she frowned at me, a deep expression of melancholy on her face. She slowly wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight. I did the same.
I hadn’t felt affection in such a long time; I even forgot what it was supposed to feel like, but with Angela, my heart swelled with warmth. I felt seen—I felt heard. Maybe that’s why she wanted to hear me tell my tragic story; she wanted to connect with me.
As we let go, I was eager to change the depressing subject. I didn’t want my sadness to linger in the corners of my mind; the death of my family had burdened my heart enough.
I forced a happy grin. “But hey, I live with an old lady now, Corita. It’s some kind of normal, I guess. Except when she throws a flying “chancla” at me for leaving dishes in the sink. That can be pretty frightening.”
Angela laughed; she sounded so bright and joyful. She had dark features, but she glowed like the sun, and it had already begun to rub off on me. My feelings for her were growing stronger by the minute. I always had a crush on her—I was an admirer from afar, never daring to make a move.
How could I? My life had been dark and heavy—full of death and torment. I never wanted to bring anyone else into that, so I told myself that I was destined to be alone.
Until a sliver of light, shining through the cracks of the dark wall I had constructed in my mind, powered through, enveloping me in its love. I considered it nothing short of a miracle, a gift bestowed uponme for enduring everything I had gone through. All the horrible things I had to witness and stomach, just to stay alive in this cruel world.
She giggled; it made my heart sing. “That lady sounds like myabuela. My grandma.”
“She can be mean, but she makes the best empanadas,” I said, tempted to lick my fingers. “They’re the best I’ve ever had, and I had plenty in a few countries in Central America: like Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador…but no one else in this cursed town can make food from Latin America to save their life. It’s almost as depressing as all this snow.”
She playfully shoved me, her face showing offense. “Hey! The snow is beautiful if you give it meaning. To me, it signifies Christmas. The most joyous holiday there is.”
I scoffed. I didn’t agree with her, but I was curious as to why she liked it. Most people were vain and only cared for the presents.
I opened my mouth, carefully formulating the words in my head before spitting them out, “Why do you like Christmas? Presents?” I stared at her as she studied the ground, squinting her eyes, thinking.
“You know,” she began, “I love the idea of it. That there is this merry, joyous holiday at a time in the world with so much snow, ice, and cold. I think it’s an interesting irony. It tells me that even in the darkest, coldest places of the world—the Christmas spirit can still be alive and warm…and wonderful.” She beamed at me, her dimples showing. How could I not fall in love with her? She made it easy, too.
I stammered, not expecting that answer at all. “Wow, that’s…amazing. You’re a very cool person, Angela. That’s a great reason for loving Christmas.”
Angela’s grin widened as she winked at me. “I’m Venezuelan, by the way. I know how to make them.”
I stared at her, confused, my mind going blank because she had winked at me.
“W-what? Make what?”
She giggled at me again; her laugh was so adorable, and I was sure it had the power to cure my depression forever.
“Empanadas, youSilly Billy. What did you think I was talking about?”
She even knew how to make empanadas. I swear, my heart nearly stopped.
Oh my god, marry me, my Spanish queen,I thought.
She tilted her head playfully. “Maybe I’ll even bring you some—only if you hang out with me for Christmas. So you better say yes.” She winked at me again.
Am I dreaming?
I blubbered before answering. “Yes, okay. Please,” I said too quickly. I caught myself and tried to play it cool. “I mean…yeah, that’s like super chill. I’d like that.”
Her smile lingered, but then her eyes turned curious again. “So, I do have one question, and you don’t have to answer, but…the rumors…the horrible tragedy that happened with your family…why do they bully you about it? How can they be so cruel? I don’t understand.”
I stared at the snow that had begun to fall all around us. I was taken back to that day for a brief moment, in my old house. The Christmas tree, the white walls, the wrapped presents…all stained with blood. Peter, Maria, and Lincoln Frost…lying dead on the ground—throats slashed. The masked monster from my nightmares coldly stared at me, dead in the eyes, before escaping.
