ONE
SAOIRSE
I knowit’s going to be bad when my phone autocorrects “Santa’s Helper” to “Satan’s Helper” on the first text from the guy looking for an elf. But that’s just how things are going right now in my life. I don’t have the luxury of turning down side hustles that look a little sketchy, not if I want to keep the heat running in my sub-sub-sub-standard apartment. The rent here is highway robbery. I’m talking lots of zeroes for one-room shoeboxes.
Who knew Silver Spoon Falls, Texas—the town that sounds like it ought to come with haystacks and folksy charm—is basically the love child of Beverly Hills and 5th Avenue? Not me, that’s for damn sure.
I mean, everywhere you look, it’s millionaires. Old money, new money, maybe even secret mafia money. Their houses have names. Their dogs have Instagram contracts. Their toddlers have personal chefs and stylists. Meanwhile, I’m surviving on off-brand cereal and praying my ancient radiator doesn’t tap out mid-blizzard so I can teach at the school of my dreams.
My teacher’s salary barely covers groceries, let alone any surprise costs. I’m the only resident in a five-mile radius who drives a vehicle with duct tape holding the bumper together.
I seriously need a raise. Or a sugar daddy. Or a winning lottery ticket, but none of them are anywhere in sight.
So, here I am, already in the elf costume as instructed, ready to “assist Santa at whatever he needs.” At least, that’s what the job application stated. I’m not going to lie; it was a little sketchy picking up my costume at the UPS store downtown, but I’m desperate.
The package included a candy-cane striped crop top, a sparkly skirt that was illegal two inches ago, tights that are the ugliest red I’ve ever seen, and an elf hat with a bell that rings every time I turn my head. Ick. I look like a hooker elf.
I wish I could say this is the lowest I’ve stooped, but if I’m being honest, there’s an even longer, more embarrassing resumé of shame that includes singing telegrams and bartending. While bartending is a perfectly respectable job for most people, I’m a whole other story—all due to my clumsiness.
The sun is just dropping on the horizon as I turn down the dark road. Glancing down, I try to ignore the “Check Engine” light flashing on my Mazda’s dashboard as I pull up to the address. It’s not what I expected. The ad had said "Santa's Workshop," and in Silver Spoon Falls, that usually means a country club with manicured lawns or a sprawling mansion with exotic cars lining the driveway. But this dingy metal building with peeling gray paint and rust stains trickling down from the gutters is definitely not what I expected. A faded Santa flag hangs upside down from a crooked pole, flapping pathetically in the wind like it's signaling for rescue.
I kill the engine, which responds by making a noise like a dying walrus, and check my face in the rearview. Darn. The ugly hat isn’t doing me any favors. I fix my red lipstick with a practiced swipe and take a deep breath before stepping out into the frigid air.
While southern Texas is supposed to be “mildly brisk in the winter,” the icy wind is no joke. My miniskirt and the thin, ugly tights are no match for it. I clutch my purse to my stomach and speed-walk to the front door, nearly wiping out on a patch of black ice as I step onto the front walkway.
Taking a deep breath, I ignore the voice of reason screaming through my mind and knock. The door opens instantly, as if whoever’s inside has been waiting, forehead pressed against the peephole.
I can’t stop the gasp that escapes my lips when I get a good look at “Santa,” and I use that term very loosely. His wheezy "Ho, ho, ho" escapes from behind a beard that's peeling away from his left cheek. The man standing before me is the stuff of Christmas nightmares.
As his bloodshot eyes dart around, I automatically take a huge step back. His velour suit, a shade of red even uglier than my tights, has dark half-moons of sweat spreading beneath each armpit. The synthetic white trim is yellowed at the edges, and what appears to be last night's dinner has left a crusty splotch down his front. But the pièce de résistance? His eyebrows are thick, uneven streaks of black Sharpie that make him look perpetually surprised-slash-unhinged.
“Hi,” I say, wondering if I’m about to be kidnapped and sold on the black market. Damn. I really need to get my shiznick together. “I’m Saoirse. You must be Mr. Claus?” Or the asshole who’s about to kidnap me.
His breath reaches out and slaps me in the face as he mumbles, “You’re early. Good. Good.”
I glance over his shoulder at the sad, nineteen-seventies-inspired decorating and notice a freaking Camcorder. What in the heck have I gotten myself into? I slip my hand into my coat pocket and grasp my taser tightly.
“Uh, so, what’s the plan?” I ask, injecting as much fake cheer as I can. “You said this was for a charity event?”
“Yes, yes.” He gestures to the table. “Come in and sit. We’ll discuss.”
I shake my head. I’m a true crime fanatic, and I know you never, ever step inside.
“I’ll stay right here. Where is the event taking place?” I should’ve asked this question before I agreed to this crazy job.
He walks over to the rickety table and rummages in a file folder full of loose papers and glossy Polaroids. When he bringsit back to me, I glance down, expecting some kind of event flyer. Instead, I see myself—or rather, someone in a remarkably similar elf costume, perched on Santa’s lap and grinning like her life depends on it. The photo is definitely not from a country club, and it’s absolutely not PG-rated. Hell, it’s freaking creepy as hell. I look up sharply, gauging how hard I’m going to knee him in the balls if he takes one more step toward me.
He's watching my reaction like it's his favorite part of the whole transaction, his watery eyes gleaming with anticipation, the corners of his chapped lips twitching upward beneath that ratty synthetic beard.
"We do special requests," he says, winking one bloodshot eye. "Private clients. All high-end." His voice has a greasy quality that makes my skin crawl.
My throat closes as anger at my own gullibility flows through me. "I thought this was for kids," I manage to croak out.
"Kids can't pay," he says with a wheezy chuckle. "This is for grown-ups. They want... memories." He drags out the word while I mentally gag. "You're new, so you get a bonus if you're willing to try the 'Naughty List' package."
There's a beat. I stare at the camcorder with its blinking red light, then the door with its peeling paint and rusted hinges, then back to his smirking face, now flushed pink with excitement.
"You're fucking kidding," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. But the hungry look in his eyes tells me he's not kidding. Not even a little bit.
