“What’s the story you know, Marge?” Jasmine asks, shaking her head at Chester.
“Can’t be that bad if you’re excited about them coming,” I add.
“I’ve lived a long, happy life that I wouldn’t trade for anything. But fifty years ago, I was a little girl who was afraid of shadows snatching me up if I talked back to my mother. Now, two immortals taking me away from this hellscape doesn’t seem so bad,” Marge says.
I snort.
“Touché,” Danielle says.
“Accurate,” Jasmine adds.
“Completelyaccurate,” I agree.
“So, what’s the story?” Jasmine asks again.
Marge sets her towel on the bar top and admires the sculpture for a beat. “The legend I grew up on says that North and Blaze are two sides of the same coin. One, organized chaos. The other, completely unhinged. Stories used to say if you stared out of a window on a frosty day for too long, you’d find North’s fingerprints on the panes, and if there was vapor in the air on a cold day, it’s because Blaze was just there. Poor Blaze doesn’t get much credit anywhere else except the island. North gets so much attention with the ice and frost that everyone’s forgotten about his twin.”
My attention to Marge’s story drifts as I notice someone tall walking by the faux-frosted windows on the beach access side of the bar. Their figure is blurred. Still, I can vaguely make out black hair and pale skin, an upward-turned collar on their coat against the wind. There’s something about the way they’re walking that has me stalling, waiting as if eventually seeing them might make my heart stop flipping over itself.
“We were all terrified of walking to and from school in the winter, especially on report card days. The Rumpus brothers were notorious for snatching bad kids and naysayers off the streets. Forget Santa not bringing presents. If you were naughty on the island and there was a chill in the air, they’d hide in your shadow, and then they’d take you once you reached the shade.”
“Better stay in the sun, Jun,” Chester teases me.
I blink upon hearing my name, and the figure I was watching disappears past the last window. “What?” I ask.
Jasmine cranes her neck to look past the doors. “What are you staring at?”
“I…” I peer out the back to the beach, yet don’t see the person I was watching anywhere.
As if they were never there.
My gaze snags on the visible heat rising off the wooden ramp, and my expression flattens.
“Marge, why’d you have to go and talk about their shadows? Now it’s going to be in my head,” I say.
“For someone who loves decorating and Christmas tradition as much as you do, why are you anti-Rumpus?” Jasmine asks.
I contemplate my answer as I move the ladder over to the final spot, purposefully placing it where I can see down the beach.
“Is it because their little party falls on your birthday?” Marge asks, crooking a brow.
My eyes meet hers, and I know I’m caught.
“Is that really it?” Jasmine asks.
I sigh, hating the fact that I’ve let this eat me for thirty-two years. “Look, it sucked enough having a birthday right before Christmas. Then with the festival, I could never have a party, or at least a party that my friends would go to. They were all at the festival or doing family things. And I am fully aware of how selfish that sounds, by the way,” I reply, ascending the ladder.
That’s not even mentioning the other day I know is coming right after.
“I need a tiny violin,” Chester says.
I take my foot off the ladder to kick him.
“No, no violins. I mean, the hate is valid,” Jasmine says. “I’d probably hate them too if they took away a chance to celebrate me.”
“We know how much you love your birthday,” Danielle says, smirking.
“Ilovemy birthday. May 15th. Right when summer is beginning to pick up. Family came to the island. Friends could come from school. We did it big. The pool parties and cookouts were—” Jasmine brings her fingers to her lips and does a ‘chef’s kiss’ gesture.
