“I don’t want you to go alone,” I say.
“Okay. That’s fine. Right, Hobart? That’s fine?”
“Whatever gets us in the air fastest is fine by me. Get in!” Hobart is already boarding the sleigh again, impatience ricocheting off him.
Hobart’s keeping company with the giant sack of presents that, despite the laws of physics, is not weighing this machine down. Patrick and I file into the front seat. I did not get the safety briefing, so I fasten my seat belt, say a silent prayer, and let Patrick take the wheel.
Patrick flips switches and pushes buttons, but at the end of his little routine we’re not moving. “What’s happening?” I ask.
“You have to say it,” Hobart says to Patrick.
“Again?”
“Yes. Every time or they won’t move.”
Patrick sighs and clears his throat. In full voice, he shouts into the night, “On, Dasher! On, Dancer! On, Prancer! On, Vixen!” When each reindeer’s name is called, it goes from standing motionless on four legs to floating in the air. “On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner! On, Blitzen!”
“What about Rudo—” The rest of my words get sucked back into my mouth as we shoot off at hyper speed into the sky.
13THE FIRST STOPQUINN
I will not look over the side. I will not puke. I will not look over the side. I will not puke.
We are soaring sky-high (I’m trying hard not to think about justhow highwe are), and the turbulence and Patrick’s jerky control have me reaching for the barf bag, which Hobart hands to me, just in case. I am not built for this kind of accelerated excitement.
Patrick is trying his best to steer this reindeer-led flying machine but it seems set on defying his every command.
“Why does it drift right when I turn left?” Patrick asks, sounding annoyed. A new fear clips up into my head:What if we capsize? Would we fall out and back to Earth? Are there parachutes on this thing?
“The magic is still fritzing. It has to get used to you.”
“Can you tell it to behave?” he asks.
“Not how it works,” Hobart says.
Patrick huffs, drawing my attention away from the vast, inky sky and toward him.
It’s still disorienting to peer at Patrick and see a jolly-looking elderly gentleman.
Hobart has assured us as soon as he removes the cloak, the spell will break and I’ll once again see his twenty-six-year-old self—blond hair and wiry frame and no-need-for-a-shave cheeks.
Strangely, there is something sort of attractive about the wayhe looks right now. Not that I ever found myself pining after Santa in Coca-Cola ads or in those old stop-motion specials, but I do find myself appreciating a more wizened man every now and then. Admiring their laugh lines and their distinguished streaks of gray. Daddy issues notwithstanding, it’s allowing me to see Patrick from a new perspective. The cloak shrouds him in a different light.
“Coming in for our first stop,” Hobart announces.
Apparently, the previous Santa had hit all of New Jersey already, so we sprang off to a New York suburb. We land bumpily on a random roof in a quiet neighborhood.
“Ready for your first drop-off?” Hobart asks.
Patrick rubs his hands together. “Ready! What do I do?”
“What dowedo?” I ask, standing. I’ve come all this way, somewhat conquered my fear of heights, and nearly thrown up a couple times. There’s no way I’m letting him go do this alone.
Hobart crinkles his brow. “It’s customary for Santa to go by himself.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’s customary for Santa not to quit in the middle of his once-a-year shift, too, but I’m here.”
“Fine, but stay close,” Hobart says. “The enchanted cloak’s magic can only extend so far. It’s a bit like Wi-Fi. If you step out of signal range, you’re on your own. So, let’s get started!”
