Mr. Hoynes shooed me away. “We can’t let the kids see a sad elf. Go backstage. But hurry back. We’re busy.”
Cheeks heating, I bolted through the crowds, trying to hide my face in my escape to the employee hub. Some form of public access small claims court blared from the break room.
“Is someone jingling?” someone asked from inside.
“Holiday season is hell. Forget those annoying bells, I have to wear a stupid paper crown,” a smooth, familiar voice said. “It’s like they keep finding new ways to embarrass us.”
What a grinch. Trembling, I peered into the break room, confirming that washim, the barista. The one with the olive cap.
I thought he liked my bells.
My teeth worried my lip. I couldn’t let him upset me more, which meant I couldn’t risk grabbing anything from the vending machine or fridge. He’d see me. And possibly speak.
The barista turned toward the doorway, no doubt expecting someone, but not me. Not like this, at least: bright, polyester uniform, watery eyes, and pom-poms galore. I dashed off fast enough it was possible he only caught a glimpse of me, though hewouldhear me.
Days like today, I wished I had an office to hide in. After tugging off my elf shoes, I stuffed myself into boots and a winter coat to head outside, frustration rising higher until my breaths came out in jagged, smokey rasps. Thankfully, I parked far enough away that there weren’t any cars waiting to take my spot. Others sped past, spraying my legs with slush. I threw myselfinto the back seat of my car and buried my face in my blankie to let out a wail.
I tried so hard and it still wasn’t enough. It never would be.
I was so tired. So hungry. My throat swelled to the point that crying hurt.
The pink sippy cup stowed in the back pocket of the passenger’s side held my salvation. But no matter how hard I sucked or shook the cup, I couldn’t get any of the apple juice within. It didn’t move. It was frozen.
I stuck the cup inside my coat in the hopes it would melt enough to drink. I needed energy. Something happy. I was too tired to even try coloring. My penguin plush Mr. Waddles served as a snuggly pillow in the back seat.
One day, I hoped I’d have a job that allowed an actual nap time in a place with heating.
That was probably a far-off dream. At the very least, I hoped out of all the people I worked with, some of them were happier because of me.
5
Cinnamon Twist
Santa’s station wasn’t too busy during weekdays. The early birds got their worm (and photo) and got out. I spent most of the afternoon giving directions to mall goers. Jolly Santa waved at the kids walking by, chatting amicably with Mr. Hoynes about substitute teaching.
I climbed onto a fake present next to where Chestnut rested against a planter of poinsettias. “Did you see another one of the charity trees sold? It was the one with all the dog treat ornaments. I think it’s from the animal shelter.”
“That makes sense.” Chestnut craned his neck to peer around our trees and yawned.
I nudged him with my giant shoe. “So, what would you ask Santa for this year?”
“A hot date with a hot guy.” He gestured to his red and green uniform. “But this outfit isn’t doing me any favors.”
I laughed. “Stop saying that. It’s for the kids.”
He rolled his eyes and plucked his tunic-shirt. “And somehow, you still manage to attract all the single dads.”
“I guess.” I dangled my legs back and forth, trying not to think about the last time that happened. Why did people always pegmeas a troublemaker?
“Hey, you could get a sugar daddy.” He flicked the fuzzy tip of my cap. “Hang up your hat. Bet he’d want you to keep the outfit for dress-up.”
“I like my job.” I tugged the hat over my brow. “And I don’t think of any of the parents like that.” A dad was different from a 'Daddy.' Most dads saw girls like me as easy targets: free babysitting, affection vending machines, any kindness confirming they 'still had it.' A 'daddy' would care about my job, my feelings, and whatIneeded… not just if he could 'get' me.
Then there were 'non-daddy' guys like barista meanie who didn’t want to take care of me in any capacity. Not that I needed a lot. Anything beyond casual dating usually increased my anxiety. But I did miss hand-holding. Hand-swinging, more accurately.
Chestnut frowned. “Why do you like this job so much? We work at the mall. Basically minimum wage, dealing with kids and entitled parents, and I’mbarelyexercising my theater degree in progress.”
“It’s all about your attitude.” I watched the families strolling through the mall: parents carrying tired kids; friends telling each other they look great in whatever they bought, teens telling jokes on their way to the movie theater. Tons of examples of love and happiness.
