Xmas Spirit (3 page)

Charlotte reached for the doorknob, twisted it, and walked out tentatively into the barren schoolscape. There was always something eerie to her about a school building after hours. She’d never done a lot of after-school clubs or sports, but the few times she’d found herself alone, wandering around looking for an open exit, was enough to make a permanent impression. Without kids, without the life and energy they bring, it was just a shell, a mausoleum, entirely without purpose.

She walked slowly, brushing her hand along the lockers as she passed. If this was a dream, it was the closest she’d ever had to a lucid one. It all felt so real, right down to the cold polished metal handles on the locker doors and the industrial wax odor emanating from the floors. Sensory overload for a girl who’d been without her senses for longer than she cared to remember. In fact, it was too real, more like an hallucination, an exaggeration of reality, than a dream.

Suddenly, a harsh and unexpected buzzing filled the air, followed immediately by a screaming stampede of students rushing out from door after door into the corridor. In an instant, the building had been transformed from death to life. Resurrected. Locker doors slammed, toilets flushed, gossip flew. Charlotte stood perfectly still, like the calm eye of a storm that was coming much too close for comfort, and let it pass around and through her ghostly frame.

That is until she saw him.

Her piece on earth.

Damen Dylan.

He was chatting intently with his pack, drawing out football plays on his palm as they walked. Charlotte silently thanked whoever had made this dream possible and gazed upon him. He was just the same as she remembered, and oddly, she had the same feelings about him. Tall, hot, charismatic, and out of her league. She tilted her head and fixed on him like a bull’s-eye, blocking out everything and everyone else streaming down the corridor, and it felt completely natural to her. Old habits die hard, she figured, so she might as well just go along with it. As he passed she unconsciously reached out to touch him. Eric would understand, she rationalized, through a twinge of guilt. It was just a dream after all. She was sure he had them too about other girls. At least at that moment, she hoped he did.

“Damen,” she said slyly, as if he could actually hear her.

He stopped and looked right at her. Not with compassion, understanding, or even recognition, but with confusion. Scorn, some objective onlookers might even have said.

He saw her. He must have, Charlotte thought, but that not’s possible. Then again, maybe in a dream anything was possible. It was
her
dream. Before she could get a word out, she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder, and she was propelled face-first into the lockers.

“Whoops,” followed by loud, derisive laughter was all she heard as her body sagged down toward the floor.

Charlotte was hurting. Not emotionally, but literally, physically hurting. Her shoulder, her face, her entire body. She turned her head to see who’d done the dirty deed, but all she could identify were three pairs of perfectly proportioned, salon-tanned, shapely legs traipsing expertly in high heels away from her. She knew who it was by the swing of their hips. The Wendys. And Petula. They’d bullied her successfully without even breaking stride. Charlotte was impressed, even in her pain.

Her pain. Something about that wasn’t right. She couldn’t feel pain anymore. And why would she have a dream in which she did? Class change was complete, halls emptied, and she began to panic. Another feeling she shouldn’t have been able to have any longer. Charlotte grabbed for her throat as panic turned to all-out fear. Not fear of the unknown any longer, but fear of what she’d just, in that instant, come to know.

She shouldn’t have been coughing. Dead girls don’t get sick. Damen had seen her. So had Petula and The Wendys. Charlotte had the bruises now to prove it. She turned her head back toward the classroom and looked through the open door.

And there it was.

The answer staring right back at her. It was . . . a gummy bear. THE gummy bear!

She didn’t choke.

She didn’t die.

Charlotte felt her arms and legs and face. She tugged at her hair and her lashes and her lips. They were warm and solid.

“I’m not dreaming. I’m not just back where it all started,” she screamed. “I’m alive. I’m alive? I’M ALIVE!”

“Anybody seen Charlotte?” Piccolo Pam asked.

“No clue,” Prue answered. “But did you ever see such a Christmas downer? She practically stomped all over Santa’s beard last night.”

“Well, she wasn’t at work, and no one has heard anything from her today.”

“That’s not like Charlotte,” Call Me Kim noted.

“Well, I heard she’s fighting with Eric,” Maddy added.

“Really?” CoCo piped up.

“I could do with a little yuletide gossip,” Violet said, surprised at her eager response to the very thing that had done her in.

“Mind your own business, Maddy,” Prue barked. “Haven’t you learned not to instigate by now?”

“Maybe she just needs some alone time,” CoCo said, hanging the last of her couture Christmas outfits. “I know I’m not quite feeling myself today either.”

“Now that you mention it, neither am I,” Prue agreed. “Last night was a late one.”

“That’s probably it.” Pam nodded. “Charlotte’s probably chilling at home.”

“Or with Eric,” Prue said. “I’m sure they’ve made up by now.”

Maddy just shook her head as if to say
I don’t think so
, drawing a harsh stare from Prue and the other girls.

“What are you trying to say? That she’s cheating or something?” Pam asked.

Maddy just laughed. “Rumor has it.”

“Ignore her, Pam,” Prue said.

But CoCo and Kim were already curious nonetheless.

“I think I’ll check with Eric.” Pam recalled their discussion from the night before and felt the slightest trace of suspicion cross her mind as well.

“She’s just trying to make you all paranoid,” Prue said, trying to rally the troops.

“Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Maddy said.

“Wherever Charlotte is, she can’t be far,” Prue spit back.

“Yeah,” Pam said. “She wouldn’t be caught dead looking at another guy.”

3
Miracle on Hawthorne Street

Christmas Wrapping

It is often said about giving that it’s the thought that counts. Which is true. Mostly. We try our best to value the act, the intention, the effort undertaken even above the thing itself, and receive it with an appreciative grin if not a wholehearted embrace. But like many things that come packaged with a smile and in pretty paper, some gifts, once opened, can leave you wondering what the giver was really thinking, or not thinking, about you.

Charlotte wandered the halls
for a good long time taking it all in. She felt like a girl with a new car driving right past her worst enemy’s house, not that she’d know, of course, but that’s what she imagined it would be like. Returning to Hawthorne as a visitor as she had before—or as a tenant, so to speak, in Scarlet’s body—was one thing, but this was something else entirely.

She was herself.

Just herself.

Only herself.

She stopped to peer into several classrooms, careful not to be seen. Attracting attention had never been a very successful endeavor for her before, but she hadn’t had to worry about all that for a while now, and she was a little rusty. Annoyed looks from teachers, suspicious stares from hall monitors, and threatening
What are you looking at?
glares from other students goosed her farther and farther down the hallway just as the last bell of the day, the last before Christmas vacation, before Christmas Eve, sounded.

The hyperhormonal hurricane she’d had a brush with earlier in the hallway deepened to a Category Five dismissal. Students scrambled for daylight, what was left of it, and spilled out through every exit, down onto the concrete staircases and walkways, and out onto the front lawn. It was similar to lava flowing from an active volcano.

School was out.

Charlotte found shelter against the brick façade of the high school and let the maelstrom pass. She watched clique after clique assemble in the parking lot like schools of hungry piranhas, eyeing each other warily, at an impromptu outdoor Christmas party that nobody planned to attend. Jocks, nerds, goths, geeks, preps, stoners, posers, joiners of every stripe closed ranks with their own kind. Even the loners gathered, by conspicuously not gathering, dotting the periphery of the lot, asserting their collective individuality together. Charlotte studied them all like a lab experiment, verifying for herself yet again that she didn’t fit in with any of them, now or then. Problem was, her then was also her now.

A sudden commotion and gasps from the throng could only mean one thing, Charlotte figured. Petula and The Wendys were on the march. They were always last to arrive in the parking lot but first to leave, hanging out just long enough to get a few rounds of last-minute abuse in before the holidays and to
bitch about their lack of funds for Christmas shopping. It was impossible for Charlotte and everyone else not to overhear.

“I am so over Christmess,” Wendy Thomas whined.

“Me too,” Wendy Anderson concurred, looking to Petula for her approval.

“Well, I’m not, so don’t even try it,” Petula lectured. “The finest gifts you’ll bring to lay before the queen.”

“Well, I don’t play the drums,” Wendy Anderson said, taking the “Little Drummer Boy” song reference literally.

“We don’t have any money. Between gym memberships, our Christmas outfits, and the price of laxatives,” Wendy Thomas said.

Petula glared at her.

“What she means is times are tough,” Wendy A. advised. “You know how hard I tried to get my Tread-Meals diet and exercise franchise off the ground this year.”

“Eating all your meals on a treadmill to burn off the exact number of calories while you consume them is not a viable business model,” Petula chided. “Not when you can stick your finger down your throat for free!”

“Hard core,” Charlotte whispered to herself, cringing just a bit.

This was the Petula she remembered. And admired.

“Isn’t it supposed to be the thought that counts?” Wendy T. said quietly, holding her arms out for a hug. “We wish you a Merry Christmas . . . God bless us, every one . . . and all that crap.”