Xmas Spirit (9 page)

Charlotte dipped her spoon in the bowl, toying with the bits of cereal, sinking them, softening them up for the kill. As she filled her mouth with the whole-grain fiber tidbits, her eyes caught sight of Gladys’s note once again.

“Oh my God!” she cried, a spray of milk and bits of shredded wheat dropping from her mouth back into the bowl. “Christmas shopping!”

Christmas still hadn’t completely registered for her. She’d almost let it pass her by in the Great Beyond, and now she felt she didn’t have the time or, more important, the money to do anything about it. For just a second she considered that it didn’t really matter because she didn’t have anyone to buy for, except that she suddenly realized that she did: Scarlet.

“This is my chance to make friends for real!”

Scarlet might not know her—well, not yet anyway—but she
sure knew Scarlet. Charlotte began thinking about her, about what she liked, what she hated.

“I need, I need to find . . .” Charlotte tried hard to conjure an image of it in her racing mind. An image of something she’s always wanted but never gotten. “The perfect gift.”

The Hawthorne Diner was packed with holiday shoppers breaking briefly for lunch. The windows were painted with snowflakes, Christmas trees, wreaths, Santas, elves, and snowmen—some with penises—by middle-school art students. The Wendys traipsed in and were ushered to their reserved table right in the picture window at the front of the restaurant. The waitress lumbered over with menus, and the busboy followed with water.

“Will Miss Kensington be joining you?”

“Yes, she will.”

Both Wendys had something on their minds, and as usual it was the same thing.

“I don’t know about this whole coffin stunt,” Wendy Anderson fretted, sliding into the semicircular booth. “Getting buried alive is not exactly how I planned to spend Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Wendy A. concurred. “Something about it feels odd.”

“You mean like everything?” Wendy T. clarified.

“But the money
is
good.”

“I have an idea! Let’s outsource it.”

“Huh?”

“C’mon, Wendy! Don’t you ever pay attention in Economic Unfairness class? We’ll find someone else to do the burial for us and pay them a small fee.”

“Okay, who do you have in mind?” Wendy T. answered, scrolling through her contact list.

“Definitely not anybody we know,” Wendy A. said.

“What about that girl who’s always stalking us?”

“She’s going to need to be incentivized a bit more, don’t you think?”

“We can just tell her it’s to buy something for Petula. She’d do anything to get in good with her. And we can tell her that she’ll be modeling. With us!”

“You have such creative uses for people. I really admire that.”

Screeching tires in the parking lot ended their conversation.

Petula burst in, but she wasn’t alone. Surprisingly, she had Scarlet at her side—at least until Scarlet saw The Wendys and made a beeline for the counter instead of the table.

“What’s with bringing batgirl out in public?” Wendy Thomas asked.

“I’m dreaming of a black Christmas, just like the ones I used to know . . .”
Wendy Anderson began singing.

“On the thirteenth night of Christmas, my beloved gave to me a raven in a dead tree,”
Wendy Thomas sang back.

“We’re out Christmas shopping for my mom,” Petula responded dismissively. “You can’t choose your family, you know.”

“Thank God my mom had her tubes tied after I was born,” Wendy Anderson said.

“A little late, if you ask me,” Scarlet groused to herself, slowly sipping her hot cup of black coffee.

“What’ll it be, girls?”

“I’ll have a half-caf, non-fat, unsweetened vanilla cinnamon Vietnam iced bubble tea with almond milk, hold the tea,” Wendy Thomas said.

“So, just bubbles?” the waitress asked.

“Mind reading! Oh my God, you’re like a wizard.”

“At least something good came out of that war!” Wendy Anderson chimed in.

“You are a total historian, Wendy. I’m so jealous.”

“And you?” the waitress asked through the self-congratulatory giggles.

Wendy Anderson put down the menu she’d been poring over intensely and ordered. “Let’s see. Whipped cream. Ketchup. Ice. Artificial sweetener and a straw.”

“And you?”

“Do you do stool-softener smoothies?” Petula inquired. “No? Then just an extra spoon.”

The waitress sped off in horror, seeming relieved to get away from them.

Petula got right down to business, anxious for an update.

“So, what’s Damen getting me?”

Neither Wendy spoke up. Petula began drumming her fingers impatiently. Even Scarlet, who couldn’t have cared less, was getting curious and listened in.

“Well?”

The Wendys cracked under the pressure. Petula’s withering
impatience had worn them down in record time yet again.

“Nothing.”

“Uh-oh,” Scarlet whispered. “Three. Two. One. Cue conniption.”

“Nothing?” she shouted, boiling over as she stood up in the booth and slammed her fists against the green Formica tabletop. “I took the time to write a list for nothing?”

Scarlet didn’t pay much mind to any of the Christmas shopping stuff. She never got what she wanted anyway. Her mother always gave her and Petula the same things—Victoria’s Secret sweatpants, the latest pseudocelebrity perfume, compact mirrors, etc. Her mom got Petula stuff for both of them because Scarlet just left her stuff under the tree for Petula to scoop up and take anyway. For her mother, it was just a mindless trip to the mall. Besides, picking out something that Scarlet really wanted would take too much thought—and possibly a trip to a dark alley somewhere.

The Wendys, however, were in shock. Not so much by the outburst, but at Petula’s ability to stand fully erect with such little space between the table and her seat. Their jaws fell open in amazement. The diner fell completely silent, everyone waiting for the other stiletto to drop.

“Nothing
yet
,” Wendy T. quickly added, defusing the situation somewhat.

“What do you mean
yet
?” Petula raved. “It’s Christmas friggin’ Eve already!”

“He’s working on it,” Wendy A. replied. “We all are.”

“You’d better be!”

Petula stormed off. Nobody dared rattle a fork or a glass until she’d passed. Scarlet thought about following her out but decided she’d rather walk home alone. She looked over at The Wendys, and they looked back at her like they’d seen a zombie. Scared out of their minds.

“We have to find that Usher girl,” Wendy T. said.

“I know, but where?” Wendy A. asked.

The Wendys put their empty heads together to strategize just as they saw Scarlet get up from the counter and toss her black lace shawl around her shoulders.

“Wait! Scarlet is weird. She might know.”

The Wendys scurried to block Scarlet’s path as she reached the cash register.

“Don’t they comp you here?” Wendy Thomas asked snidely.

“At a diner?” Scarlet huffed, shoving them to the side.

“Please,” Wendy T. called after her. “We really need your help.”

Scarlet stopped. She was instantly suspicious of the unctuous tone.

“My help? You need
my
help?” she said.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Wendy Anderson admitted.

“I am dying to hear this,” Scarlet said. “Spit it out.”

“You know that girl who’s always following us around at school, taking pictures of Petula and Damen, trying to be friends?”

“Charlotte?” Scarlet said.

“Yeah! That’s her,” Wendy Thomas said.

“We need to find her,” Wendy Anderson added.

“Why?” Scarlet asked.

“We can’t tell you, but it has to do with Petula’s Christmas gift,” Wendy Anderson said.

“Ha! Are you planning to offer her to my sister as a human sacrifice or something?” Scarlet laughed, considering how beneath their notice Charlotte was.

“Not exactly,” Wendy T. said vaguely but seriously.

Scarlet couldn’t have cared less, actually, about The Wendys, Petula, or even Charlotte; however, it was obvious they were plotting something. “Well then, what exactly?”

“We have an opportunity to present,” Wendy A. responded formally.

Scarlet found herself surprisingly curious and perfectly happy to dangle the carrot of information they sought in front of their sculpted noses for a few seconds longer.

“Opportunity?”

“Let’s just say it’s a matter of life and death.”

Scarlet felt herself being sucked into The Wendys’ vacuous vortex. Like a black hole in deep space, a place of no return. The question of what they had planned for Charlotte would have to wait for now.

“I have no idea where you can find her, but I saw her hanging out in front of my house last night,” Scarlet advised. “She headed off to the other side of town.”

“Eww,” Wendy Thomas whined. “Where all those thrift stores and pawnshops are?”

“So what?” Scarlet said, taking offense. “I shop there sometimes.”

“It shows,” The Wendys said.

“Like your cellulite?” Scarlet said, handing Wendy Thomas her bill as she split.

8
A Christmas Gory

Mistle Woe

It is said to be the most wonderful time of the year, but Christmas can actually be the most dreaded. Crowds, crash diets, and too many cocktails can quickly turn the yuletide mood from gay to gray. The pressure to find a better gift, throw a better party, or fit into a better outfit often outweighs a higher calling: to be a better person. Sometimes the best way to celebrate is to simply celebrate yourself.

Pam and Prue walked hand in hand
down the long corridor at the back of the apartment complex. It was dark but not scary, brightened by the sound of off-key but joyful humming coming from the last office door. They hated bringing such sour news at such a happy time, but they had little choice. They stopped just short of the door and looked at each other, each waiting for the other to knock. Finally, Prue stepped forward and announced herself with a gentle rapping.

“Come in.”

“Mr. Brain?” Prue said, greeting him.

Brain was his usual cheerful, preoccupied, and disheveled self.

“Oh hello, girls.”