Read Online Jingle Boy by Kieran Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kieran Scott
Tags: Fiction
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gold-and-ruby heart pendant dangling from the end.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Lainie Lefkowitz gushed.
That was when I knew. Christmas wasn’t just punishing me. It was out to destroy me. And it was enjoying the process.
I turned and faced the counter, looked Marge Horvath directly in her dirt-colored eyes, and said, “My mom’s paycheck, please.”
“I have it right here,” she said, the smirk growing smirkier. She hit a few buttons on the register behind her and the drawer clanged open. She hadn’t even fully turned around again before I’d snatched the envelope from between her claws and was halfway across the mall.
I was shocked at my ability to walk away. I really thought that either my legs were going to go out from under me or my entire head was going to explode all over the Oriental Ornament cart. How was it possible that Scooby had bought the exact same necklace I’d chosen? There were about a million pieces of jewelry in that place. I mean, was he psychic? Was he some kind of sadistic mind-reading wanna-be rapper who’d been sent by Christmas to destroy me the moment I’d lost my Santa hat?
This time I wasn’t going to avoid the North Pole. I wanted to look my enemy dead in the eye. I wanted to see if he had a nice big
666
painted across his forehead that I had somehow missed. But the closer I got to the Santa Shack and Scooby’s velvet throne, the more my vision blurred. I had never felt such a surge of vindictive anger before in my life. I imagined myself morphed into a Godzilla-sized Paul, stalking through the center of the mall and crushing the Santa Shack, the whole North Pole, and Scooby underneath my massive feet.
There he sat with a couple of twin girls on his knees, bouncing them up and down and letting out a seriously lame excuse for a “ho ho ho.” My hands clenched into fists, crushing the envelope that held my mother’s paycheck. There was only one thought in my mind.
Santa must die.
I turned away from Scooby and all the fresh-faced, wide-eyed, clueless little kids. Soon,
very
soon, Scooby was going to feel my wrath. The wrath of a Christmas freak whom Christmas had forsaken.
Scooby was going down.
WHY AM I SUCH A MISFIT? I AM NOT JUST A NITWIT!
ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON I FINALLY SAW WHAT SCOOBY looked like outside a Santa suit, and I was not impressed. He was training me, so he was dressed in one of the elf costumes—big green shoes with bells on the curled toes, red-and-white-striped tights, a green jumper thing, and a white turtleneck. His cheeks had red circles on them and he was wearing fake pointed ears and a floppy green-and-red elf hat. He looked like a joke, but in my personal opinion, he would have looked like a joke even in street clothes.
Scooby had a large nose, blond hair that I swear was prematurely thinning, a few patches of unimpressive stubble, skinny little lips, and a huge,
huge
Adam’s apple. I mean, the thing was totally distracting. Every time he spoke to me, I found myself staring at it as it bobbed up and down, up and down, like a tetherball on its string.
What in the name of good Saint Nick did Sarah
see
in this guy?
“Hey, loser, you’re doing it wrong,” Scooby said to me through his tight fake smile. He was standing next to the Santa throne, where I sat under ten pounds of padding, waiting for the next overweight kid to climb onto my lap. I’m telling you, nine out of ten of these kids should have been asking for exercise videos and subscriptions to Weight Watchers.
“Doing
what
wrong?” I asked, the synthetic fibers of my beard sticking to my lips.
“You’re sitting all wrong,” Scooby said.
I felt my body heat rise, which seemed impossible considering the buckets I was already sweating in the heavy wool suit. Trying to smile at the little pigtailed girl who was tentatively approaching, I decided to bite my tongue, which wasn’t easy. Since I’d donned the Santa suit a few hours earlier, Scooby had managed to criticize my laugh, my
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Lainie Lefkowitz gushed.
That was when I knew. Christmas wasn’t just punishing me. It was out to destroy me. And it was enjoying the process.
I turned and faced the counter, looked Marge Horvath directly in her dirt-colored eyes, and said, “My mom’s paycheck, please.”
“I have it right here,” she said, the smirk growing smirkier. She hit a few buttons on the register behind her and the drawer clanged open. She hadn’t even fully turned around again before I’d snatched the envelope from between her claws and was halfway across the mall.
I was shocked at my ability to walk away. I really thought that either my legs were going to go out from under me or my entire head was going to explode all over the Oriental Ornament cart. How was it possible that Scooby had bought the exact same necklace I’d chosen? There were about a million pieces of jewelry in that place. I mean, was he psychic? Was he some kind of sadistic mind-reading wanna-be rapper who’d been sent by Christmas to destroy me the moment I’d lost my Santa hat?
This time I wasn’t going to avoid the North Pole. I wanted to look my enemy dead in the eye. I wanted to see if he had a nice big
666
painted across his forehead that I had somehow missed. But the closer I got to the Santa Shack and Scooby’s velvet throne, the more my vision blurred. I had never felt such a surge of vindictive anger before in my life. I imagined myself morphed into a Godzilla-sized Paul, stalking through the center of the mall and crushing the Santa Shack, the whole North Pole, and Scooby underneath my massive feet.
There he sat with a couple of twin girls on his knees, bouncing them up and down and letting out a seriously lame excuse for a “ho ho ho.” My hands clenched into fists, crushing the envelope that held my mother’s paycheck. There was only one thought in my mind.
Santa must die.
I turned away from Scooby and all the fresh-faced, wide-eyed, clueless little kids. Soon,
very
soon, Scooby was going to feel my wrath. The wrath of a Christmas freak whom Christmas had forsaken.
Scooby was going down.
WHY AM I SUCH A MISFIT? I AM NOT JUST A NITWIT!
ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON I FINALLY SAW WHAT SCOOBY looked like outside a Santa suit, and I was not impressed. He was training me, so he was dressed in one of the elf costumes—big green shoes with bells on the curled toes, red-and-white-striped tights, a green jumper thing, and a white turtleneck. His cheeks had red circles on them and he was wearing fake pointed ears and a floppy green-and-red elf hat. He looked like a joke, but in my personal opinion, he would have looked like a joke even in street clothes.
Scooby had a large nose, blond hair that I swear was prematurely thinning, a few patches of unimpressive stubble, skinny little lips, and a huge,
huge
Adam’s apple. I mean, the thing was totally distracting. Every time he spoke to me, I found myself staring at it as it bobbed up and down, up and down, like a tetherball on its string.
What in the name of good Saint Nick did Sarah
see
in this guy?
“Hey, loser, you’re doing it wrong,” Scooby said to me through his tight fake smile. He was standing next to the Santa throne, where I sat under ten pounds of padding, waiting for the next overweight kid to climb onto my lap. I’m telling you, nine out of ten of these kids should have been asking for exercise videos and subscriptions to Weight Watchers.
“Doing
what
wrong?” I asked, the synthetic fibers of my beard sticking to my lips.
“You’re sitting all wrong,” Scooby said.
I felt my body heat rise, which seemed impossible considering the buckets I was already sweating in the heavy wool suit. Trying to smile at the little pigtailed girl who was tentatively approaching, I decided to bite my tongue, which wasn’t easy. Since I’d donned the Santa suit a few hours earlier, Scooby had managed to criticize my laugh, my
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