Read Online Sock it to Me, Santa! by Madison Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: Madison Parker
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Part One:
The First Exchange
I don’t know what made me do it — what made me say her name. I guess I panicked. Mike didn’t usually bug me about girls, so it caught me off guard. When he asked me whose name I was hoping to get for the Secret Santa gift exchange, I looked around the room and weighed my options. Ben Olson caught my eye, but I didn’t dare say his name. Mike didn’t know I was into guys. No one did, and I planned to keep it that way until I left for college. But if I had to pick someone, I guess it would be Ben. Even though he was into sports, and I wasn’t. He was also into cheerleaders, and I definitely wasn’t.
“Well?” Mike said. “Who do you hope you get?”
I started to say, “No one,” but it came out in a stutter.
His smile was full of mischief. “I knew it. You do like someone. Finally. Who is it?”
I leaned in closer to him. “Shh! Would you keep it down?”
“Well, who is it?”
And that’s when I panicked and said her name: Amber Owens. She seemed all right, but I hoped Mike wouldn’t try and play matchmaker. The last thing I needed was some girl chasing me around again. At the beginning of the school year, I made the mistake of smiling at Didi Anderson, and she developed a crazy girl crush on me. It was a nightmare. She left love notes in my locker, telling me how cute I was. According to Didi and her misplaced affections, my eyes are like blueberry pop-tarts. Not blue like a sparkling sky or a shimmering ocean, but blue like pop-tarts. I’ve had blueberry pop-tarts. They’re not even blue. They’re filled with purple goop and covered with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles. I guess love makes you say funny things. I never got the chance to find out what foods the rest of my body parts reminded her of. When she finally worked up the nerve to ask her friend to ask me to ask her out, I politely said I wasn’t interested. The fan mail stopped abruptly.
I hoped nothing like that would happen with Amber.
I leaned in closer to Mike. “And I never said I liked her. Just, if I had to pick someone in this room—”
“Relax. You look like you’re about to pass out or something.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. It’s just this whole Secret Santa thing. It’s stupid. I mean, we’re in high school, not fourth grade.”
“Yeah, but you know Mrs. Keats. She lives for this kind of shit.”
Homeroom sucked. My bad — advisory sucked. They changed the name last year to TAP: Teacher Advisory Period. But it sounds ridiculous to say I’m in TAP. Like I’m a dancer or something. So I just call it advisory. Whatever they call it, it sucked. What was the point? It wasn’t like we learned anything during those weekly twenty-five minute sessions. And Mrs. Keats, our advisor, was hell bent on making us all become friends. Her “getting-to-know-you” activities were the worst.
Last week she stood in front of our class and held out a roll of toilet paper. She made us each come up and tear off the amount we’d “normally use”. Like I’d want to share that information. I kinda have a thing about cleanliness. Let’s just say, I typically use a lot . After seeing how much toilet paper everyone else took, I’d say I use a shit ton. But I restrained myself, taking what seemed to be a socially acceptable amount. I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to my bathroom routine. It wasn’t until we’d all returned to our seats that Mrs. Keats told us for every square we’d taken, we had to tell the class one thing about ourselves. Lame. I should have known it was some kind of trick.
Sometimes I wish I had the nerve to be like Kevin Parker with his fuck-you attitude. After Mrs. Keats had explained what we had to do, he got up, blew his nose into his wad of toilet paper, and then dumped it in the recycle bin (right under the sign that listed tissue as non-recyclable). Kevin didn’t give a shit about anything. Teachers mostly let him be, as long as he
The First Exchange
I don’t know what made me do it — what made me say her name. I guess I panicked. Mike didn’t usually bug me about girls, so it caught me off guard. When he asked me whose name I was hoping to get for the Secret Santa gift exchange, I looked around the room and weighed my options. Ben Olson caught my eye, but I didn’t dare say his name. Mike didn’t know I was into guys. No one did, and I planned to keep it that way until I left for college. But if I had to pick someone, I guess it would be Ben. Even though he was into sports, and I wasn’t. He was also into cheerleaders, and I definitely wasn’t.
“Well?” Mike said. “Who do you hope you get?”
I started to say, “No one,” but it came out in a stutter.
His smile was full of mischief. “I knew it. You do like someone. Finally. Who is it?”
I leaned in closer to him. “Shh! Would you keep it down?”
“Well, who is it?”
And that’s when I panicked and said her name: Amber Owens. She seemed all right, but I hoped Mike wouldn’t try and play matchmaker. The last thing I needed was some girl chasing me around again. At the beginning of the school year, I made the mistake of smiling at Didi Anderson, and she developed a crazy girl crush on me. It was a nightmare. She left love notes in my locker, telling me how cute I was. According to Didi and her misplaced affections, my eyes are like blueberry pop-tarts. Not blue like a sparkling sky or a shimmering ocean, but blue like pop-tarts. I’ve had blueberry pop-tarts. They’re not even blue. They’re filled with purple goop and covered with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles. I guess love makes you say funny things. I never got the chance to find out what foods the rest of my body parts reminded her of. When she finally worked up the nerve to ask her friend to ask me to ask her out, I politely said I wasn’t interested. The fan mail stopped abruptly.
I hoped nothing like that would happen with Amber.
I leaned in closer to Mike. “And I never said I liked her. Just, if I had to pick someone in this room—”
“Relax. You look like you’re about to pass out or something.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. It’s just this whole Secret Santa thing. It’s stupid. I mean, we’re in high school, not fourth grade.”
“Yeah, but you know Mrs. Keats. She lives for this kind of shit.”
Homeroom sucked. My bad — advisory sucked. They changed the name last year to TAP: Teacher Advisory Period. But it sounds ridiculous to say I’m in TAP. Like I’m a dancer or something. So I just call it advisory. Whatever they call it, it sucked. What was the point? It wasn’t like we learned anything during those weekly twenty-five minute sessions. And Mrs. Keats, our advisor, was hell bent on making us all become friends. Her “getting-to-know-you” activities were the worst.
Last week she stood in front of our class and held out a roll of toilet paper. She made us each come up and tear off the amount we’d “normally use”. Like I’d want to share that information. I kinda have a thing about cleanliness. Let’s just say, I typically use a lot . After seeing how much toilet paper everyone else took, I’d say I use a shit ton. But I restrained myself, taking what seemed to be a socially acceptable amount. I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to my bathroom routine. It wasn’t until we’d all returned to our seats that Mrs. Keats told us for every square we’d taken, we had to tell the class one thing about ourselves. Lame. I should have known it was some kind of trick.
Sometimes I wish I had the nerve to be like Kevin Parker with his fuck-you attitude. After Mrs. Keats had explained what we had to do, he got up, blew his nose into his wad of toilet paper, and then dumped it in the recycle bin (right under the sign that listed tissue as non-recyclable). Kevin didn’t give a shit about anything. Teachers mostly let him be, as long as he
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