How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

Through the hush of the wind on a crisp winter night,

they’re about to find out if their eggnog is just right.

They loaded up thermoses and some tasty additions,

and headed down Krampus Court, dead set on a mission.

“Don’t forget to smile,” Aunt Cindy says as she jabs me with her finger when we step out onto the porch. I’m holding a thermos of our concoction while Taran is helping her down the steps and into a wheelchair.

“Hey, neighbors,” Martha Bawhovier says from across the street.

Decked out in matching one-piece ski outfits, both Martha and Mae look like they’ve come straight from a time machine dating back to 1986 where teal-and-purple was the preferred color combination, seen in every Taco Bell and splashed across paper cups. A stirring mix, especially with their winter…earmuffs? Eh, I wouldn’t call either contraption an earmuff, more like a fluffy winter headband that runs from forehead to ears to the back of the head. Both have their hair pulled into high, curly ponytails, the bottled blond a fantastic addition to the whole ensemble.

If there was a contest for best dressed, my vote would go to them.

It’s time to turn on the charm—because I know how important Martha and Mae are to the competition. According to Aunt Cindy, they’re both secret spies, always keeping an eye on the Kringle-ees. I call out, “Hey, neighbors. How are you this evening?” It’s shocking that my jaw works given it feels like it’s frozen shut from the chill in the air. How do people live here? It’s like being trapped in a freezer every day of your life with no respite.

They join us on the sidewalk right in front of Aunt Cindy’s house. “We’re great,” Mae says, giving me a quick once-over.

Since I didn’t bring any Christmas clothes with me and just packed for warmth—turtlenecks, thermals, multiple pairs of flannel leggings—Aunt Cindy had me invade her closet, which means I’m wearing what I can only describe as the kitchen sink of all Christmas sweaters.

I thought it might be too flashy for the first competition—aka I didn’t want to wear it—but Aunt Cindy said I had to start out with a bang, so here I am in a red knit sweater adorned with numerous bells.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Countless bells.

So many bells that the sweater sags in the front.

There are bells on the collar.

On the chest.

On the…nipples.

In the armpits!

I have to walk around with my arms slightly propped up because of all the bells.

And boy, do they jingle jangle. I’m a walking sound machine with no exact tune, just noise.

And as if that’s not enough, Aunt Cindy had me pull my hair up into a bun so she could direct Taran in fastening a velvet bow with ribbons so long that they tickle my ears.

I paired the entire ensemble with my winter boots that are encased in fur—did you just think “boots with the fur” in your head? Because I do, every time I wear them.

I feel like a genuine idiot though, with the sash and all, but this is what we do for our loved ones. This is what we do to prove to the grumpy next-door neighbor that we’re not to be messed with. He wants to play games? He wants to challenge me? Well, come beat the old jingle jangle with the velvet bow in her hair.

I dare you.

“You look rather festive,” Martha says to me.

“Why, thank you,” I say and then shimmy at her, making her laugh.

That look on her face? That’s Christmas joy.

I just brought her Christmas joy with a shake of my breasts.

I bet Cole can’t do that.

“Can’t get enough of this sweater.”

“It looks spectacular on you,” Mae says. “Very becoming.”

“Thank you. And look at you two, my goodness; these outfits are everything. I’m obsessed.”

Martha’s smile grows wider. “Some of the youth might say we’re vibing.”

I smile. “Yes, you’re right. You two are totally vibing—”

“Merry Christmas!” a deep voice bellows off to the right.

Goddamnit.

I know that obnoxiously fake voice.

I glance to the side just in time to see Cole step off his porch with a thermos as well. And instead of looking like a jingle bell factory exploded on him, he’s wearing a very fetching red flannel shirt with a green Henley underneath. His sash is draped over his expansive chest, his jeans are rolled to just above his boots, and his hair is tucked under a Santa hat, giving him this whole lumberjack Santa look that’s working very well on him.

And I’m not the only one to notice.

“Oh Cole, don’t you look handsome,” Martha says, beaming.

Christ.

Sure, he’s a good-looking man.

He has a bone structure that was made with precise angles, so the light bounces off it in a magical way.

And yeah, he has light blue eyes that are framed by very dark and long—the prick—eyelashes.

And when he was being made, whoever was in charge decided to grace him with height, and thick dark hair, and…glutes.

High, tight glutes.

Frankly, it’s kind of rude and offensive if you ask me.

No one should be that good-looking. There must be a fatal flaw somewhere in his appearance. Perhaps a mole on the tip of his penis. One of those raised ones that throws off the symmetry of his rod, making it difficult to pump with a steady, precise thrust.

One could only hope.

“I look handsome?” he asks with a large grin while pointing to himself. “Martha and Mae, you two never cease to amaze me. Another year in the ski outfits—you two truly are timeless.”

Oh.

My.

God.

Gag me.

But of course, Martha and Mae fall for his phony-baloney behavior as they coo at him, thanking him for the compliments.

Then his gaze turns on Taran, Aunt Cindy, and me.

“Ladies, I can’t tell you how great it is to see you together again after all these years.”

Yup, that was a jab at me and a subtle reminder to Martha and Mae that we have been gone for a while. I’m not dumb—I see what he’s doing.

“I’m so happy my girls are with me,” Aunt Cindy says. “They’re such a joy to have in the house, and the way they’ve been taking care of me, leaning into the spirit of Christmas that comes from being around family; it’s just wonderful.”

“I could not agree more,” Martha says.

I glance at Cole, who’s staring at the sidewalk, a hint of insecurity in the droop of his shoulders. If I wasn’t watching at that moment, I never would have seen it, because when he looks back up, he smiles.

“Well, you look great, Storee, and I’m sure you came up with a delicious eggnog, especially if Cindy was by your side the whole time.”

Ew. I don’t like him saying cordial things to me like that. Even though I know he doesn’t mean a word of it, I still don’t like it.

But going along with the show, I say, “Thank you. And you look nice yourself.”

He smirks and then holds his arms out to Martha and Mae. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you two beautiful ladies to Prancer’s Libations?”

“We’d love that,” Martha says as both she and Mae loop their arms through his.

“See you there,” Cole tells us, and then together they all walk down the sidewalk toward town.

“Hold on a second,” Aunt Cindy says as we start walking, pushing her along with us.

Taran and I both pause.

“Did you forget something?” Taran asks.

Aunt Cindy shakes her head and then looks up at me. “What did you do?”

“What did I do?” I ask, my brow crinkled. “What do you mean what did I do? I didn’t do anything.”

“You did something, because that interaction right there, it was tense. What’s going on between you and Cole?”

“There’s something going on between you two?” Taran asks.

“No,” I say. “I mean, like…nothing except that he’s my competition.”

Aunt Cindy doesn’t buy it, because she wiggles her finger at me, telling me to come closer. I don’t want to, but I do.

When our faces are only a few inches apart, she says, “What…did…you…do?”

I swallow the lump forming in my throat as anxiety creeps up my back.

I wet my dry lips. “Um, nothing that I really know of, but, uh, he did have some words with me, and I’m not sure where they came from, but there were words.”

“What kinds of words?” Taran asks.

“The kinds of words that weren’t nice,” I reply.

“Why?” Aunt Cindy asks.

“Uh, I don’t know. He just said I didn’t deserve to be the Christmas Kringle and that it was going to be his particular mission to make sure I didn’t win.”

“What?” Aunt Cindy snaps, and then leans back in her chair, looking defeated. “He said that to you?”

“Yes, was that…uh, was that not a Christmas-y thing to say? Maybe we should tell the council. Warn them of his Grinch-y behavior.”

“No,” Aunt Cindy says with a stern tone. “We’re not going to say anything about it.” She stares off at their retreating backs. “This is not good.”

“Why not?” I ask. “I can beat Cole. I don’t see him as a threat.”

“You should,” Aunt Cindy says. “He’s a very large threat.”

“Why? He’s not very personable. That display right there was all fake, and sure, Martha and Mae might have bought it, but not everyone will.”

“It’s not that.” Aunt Cindy folds her hands on her lap. “He’ll be a large threat because this will be the first Christmas he’s participated in since his parents passed away.”

“His parents…passed away?” I ask. How did I not know about that? It must have been recent.

Aunt Cindy nods. “A terrible car accident a decade ago. He inherited their house and has worked over at Evergreen Farm with the Maxheimers ever since. He’s kept to himself but has relied on the town to get him through the tragedy. Not everyone likes him, but everyone has been rooting for him. Which means…”

“They’re going to favor him in the competition,” I say, feeling dumbfounded and confused.

His parents passed away and he never said anything? Why?

“Wait.” Taran steps in. “I don’t understand—if he isn’t a Christmas kind of guy, why is he suddenly joining the competition?”

“That’s what I wondered the other night when his name was announced,” Aunt Cindy said. “I thought it might be a bet between him and Atlas, and Cole lost. But after seeing you two interact, I’m thinking you’re the reason he’s doing it, not Atlas.”

I nervously laugh, feeling the anger in Aunt Cindy’s severe stare—she apparently wants this win a lot more than I suspected.

“So what did you do to him that would bring him out of hiding and into this competition?”

“Uh…nothing,” I say. “I didn’t do anything. Ever since I showed up, he’s been irritated with me.”

“Did you do something when you were younger?” Aunt Cindy asks.

“No,” I say. “Nothing like that. I…I have no idea.” I think back to our last interaction when we were teenagers, but nothing springs to mind. He was quiet that day, but it’s not as though he was a loud, raucous boy. And I haven’t seen him since. It’s why I was so surprised that he seemed so…angry with me when we first saw each other a few days ago. I thought it was funny to pretend I didn’t recognize him, but he certainly didn’t appreciate my humor. So weird. “Look, all I know is that he said I don’t deserve to win and he’s going to make sure I don’t.”

“Well.” Aunt Cindy sighs and stares toward town for a moment. “How do we handle this? The town will favor Cole, no matter what shenanigans he pulls. That was clear from watching Martha and Mae fawn over him just now. You might win some points for representing me, but you won’t be favored because you’re an out-of-towner.”

“Maybe… What if Taran switches with me? I doubt Cole has any beef with her since they’ve never interacted. Taran can take over the Kringle duties and I can suck it up and wash the crevices.”

Aunt Cindy gives me the stink eye, which makes me shiver on the spot. “The only one washing my crevices is Taran—not to mention, once the Kringle-ees are named, they can’t change. Did you not read that in your folder? You’re in this for the long run.”

“Which means you need to get it together,” Taran says, not adding any value to the conversation.

“I am getting it together. Look at me, for Christ’s sake,” I say, holding my arms out as I jingle. “I’m wearing an old-lady sweater and a velvet bow in my hair, standing in the arctic weather and trying to win a competition for my dying aunt.”

“I’m not dying yet, but I like the angle you just took,” Aunt Cindy says with a nod of approval. “Maybe we run with that. I could look weaker and feebler. You can play up how you just want to win this for me so my legacy of loving Christmas and this town can live on.”

“I mean, that’s a touch manipulative,” I say.

“You don’t think Cole is going to take advantage of his own tragedy and work the crowd with his charming smile that people have missed for so long?” Aunt Cindy asks.

“She has a point,” Taran says. “It is a charming smile.”

“Ugh!” I groan. “I don’t want to tell people you’re dying.”

“You don’t have to, but letting them know I’m weak? That hints toward a possible death. Besides, I’m old, so meeting my maker is right around the corner any day for me.”

“Jesus, Aunt Cindy,” Taran says.

“It’s the truth. A ninety-one-year-old woman like me is grateful for every day she wakes up to. So we play off that. We work the town with our family bond, the fact that my great-grand niblings are here to take care of me.”

“Great-grand niblings?” I ask.

“Yes, niblings. Now, go grab the powder in my room—I have some touch-ups to make. Then we need to get going. We don’t want to be late to the first competition, but remember, we need to appear as a cohesive unit. When we walk into that bar, I need you holding my hand, Storee. The more sympathy we can garner, the better. This win is ours, and I’ll be damned if we let anyone take it away.”

Yikes.

Cole

“Did you put on a new cologne?” Max asks as he stands next to me.

Prancer’s Libations may be our small town’s bar, but it has big-city vibes. Frank and Thachary are transplants from New York City, where they grew up. Opting for a slower pace, they decided to move their life into the mountains, where they took ownership of two businesses in town, the bar and the candle store.

With Frank’s background in window displays and Thachary’s bartending experience, they’ve transformed Prancer’s Libations from a run-of-the-mill small-town bar into a showstopping, must-see establishment that has been featured in many magazines and blogs. They tore out all the old booths that suffered from cracked leather and scuffed wood and installed a seating layout that is more in line with what you’d see in a New York City bar. Rather than booths, along the sprawling wall are benches covered with red plaid cushions, while the tables and chairs are in front. The bar made of rich wood is off to the right when you walk in, with green permanent bar stools that twirl. Antique liquor bottles line the b ack wall, bringing an elevated air to the space. And then the ceiling, the showstopper, is covered in hanging baubles, mistletoe, pine garland, and twinkle lights, all set at different heights, not a single inch of the ceiling showing. It’s been featured in many social media posts and is one of the biggest attractions in the town.

The drinkware are all hobnail glasses.

The shakers are all gold.

The staff is in white button-down shirts with red-and-green plaid ties.

And classic Christmas music is constantly played through speakers placed throughout the space, not too loud but just loud enough to drown out the conversations around you so you feel like you’re alone with your company.

“Uh, I asked you a question,” Max says, nudging me with his shoulder.

“Huh?”

“Your cologne? Is it new? Kind of sweet, and I like it. I think it will pair well with our drink.” He leans in closer and smells my neck.

I swat at his face. “Can you not fucking do that? Jesus fuck, man. You gave me chills.”

He smiles. “Didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

I eye him. “It was your hot breath on my neck that gave me chills, not your…whatever you want to call yourself in those reindeer antlers.”

“You know exactly what I’m called.” He leans in close again. “Your holly jolly sidekick. And I thought the reindeer antlers added some whimsy to our team. You might be wearing the sash, but I’m bringing the sass.”

“I hate you,” I mutter. “I really hate you.”

“Thank you, Ursula,” Frank says as she steps away from the judging table.

Thachary flashes a smile at the crowd. “Storee Taylor, please bring your drink to the table and tell us what you’ve made.”

Storee—in the most ridiculous sweater I’ve ever seen—jingles her way up to the judging table with her drinks on a tray. She smiles sweetly, which nearly makes me gag on the spot, but I’m sure to hold true to my alter ego—Snow Daddy, name provided by Max.

I wasn’t on board with Snow Daddy, but after grumbling for a solid hour while trying to come up with a concoction that would blow the socks off Thachary and Frank, Max got sick of me and lectured me on the importance of staying positive and cheery, hence the new nickname.

“What do you have for us?” Frank asks.

Storee clasps her hand together in front of her. “I’m presenting you with my dear aunt Cindy’s favorite way to drink her eggnog.” Insert eye roll. Way to add Aunt Cindy in there, and I can tell it worked because Frank and Thachary glance over at Cindy, who—dear God! She’s slumped in her chair, one shaky hand raised in the air as she attempts a crooked smile.

Uh, that’s not the woman I just saw outside of her house.

That woman was lively.

She had some pink in her cheeks.

She…

“Holy shit,” I mutter.

“What?” Max says.

“She’s playing dead.”

“Who’s playing dead?”

“Cindy Louis,” I say from the side of my mouth. “Look, they washed her face out with powder—she practically looks like a corpse in the wheelchair.”

Max leans forward for a look and then leans back. “Yikes, that is some grim reaper-type shit over there.”

Storee’s voice rings through the bar. “The rims are coated in crushed gingerbread cookies, and the spices we used are allspice, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a dash of cardamom. I hope you enjoy.” Then she shimmies toward the judges, earning a laugh with her jingling breasts.

Damn it.

Frank and Thachary love a good shimmy.

They sometimes hold dance classes in their bar before they open. I’ve walked by before and have seen a lot of shimmying. Cindy must have let Storee know.

This might be harder than I thought, especially with the nearly rotting corpse over there in the wheelchair.

The room falls silent, the only noise the music playing overhead. We watch as Frank and Thachary both take a sip and start marking away on their judging cards. I try to catch any sort of tell that they might like it…or, preferably, hate it.

Like a snarl to the lip.

A hiccup from a swallow.

Possibly some singeing of the tongue from too many spices.

But I see nothing.

“Presentation is beautiful,” Frank says. “Thank you, Storee.”

“Of course.” She grabs her drinks and then walks back to her spot.

We’re next.

The judges cleanse their palates with sips of water as Max leans in close again. “Unbutton your Henley; show some chest hair.”

“What? No.”

“Dude, you have to do something—they’re using Aunt Cindy for sympathy. Be Snow Daddy.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Cole Black, we’re ready for you,” Frank says.

“Unbutton,” Max whispers, but I shake him off and bring our drinks forward.

Two brown mugs have reindeer antlers for handles, and I’ve decorated the tray with fresh pine needles from the farm, some dark chocolate bars, and a few hazelnuts. I’m really attempting to add to the ambiance.

I set the tray in front of them and watch them examine it for a second before I say, “I have for you today my rendition of a dark chocolate hazelnut eggnog drink.”

There’s some chatter behind me, a small oooh with a matching ahhh.

“With some fresh-cut pine from Evergreen Farm, two handmade mugs from Baubles and Wrappings, and local dark chocolate from Chadwick’s, I wanted to incorporate the town into this drink as much as I could.”

I see the appreciation on their faces as they take their first sips, and I’ll be honest, I’m slightly nervous. I mean, I want to win. I want to beat Storee, but I didn’t think that I was going to be this anxious going into the competition.

After a few deathly silent seconds and some more sips, they jot away on their cards and then smile up at me.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Cole.”

“You’re welcome,” I say as I reach for the tray.

Behind me, I hear Max cough into his hand while he says, “Shimmy.” But I ignore him as I rejoin the crowd. We’re going to let the drink speak for itself. We’re not going to use cringeworthy tricks like making a lady with a broken hip look like she’s on her deathbed.

No, we’re going to win this on merit.

We’re going to win this with dignity.

We’re going to win this the right way.

Bob Krampus steps up to the table now, in his complete Santa costume. “Boys, have we reached a verdict?”

Frank offers a curt nod and then slips a sealed envelope into Bob’s hands.

The room falls silent again, and tension rises.

I glance over at Storee. She’s holding Cindy’s hand, and Cindy is…good God, is her tongue dangling out of her mouth?

Taran is holding Cindy’s shoulders, and both sisters are brimming with excitement.

Ursula is standing proudly, chin held high, already accepting the win in her mind.

Beatrice is holding a rose, part of her rose-flavored eggnog—I can tell you who’ll be placed last.

And Jimmy is…God, he’s disgusting. He’s wiping his nose on the back of his hand and examining the result.

Max grips my shoulder and whispers, “No matter what happens, you’re still Snow Daddy to me.”

Christ.

Bob swipes his hand over his beard and speaks deeply, his voice booming through the bar. “Thank you all for coming. The Eggnog Wars always kick off the start of our Christmas Kringle search. We’d like to thank Frank and Thachary for hosting us this evening. They’re offering ten percent off all drinks tonight and fifteen percent off your entire purchase at Frank ‘n’ Scents. For a valid coupon, please see Renee at the bar and she will hand you one. Now, for the winner. As in years past, Frank and Thachary will add the winning eggnog concoction to their menu for next year—a true Kringletown honor.”

The crowd claps, and once the chatter dies down, Bob opens the envelope and pulls out the card with the names of the winners on it.

Here we go…here we go. First place goes to me!

He studies the list. His mustache twitches, and then he slowly looks up to the crowd. Having fun with everyone’s impatience, he scans the restless contestants and then glances down at his card again. In a booming voice, he announces, “In last place…” He pauses. “We have our very own…Dr. Beatrice Pedigree.”

Beatrice hangs her head but claps for herself along with the crowd.

Sorry, lady, but I called it. Rose and eggnog are not a combination anyone wants in their mouth.

When the crowd dies down, Bob once again scans the room and then, in a very William Shatner from Miss Congeniality voice—don’t ask how I know—says, “In fourth place…Jimmy Short.”

A round of soft applause rings through the room as Jimmy bows and then wipes his nose with the back of his hand again.

Dude, that’s one nasty habit—grab a napkin.

Once again, the room falls silent and I move from side to side, gearing up for what’s next. Come on, we’ve made it this far already. Please not third. Please not third.

“And in third place…”

Say Storee.

Say Storee.

He looks in my direction and my stomach bottoms out just before he says, “We have Ursula Kronk.”

Jesus Christ. Why did he have to look at me?

Bob Krampus with the old fake-out.

The town collectively gasps while I exhale sharply at how the reigning champion has been upstaged by two newbies.

I was hoping Storee would take third, but it’s fine—it’s fine.

I’m going to take this win home. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. I made one hell of an eggnog, and I didn’t make my aunt look sickly while doing it.

Dignity and merit. We’re winning the right way.

“And our first winner of the Christmas Kringle season is…”

Max squeezes my shoulder.

My breath stills in my chest.

My hands turn incredibly clammy.

“No matter what happens, don’t forget to smile,” Max says through clenched teeth.

And…

“Storee Taylor!” Bob yells.

Mother…

Fucker!

An eruption of cheers rings through the room as I glance over at Storee, who stands there blinking in shock and…are you fucking kidding me? Cindy is standing from her wheelchair, Taran holding on to her, whooping it up like she just won the two-hundred-meter freestyle against Michael Fucking Phelps.

Is anyone else seeing this?

She was clearly faking it.

Frank, Thachary, they played you!

The once-gray corpse in the wheelchair has resurrected herself into cheering so vivaciously that…yes, in fact, she is performing minute hip thrusts, to the crowd’s delight.

Cheaters!

They’re freaking cheaters.

What lowlifes, using an old woman’s infirmity to win a competition.

Even if the old woman was certainly in on it the whole time.

“Clap, man. You have to clap,” Max mutters.

Even though I hate it, I reluctantly put a smile on my face and clap.

But I don’t just clap. I clap loud.

Loud enough that I feel Max wince next to me.

And then, in a boisterous voice, my alter ego, Snow Daddy, appears. “Well deserved, so well deserved. What a great competition and start to a lively holiday season.”

Bob Krampus nods at me in approval.

Frank and Thachary congratulate Storee.

And I take it all in, revising my plan for total domination.

We’re not going to lose like this. Nope. If they’re going to pull out all of their tricks…

So are we!