Who wants to see giant man-parsnip crooning? Ew. Even the phrase “man-parsnip” made me shudder.

“C’mon, Mols?” Grace was hopping around. “We’ve never been. And there’s space at the back to hide…”

Every bit of me wanted to run away. But Grace was doing some kind of Christmas bop, and a picture of Grampy G giving me one of his looks flashed into my brain.

“The very back?” I asked, optimistically. Too late. Grace was already dragging me down the cobbled street. I spotted some lads from school and pulled my hoodie up. I already regretted this. Oh and great, there were my netball team, filming The Rocking Stockings, laughing their heads off, and not in a good way. I, however, found it less funny.

Because The Rocking Stockings were my mum and dad. Which was why my life was one big carefully constructed plan to make sure no one knew we were related. The Rocking Stockings, who were now kissing under some fake mistletoe, were the reason I always walked the long way home. That I said “no” whenever my parents offered to pick me up from school. Or town. Why I’d told them our netball matches didn’t allow supporters.

My only small victory was that when we moved, I’d got them to agree to switch the name of their band from The Brussel Shouts to The Rocking Stockings, so no one knew they were behind “Love Your Elf!”

I grabbed Grace’s bobble hat and pulled it on.

“No eye contact. No waving. And absolutely no talking to them afterwards.”

“I know the drill, Mol … though the offer to be a dancing roast potato for them still stands.” I flared my nostrils. “Tell me they don’t look amazing up there?!”

She’d never seen them in action before.

“They do not look amazing up there.” I felt a bit bad. I did actually love my parents to bits. I just wished they could be more … less. I crossed my fingers and willed them to remember our deal. That if they ever saw me when they were like this, they HAD to ignore me. One forgetful wave and the last five years of carefully getting back in control of my life could be over.

“SO, WHO IS READY FOR…” My breathless dad drummed the mic on his knee. “REQUEST TIME?!”

The crowd cheered and started shouting out suggestions. “‘Love Your Elf’!” someone screamed. And again. I glared at Dad. There was NO way. They’d agreed NEVER to play it in public ever again!

But the crowd were clapping and chanting it over and over. “ELF! ELF! ELF!”

Mum and Dad scanned the crowd. Were they looking for me? They KNEW the rule?!

“Grace,” I panicked. “Can we go?” But she’d disappeared to hunt for some free churros.

And like a giant out-of-control sleigh careering towards me, my nightmare smacked me in the face. The Rocking Stockings were playing “Love Your Elf!”. The crowd were singing. And … was my mum trying to prove a turkey could twerk?!

“OK, THAT…” Zaiynab appeared out of nowhere, her perfect black bob swinging under her chin. What was she doing here? And why was she talking to me?! And why was Matt with her? And could Grace please come back?! “… is exactly NOT what our band is looking for.” She laughed.

“Hahahahaha!” I panic-howled like I’d never heard anything funnier. “Yes, absolutely. Awful,” I said in a total flap. This could not be happening?! Graaaaace. I tried to summon her with my mind.

“And this song?” Zaiynab looked like she was personally insulted by it.

Were my toes sweating? My toes were sweating.

“Yes. Absolutely. Awful,” I said. I needed some more words. But it was hard to think when Matt was flinching at Mum and Dad harmonizing “we think you’re really swell”.

“Who could write lyrics like that?!” Zaiynab grinned. But … I knew all too well. My closest genetic relatives. And Mum was now yelling, “Let’s put the rock into root vegetables!” “Novelty music is The Worst, right, Matt?” He nodded as Zaiynab sighed. “And that cute little elf line?” My parents had got a child up onstage to sing it. “Poor girl.”

Matt stared at the stage, in what looked like shock. “If we ever do that onstage … permission to kill me.” Dad was giving Mum a piggyback as she swung the mic around her head.

“Yeah.” Think of something insightful to say, Molly. “Absolutely. Awful.” OK, this time Zaiynab definitely noticed.

I HAD to get out of here. What if my parents waved? Or said hello? Zaiynab and Matt would never speak to me again, let alone consider me for The POWR. “Anyway, I need to go and…” I looked around for an urgent excuse. “Get some Christmas churros. Urgently.”

“Sure,” Zaiynab said politely, like a churros emergency might actually be a thing. “We just came to say thanks for sending your stuff. We need a bit more time, though, so watch this space.”

Watch this space? Did that mean there was hope after all?

And, as I scurried towards a man dressed as a giant churro, I wondered: was it finally my turn for a Christmas miracle?

CHAPTER

2

I swear even Mr W – who once accidentally blended his own finger and just said, “I see” – gasped.

This had to be a joke? A flashing green-and-white laser beam joke.

“Mols.” Grace shook my shoulders. “You OK?”

I blinked. But the outline of a snowman brandishing a carrot was already burnt into my retinas.

“You look like a zombie,” Grace said quietly. “A Christmas zombie, and … well, that’s not a thing.” But even Grace couldn’t take her eyes off what was in front of us. It was like Times Square had landed in our village – if Times Square mainly displayed flashing reindeers.

Mum and Dad had mentioned they were going to “commit to Christmas” this year, but for some naïve reason I thought they’d listened when I’d said words like “subtle” and “tasteful”.

A full-sized sleigh on the roof.

A snowwoman climbing the only tree in our garden.

And was that a fake reindeer putting its head in and out of our kitchen window pretending to eat a light-up carrot?

HOW WAS ANY OF THIS SUBTLE AND TASTEFUL?!

And did some fake snow just land on my nose? Brilliant.

Not content with lighting up our little cul-de-sac enough to be seen from space, they’d sprayed it with fake snow too. Thank goodness our little village consisted mainly of old people and cats.

I pulled Grace’s bobble hat down even further, as if somehow it could double up as an invisibility cloak.

“I really have never seen an elf as big as this,” Mr W said calmly, looking up at a flashing green-and-red stripy pair of shorts towering above him. Wasn’t the key word for Santa’s little helpers, little? Not nine foot!

And my parents nagged me for wasting money leaving the TV on standby. Make it make sense.

I buried my head in my hands. If anyone found out this was my house, my life would be a nightmare. Grace grabbed me, pulling me out of the way of a cracker-wielding snowman which had started to robotically wheel around the grass.

“I’m s-sorry, Grace.” My voice spluttered. “I should have warned you…” Of what I didn’t know. My parents being out of Christmas control? Having an eye poked out by a mechanical cracker? Grace wasn’t even getting a tree, and yet I’d brought her here, to enough festive illuminations for an Olympic opening ceremony.

“Warned me?” Grace ran on to the small patch of front lawn and grabbed a handful of snow. I think it was shredded old plastic carrier bags, but if Grace was going with it, I wasn’t going to burst her bubble. “This is the highlight of the week.” She stopped dead. “Maybe actually YEAR.” She did actually look happier than she had done in ages. She grabbed her dad’s hand and pulled him over to our fence. “Dad, c’mon, tell me a dreamy singing robin” – she pointed to the mechanical mutant-sized robin chirping quite a threatening version of “Merry Christmas Everyone” – “doesn’t get you in the festive spirit?”

But Mr W put a gentle hand on her arm. “Grace, please don’t do this. I thought we’d talked about it…”