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…”
“Du-du-du-daaaaaa!” Mum flung open the front door, her red-and-white dressing gown that said ‘Mrs Christmas’ on the back billowing behind her. She’d sewn lights into the sleeves – did she know they were flashing orange? She looked like a road sign. “Whaddya think?”
Dad stepped out in a matching Mr Christmas dressing gown and light-up Christmas pudding slippers, clutching a very confused Sosig, who was wearing a fluffy owl dog-hoodie. Of course. How traditional. Two Christmas roadworks and their trusty dog-owl. My poor traumatized Pomsky gave me a look of pure despair. Sorry, Sosig – if I had any idea how to rein Mum and Dad in there wouldn’t be a mechanical snowman yelling “happy holidays” to a confused food delivery driver next door.
I counted down … forty-nine days till Christmas decorations could come down. Forty-nine days to do whatever it took to stop anyone discovering that Father Christmas had sneezed all over my house. And lawn. Oh yep … Cara too. Who knew you could get a red nose and antlers for a camper van?
“The whole thing’s epic,” Grace said, taking a photo of Sosig, who had tilted his head, his tongue lolloping down past his chin. Honestly, how many dogs know how to work their angles?
“It’s a health hazard,” I grumbled to myself, almost tripping over a herd of miniature reindeer. They were at the end of the path to our little garden gate and Mum was happily explaining that once December started, we’d move them one step nearer every day until Christmas day until they reached our chimney. Inside our house. Which made falling over when trying to watch TV a guaranteed activity.
But I could hear a car coming down the little high street, so ran inside before the headlights picked me up. Oof, my heart sank – inside was no better, every single surface was covered in Christmas. Or glitter. Or both. I hurdled a row of mini snowmen just to get to the stairs.
Dad closed the front door and whipped out his face mask. “Masks on, guys. Don’t want anyone catching tinselitis.” He laughed so much he didn’t notice my groan. At least Grace looked happy and Grampy G would definitely approve. “Isn’t it mesmerizing?” Dad stared lovingly at a dancing Christmas pudding doorstop. “Now, seeing as it’s a Grolly evening tonight” – that’s what he called “Grace and Molly time”. He nudged my elbow. “Girls together. We love to see it!” I needed to get him off the internet. Immediately. “And seeing as we’re celebrating.” We were? “We thought we could have pizza. Samuel’s fave, if I’m not mistaken?” He waggled his eyebrows at Mr W.
Suspicious. This all seemed worryingly normal. And what celebration?
“Piiiiiiiiizza?!” A blur of long brown hair and fluffy horse onesie bump-slid down the stairs right on to my feet. If my little sister Billy wasn’t riding a horse, near a horse, watching videos about a horse, then she was dressed like one. It had been just me and Tess until I was ten, but then along came Billy. My parents were good at surprises. “I love pizza!!!!” She threw her hands around my waist. I patted her head. She neighed. Yup, my family was totally normal.
“Great. Christmas pizza it is.” Dad rubbed his hands together. “Brussels, carrots in cardis” – it’s what he called veggie pigs in blankets – “potatoes, the works. Oooh, does cranberry sauce go with cheese…?”
