Page 37 of Christmas Criminal

The high school kid in me couldn't resist.

Plus... I didn't really want to go to the fair alone. I'll go for a few laps through the town square through the night–it's not like the mathletes actually need me anyway–but it's nice to have a reason to be here. Like all the parents walking around while the kids go off with their friends.

Otherwise, I'm just some teacher who goes to town events alone.

Once the kids have gotten into a good groove, serving people and thanking them for contributing to their jacket fund, I step out of our hut, warm cup of hot chocolate in my hand. I take a right on the pavement and head around in a big circle, exploring what this year's winter festival has brought us.

Mrs. Smith's scarf booth, piled to the ceiling with warm weather clothing. Mr. Bellman's rare coin and train booth. Mrs. Pontsky's cookies–I stop for a packet of warm ones because I have dreams about them all year. Various Christmas ornaments and peppermint snacks and ugly sweaters and every Christmas treat under the sun.

People of all ages swarm along the pavement ahead of and behind me. There's laughter and Christmas music and someone ringing bells above the crowd.

I finish up my loop, saying hello to the multitude of former students and parents that I've gotten to know over the past few years, and head back toward the hot chocolate booth. I'm pleased to see a long line out front and the kids running the booth hustling to fulfill orders. They work quickly and without getting flustered.

I make my way toward them, weaving through the crowd gathered out front.

And as I'm about to slip behind the table, a manicured hand grabs my arm.

I turn to see Delia Wilson grinning at me, her fingers squeezing my arm through the fabric of my jacket.

"Nick," she says, her smile too white and her eyes too bright. "So nice to see you."

As much as I wanted to like her, Delia was a problem parent. Her daughter graduated last year, but before that, she was up my ass almost every day asking what sort of extra credit her daughter could do to get an A in my class. About what sort of extra creditshecould do to ensure that happened.

Her daughter got an A because she deserved it. She was a hardworking kid, and I was happy to write her a reference letter for college. But her mother rubs me all sorts of the wrong way.

Mostly because she always looks at me with that wide smile and a look in her eye likeweknoweach other.

We don't. I don't want to know her like that. She bothers me–not in a good way–and I have no inclination to hang out with her. I can't tell what's going on in her head because she always wears the same delighted expression on her face, and while I could see that others might find it welcoming, I find it jarring. No one isalwaysthat happy, and it gives me that sameuncomfortable feeling you'd get seeing someone walking around the Christmas fair in a hockey mask.

Maybe it's because I'm one of the few who knows it's all a manipulation. Just a sneaky way to get what she wants from people. I've seen it work a number of times–on other teachers, on the principal, even on other parents. She says what she wants and then she smiles at you until you bend to her will.

"Delia," I say in greeting, doing my best to not let it show how little I want to talk to her.

"How have you been?" she asks, her hand still on my arm.

I give her a terse smile. "Fine, and yourself? How is Hattie doing at college?"

"Oh, she's doing so well. Really flourishing," she says, shaking her head. "I'm so relieved to see she's doing well. You know how much support she always needed."

I blink. "I think Hattie always had a good handle on things."

She grins, waving me off like this is a compliment. "Oh, that's so sweet of you to say. We both know she needed a little outside help from time to time."

I let out a long breath. I know exactly what she's implying, and it drives me insane that she thinks all of those times she's hit on me is the reason her daughter did so well in school.

Hattie did welldespiteher.

"She certainly needed no outside help from me," I tell her, pressing my lips together to avoid telling her that all she did was make a fool of herself. "Hattie earned every good grade she ever got on her own."

Delia nods exuberantly. "Oh, right, right. Of course, yes. Hattie earned every good grade she ever got."

And then she winks at me.

I'm momentarily stunned to silence. Delia really just believes what she wants to believe.

"You know, I was thinking. Now that Hattie's off at school, it might be nice if we got together for a drink sometime."

I shrug away from her, glancing at the crowd around us waiting for hot chocolate. "Look, I'm supposed to be helping out with this booth. I should probably get back to it," I say, turning and ducking around another few people until I'm safely surrounded by mathletes.

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