Page 1 of The Santa of the Mountain

1

COLE

25 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS…

“Ta-da!”Margot squeals, holding a mirror in front of me. “What do you think?”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The man in the mirror is not me. This is some Twilight Zone, alternate-reality version of me. A man who has clearly made a string of bad choices, culminating in him agreeing to let his sister transform him into Santa Claus.

My usual salt-and-pepper beard is pure salt. It’s white as snow and my—“Jesus, Margot. You said you were only plucking them.”

I swipe the mirror, waggling my eyebrows as I watch the two thick berms of snow jump.

“Teasing them,” she says before sucking in her lips. “But I had to dye them to match the beard. It wouldn’t look right. I have to hand it to the reviews. This toner workedwaybetter than I expected.”

She hums. I swallow. Dye?…Toner?

“It washes out, right?”

I set the mirror down, looking at her. She’s biting her lip, cheeks as rosy as Rudolph’s nose. I knew this was taking longerthan usual. Forest was in and out in under five minutes last year. Ethan had a fake beard the year before that. This… This isn’t right.

“Margot,” I rasp before glancing at the mirror again. I tug at my beard and then rub my eyebrows. “Tell me it washes out.”

Shit. Shit, shit,shit.

My sister laughs like a mad woman, toppling over on my bed as the bells on her elf slippers jingle menacingly at me. There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and then I hear my brothers’ muffled shouts.

“Let’s see it!”

“Come on out, Santa!”

“I want to be the first to sit on your lap!”

“Santa, Santa, Santa!”They all chant in unison.

My jaw twitches. Every muscle in my body tightens as I stare at my reflection. This is going to be the longest winter of my life.

“It will wash out,” Margot says after finally catching her breath. She squeezes my shoulder. “In a few months or so. Maybe.”

“Great,” I mutter, accepting my new reality.

It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. Playing Santa Claus is inevitable in this family, a tradition long before my time. Each year, one of the men in the family dresses up as Santa Claus and plays the role for all the children of Whispering Winds who come to our Christmas tree lot. It’s expanded over the years, so each weekend we set up Santa’s workshop at the park next to the town’s Christmas tree.

This year I drew the short candy cane, after years of rigging it in my favor, and my brothers couldn’t be happier for a reprieve.

“Are they singing?” Margot asks, adjusting her faux elf ears.

I sigh. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

Again, Margot is holding back another fit of laughter, and again, my muscles clench.

“Don’t forget the suit,” she says, nodding to the bright red bundle on the bed.

I stare at my reflection, the jingling of Margot’s shoes barely registering as she pads toward the door, cradling the small bottles that massacred my beard and brows.

“I’ll see you at the park,” she says.

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