Page 31 of Ewan

His mother seems pleased with how things turned out.

“Thank you so much,” she says. “It was a wonderful evening.

Her husband, the mayor, nods from the sideline.

“It was indeed,” the man says before little Joey lifts his arms, compelling his mother to bend over and listen to what he whispers in her ear.

We all wait as we feel it must be something important.

The woman smiles.

“Why don’t you tell her yourself. And maybe ask Santa, too?” his mother encourages him while my antennas go up.

My eyebrows go up as well, while I maintain a neutral grin on my face.

Joey takes his time, and with the typical shyness of a six-year-old, he swings his arms and looks anywhere but me.

“Can Miss Scarlett take a picture with Santa and have it hung on the wall so we can see it when we return from vacation?” he says before moving his head from side to side and running spastic fingers through his hair.

I love Joey as much as I love Colley and every other little boy and girl in my class, but he doesn’t know what I know.

How dangerous Santa can be.

How I can get in trouble with him.

How taking a picture with him will not produce a photograph that will be strewn across the wall.

Not ever.

My teeth chatter as I speak.

“A picture? With me?” I laugh nervously.

Santa is for kids––I’d love to add––but Santa’s hand moves to the side as if signaling me to stop talking.

“She can do it. Sure,” the man wearing the red costume says, uttering words loud and clear for the first time this evening. “Come over here, Miss Scarlett.”

Little Joey applauds, enthralled, while I’m forced to close the space between him and me.

Stiff like a mop, I set my hand on his shoulder and try not to cock a hip and make it look weird.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken a picture with Santa. Not even when I was little and my mother took me to the mall.

I’ve always found Santa a little scary, and now, it’s no exception, although for different reasons.

A few more people pull up in front of us. Maria is one of them.

“Is that good?” I ask, smiling oddly as if I’m at a beauty pageant, my hand still on the man’s shoulder.

“Can you sit on his lap?” little Joey suggests like the great director he might be one day.

I wish I could laugh him off.

In fact, I ignore his suggestion, convinced it makes no sense for anyone to see me, a grown-up woman, sit on Santa’s lap.

I even gesture at the photographer to rush and take our picture.

“Miss Scarlett? Please,” little Joey says, and I bit my lip in secret, trying not to screw it now.

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