Page 11 of Cross Check Christmas
In the corner of my eye, I catch a smirk on Hendrix’s face. "What?"
"Nothing,” Hendrix says, nodding at the spectacle before us. Daisy's got one end of the bag, Tucker the other, and neither seems willing to let go. “Just that this reminds me of that one time we fought over the last bag of chips in the vending machine. Which I won, by the way.”
"And while we're on the subject of things you shouldn't do, how about yesterday when you stole my students during rehearsal time?"
“I didn’t steal them. They volunteered for extra practice."
"During my scheduled rehearsal! Mary can't deliver her lines to an empty manger because Joseph is doing skating drills!"
"Whoa, chill out, Professor. It's just a school play—why are you so worked up about it?"
The penguin squeaks in protest as my fingers dig into its plush body. "Just a school play?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, compared to the championship game?—"
The words hit like a slap. I spin to face him, ignoring the growing spectacle of Daisy chasing Tucker around a lamppost.
"Oh? Well for your information?—"
A throat clearing interrupts my tirade. I turn to see a gentleman with snow-white beard and rosy cheeks, arms loaded with wrapped presents. His red plaid coat catches the wintersunlight, and there's something oddly familiar about the way his eyes twinkle behind wire-rimmed glasses.
I snap my mouth shut mid-sentence, face burning, and step to the side. The man says nothing, just places each gift with careful precision into our donation box. His weathered hands arrange them perfectly—as if each position matters deeply. The silence stretches, broken only by Daisy's distant shouts about proprietary recipe theft.
The man straightens, brushes invisible dust from his coat, and gives us both a knowing smile that makes me feel about five years old. He tips an imaginary hat and walks away, his boots crunching in the light dusting of snow.
For a moment, we stand in silence, watching where he vanished. Then, at length, I shake off the strange feeling and turn back to Hendrix.
"As I was saying. This pageant has been a tradition for fifty years. It brings the whole community together, raises money for charity, and gives kids who aren't athletic a chance to shine. But of course, you wouldn't understand that because if it's not happening on ice, it doesn't matter to you, does it? Heaven forbid anything compete with the almighty sport."
His easy smile falters. "That's not fair?—"
“You know what? You haven't changed at all since high school. You're still the same self-centered jock who thinks the world revolves around whatever game you're playing.”
"And you're still the same uptight perfectionist who acts like every minor setback is a personal attack.”
“Some of us are trying to give these students something meaningful, something that isn't about scoring goals or getting bloody noses!"
“It's called teamwork. Maybe if you stepped off your literary pedestal once in a while, you'd see that."
"My pedestal?" I sputter. "That's rich coming from someone whose idea of poetry is whatever fits on a bumper sticker!"
Behind us, Daisy and Tucker's pastry war has drawn a crowd, but I barely notice. I'm too busy watching Hendrix's jaw clench as he straightens to his full height.
"At least I'm teaching them something useful. When was the last time someone got a scholarship for playing Shepherd Number Three?"
"Says the overpaid jock who barely made it through high school," I snap back, immediately regretting the words but too angry to stop.
I know I've gone too far. His face darkens, and for the first time—probably ever—I see real hurt flash across those hazel eyes.
"You know what?" He steps back. “You’re right. See ya around, Professor.”
I watch him stalk away, his broad shoulders tense under his leather jacket. The stuffed penguin dangles limply from my hand, its googly eyes judging me.
Well, that could have gone better. One minute we were watching Daisy and Tucker's ridiculous pastry chase, and the next... I went nuclear.
A gust of winter wind sweeps through the square, scattering a few snowflakes. Hendrix disappears momentarily in the crowd as he makes his way down Main street, leaving only boot prints in the dusting of snow.
The Santa hat plays another tiny round of Jingle Bells, its cheerfulness mocking my guilt. I'm supposed to be the adult here, the professional educator. Instead, I just threw a temper tantrum worthy of a teenage drama club diva.
