Page 90 of The Holiday Fakers
“It actually says the village is called Heartwood, but I think we should change it to Hideaway Harbor. What do you think?”
“Change it!” a few of the children yell.
I sneak a glance at Piper, standing off to the side. She’s smiling, but when she catches my eye, she blushes and looks down, fiddling with a button on her coat.
“Okay, democracy has spoken. Heartwood is now Hideaway Harbor.” The little boy leads the cheers, and his wholehearted enthusiasm for such a small thing makes my heart swell.
“Every Christmas, the people of Hideaway Harbor hung twinkling lights on their houses, sang songs that echoed up the mountainside, and spent time together, laughing and having fun. The yeti wished he could join them, but he knew he didn’t belong. He was too big, too furry, and, most of all, too different.”
I continue with the story, trying to inject as much drama into it as possible. Some of the kids seem more interested in trying toscoop out every last drop of hot chocolate from their mugs with their hands, but the little dude near the front is hanging on my every word.
“He squeezed down the chimney headfirst, his big, furry hands clutching the sides as he tried to wriggle down, his mind full of dreams of Christmas cheer. But something was wrong … The chimney was too narrow, and no matter how much he wiggled, he was stuck halfway. His large, fluffy feet kicked helplessly, his furry belly wedged tight.
“‘Oh dear,’ he mumbled, his voice muffled by the bricks. ‘This wasn’t how I imagined it at all!’”
The kids laugh, and I sneak another look at Piper. Her attention is solely on me, as if I’m reading the most captivating story in the history of literature, or if we’re the only two people here. She doesn’t look away when I catch her eye and I want to hold her gaze. But I’m in the middle of the book, so I clear my throat and read on.
“The little boy peered up the chimney and saw a big, furry shape wedged tightly. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Is someone stuck?’
“A muffled voice groaned from deep inside. ‘Ho, ho, ho! It’s me, Santa! I tried to squeeze down the chimney, but I ate too many Christmas cookies, and now I’m stuck!’
“The boy furrowed his brow, walking closer to the fireplace. ‘You don’t look like Santa. You look like a yeti!’
“The yeti’s head popped into view, his furry face stuck halfway out of the chimney, looking embarrassed. ‘Can I be a yetiandSanta?’ he asked with a sheepish grin.
“The boy laughed. ‘Yes! You can be both!’”
I keep my eyes glued to the page as I finish the story, with the yeti spending his first Christmas with the little boy and his family, and making his first friends.
“As the snow fell gently outside, the yeti knew he had found the one thing he had been longing for: not just a family, but a place where he truly belonged.”
There are still two lines left, but I pause. Where doIbelong? New York? Here? I glance at Piper again, and the answer arrives like a neon sign in my brain.
I belong wherever she is.
“And from that day on, every Christmas, the yeti would return, because sometimes, it’s not what you look like, but who you are inside that makes all the difference.”
I close the book, and that’s the cue for the applause, which I lap up, because at the end of the day, I’m a needy actor who lives for validation.
The boy who’s taken such a keen interest in the story leaps to his feet and comes forward, his arm outstretched. “I’m Billy.”
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Billy.”
“I’ve got a puppy. Her name is Lucky, and I’m training her to be a hunting dog. We’re gonna hunt a yeti.”
“Do you know where yetis live?”
He points at the book in my hand. “In caves. The book says so. High up in the mountains.”
“And how do you track one down? They’re pretty shy.”
“You have to look forsigns,” he replies. “My grandpa is teaching me to track animals.” He leans forward like he’s about to impart a big secret. “And one of the signs they leave ispoop!”
I try to smother a grin and fail.
Billy seems delighted with my response. “Big, stinky poop!”
This time, I snort with laughter.
