Page 59 of Fa-La La-La Land
We’re under one of the portable propane heaters that line each side of the parade route, which warms the top of my beanie but not much else. I’m not convinced I’ll survive this parade. My nose hairs are frozen. I think I’ve got icicles on my eyelashes. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of my face follows.
Stella faces me, a smile spreading from one temple to the other. “You don’t have frostbite,” she says merrily, tweaking my nose—which really hurts, seeing as it’s half frozen. “It’s not that cold, and we won’t be outside long enough for you to literally freeze. The parade takes a total of thirty minutes. And that’s with half the residents of Paradise Valley in it. Just drink your hot cocoa and enjoy.”
I grumble something about grown men drinking cocoa instead of coffee, then take a sip and instantly shut up.
“Is this your recipe?” I ask, already going back for another drink.
“No. My great-grandma’s, but it’s the same one I made when we decorated the tree. Britta used to make it on parade day, but now Cassie and Bear do since they bought the cafefrom her.” She claps loudly for the local high school dance team walking behind a slow-moving truck, shaking their mittened jazz hands to the song blasting from the truck’s speaker.
The song? “Fa-La La-La Land,” of course.
I take another sip, feeling marginally warmer and a bit happier, despite being tortured by my least favorite song. I even wink at one dancer when she stops mid-move and stares at me.
This town’s got a weird sort of magic. After twenty-four hours here, I’m not sure why Stella ever left. It’s peaceful and friendly, the kind of place where people don’t hold a public meltdown against you for too long.
A few people have asked for autographs, but most let me be, other than to ask if Stella’s told me the story of her letters. She can’t take two steps without someone stopping her. Every few seconds, someone new shows up to hug her or ask if I’m the reason she’s still in LA.
She keeps giving the same answer. “He’s my boss, that’s all. I told him so much about the parade and Yulefest, he begged to come with me.”
To a person, they tell me I should stay the whole month, then list off activities—only about a quarter sound like anything I’d want to do. Truth is, though, the longer I’m here, the less I want to leave.
Still, I can tell Stella’s getting itchy to leave already. Not the parade—she’s all in on that—but Paradise. I’ve caught her scrolling through beach photos and sighing more than once. I don’t get it. How can she be homesick for the city while she’s grinning at tractors pulling tinsel-covered flatbeds? There’s everyone from the mayor—Darlene Something-or-other, who Stella very pointedly doesn’t clap for—to the sheriff to the high school homecoming queen and her court.
“Some of those cheerleaders look like they’ve been out ofhigh school since the dawn of time,” I say when a whole squad of them marches by, pom-poms flying.
“They’re not all current cheerleaders, just anyone who’s ever been one and is still around. Look! There’s Granny Sparks!” Stella jumps up and down, waving at her granny in a pleated skirt down to her knees, who waves a pom-pom right back.
“I’m surprised you weren’t a cheerleader,” I say, waving too.
“Of course I was. Cheer was about the only sport girls could do until Bear started a hockey team for girls. But I don’t live here anymore, so I don’t get to be in the parade. Those are the conditions.”
“Shame. I’d pay good money to see you in your old uniform.” I lay my rock star voice on thick.
She stops waving long enough to send a tempting grin over her shoulder. “Ha! There’s only room for one of us to wear costumes in this relationship,” she says too loudly.
The lady next to her—a Mrs. C., who’s already chatted us up, including making sure I know about Stella’s letters—leans between us and lets out a soft squeal. “I knew it! I knew it! No one has ever been able to resist Stella Sparks!” She grabs my arm and squeezes hard enough I feel it through my parka. “You hold on to her, you hear? She’s a keeper.”
Then she turns to Stella. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he? You’d make pretty babies.”
One thing’s certain: this town doesn’t do subtle.
Stella’s face is bright red, and Mrs. C. is my new favorite person, but I decide to rescue Stella, anyway. I point toward a group of little girls in hockey gear marching by, followed by a giant in a bigger version of their pink jerseys. “Is that Bear out there?”
Stella and Mrs. C. both turn back to the parade and cheer for Stella’s cousin and his team. I clap along, but my attention’son Stella. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her breath fogs the air every time she whoops, and she’s loving every unreasonably cheerful minute of this parade she’s probably seen a hundred times.
She’s forgotten all about Mrs. C’s matchmaking and has her arm linked through the older woman’s, waving like she’s royalty. No one should get this much joy out of tractors, tinsel, and their own relatives—but Stella does. Because she always does.
She’s stubborn, pushy, too perky for her own good sometimes.
I think back to the lyrics I jotted down last night. There’s nothing in them about being under Christmas lights or snow falling. My words are about pain cushioned with peace, hurt caused by loss, juxtaposed with the joy of having loved, opposing emotions melded together to create a whole.
Black and white. Yin and yang. Every opposite needs its match.
And I think I may have found mine in Stella.
Mrs. C.’s right. She’s a keeper.
Chapter Twenty
