Page 4 of War on Christmas

KnockoffGame of Thronesmusic pumps through the theater, and, with one graceful motion and a sudden rip of Velcro, the dragon tears off his costume to reveal a shiny, skintight bodysuit. Hands clap. Feet pound the floor. Wolf whistles and catcalls echo. Then the dragon turns to strut offstage, and laughter—mine included—erupts as the audience catches sight of his bare ass hanging out of his bodysuit.

The next scene—two gyrating elves shedding leaves from their costumes faster than a tree in October—begins to unfold, and I’m pleasantly surprised at the memories that bubble to the surface. Not sexual ones, just…happy ones. Innocent. Afternoons off school eating frozen pizzas with cardboard crusts while watchingTheLord of the Ringsin Thad and Freya’s basement. Long nights of laughter as we played out rambling Caves & Conquerors campaigns. My sketchbook filled with fantastical creatures: ax-wielding dwarves and busty fairy queens and craggy, bearded wizards. Nowadays, my sketches are…less interesting. Mostly blueprints for strip malls and office buildings, all straight lines and right angles. Square, literallyandfiguratively.

My phone vibrates, but I ignore it. In a theater this small, there’s no inconspicuous way to check it. Around me, awed whispers circulate: “So meta” and “I love the interplay between high fantasy and our gritty, urban setting.” I scoff at the commentary but clap politely when the elves take off their tops to expose marijuana-leaf-shaped pasties. Wes hoots along with the rest of the theater.

The third number, starring a tall, skinny troll, is just getting started when my phone vibrates again. I wince and dig in my pocket, fully intending to power off my phone and return my attention to the stage, where the troll just tossed off his tattered robes to expose a two-foot-long fake schlong bouncing happily between his knobby knees. I'm laughing, giving my screen only a cursory glance, then my eyes catch on the number on the caller ID. A number I haven’t seen in ten years.

Home.

I shoot to my feet, apologizing as I stumble over legs and purses on my way down the aisle. My fingers fumble to answer. Wes stands to follow me, but I wave him off. I push my way outside, barely noticing the frigid night air.

“Mom?” I choke out.

And then I hear her voice. Thinner than I remember. More fragile. But it’s her.

“Jem?”

My breath leaves my body, leaving me dizzy. I try to respond, but I can’t speak over the lump rising in my throat.

“He died,” she says. “Gary just died. Keeled right over.”

Three

FREYA

17 days until Christmas…

I’minmyofficeat The Sphere, catching up on paperwork. Everyone else is in rehearsal, their voices echoing faintly in the background, when Thad’s text comes through.

The Good Twin: Jeremy will be driving up from Chicago Sunday morning to help his mom out with Gary's funeral. Any interest in catching a ride with him?

I stare at my phone, unable to stifle a loud groan, then my eyes flick to the $1,500 vet bill on my desk.

Hecate didn’t even pretend to be sorry about eating the sewing needle and throwing my finances into disarray. She hissed and spit at all the vet techs until they sent her home early after surgery, then as soon as I let her out of her carrier, she proceeded to knock my “Witchy Woman” mug onto the kitchen floor, where it smashed into thousands of pieces.

One piece for each dollar I now owe.

Is it worth it? Of course. I’ve loved the little furball since the moment I first saw her photo on the shelter website, a little blob of midnight fur amid her tabby striped brothers and sisters.

However, I’m officially on the verge of being broke.

Which means that, combined with the unpaid two-week break The Sphere always takes over the holidays, my bank account is looking more pathetic than Hecate’s shaved, stitched belly.

Which means that when Joe, my favorite bartender, offered to pay me a great nightly rate if his in-laws could stay at my apartment for a couple weeks—like an off-the-books Airbnb—I couldn’t exactly turn him down.

Which means that I need a place to stay.

Which means that—rub me down with crystals and douse me with incense—I’m going home for Christmas.

Still, I havesomepride left. I fire off a reply to Thad.

Me: How do I put this delicately? Fuck no.

The Good Twin: Come on, Frey. It’s been 17 years. What did he ever even do to you?

What did Jeremy Kelly do to me? I scowl at my phone. Jeremy Kelly had been my best friend. A sweet, creative goofball of a kid who, other than Thad, was the only person to ever truly understand me. To reallyseeme. Then, freshman year of high school, he grew eight inches in eight months, discovered he could throw a football, and traded in his clunky, Jeffrey Dahmer-style glasses for contacts, thus completing the most astounding “glow up” since Neville Longbottom transformed into Matthew Lewis, certified hottie of the Harry Potter universe.ThenJeremy went on to date a string of popular girls who called me Freaky Freya for the remainder of high school. That’s when he and I fell into a rivalry that encompassed everything from petty squabbling to competing over grades.

Me: He exists.

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