Christmas With You

4. Deck The Halls

"Cameron," I begin as I catch sight of the boy with the auburn hair ambling towards me, a giant, goofy smile on his face, "would you like to explain to me why there is a wreath on my locker?"

All I wanted to do was put my P.E kit away, but no.  Instead of shoving the clothes and trainers in there and marching away, I spent at least five minutes wondering if I was experiencing amnesia with regards to the location of my locker.  Because my locker is plain and grey, just like every other one in this place.  The locker in front of me, however, is green and red, with a massive holly wreath on the metal door.  The last thing I want is attention, but so far at least three people have stopped to compliment me on my festive locker decorations.

Cameron pats my head as he reaches me, and I shake him off.  I'm not twelve.  "It's pretty.  How clever of you to think of something like this!"

I punch his arm and he yelps in pain.  "Stop complimenting your own handiwork," I instruct him.  Fortunately, it's the end of the school day, so I won't have to stay here talking to him.

"Wait!" he yells once I get to the steps outside the school doors.  "I'm sorry.  Can I make it up to you?"

Training my eyes on the pavement ahead of me, I nod.  "Sure: you can leave me alone."

Instead, Cameron loops an around around my shoulders.  I would push him away from me, but he's warm; I, however, am freezing.  So, I let him walk like that, one arm draped over me, not because I like it (I really don't) but because of my poor circulation.  "Where are you trying to take me?" I question when he steers me away from the road that would lead to my house.

"Somewhere warm," he promises.  We've only been talking for a few days, and already he knows my one weakness.  I need to stop letting my guard down around him.  Still, I allow him to lead me away from my road and towards 'somewhere warm'.

*

"Good, right?" Cameron prompts once I finish the Christmas tree-shaped cinnamon cookies he spent half an hour convincing me to make with him.  Apparently, it's his mum's recipe.

"Nope," I lie, brushing crumbs off of my mouth.  Actually, not a lie: they aren't 'good', they're the best thing I have ever tasted.  And trust me, with my mum's culinary abilities, that's saying something.  I'm pulled out of my thoughts of the chocolate cake Mum made for my birthday last year by the sound of keys in the door.  I glance nervously at Cameron.

"Cam?" calls a sweet, smooth voice.

"In the kitchen, Mum," he answers.  I try not to panic but . . . I'm not exactly good with introductions.  Seriously, when Cameron first spoke to me on Monday?  That was my version of nice.

A minute later, a tall, smiling blonde woman enters the kitchen, preceded by the sound of her high heels clicking again the tiled floor.  Her smile widens when she notices me, and I busy myself with sweeping crumbs off of the counter and into my hands.  "Are the cookies good?" she asks as her eyes land on the plate of warm treats on the table.  Cameron looks at me expectantly, daring me to criticize them now.

"They're delicious," I assure her.  She asks a few more questions, like how long 'Cam' and I have been 'friends' and how school is; I try my best to be optimistic, but, like I said, my expertise lies in other areas.

"I thought you didn't like the cookies." Cameron says once she leaves the room, his eyes twinkling and smile playing on his lips.

"I like the cookies," I say sweetly.  "Just not you."