Christmas With You

5. Santa's Little Helper

"Where did you go after school yesterday?" Mum interrogates me the next evening.

I try not to cringe as I respond.  "To a friend's house."  Bizarrely, the words fall from my mouth with relative ease . . . almost like I'm okay with it.  Friends.  I say it in my head a couple of times.  I, Holly Bells, am friends with Cameron Perry.  For some reason, the thought doesn't make me feel sick like it would have done on Monday or Tuesday.  When did that happen?

"I'm happy you're becoming a bit more . . . sociable again," Mum offers, searching for the right word.

"So am I," I answer honestly.  The doorbell chimes, and I'm at the front door before Mum can even ask me to answer it.  When the door opens, I find a familiar guy on my doorstep, a small tree in his arms.  "I could get you arrested for stalking me," I tell him, but I leave the door open as I return inside the house.

"Who was at the door?" Mum asks as I step back inside the living room.

Cameron appears behind me.  "It's nice to meet you, Mrs Bells.  I brought a Christmas tree for you guys."

I expect my mother to reprimand me for letting someone she's never met into the house - especially since he's a boy - but she laughs.  "I can see that," she smiles politely.  "Thank you."  The smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, and she excuses herself from the room before Cameron can see the tears I know are likely to be sliding silently down her face right about now.

*

"It's weird," I observe, admiring the decorated tree an hour later.  "We haven't had a Christmas tree in years.  Not since-" I stop, my voice fading.  "Never mind."  Cameron raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn't press the subject.

"Now all you need is for Santa Claus to put some presents under the tree, and you're good to go."

I study his face for any signs that he's joking, but he looks 100% serious.  "You still believe in Santa?"

He shrugs.  "I stopped believing when I was eight.  But when I first met my foster parents when I was eleven, they made me kind of want to believe again." Surprised by his confession about being in foster care, I regard him with inquisitive eyes, but don't ask any questions for fear of appearing nosy or disrespectful.  "They're good people.  Christmas is a hell of a lot cooler with them."

I nod.  "If the cookies are anything to go by, I'd have to agree with that."

Cameron smiles, and when he turns to face me, the wistful look hasn't left his eyes.  It's kind of . . . cute.   He coughs, breaking the silence.  "So, when did you stop believing in Santa?"

I frown.  "I never believed," I admit.  We never really celebrated Christmas anyway, not after that night.  It probably explains a lot about my dislike for the holiday now.  It definitely had a lasting effect - of course, something like that is bound to.  Ignoring the pity now reflected in Cameron's eyes due to the absence of that one fundamental Christmas belief from my childhood, I walk out of the room, holding back my tears.  I can't look at it any longer; the lights, the tree, Cameron Perry.  It's all too much.  

How am I supposed to believe in Christmas spirit when it's this time of year that ruined everything?

Seconds after I sink onto my mattress, I hear the front door close.  This time, I can't stop the tears from falling.