STRAY KIDS.

XXXI. CHRISTMAS SHOES

( STRAY KIDS! )
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.
❝ christmas shoes ❞

❝ do you know the atrocity called the christmas shoes? ❞

ELI ASKS, pulling out a hydrangea that looks slightly wilted. she spends a lot of time on the bouquet, making sure it's in the center of the funeral stone. 

peter is sitting on the bench across from the main alley. he's holding the helmet he gave her in his lap. the bright red clashes with the faded greens and greys around him. a spindly ash tree is billowing in the wind. he's feeling immeasurably out of place. not because this is a cemetery, but because this is not his cemetery, not the one where they buried uncle ben.

"can't say i do."

"oh, you're lucky," she snorts. "it's this awful christmas special; they show reruns of it on ABC family every year. it's about this kid whose mother is dying of cancer. he somehow gets it in his head that what she really wants for christmas is these hideous cheap shoes and that if he gets them for her, she'll be all right. rob lowe also stars as the world's least convincing sober guy. it's a mess."

      "huh. . . i'll make sure to steer clear."

eli smiles impishly. "actually, it's hilarious. every single stupid frame of that movie is a masterpiece it's terrible. dad and i would sit down and watch it every christmas and mock the living hell out of it. anyway, that's what we were doing the night mom went out. it's like the christmas shoes was finally done with our heckling and wanted to impart some divine justice, you know?"

   her tone of voice is wry, almost easy going, and if you didn't know her any better, you would take the anecdote as nothing more than her acerbic sense of humor. it's not. it's hard for her to say this, which is why she has her back turned to him and won't stop fixing the flowers.

"mom got mad that half of our lights were broken and we were missing a bunch of trinkets. this tree looks like shit. those were her last words to me and dad before she picked up the car keys and drove off. she was in a good mood, too. she was just being spontaneous. she did that sometimes, went off and bought stuff and came home with her bags full. we didn't even lift our heads from the christmas shoes because we knew she'd be back with half of 7-eleven."

eli gets up and dusts her knees methodically. she then starts pacing back and forth, looking at the bouquet from various angles. "it's still crooked. damn gravity."

"it looks fine to me," peter says, keeping his gaze on the helmet. the uncomfortable feeling in his gut metamorphoses into helpless sadness. he can't say anything that would make things better, because the idea of "better" is hard to grasp when you're in a cemetery. he knows he won't cry, but just to be safe, he'll ogle the headgear for a while. in real life, you don't cry that much. you just get this watery film over your eyes, and it's actually worse than crying, because you're not letting out any emotions, you're just on the brink of it, like trying to cover up the holes in a sprinkling can.

eli eventually stops pacing. but she still stands with her back to him. he should get up, go to her and put his arm around her shoulders or something like that. but he has the distinct notion that she wouldn't like that, that she likes to stand erect in front of her mother.

all she really needs is a witness. and he can do that.

"that's why we keep up the decorations," she explains foggily. "in case you were wondering. i didn't want you to think we're, like, mormons or something."

"as screwy as it may sound," she continues, her mouth puckering around the words, "dad is still sort of hoping this is all a big joke and that she'll come back someday. he wants it to be the same when she returns. so we keep them up."

peter wipes an invisible smudge off the helmet. bryce wayne's cantankerous face winks at him. he knows what it's like to wait for the front door to open and reveal a familiar face from the past. he knows what a bitch it is to live with it. "do you believe she'll return?"

"sure," she laughs with too much bite in her voice and plops herself down next to him. her face is hooded. "i also believe michael and kennedy are playing golf on easter island."

"it's fine to think she's coming back. it's a coping mechanism."

"i'm past denial, parker. i'm all the way to acceptance," she mutters, staring at the flowers. she's still not pleased. they're not symmetrical, they're not right. nothing ever goes with her mother's grave.

i don't think acceptance exists, he thinks but doesn't say. this might be a good moment to reach out and take her hand in his, but eli turns to him too fast and he misses the chance.

"are you weirded out?"

"by?"

"me, bringing you here to tell you my dead mom story."

peter shakes his head slowly. "death is always weird and it rarely makes sense."

   he sees the big question looming on eli's face from a mile away, but he dodges it awkwardly by pushing the helmet at her.

"you haven't tried this on."

eli picks it up gingerly, like it's an egg about to break. she slips it over her head.

"here, let me..." he trails off, reaching for the straps. he fastens them gently around her chin, his thumb brushing against her jawline tentatively. her skin is so soft, he can't help but want to linger there. his knuckles trace the curve of her throat.

"so, how do i look?"

peter drops his hands. "like michael on easter island."

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