Shots have been fired; the tension is thick.


    Bob Krampus is oblivious, just our charming St. Nick.


    For preparations begin! The Eggnog Wars are up.


    Who will make the best eggy drink in a cup?


    Will it be Cole with his hazelnut rendition?


    Or will it be Storee with her ginger addition?


    Our judges Frank and Thachary will soon let us know,


    on this beautiful, stormy day all covered in snow.


    “I don’t know, Aunt Cindy, this seems like a lot of ginger to add to a drink.”


    “Are you questioning me?” she asks as she sits at the bistro table in her kitchen, watching me like a hawk.


    “I am, actually,” I say on a wince, knowing damn well I shouldn’t be questioning her and her recipe since it came in secondst year—as she has told me several times since we woke up this morning.


    But second is second, and we’re not gunning for second; we’re gunning for first. First in every category.


    After the other night when Cole said I didn’t deserve to win, something lit within me. How dare he decide that for himself. I might not live here, but I love my aunt Cindy. I love the magic she created for us growing up, and I will do just about anything to prove someone wrong—Cole being that someone.


    He thought he was shaming me, but he has no idea what he did. He poked the beast, and my chompers are ready to take him down.


    “Perhaps we add some sugar, something to counteract the bnce in the vor,” I say.


    Aunt Cindy shakes her head as Taran enters the room, pine gand hanging around her neck. “Where are the scissors?”


    “In the drawer under the telephone,” Aunt Cindy says.


    “Thanks.” Taran finds the scissors and then takes off.


    Taran, when not “cleaning the crevices,” has been decorating the house. And given her determination to make everything perfect, she has spent a great deal of time measuring out the lengths of the gands, making sure each drape matches the one next to it. Her bows are perfectly centered, the length of each ribbon precisely the same. And don’t get me started on the lights she hung up around the living room windows. They’re all facing inward, which took her a ludicrous amount of time. Hence why only the living room and now the hallway are decorated.


    “Now, back to the ginger,” Aunt Cindy says from her perch. “Just listen to me, because I know what I’m doing.”


    “Okay,” I say on a sigh before dumping a tablespoon of ginger into the cup of eggnog.


    “Now, give it a good stir and take a taste.”


    “You want me to drink this?”


    “How else are you supposed to perfect your eggnog without tasting it?”


    Maybe with a touch less ginger, that’s how.


    “Uh, well, I didn’t really think about it.” I start stirring the eggnog with <span id="page_88">one of Aunt Cindy’s ss stir sticks, the seasoning having a tough time blending with the thick concoction.


    “These are things you need to think about, dear. Now go ahead, drink up.”


    I’d rather not.


    It’s all…clumpy, and the smell is unpleasant.


    I know for a fact that this will singe my taste buds. There’s no way this is going to taste anything like, as Aunt Cindy said, Christmas in a cup.


    “We don’t have all day,” she says. “Competition is tonight, so we need to make sure this is right. Go on, drink.”


    Talk about pressure.


    And from my aunt, of all people.


    Knowing she’s not going to drop it, I set the stir stick on the folded towel on the rose-pink marble counter, and I bring the hobnail ss up to my lips.


    Oh fuck, that smells.


    “You know, I think I can already tell this won’t be good.”


    “Storee Taylor, we’re never going to win with that kind of attitude—now, drink!”


    This freaking olddy…


    I smile at her, then bring the rim of the ss to my lips, tip my head back and sip.


    Oh.


    My.


    Fuck.


    Immediately I can feel hairs sprout from under my nose, my armpits…and my chest. The potency of ginger has instantly yeti-fied me. This drink embodies that term hair of the dog.


    I set the ss down, brace both hands on the counter, and then cough.


    And cough.


    And cough.


    Until I feel my stomach revolt.


    I quickly run to the sink, turn on the water, and then point the faucet directly into my mouth as I try to wash the burning sensation of the ginger off my taste buds.


    “Dear heavens,” Aunt Cindy says from her table.


    I turn off the water and stare down into the stainless-steel sink as I try to catch my breath.


    “Was it…was it bad?” she asks.


    How could you tell?


    I swallow, praying that I didn’t just lose all my ability to taste as I look over at my aunt, her expression innocent and genuinely concerned.


    “It was horrific.”


    She leans back in her chair, her hand going to her chin, rubbing it a few times. “Hmm, maybe that’s the amount I use for making actual gingerbread, not a drink. I tend to forget in my older years.”


    Oh.


    My.


    God.


    “Maybe we should use that recipe card that you suggested,” Aunt Cindy continues.


    What a novel idea!


    Trying not to grow irritated, I say, “Yes, I think that would be great.”


    “It’s above the fridge, dear. Grab my recipe box.”


    dly.


    I reach above the fridge, feel around for a box, and when I find it, I pull it down and then bring it over to Aunt Cindy. I take a seat next to her as she thumbs through the cards.


    While she searches for her recipe, I look around the familiar kitchen with its dark mahogany wood, pink-and-white damask wallpaper, and her rose-and-gray marbled counters that I thought were a bold choice when I was young but can appreciate now for their timeless charm.


    The kitchen was always one of my favorite ces that she decorated <span id="page_90">because she matched the aesthetic to a gingerbread theme with her tea towels, cookie jars, and miniature winter vige. It was yful and not as fussy with tradition as the front of her house. More whimsical, more her.


    “Ah-ha, here we are.” She lowers her reading sses from the top of her head and ces them over her eyes as she scans the recipe. “Goodness, yes, we were wrong with the one tablespoon of ginger.”


    Funny how she uses the term “we” so loosely.


    “Ah, and we do need allspice too.” She lifts her sses. “You’re going to have to run to the Myrrh-cantile to grab some more eggnog and allspice.”


    I saw thating.


    The wonderful thing about the Eggnog Wars is that we don’t have to make the eggnog ourselves, which I was worried about. They give a basic nog mixture to all the contestants, and it’s up to us to vor it properly and give the judges a reason to choose ours based on the additions we make.


    Which is great, because I have zero idea how to even begin the process of making eggnog—and I’m also not interested in learning it. I like the thick drink, but I’m not sure I want to know how it’s made.


    I stand up from the table. “Do you need anything else while I’m out?”


    “No, dear, I think that will be it.”


    “Okay,” I say.


    “Don’t be long—we have work to do.”


    Cole


    So she’s off to the store, looking for eggnog and allspice.


    Perhaps she might run into someone who is not so nice.


    “I’m nice.”


    Narrator: Sir, I have the receipts to prove otherwise.


    “You’re telling the story. If you’re not happy with my attitude, then change it.”


    Narrator: Fine… How about this, then: Golly gee, what a glorious day it is. Do you hear those birds chirping, see the vibrant colors under their wings as they puff their feathery chests? It’s so beautiful, it makes me want to cry… That better?


    “Don’t fucking do that again.”


    Narrator: Then mind your own business and carry on.


    “Do you really think the traditional route is the way to go?” Max asks as he leans against the spice rack in the Myrrh-cantile.


    “Yes,” I say. “Everyone likes tradition.”


    “Yes, but this is Frank and Thachary we’re talking about,” Max says. “You’ve seen the cocktails they’ve created at Prancer’s. They’re not traditional in the slightest.”


    I pause as I reach for the cinnamon. “They’re traditional,” I say.


    Max blinks a few times. “Uh, if you don’t recall, they have a drinkbeled Santa’s Balls.”


    “I thought Krampus forced them to take that off the menu.”


    “It’s on the secret menu,” Max says.


    “There’s a secret menu?” I turn toward Max, who slowly nods.


    “If you ever came out of your cave during the Christmas season, then you’d know that there’s a secret menu during the month of December. All the banned drinkse back. Santa’s Balls is on there, as well as Antler Sex, Tinsel Tits, and the very problematic Reindeer Hole.”


    I wince. “I still have nightmares about that drink.”


    “Exactly. But do you see what I’m saying?” Max says in a low voice as someone walks by us.


    If there’s one thing I learned during the Christmas Kringle orientation, <span id="page_92">it’s that I’m going to have to step out of myfort zone and be the jolliest dickhead I can muster.


    So I straighten up, put on arge smile, and announce, “Merry Christmas! May your season be full of d tidings.”


    The shopper nervously nces at me and walks away—clearly a tourist. Damn it, wasted some mustered-up cheer on the wrong person.


    “May your season be full of d tidings?” Max questions me. “What the hell was that?”


    “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m new at this.”


    “New at what?”


    “Uh, well, to name a few…talking to people I don’t know, smiling, acting like I’m pleased to see another human walk by me, and offering a Christmas-y hello. All out of my wheelhouse, man.”


    “Huh, you’re right.” He scratches his chin. “Making a mental note toe up with some seasonal greetings for you. Now, back to Frank and—”


    “Merry Christmas,” someone says as they walk past us.


    I curtsy, pulling at the hem of my jacket—for God knows what reason—and say, “Merry Christmas, dear sir. And top of the morning.”


    He smiles and walks around the corner while I feel Max’s questioning eyes trained on me.


    “Dude…the curtsy?”N?velDrama.Org ? content.


    “Shut up,” I mutter. “I told you I’m not good at this shit. I feel like a goddamn robot out here trying to humanize myself.”


    “Well, saying top of the morning is not the way to do it. It’s Christmas, not St. Patrick’s Day.”


    “It just slipped out when I was mid-curtsy.”


    “Well, get it together. We can’t have you—”


    “Merry Christmas,” an elderly woman says as she shuffles by.


    Jesus Christ!


    “By George, it is a merry Christmas,” I say with a pump of my arm. “Can’t get enough of those baubles, am I right?”


    She smiles. “Oh yes. So beautiful.”


    “The most beautiful,” I say, shing my teeth because at this point, I don’t even know what a genuine smile feels like.


    When she’s out of earshot, Max mutters, “Do I even need to say anything?”


    “Nope.” I shake my head in shame.


    “It’s actually sickening to watch you pretend to be in such a cheery mood. When was thest time you smiled this much?”


    “Probably this past summer when you identally chopped into the water line at the farm and ran around like a lunatic, screaming for someone to turn off the water.”


    Max’s face falls t. “That was not funny.”


    “I thought it was.” I smirk just as another person approaches. Gearing up, I say, “Season’s greetings and good—” My words fall t as I catch a glimmer of a gold sash and the sh of red hair.


    When Storee’s gray eyes meet mine, the smirk that tugs on the corner of her lips is unmistakable. “Why, season’s greetings to you as well. What a fine morning to see such a cheery turd in the middle of the Myrrh-cantile.”


    The smile freezes on my face. “I was thinking the same thing—how it’s so wonderful toe face to face with someone who has seen rock bottom on so many asions. Truly gives one perspective.”


    Her lip twitches, but her fake smile doesn’t fade. “And on such a bright and cheery Saturday morning, it’s shocking and yet a pleasure to know that someone who truly smells worse than a rancid dumpster is still able to live their best life in the herbs and spices aisle.”


    Max snorts next to me but covers his mouth with his hand to suppress his obvious delight.


    “Ah ha ha ha.” I fakeugh, Storee joining in with me. “Yes, quite a season of giving, don’t you think? And I see that you’re giving away your ability to care about your appearance. Truly remarkable howfortable you are looking so…how do I say it…ahh, like an aroused middle toe.”


    She yfully pushes at my chest andughs as someone walks by. “Merry Christmas,” we say in unison.


    When the person is gone, she says, “An aroused middle toe, huh? Seems to me like someone might have a foot fetish.”


    “Ah, but that would mean I’d be into you, and as you know for a fact, that couldn’t be further from the truth. So please take your toe head, have a blessed Christmas, and begone.”


    “I would love nothing more than to transport myself away from the putrid scent pouring out of your mouth, but unfortunately for me, you’re standing in front of the spices, and I need to purchase some.”


    “Ah, I see.” I don’t move to the side though. “Unfortunately, ogres can’t purchase these spices. You’re going to have to go to yton for that.”


    “I heard of such a thing,” she says as she nods to someone who walks by. “Which makes me wonder how on earth you were allowed into the store.”


    “If you’re trying to piggyback off my insult by iming I’m an ogre, I’m here to tell you you’re going to have to do better than that.” When I look up, I see Sylvia turn down our aisle, so I straighten up and offer her a demure wave. “Mrs. us, you look stunning this fine morning. How is the mister?”


    At the appearance of Mrs. us, Storee straightens up too and turns toward her.


    “Oh, he’s gearing up for a day of boisterousughter.”


    “I can only imagine,” I say. “And I must say, you need to hand out that hot chocte recipe. I haven’t had any in years and now I’m craving it like a little schoolboy.” I catch Storee’s smirk out of the corner of my eye.


    “Oh, you are such a dear. But you know I can’t give that recipe away, Cole. Although I’m more than happy to make you some any time youe over.”


    “Don’t tempt me—I’ll be there every night.”


    She chuckles and then squeezes Storee’s arm as she walks by. “Always lovely to see you. You have quite the blush in your cheeks this morning.”


    “Oh, do I?” she asks.


    “You do. Maybe it’s presentpany that’s giving you such a stain.”


    Storee nces at me and then back at Mrs. us. I steady myself for the insult, for the denial, but then she says, “Oh, you know, you very well might be right.”


    Sylviaughs. “Well, you three have a wonderful day. Can’t wait for the Eggnog Wars tonight.”


    “Me either,” I call out. “It’s going to be the grandest of asions.”


    Once Sylvia is down the aisle—after picking up some flour—Max turns to me. “Dude, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”


    I press my hand to my forehead. “I don’t either, man.”


    “Well, as fun as this has been, I must be going. I have apetition to win tonight,” Storee says as she nudges me out of the way and grabs some allspice and nutmeg. What kind of drink does she have nned? I nce in her basket as well and notice a box of gingerbread cookies. When she catches my gaze, she gasps and moves her basket behind her. “My God, are you trying to scope out thepetition?”


    “Yes,” I say, looking around. “Have you seen Urs? Because she’s the only one I’m worried about.”


    Storee’s face ttens. “Cute.” She waves to Max. “Always nice seeing you, As.”


    “You as well, Storee. Good luck tonight.”


    “Thank you.”


    And she takes off, stopping to grab some sugar, and then she’s down the aisle.


    “You know, I think she’s pretty nice, don’t—oof.” Max buckles over and grips his stomach where I’ve just tapped him in anger. Yes…tapped in anger. Not a punch, but not a yful p, either. An anger tap. “Dude, what the fuck was that for?”


    “I don’t need you being nice to her and wishing her good luck. Whose team are you on?”


    “The abusive one, clearly,” he says.


    “As my holly jolly sidekick, your allegiance is to me, so no wishing her good luck or thinking she’s nice. She is enemy number one. We hate her. Repeat that to yourself. We. Hate. Her.”


    “Seems pretty harsh to hate someone, don’t you think? Can’t we say something like…we disagree with her heavily?”


    “That doesn’t sound good when you say it over and over again.”


    “We disagree with her heavily, we disagree with her heavily…you know, I think I disagree with you heavily.”


    I drag my hand over my face. “Listen, we don’t have time to disagree with each other heavily. Did you see what was in her basket?”


    Max oundishly gasps and presses his hand to his chest. “You did scope out thepetition. How dare you.” He smirks. I really can’t stand him right now.


    “I nced in her basket because my eyes didn’t want to see her stupid face.”


    Max chuckles. “Nice save, man.”


    “Thank you.” I lean in closer. “Did you happen to see what she grabbed?”


    “No.”


    “Allspice, nutmeg, and she had gingerbread cookies in her basket. I think…I think she’s going out of the box.”


    “See?” Max pushes at my shoulder. “Told you we had to be creative.”


    “No, I’m thinking…we must be creative.”


    “Jesus.” Max rolls his eyes as I start to imagine all the different eggnog concoctions we coulde up with.


    “Come on, we have a job to do.”