MB Short Story: An Unapologetically Cliché Christmas Story (Patreon)

Unlike most colleges, Aeon’s graduation takes place in December, the ceremony held within the first-floor auditorium. 

The final, additional, semester from September through December isn’t filled by classes; rather, you and Sally have spent the past four months partnered on a long-term assignment that involved successfully putting an end to an elder insurance fraud scam run by a group of morally bankrupt Empaths. The task wasn’t particularly exciting or hard, but it was enough to prove you both worthy of a full-time job offer with Unity. The victims you and Sally interviewed for your final papers even rewarded you with a plethora of pocket peppermints out of gratitude for recovering their retirements.

You wait impatiently with the other graduating MIVs to be called up on stage to receive diplomas, wishing that Valero would lower the damn volume of the Christmas music leaking through her earbuds so you could at least focus on your own thoughts. You glance at her, annoyed; Valero beams cluelessly back. 

You sigh. It’s difficult not to feel jealous of your classmate’s excitement. Valero thinks that life will be easier now that she's no longer a trainee. Maybe it will, for her. But for you, graduation means that your segregation from the AMOs ends.

From now on, most of your coworkers will able to read your mind. It's unavoidable that, at times, you'll be forced to work with AMOs other than Sally and Kent. Your thoughts will become a topic of watercooler gossip and giggles, and you have to be okay with that. Who needs a normal life? Not you! No, you chose to risk daily exposure of your innermost thoughts to a building of Ments for . . . reasons.

Reasons that elude you this particular moment.

You yawn. Despite valiant efforts, you were unable to sleep last night. It’s probably only graduation nerves making you second-guess your life trajectory. Meaningless anxiety. Not a completely logical reevaluation of why you ever thought it was a non-bad idea to join Unity.

If only you weren’t a Zero, there wouldn’t be any doubt over your future. You’re a damn good strategist, with the printed valedictorian speech in your dress uniform pocket to prove it. You’ve long since accepted that your non-positive Pollard score means that you’ll always have some unique struggles, but that those struggles aren’t enough to make you give up. You don’t want to give up. You want to help people, and this is the best way to do so with your skillset.

But sometimes . . .

Well, sometimes you wish that you weren’t mind blind.

Sally turns from two rows down amongst the AMO graduates to stick out her tongue. Because what are best friends for if not to treat the most important event of both your lives with irreverent disregard in order to help soothe your nerves? You chuckle at Sally’s antics, grateful for something to focus on beyond the nervous buzz in your ears, and—

. . . bells . . . you . . .

In the . . . snow . . .

. . . sight . . .

Something isn’t right.

. . . tonight . . .

Inexplicable snowflakes are drifting down. Inside. Real, actual-ass snowflakes, kissing your cheeks cold where they land against skin and melting spots on your black dress uniform. You look up at the vaulted ceiling expecting to see some sort of machine, because this is definitely a prank by Glitch, but there’s no longer a ceiling.

Or perhaps the snow is just falling too heavily now for you to make out a ceiling. That seems like a potentially logical explanation for the grey haze above you.

Because you can’t be seeing clouds. Not indoors. That wouldn’t make sense.

Unless you’re going insane.

. . . fire . . . dying . . .

. . . dear . . . still good . . .

The ringing in your ears, which you’d previously dismissed as a mild, temporary case of tinnitus, intensifies. Sally’s face disappears behind a wall of flurried snowflakes.

. . . as long as . . . love . . .

The buzzing thrum is a howl of wind and vaguely familiar words. It’s so cold.

. . . snow . . . snow . . . snow . . .

All you can see is snow.

So much.

Damn.

Snow.

* * * *

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock. . .”

You groan and roll over, folding your pillow around your head like a feather taco. You’d been in the middle of a particularly nice dream and have no desire to return to reality. Why couldn’t you come from a normal family? Have a normal alarm clock that your brother didn’t remotely program to blast Christmas songs as soon as the calendar turned to December 1st?

“Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring . . .”

You slam your hand over the button, turning off your alarm before Bobby Helms’ voice can complete the chorus. The amount of Christmas cheer in the Wiseman house is nauseating at times. Nick may love the holidays because it’s when his bakery is busiest, but you’re a regular college student. December means semester finals.

. . . away . . . 

. . . stay . . . new . . .

You frown and hit the alarm clock again.

“Button!” Nick hollers from downstairs. “You’re going to be late for your classes!”

Demonstrating admirable resolve, you somehow resist the siren call of your mattress and get dressed.

You find Nick in the kitchen, his mouth twisted in a moue of concentration as he kneads dough. He’s wearing sweatpants, no shirt, and an apron that reads “No Bitchen’ In My Kitchen.” His gym bag lies discarded upon the dining table—knowing your brother, he’s probably been up since 5am. Nick’s bakery (named, narcissistically, “Nick’s”) doesn’t open on Mondays, so he usually spends the day at home experimenting with new recipes.

“Try this." He pops a piece of freshly-baked, still-hot bread into your mouth.

You chew contemplatively.

“Too much cardamom or not enough?” Nick asks. “I’m made a few tweaks to Sohvi’s pulla recipe.”

“Don’t let Sohvi know that,” you say after swallowing. “And the cardamom level is perfect.” Sohvi is pretty easygoing for a future psychologist, but Nick’s parttime employee still balks whenever he alters her recipes to ‘cater to unsophisticated American palates.’

Nick grins. “Your lunch is in the fridge. Say hi to Stephanie for me.”

Your step towards the refrigerator falters . . .

. . . watch out . . .

. . . better . . . cry . . .

. . . Until you remember that Stephanie is a friend from high school. Not a close friend—you don’t have many of those—but she’s been over to your house a few times to escape the dorms that she’s forced to live in. Nick provided study snacks. Of course your brother would tell you to say hello to Stephanie. Why wouldn’t he?

You shake your head, bemused by your own silliness, and grab your lunchbox from the fridge before pulling on your boots and heading outside. Snow from last night’s storm still sticks to the sidewalk, but not as much as you feared. With luck, you’ll make it to the train on time.

Half a block into your walk, you reach the house with the shih tzus in the yard. Their flat faces smush between the gaps of the wrought iron fence, their teeth bared in the pretense of ferocity. It’s a lie. You once saw those two cowed into submission by an escaped house cat.

Their yelps and yips are particularly energetic today, their colored bows barely visible through the dusting of snow that clumps in their hair. They dive in and out of the snow mounds like burrowing torpedoes, their antics making you grin until you notice that the one with the yellow bowtie is shivering. How long have they been outside? Because, really, it’s too cold. Their owner should be ashamed.

You march up to the front porch, your fist rising to pound on door. It swings open before you can knock.

A shirtless man stands at the entrance. One hand holds a still-foamy toothbrush; the other secures a towel around his waist. You sense, however, that were both his hands free, he’d be crossing his arms.

He looks around your age, although it’s hard to focus on his face given the sheer amount of pale skin and chiseled musculature on display. How much sweat and dedication went into forming those abs? When you finally manage to tear your gaze upwards, he’s regarding you with grey eyes.

The man arches a brow at your inspection, seeming impervious to the cold despite his semi-nude state.

“Your dogs should be wearing booties and jackets if you’re going to leave them out in the snow,” you tell him. “Not that you should be leaving them out for this long, anyway.”

Your chastisement earns a small frown. “The dogs are fine.”

“No, they’re not,” you persist. “The temperature is in the low thirties, and they’re shivering.”

He steadily meets your gaze. “Antigone and Cassandra are fine.” His tone isn’t annoyed or defensive, and he sounds sincere. “Their paws have Musher’s wax applied to avoid frost burn, and they have a dog door to come back inside whenever they want. They just like playing in the snow.”

“Oh.”

“Anything else?” he asks.

You shake your head, and he shuts the door in your face.

What a rude jerk! Although you suppose that you might behave similarly should a total stranger bang on your door while you were getting changed. Maybe you should’ve mentioned that you live nearby? 

Whatever. At least you ascertained that the dogs aren’t being mistreated, even if your good intentions have made you late for your first final in the Poly Sci building of Chicago U.

. . . dreaming . . . white . . .

Just  . . . used to know . . .

Although it’s not within your major, your Political Science class has been more interesting than you anticipated. Your expectations weren’t high when Stephanie had asked you to take a seminar called International Security with her—your eyes had glazed over reading the course description, which included phrases such as “war termination” and “alliance ethics.”

“Why do you want me to take this with you?” you’d asked Stephanie after she’d begged you to enroll as well. “You’re the one who’s going Pre-Law.”

Stephanie had awkwardly stared at the ground, her cheeks blazing red. “The instructor is intimidating.”

Now, as you slide into your seat beside Stephanie in class, you’re forced to concede that your friend had a valid point: Professor Kim’s glare at your tardy arrival is terrifying, his dark eyes glinting ominously behind his narrow-rim glasses.

You gulp. “Apologies, Professor. I was—”

“The test began seven minutes ago, Wiseman,” Kim snaps. “Get out a pen and shut up.”

You oblige. Truthfully, you half-expected Kim to eject you from the classroom for being late. You smile at the class T.A., Talia, as she places a copy of the test on your desk. You haven’t talked to Talia much, but she seems fun. The kind of person you’d want to be friends with if you were both graduate students.

. . . sentimental . . . you hear . . .

Voices . . . let’s . . .

“Good luck!” Talia says.

Professor Kim glares at her. She falls silent but winks at you.

Your grateful relief at being permitted to take the final turns cold when you realize that you’ve forgotten your bookbag. You still have the lunchbox that Nick packed you, but a pen? Not so much. You nudge Stephanie, pantomiming the issue, but she shakes her head apologetically. She doesn’t have a spare pen.

No one in the classroom pays attention to your panicked search of your coat pockets. Kim might have been willing to let you come in late, but to arrive unprepared as well? You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t forcibly throw you back out into the snow.

Someone pokes you from behind, and you turn to see a girl holding out a sparkly pink gel pen. Like you, she’s not a Poly Sci majors—you think she belongs to the art department. Sally! That’s her name. She attended your elementary school, although the two of you were never close because . . .

. . . acquaintance . . . forgot . . .

And never . . . mind . . .

Well, probably because you were always popular with your peers. Sally, on the other hand, was a loner oddball who constantly broke the grading curve for tests and thus wasn’t all that well liked by the rest of the class. No one really grieved when she transferred to a private school for junior high.

Sally pokes your arm again, her attention on Kim as she double checks to make sure that he’s not watching.

“You can borrow it,” she whispers.

You accept the gel pen. Hopefully, Professor Kim won’t fail you for writing the essay in pink.

. . . sees you . . . sleeping . . .

. . . knows . . . you’re awake . . .

After the test, you return Sally’s pen out in the hallway.

“Thanks for lending this to me,” you say. “Professor Kim probably would’ve begun breathing fire if I’d requested a spare.”

Sally giggles. “He’s a dragon, isn’t he? But seriously, it was no biggie! I’m just glad that we’re finally having a chance to—”

She breaks off as someone shouts her name, turning to wave at a group of students whom you assume to be other art majors from the paint stains on their bohemian-styled clothes.

“I gotta run,” she says. “But we should—”

“There you are!” Stephanie latches onto your arm the moment she exits the classroom. “Oh my god. I’m so relieved that we don’t have any more classes with Professor Kim!” She glances nervously back at the closed door behind her as if afraid that Kim can still hear, and lowers her voice to a whisper, “He’s mean.”

“Isn’t he?” Sally agrees.

Stephanie glances at her. “Oh! You were in the class with us, weren’t you?”

Sally nods. “I doubt we’ll have any more classes together, though, since we’re in different departments.” Her smile seems a little sad, although you can’t imagine why. “It was nice finally talking to you.”

“Same,” you reply.

Sally disappears into the mob of art students before you can ask for her contact information.

But really, you two probably don’t have anything in common.

. . . don’t . . . a lot for . . .

. . . one thing . . . need . . .

Stephanie talks your ear off as you follow her to the cafeteria. Her latest infatuation is some British dude who apparently started up a charitable fund having something to do with first responders in warzones. Or maybe he is a first responder? Stephanie goes through so many celebrity crushes that you don’t really bother paying attention when she gushes about the latest flavor of the week.

“His name is what?” you ask as you both sit down at a table.

“Grayson Black,” Stephanie repeats with a frown. “I already told you. He’s part of the Black family. You know, the one in the news last week because his cousin married the prime minister's—”

“His name is Gray Black?” This time, you can’t suppress a snigger. “Who the heck names their kid Gray Black?”

“His parents are well known philanthropists,” Stephanie replies stiffly. “Which is why it’s exceptional that he joined the Peace Corp instead of taking over as chair of his mother’s foundation. Haven’t you been listening?”

Not really.

“Of course I’ve been listening,” you lie. “It’s just . . . I mean, give me a break, Steph. The dude’s name is Gray Black.”

Stephanie sighs wistfully. “And I’ll never get a chance to meet him.”

You pat the back of her hand sympathetically. “Hey now. Don’t feel blue.”

“Mock all you want,” Stephanie grumbles, “but Grayson Black is hot.”

“I believe you. No need to act indigo-nant.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

“Are my jokes not orange-inal enough?”

There’s an amused snort from behind you, but when you glance, there’s only Professor Kim bending down to retrieve his drink from the nearby soda machine.

The laughter must’ve been a pigment of your imagination.

. . . don’t you see . . .

How can you . . . to me . . .

You bid Stephanie goodbye before heading to your next class: Strategy 101 for Field Tacticians.

No.

. . . All of . . . reindeer . . .

. . . laugh . . . call him names . . .

No, your head to your next class: The History of Ment Rights.

NO.

. . . never let . . . poor . . .

Join in . . . games . . .

No, silly. You’re heading to your next class: Medieval Literature.

That’s it.

Of course, that’s it.

You’re heading to your Medieval Lit class. You’ve spent most this last semester reading Chaucer and Dante and Petrarch and other writers who lived during that time period but whose names currently escape your memory. Huh. Maybe you won’t get an A in this class.

. . . thump, thump . . .

You’re heading to your Medieval Lit class. You’re heading there to take a test.

. . . thump, thump . . .

You’re heading there to take a test. After you take the test, you’ll return home to help Nick with his baking.

. . . thump, thump . . .

Your life isn’t very exciting, but at least there are cookies.

. . . thumpity thump thump . . .

You like it this way.

. . .  go . . .

Boring is safe.

. . . run . . .

Boring is also a little lonely.

. . . before I melt away . . .

Fine. It’s a lot lonely. if you’re being honest. Valero’s fine, but she’s—

Valero? You mean Stephanie.

Stephanie’s fine. She’s fine.

. . . holler “STOP!” . . .

She’s just not Sally.

. . . Wiseman! . . .

Why isn’t she Sally? Why are you taking a Medieval Lit class? No one honestly enjoys reading old English.

. . . Wait is . . . asleep? . . .

It’s time . . . speech . . .

* * * *

Wake up, Button.

You groan and slouch down further into your chair, ignoring the developing crick in your neck. You’d been in the middle of an admittedly weird dream, but still have no desire to return to reality. Why couldn’t you come from a normal family? Have a normal alarm clock that you could smack or throw across the room in order to steal five more minutes of sleep?

Because it’s not morning, dummy. Nick’s mental voice is lovingly amused despite the name calling. It’s time for your valedictorian speech.

Your eyes snap open.

Valero peers down at you worriedly, strains of Frosty the Snowman leaking from her earbuds.

“Get up there!” she urges. 

You head up on stage and position yourself behind the podium. You tap the mic twice, not sure why except that that’s what speakers do, and wince with the audience at the screech of feedback over the sound system.

Nick shoots you an enthusiastic thumbs up from behind his recording cellphone. Gray smiles from the seat next to your brother. There’s a loud hoot of “GO WISEMAN!” from somewhere within the crowd. After a moment of scanning, you locate the source: Glitch smirking proudly while Kent’s shoulders collapse inwards as he tries to escape notice. You wave at them, then at Sally, whose eyes immediately fill with tears at the acknowledgement. She tries to scrub away the wetness so she can later pretend that she didn’t cry.

It’s time to graduate.

You leave the printed speech in your pocket and take a deep breath. “Before I begin, I want to thank the people in my life who have helped me get here. It hasn’t been easy, but I think that . . .”

The door at the top of the auditorium opens. A single latecomer enters, unnoticed by the crowd but not by you. Deliberate, of course. He wants you--and only you--to know that he made it.

You smile.

“I know that it will be worth it,” you say.