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Fox had once told me that I had been, quote,born blessedly free of the curse of common sense, and that comment came back to me as I crept toward the sound of voices.
Someone answered Ryan, but their voice was too low for me to make out.
“This is stupid,” Ryan said.
That same low voice answered.I thought it had a familiar quality, but that might have been my brain playing tricks on me.Whoever it was, though, he—or she, or they—was clearly more worried about being overheard than Ryan, because they were practically whispering.
Whatever they said, Ryan didn’t like it.
“No,” Ryan said.And then, “I don’t care.”
I was close to the voices now.I got down and crawled toward the line of trees separating us—that’s tradecraft, by the way.Humans have a tendency to look at, well, eye level.So, if you want to spy on someone, being above them (or below them) gives you an advantage.
(These are the kinds of things you learn if you actively avoid sports.)
In the next aisle, Ryan stood with his back to me.He was blocking my line of sight, so I couldn’t see the person he was talking to—all I caught was a glimpse of their clothes.
Red velvet.
White fur trim.
A hat traditionally known as a Santa hat.
Santa—okay, the persondressedas Santa—said something.
“No,” Ryan said.“And leave me alone—”
Before he could finish, voices rose nearby.
Okay,avoice rose nearby.
A familiar voice.
“BECAUSE IT’S A TRADITION!”
I love Millie.I really do.She’s sweet.She’s kind.She’s scarily insightful sometimes, and she absolutely refuses to follow the agreed-upon human code of conduct of avoiding ever actually expressing yourself in a meaningful way.(Like the time she forced me and Bobby to talk about, ugh, feelings.)
But that girl doesnothave an inside voice.Not that we were inside, but—you know.
Ryan said something that bumped him several spots up on the naughty list.
Santa—or whoever it was—beat a retreat.I glimpsed a man’s face—and it wasn’t Paul.It wasn’t anyone I recognized, for that matter.Then the fog swallowed him.Ryan turned toward the next row of trees, pushed his way through them, and was gone.
“WE DO IT EVERY YEAR,” Millie was saying.“IT’S SO MUCH FUN!”
Keme said something in response; the words weren’t clear, but the tone suggested he didn’t agree with this assessment.
In a slightly—and I meanslightly—quieter voice, Millie asked, “Are you okay?What’s wrong?”Keme must have given a boy answer, which is to say, mumbling something completely noncommittal, because Millie said, “You’re not having a good time.”
Here’s the thing: Millie isn’t manipulative.(Not unless you count the time she forced me to talk to Mrs.Knight at the Cakery, because Millie thought I’d enjoy hearing about Mrs.Knight’s, quote,time in the service,even though I kept giving Millie the signal that I didn’twantto talk to Mrs.Knight.) So, I knew that the sadness in Millie’s tone wasn’t feigned, and it wasn’t a ploy.
And because Keme was a boy, he somehow managed to screw up enough, uh, gumption to say, “I’m having a good time.”
He didn’t even sound like he choked on the words or anything.
“No, you’re not,” Millie said.“You hate it.I’m sorry; we don’t have to stay.”
Keme’s labored “I don’t hate it” was actually physically painful to listen to.