Xmas Spirit

  Petula burst in, but she wasn’t alone. Surprisingly, she had Scarlet at her side—at least until Scarlet saw The Wendys and made a beeline for the counter instead of the table.

  “What’s with bringing batgirl out in public?” Wendy Thomas asked.

  “I’m dreaming of a black Christmas, just like the ones I used to know . . .” Wendy Anderson began singing.

  “On the thirteenth night of Christmas, my beloved gave to me a raven in a dead tree,” Wendy Thomas sang back.

  “We’re out Christmas shopping for my mom,” Petula responded dismissively. “You can’t choose your family, you know.”

  “Thank God my mom had her tubes tied after I was born,” Wendy Anderson said.

  “A little late, if you ask me,” Scarlet groused to herself, slowly sipping her hot cup of black coffee.

  “What’ll it be, girls?”

  “I’ll have a half-caf, non-fat, unsweetened vanilla cinnamon Vietnam iced bubble tea with almond milk, hold the tea,” Wendy Thomas said.

  “So, just bubbles?” the waitress asked.

  “Mind reading! Oh my God, you’re like a wizard.”

  “At least something good came out of that war!” Wendy Anderson chimed in.

  “You are a total historian, Wendy. I’m so jealous.”

  “And you?” the waitress asked through the self-congratulatory giggles.

  Wendy Anderson put down the menu she’d been poring over intensely and ordered. “Let’s see. Whipped cream. Ketchup. Ice. Artificial sweetener and a straw.”

  “And you?”

  “Do you do stool-softener smoothies?” Petula inquired. “No? Then just an extra spoon.”

  The waitress sped off in horror, seeming relieved to get away from them.

  Petula got right down to business, anxious for an update.

  “So, what’s Damen getting me?”

  Neither Wendy spoke up. Petula began drumming her fingers impatiently. Even Scarlet, who couldn’t have cared less, was getting curious and listened in.

  “Well?”

  The Wendys cracked under the pressure. Petula’s withering impatience had worn them down in record time yet again.

  “Nothing.”

  “Uh-oh,” Scarlet whispered. “Three. Two. One. Cue conniption.”

  “Nothing?” she shouted, boiling over as she stood up in the booth and slammed her fists against the green Formica tabletop. “I took the time to write a list for nothing?”

  Scarlet didn’t pay much mind to any of the Christmas shopping stuff. She never got what she wanted anyway. Her mother always gave her and Petula the same things—Victoria’s Secret sweatpants, the latest pseudocelebrity perfume, compact mirrors, etc. Her mom got Petula stuff for both of them because Scarlet just left her stuff under the tree for Petula to scoop up and take anyway. For her mother, it was just a mindless trip to the mall. Besides, picking out something that Scarlet really wanted would take too much thought—and possibly a trip to a dark alley somewhere.

  The Wendys, however, were in shock. Not so much by the outburst, but at Petula’s ability to stand fully erect with such little space between the table and her seat. Their jaws fell open in amazement. The diner fell completely silent, everyone waiting for the other stiletto to drop.

  “Nothing yet,” Wendy T. quickly added, defusing the situation somewhat.

  “What do you mean yet?” Petula raved. “It’s Christmas friggin’ Eve already!”

  “He’s working on it,” Wendy A. replied. “We all are.”

  “You’d better be!”

  Petula stormed off. Nobody dared rattle a fork or a glass until she’d passed. Scarlet thought about following her out but decided she’d rather walk home alone. She looked over at The Wendys, and they looked back at her like they’d seen a zombie. Scared out of their minds.

  “We have to find that Usher girl,” Wendy T. said.

  “I know, but where?” Wendy A. asked.

  The Wendys put their empty heads together to strategize just as they saw Scarlet get up from the counter and toss her black lace shawl around her shoulders.

  “Wait! Scarlet is weird. She might know.”

  The Wendys scurried to block Scarlet’s path as she reached the cash register.

  “Don’t they comp you here?” Wendy Thomas asked snidely.

  “At a diner?” Scarlet huffed, shoving them to the side.

  “Please,” Wendy T. called after her. “We really need your help.”

  Scarlet stopped. She was instantly suspicious of the unctuous tone.

  “My help? You need my help?” she said.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Wendy Anderson admitted.

  “I am dying to hear this,” Scarlet said. “Spit it out.”

  “You know that girl who’s always following us around at school, taking pictures of Petula and Damen, trying to be friends?”

  “Charlotte?” Scarlet said.

  “Yeah! That’s her,” Wendy Thomas said.

  “We need to find her,” Wendy Anderson added.

  “Why?” Scarlet asked.

  “We can’t tell you, but it has to do with Petula’s Christmas gift,” Wendy Anderson said.

  “Ha! Are you planning to offer her to my sister as a human sacrifice or something?” Scarlet laughed, considering how beneath their notice Charlotte was.

  “Not exactly,” Wendy T. said vaguely but seriously.

  Scarlet couldn’t have cared less, actually, about The Wendys, Petula, or even Charlotte; however, it was obvious they were plotting something. “Well then, what exactly?”

  “We have an opportunity to present,” Wendy A. responded formally.

  Scarlet found herself surprisingly curious and perfectly happy to dangle the carrot of information they sought in front of their sculpted noses for a few seconds longer.

  “Opportunity?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a matter of life and death.”

  Scarlet felt herself being sucked into The Wendys’ vacuous vortex. Like a black hole in deep space, a place of no return. The question of what they had planned for Charlotte would have to wait for now.

  “I have no idea where you can find her, but I saw her hanging out in front of my house last night,” Scarlet advised. “She headed off to the other side of town.”

  “Eww,” Wendy Thomas whined. “Where all those thrift stores and pawnshops are?”

  “So what?” Scarlet said, taking offense. “I shop there sometimes.”

  “It shows,” The Wendys said.

  “Like your cellulite?” Scarlet said, handing Wendy Thomas her bill as she split.

  8

  A Christmas Gory

  Mistle Woe

  It is said to be the most wonderful time of the year, but Christmas can actually be the most dreaded. Crowds, crash diets, and too many cocktails can quickly turn the yuletide mood from gay to gray. The pressure to find a better gift, throw a better party, or fit into a better outfit often outweighs a higher calling: to be a better person. Sometimes the best way to celebrate is to simply celebrate yourself.

  Pam and Prue walked hand in hand down the long corridor at the back of the apartment complex. It was dark but not scary, brightened by the sound of off-key but joyful humming coming from the last office door. They hated bringing such sour news at such a happy time, but they had little choice. They stopped just short of the door and looked at each other, each waiting for the other to knock. Finally, Prue stepped forward and announced herself with a gentle rapping.

  “Come in.”

  “Mr. Brain?” Prue said, greeting him.

  Brain was his usual cheerful, preoccupied, and disheveled self.

  “Oh hello, girls.”

  Brain tossed the hanging flap of scalp back over the opening in his skull, which had opened up again after Charlotte’s disappearance, and proceeded to tidy himself up for the unexpected visit. The girls were surprised to see the injury had reappeared on their mentor, since it had healed long ago. It seemed that all t
he old Dead Ed wounds had been opened—in more ways than one. Not even Mr. Brain was immune from the havoc that Charlotte was unwittingly wreaking on them.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Yes, of course. I was just finishing up my annual Christmas list!”

  “List? But we don’t give gifts anymore,” Prue said.

  “Force of habit, I guess.” Brain smiled kindly. “You understand.”

  Pam gave a leery nod.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  They got right to the point.

  “Well, Charlotte is gone,” Pam advised. “She got into a fight with Eric, and next thing we knew, she was back at Hawthorne.”

  Pam and Prue waited for a look of astonishment to descend upon Brain’s face, for horror to set in, but he returned indifferently to his list instead.

  “Yes, I know,” he said.

  “You know?” Pam asked.

  They were surprised but shouldn’t have been. Little went on in the Great Beyond that Brain was unaware of.

  “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Really? Charlotte is alive, and we’re fading away, in case you haven’t noticed, and you don’t find that the least bit alarming?” Prue asked.

  “These things happen from time to time.”

  The girls nudged each other, confused. Pam and Prue were beginning to wonder if the return of his head wound had affected his hearing or his actual brain somehow.

  “See, Virginia tried to convince her to come back, and she wouldn’t . . .”

  “Did she say anything about our predicament?” Brain asked.

  “No, she didn’t think Charlotte was in the right frame of mind.”

  “Smart girl,” Brain said almost inaudibly, like he was sharing a secret with himself.

  “Virginia shouldn’t have to say anything,” Prue said angrily. “Charlotte knows better. It’s selfish what she is doing.”

  “Is it? Which of us hasn’t fantasized about what it would be like to be back again, especially at Christmas?” Brain said wistfully. “To see the snow fall, to smell the evergreen trees, to taste the peppermint candy canes and drink hot chocolate by a warm crackling fire. To feel a soft kiss beneath the mistletoe.”

  “Mr. Brain, you surprise me,” Pam admonished. “You were the one who helped us to accept our fate, to get over all that.”

  “We may forget many things in the course of our lives and afterlives. But not those things. There is nothing selfish or surprising about it. Christmas is memory.”

  “So you aren’t going to do anything?”

  “No,” Brain said calmly. “Besides, there isn’t much we can do.”

  “Well, thanks for nothing!” Prue said, her frustration seeping through.

  “There has to be something!”

  “Forget it, Pam,” Prue said. “He needs to get back to his list and to keeping his scalp on. We’ll just have to figure it out on our own.”

  “You know, the last thing she said to me was that she wished she’d never died,” Pam complained. “I’m starting to feel that way myself.”

  Brain smiled compassionately. “Merry Christmas.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore,” Pam answered dejectedly.

  “Don’t worry,” Prue said, comforting her. “I’ll get her back if I have to go there and drag her back myself!”

  Brain called back to them just as they were leaving. His tone was casual, unlike the information he offered.

  “Thing is, girls, Virginia’s instincts were correct. Charlotte must come back by midnight on Christmas Eve. But of her own free will.”

  “Then we’re done for,” Pam said.

  Charlotte walked through town, past the holiday windows and shop displays, stopping every so often to admire something shiny and colorful. Not so much for herself. She knew to expect nothing for Christmas, not even a card. But for Scarlet . . . Something so meaningful it could speak for her, say all the words Charlotte couldn’t say, sum up the history they never had. All in one package. It was a noble endeavor but a really tall order, and Charlotte was really short on cash. In fact, she had none.

  Before she died, she would have never expected the need for any. Room and board were covered, and so were textbooks and school supplies. Transportation was either the bus or her own two feet. Gladys doled out grudgingly the small personal allowance she was entitled to, which she spent mostly on clothes. There was no way she could ever afford any of this stuff. She needed to get some money in a hurry, but Charlotte didn’t have a clue how.

  Just then, a high-pitched voice called out to her. The voice of an angel . . . or a Wendy!

  “Hey, uh . . . you,” Wendy A. shouted down the street uncertainly as she approached.

  Charlotte was stunned and did a double take, looking behind her and side to side, just to be sure The Wendys were actually flagging her down.

  “Charlotte. I’m Charlotte!” she said proudly.

  “Right,” Wendy Thomas said. “How could we forget?”

  “Where ya headed?”

  “Just out to do some more Christmas shopping,” Charlotte offered, clasping her empty hands in front of her.

  The Wendys both nodded sympathetically, like she was trying to disguise a terminal illness or a pregnancy.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” Wendy Anderson spouted. “How would you like to earn a little extra Christmas cash?”

  “That would be so great. But how? Christmas is tomorrow.”

  “Can I tell you a total secret?”

  Charlotte felt as if she’d died—again—and gone to heaven. “Yes, please,” Charlotte said, putting her hand to her ear and leaning into Wendy Thomas.

  “We’re a little short on funds this year.”

  “I’m sure you can relate,” Wendy A. suggested.

  “Definitely,” Charlotte said.

  “So we’ve agreed to do some modeling.”

  Charlotte was thoroughly impressed.

  “It’s for the big funeral convention that is coming to town tomorrow.”

  “Cool,” Charlotte said.

  “You know about it?”

  “It was something for me to do on Christmas Eve.”

  “You poor pathetic wretch,” Wendy T. commiserated. “Talk about celebrating with a bunch of stiffs.”

  “So you don’t have any plans for Christmas?”

  “None that I know of,” Charlotte said, hoping against hope that The Wendys might have some plans for her.

  “Do you think you might want to model with us? We really need a third.”

  Charlotte was totally frozen in anticipation, unable to even speak. The Wendys were having a hard time reading her and continued their sales job.

  “You know what it’s like to be short on cash when you need to buy something special for a friend?” Wendy A. suggested.

  “I do!”

  The little voice in Charlotte’s head was screaming a warning, but it was getting littler, harder for her to hear. She knew these girls. How mercenary and selfish they were. How little use they actually had for her—or anyone, for that matter. But they were persuasive. And more sincere then she’d ever seen them. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit kicking in. Then again, maybe it was simply her for a change. Little old Charlotte. Modeling with The Wendys for money to buy something for Scarlet and a chance to do something special for Petula? Christmas miracles do happen, she thought. It’s more like I died and came back to life! Charlotte was beside herself. Like all good salespeople, The Wendys asked for the order, and then they went in for the close.

  “You can even sign your name on Petula’s card. Right below ours. Deal?”

  “Deal!” Charlotte agreed.

  9

  Have Yourself a Scary Little Christmas

  Do You Hear What I Hear?

  Few things summon Christmas memories more powerfully than music. From heavenly hymns to “Jingle Bell Rock,” our favorites define the holiday for us. Tales of sleigh rides and snowmen, mangers and magi
fill the air, briefly turning us all into kindly carolers, warbling our joy to the world. But as we sing our praises or rock around the Christmas tree for the one day each year, it is worth asking if the sound track of our season is in tune with our everyday playlist.

  “My turn,” Prue warned. “I’m am going to pick her up by the rat’s nest she calls hair and bring her back here if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “It might be,” Gary said meekly.

  “Might be what?” Prue snarled.

  “The last thing?” Simon and Simone added in unison.

  “One can always dream,” Maddy interjected.

  Prue was about to clock the undermining interloper when Mike and DJ stepped in to restrain her. The whole scene turned to bedlam as Dead Ed alumni turned on each other, taking sides, pointing fingers, pushing and shoving. Finally, a high-pitched and dissonant voice of reason broke through.

  “Calm down, everybody!” Pam trilled. “We might be dead, but we’re not killers.”

  The desperation in her voice mirrored the growing anxiety in theirs.

  “Yeah,” Green Gary concurred. “We need to conserve our energy.”

  “I can barely make a call,” Kim whined, tapping on the phone embedded in the side of her head. “I’m totally drained.”

  “Don’t you see what’s going on, Pam?” Prue fumed. “Christmas is almost here, and if she doesn’t get back soon, we’re all going to backslide into what we were and where we were. Dead Ed!”

  “Buzz kill!” Jerry slurred, his stoner voice shattering his celestial sobriety.

  “I will not sit in some friggin’ classroom again!” Prue screeched.

  “You heard what Mr. Brain said,” Pam said.

  “If we wait much longer, it will be too late,” Prue urged. “Look around.”

  There was Toxic Shock Sally, wide-eyed, shivering, expressionless; Rotting Rita shedding layer after layer of skin and on the verge of dwindling away entirely; Suzy Scratcher picking obsessively at her flesh, overanxious, irritable, and breathing heavily; while Blogging Bianca was typing away on her imaginary laptop, visibly salivating over some juicy tidbit she was about to share that would ruin someone’s life.