23. A Very Merry Makeover

23

A VERY MERRY MAKEOVER

QUINN

"How does this fit?" asks a kindly elf named Christa with long black hair and bubbly cheeks. She finishes adjusting a pair of red suspenders attached to fleece-lined jeans over an off-white Henley, the top two buttons undone. I've been fitted into a pair of weatherproof snow boots with little pompoms hanging off the laces. The whole ensemble is giving Lands' End but make it gay.

I pivot in the mirror. "Fits well. Comfortable but practical." I know this style. Half my days were spent covered in chalk dust or Elmer's glue, so I dressed for efficiency, not fashion. Palatability, not self-expression. A staggering shift from the fun patterns, bright colors, and genderless articles I donned in college.

When Colleen brought up this shopping trip, I didn't feel comfortable, in front of the whole table, saying that I actually felt bold and confident in the outfit I cobbled together from the old closet. It was upcycled but still cute. However, Pat and I are here to be together, not for me to rock the boat like Mrs. Hargrave suggested at Mr. Hargrave's birthday party some years ago, so I'm taking all of Christa's designs and suggestions with a nod and a gracious smile.

We've been at this boutique for over an hour now. It's a small shop with a Parisian sensibility, almost like I've stepped onto the set of a period drama. The clothes are decidedly modern, and the speakers play Ariana Grande's Christmas album at a dull roar. I'll have to get used to year-round Christmas music. Because here it's not "Christmas" music. It's just "music."

Yvonne and Colleen sit on a semicircular velvet couch behind me, chiming in with their two cents. It's all very bride-to-be in a wedding dress shop, and I don't mind it. I welcome it, even.

My own mom didn't come to my wedding tuxedo fitting, even though I asked her to, multiple times. Instead, she told me to send her pictures and she'd text her thoughts to me. At the tailor, Patrick and I had picked out matching vibrant turquoise numbers, got measured for them, and put down our deposit, only for Mom to text me hours after we'd already gotten home with: The color washes you out too much. Try something else.

I didn't even tell Patrick. I just slunk into our bedroom and took a depression nap.

"Let's transition into evening wear," Christa says. Her assistants scurry off with the rolling rack of clothes, swapping it out for one with more blazers, ties, and slacks.

"Will I be needing a lot of that?" I ask, picking up the complimentary mug of hot cider the designer set out for me on a tray beside the accordion mirror. I'm careful not to dribble any cider on these luxurious digs.

"Absolutely," Yvonne says. "You're stepping into a highly visible position. You are one-half of the face of this massive mission—to spread joy and cheer to the entire world. How you dress will set the tone for how our village feels about that mission for the next year."

An exhale whips out of me. "Sounds like a lot of pressure."

"It's more fun than anything else," Colleen is quick to say.

"We're thrilled that you're here," Yvonne adds. "These positions often choose people who need them most."

"Don't you mean people who need them most choose the positions?" I ask.

She shakes her head, smirking to herself. "It doesn't quite work like that. We're not posting on job boards or checking out LinkedIn profiles. Your circumstances may be different, but we're certain it will all work out."

I want to ask what she means, but Christa is back and ushering me behind the saloon-style doors of the changing room. On the hanging hook, her assistant has set up a deep brown suit with a lighter brown shirt beneath, the buttons of which look like bright red gumdrops. Upon closer inspection, they are gumdrops. "How delightful," I say to myself before licking the sugar off my finger.

Once I change and look at myself in the mirror, I've transformed into a grown gingerbread person. There are even molasses-colored spats that go over the dress shoes with gumdrop detailing. A licorice bow tie finishes the look.

"Oh, the elves will love you in this! Especially for when you judge the Annual Gingerbread House Competition."

"Judging a competition? What exactly will I be doing as the Merriest Mister?" I ask.

Yvonne stands and helps herself to some candied pecans from a decorative bowl. "It's pretty relaxed and open-ended for the most part. You'll be expected to be a face and a host, give speeches now and then."

I'm used to speaking in front of seven-year-olds, not a slew of adults looking to me as some beacon of holiday cheer. "Is there going to be formal training on how to do this job?"

"Don't think of it as a job. Think of it as a calling ."

Wasn't Patrick always saying that teaching was my calling?

I believed that, too, most of the time, yet ever since September, I'd been itching to hang up the call, cut the cord, shut down the line, whatever necessary to make the emergency ringtone stop blaring every second of every day.

Despite that, I'm going to miss doing it. Parts of it, anyway.

"No training necessary," Colleen says. This eases my mind. "It's intuitive. Patrick will be brought up to speed on the Santa of it all. You'll have a daily itinerary delivered each morning over breakfast. The first half of the year will be busier than the second, but you're mostly free to explore passions, read books, whatever your heart desires."

"Wow," I say, trying not to move too much as Christa works on pinning the hem of my pants. They need to be taken up half an inch so I don't trip. I'm more torso than legs. Though I'd prefer something flowier, I don't think it's my place to have an opinion, so I keep my mouth shut except to say thank you when appropriate.

"I'm sure it'll be a nice break from teaching," Colleen says, almost as if she had been reading my mind a second ago.

"For sure. I honestly don't think I've had a break like that since before I went away to college. Becoming a teacher was a lot of work and being a teacher came with workloads even over the summer. Frankly, I'm not sure I know how to relax anymore." My mind has an average speed of a million thoughts per minute.

"Oh, it's a quick study. Trust me," Yvonne says, paired with a bursting laugh. "Chris and I worked in high-profile real estate before Chris became Santa. I thought I'd spend my life working sixty-to-seventy-hour weeks, chasing the rush of a sale and that hefty commission, and when we first got here, the lackadaisical pace of life jarred me, but I settled in. I learned to be present for the first time in my life at forty-three."

"You're never too old for that lesson," Colleen says sagely. "Look at me. Nicholas became Claus in his sixties not long after we lost our son in a motorcycle accident."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," I say, catching her somber eyes in the mirror.

"It was many years ago now," she says before taking a big breath. "But something like that could've torn us apart. You know, ravaged our relationship with grief. Instead, it brought us closer together. Then, by chance and magic, we ended up here. Our relationship grew stronger as we adapted to our new surroundings. Bringing Christmas joy to the world helped us heal."

"For me and Chris," Yvonne says after giving Colleen's story the due respect and space it deserves, "it was about slowing down. We didn't know until we got here that Chris's blood pressure was in dangerous territory. He was one more listing away from a heart attack. This job helped us put all that high-stress nonsense behind us."

I consider both stories, and these kind women who have chosen to be vulnerable and open with me simply because I'm filling a role they once held. "Thanks for sharing that. I wonder what this will be for me and Patrick."

Part of me wants to be honest with them, tell them about the rough patch we haven't even begun sanding down yet. But what if I tell them and they cast us out? They said the last pair in these positions weren't meant to be together and weren't meant for this mission. What if they decide that about us, too?

I don't want to create unnecessary worry. I'm pretty sure Patrick and I understand each other. Being here is about being us again.

"Time will tell," Colleen says almost too-knowingly.

"For now, let's focus on how fabulous you look in that suit! Christa, you've absolutely outdone yourself." Yvonne snaps in appreciation.

I take stock of my reflection. Only one day in to this new, bizarre reality and my shoulders are at least an inch lower than they were on the final day of school before winter break. I stood in the staff bathroom, washing my hands, and couldn't help but notice, in the reflection of the scratched-up mirror, how dark the bags were under my eyes. I was a zombie.

Just knowing I won't be returning to lesson plans or field trips, angry parent emails or longer-than-necessary faculty meetings seems to have made all the difference in my demeanor. I'm grateful for that quick yet massive change.