29. The Great Work Begins

29

THE GREAT WORK BEGINS

QUINN

357 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

"Sorry about the letterhead," Emmanuella says when she hands the first Merriest Mister itinerary to me on that first Monday of the New Year. In the upper left, there's a pleasant, wispy script that reads: From the desk of Mrs. Claus . "We are going to get new stationery printed for you."

"There's no need to waste perfectly good paper like that," I say, refilling my coffee cup and reading through the to-do lists, which are broken down by day.

Emmanuella shrugs, almost too acceptingly. "If you insist."

Most days have vague agendas like spread Christmas cheer to villagers or more concrete items like approve acts for Elf Extravaganza , while Sunday has a big circle around it with the words OPENING DAY written across it. I ask the council what this means.

"The Merriest Mister and the new Santa have been invited to be the celebrity team captains at the first game of the Sunday Night Snowball Fight season," says Emmanuella, as if those words aren't the most ridiculous words ever spoken in any human language.

Scratch that. The most ridiculous words ever spoken in any human language are, "I'm the Merriest Mister, and I live at the North Pole now." What Emmanuella said is a close second.

I nearly do a spit-take with my coffee. "I'm sorry. You want us to do what now?"

The last sport I played (against my will, I might add) was the Oakwood Elementary charity dodgeball game. We used the spongey balls meant for children in gym classes. The whole event was mostly for students and parents to get a good laugh out of their teachers making utter fools of themselves.

If I do this, I'll be making an utter fool out of myself on an even larger scale without intent. Patrick's New Year's Eve speech went well, so I know the village supports us, but I basically stood behind him the whole time and smiled, dolled up as arm candy. This is way more out-there than that.

"It's a hoot!" Samson says, throwing me an encouraging smile. I can tell he's an avid fan.

"Snowball fighting is the North Pole's most special sporting event," says Colleen, showing off her Team Evergreen scarf. I wouldn't have suspected fandom from her of all the council members. "This is the elves' way of welcoming you both. It's a tradition of theirs. They do this battle of the se—"

Colleen meets my eyes and abruptly ends her sentence. Battle of the sexes was what she was about to say, but obviously my gender throws a wrench into that outdated idea and language.

"I'm not sure about this," I say, panic rising in my throat.

"Don't worry," Patrick says to me. "I'll go easy on you."

If only he knew that's not what I'm worried about.

"Couldn't Patrick throw the first pitch alone?" I ask.

"He could," says Chris. "But the elves would likely take offense to that. They'd think you don't want to participate." He flicks a wary glance toward his fellow council members.

"I could still participate! I could just do a speech or something?" I can't control the upward pitching of my voice.

There's a round of shaken heads and eye rolls.

The council tries to talk it up, telling me how exciting it will be. Emmanuella even tells me that she did it when she was the missus, that it was completely low-pressure.

Still, I'm going to make a mockery of myself.

351 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

My dread has only magnified.

Patrick and I take a horse-drawn carriage to the Tundra Dome, a massive, covered event arena on the outskirts of the village that looks like an igloo on steroids. It rivals Yankee Stadium, a place my father dragged me to as a child when he still had hopes and an interest in me.

As the white, majestic horses come to a halt, I want to make a million apologies about why I have to back out. Finding a replacement shouldn't be too hard. Thousands of elves descend upon the venue. The smell of fried concession-stand food wafts out through the propped-open gates. The excuses get stuck in my throat.

Hobart leads Patrick and me into a special entrance that takes us under the stadium. Above us, the excited throng roars and stomps its eager feet.

"Patrick, you'll be with Team Evergreen here on the left," Hobart says, pointing toward a locker-room door. Inside, the team is chanting. "Quinn, Team Poinsettia for you."

Before we go our separate ways, Patrick extends a hand to me. Not to hold, but to shake. "May the best man win." There's a cockiness in his voice that lets me know he thinks he's the best man.

I want to say that I'll show him, but I don't want to eat my words in front of an entire arena.

I enter the other locker room, where I'm greeted by sporty, jaunty elves who are all geared up and ready to go. There's one locker set aside for me. Inside, there's a jersey, a puffer jacket, and boots. I experience the same unpleasant jitters that plague me on the first day of school every year when a new crop of students enters my classroom.

As I try on a few different pairs of gloves laid out for me on a waist-height table, I consider that a clean slate is one of the major reasons I decided to come out here. I think about what Nan Hargrave told us to do, chase adventure.

Because of that wise, wonderful old woman, I spin my attitude around one-eighty. With my hat on my head and my long scarf wrapped around my neck, I join the rest of the team in a warm-up before throwing the door open and announcing that I'm ready for action.

Up on the main level, we wait inside a tunnel. The vibrations of the rowdy crowd pour into my chest. "People must really love this sport, huh?"

Hobart is there next to me, and he nods. "We don't have soccer, football, basketball, baseball, or tennis, but we do have this." It's clear he's not one of the superfans himself yet he appreciates the spectacle of it all.

Ten minutes later, a jovial-sounding announcer's voice rings out. "Welcome one and all to the start of a very special season of Snowball Fighting. As a treat, our teams will be captained by our new Santa Patrick and our first-ever Merriest Mister."

I break out into a jog, veering to meet the announcer at the center of the snow-packed field. Patrick comes at us from the opposite direction, waving.

The crowd is even bigger than I imagined. No seat in the arena is empty as far as I can tell. Some wave pennant flags. Others have their entire faces painted their team's colors.

"Patrick and Quinn, thanks for coming out to help us celebrate another mighty season!" the announcer says. He tells us they're going to do a coin toss to see which of us will throw first.

"Heads," Patrick shouts as the oversized, golden coin goes spiraling into the air.

It lands on tails, which means Team Poinsettia gets the first go. Patrick looks peeved, which shouldn't please me, but it does.

My team leads me over to a pyramid of prepacked snowballs. Four referees in candy cane–striped uniforms surround the perimeter of the playing field. There's a clearly delineated boundary between our two sides, and I know, as per the rules, not to cross it or risk a penalty.

Cognizant of two-thousand-plus pairs of eyes on me, I take a moment to choose the best snowball in the bunch. I toss it back and forth between my hands getting a sense of its weight, its dynamics.

You've done this before, I remind myself. Well, not this but something similar. It's a skill like riding a bike.

"Merriest Mister, are you all set to start us off?" the announcer asks, and I nod. "Terrific! Let's count him in, everyone."

I roll out my shoulder, take my aim, and at the end of their countdown, a whistle blows. I close my eyes and hurl the snowball as hard and fast as I can, trying to overwrite a painful memory from my childhood that scared me away from sports entirely.

Crunch. Silence.

I'm afraid to open my eyes because I've heard churchgoers quieter than this mega arena.

I've screwed it all up.

But then, out of the silence come triumphant cheers.

When I finally brave a peek, one of the Team Evergreen elves is walking dejectedly to the sideline. I don't have time to relish my success because the announcer shouts, "Let the Snowball Fight season commence!"

Another whistle sounds, and the game breaks out in earnest.

I channel all my frustrations from the past into this game.

This is for Principal Masterson making me take down my wedding photo, I think before hurling a snowball over the line at a speedy elf who is taunting my teammates.

This is for expecting me to play stay-at-home spouse, I think before targeting, and missing, Patrick.

This is for worrying about how others judge the way you dress, I think of my own annoying inhibitions. It works in getting another elf out.

The more fuel I add to my internal fire—miscommunications and failures abound—the better I play.

It doesn't matter if the throws don't hit on the other side because the act of throwing the snowballs relieves me of some of the burden of these silly grievances, and without that burden, I become a light-on-my-feet snowball fighting machine.

The best man is definitely going to win, I try telepathically sending to Patrick. Because the best man is me.