absolutely perfect.
Merry Christmas, world!
Runaway Christmas
ELIZABETH BASS
Chapter 1
Christmas was only a few days away, but you never would have known it from sitting in the living room at Sassy Spinster Farm. A tree? No. A carol or two on the radio? Heaven forbid. The scent of gingerbread? Not at Aunt Laura’s, not this year.
Erica had really been hoping for a tree at the farm. It would have been cool to see all her mom’s old ornaments again, and remember happier times.
Two miles away, at her father’s house, her stepmother, Leanne, had started decking the halls the second the Thanksgiving dishes were cleared. Every corner of every room was crammed with Christmas junk, and The Nutcracker had been on a constant loop for three weeks now. There was Christmas galore in the place Erica didn’t want to be, and a big Christmas black hole in the place she usually loved.
The trouble was babies. The world was a wonderland for a baby. For a thirteen-year-old, not so much. Adults turned the world upside down for babies, even when babies threatened to turn the adults inside out.
Her aunt sagged in the recliner chair where she now lived twenty-four-seven, her eyelids droopy. When Erica suggested they make a batch of Christmas cookies, Laura’s skin turned a weird color. In Crayola terms, she’d be Screamin Green. “Just the thought of a cookie makes me ill.”
“How can a cookie make you sick?” Erica asked. “Cookies make people feel better.”
“Because everything makes me sick,” Laura said, readjusting the washrag on her forehead. “The succubus doesn’t want me to eat anything but mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. And bacon.”
The succubus was Laura’s baby-to-be, which wasn’t going to be born until May but was already dictating everyone’s life, the same way that one-year-old Angelica did at Erica’s dad’s house. Usually Erica came to the farm to escape the tyranny of Leanne and baby Angelica—or Angel Baby as she was often nauseatingly called—but now all the good times at the farm had been hijacked by the unseen being Laura alternately called the succubus, the critter, or Hortense the Creeping Terror.
“If I can pass just one nugget of wisdom on to you, youngster,” Laura said, “let it be this—don’t ever get pregnant.”
Erica, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pursed her lips. As if anyone had to tell her that. “Once the kid’s born, it’ll be all you think about. Like Leanne and Angelica.”
Laura scowled. “Leanne’s just putting on an act to trick you into making the same mistake she made. Don’t be fooled. Don’t have kids. Don’t even think about boys. Go find a cave and live by yourself. Keep a cat for company. Or a chicken.”
Laura’s husband, Webb, who was sitting across the room quietly reading a mystery, looked up from his book, smiling. “She’ll make a great mom, won’t she?”
Laura roused herself enough to shoot a threatening look his way. “ You don’t get to say a word on this subject. You’re not the one incubating the critter.”
“Really?” He laughed. “Your bitching and moaning makes it all so real for me, I sometimes forget.”
“Secondhand suffering doesn’t count for squat.”
Erica sighed. It used to be fun to come to the farm and listen to Webb and Laura’s scrappy way of communicating, which provided a refreshing contrast to the bored silence sporadically broken by real scrapping between Leanne and Erica’s dad. At the moment, though, she just wished everyone in her family talked like normal people. “I’m supposed to bring something to the youth group’s Christmas party at church later this afternoon,” she said. “Something like cookies.”
“Why don’t you take a plate of bacon to the party?” Laura asked. “It’s more nutritrious.”
“And what’s more festive for kids than a platter of Christmas bacon?” Webb asked.
“It’s got protein,” she shot back.
Erica couldn’t help rolling her
Merry Christmas, world!
Runaway Christmas
ELIZABETH BASS
Chapter 1
Christmas was only a few days away, but you never would have known it from sitting in the living room at Sassy Spinster Farm. A tree? No. A carol or two on the radio? Heaven forbid. The scent of gingerbread? Not at Aunt Laura’s, not this year.
Erica had really been hoping for a tree at the farm. It would have been cool to see all her mom’s old ornaments again, and remember happier times.
Two miles away, at her father’s house, her stepmother, Leanne, had started decking the halls the second the Thanksgiving dishes were cleared. Every corner of every room was crammed with Christmas junk, and The Nutcracker had been on a constant loop for three weeks now. There was Christmas galore in the place Erica didn’t want to be, and a big Christmas black hole in the place she usually loved.
The trouble was babies. The world was a wonderland for a baby. For a thirteen-year-old, not so much. Adults turned the world upside down for babies, even when babies threatened to turn the adults inside out.
Her aunt sagged in the recliner chair where she now lived twenty-four-seven, her eyelids droopy. When Erica suggested they make a batch of Christmas cookies, Laura’s skin turned a weird color. In Crayola terms, she’d be Screamin Green. “Just the thought of a cookie makes me ill.”
“How can a cookie make you sick?” Erica asked. “Cookies make people feel better.”
“Because everything makes me sick,” Laura said, readjusting the washrag on her forehead. “The succubus doesn’t want me to eat anything but mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. And bacon.”
The succubus was Laura’s baby-to-be, which wasn’t going to be born until May but was already dictating everyone’s life, the same way that one-year-old Angelica did at Erica’s dad’s house. Usually Erica came to the farm to escape the tyranny of Leanne and baby Angelica—or Angel Baby as she was often nauseatingly called—but now all the good times at the farm had been hijacked by the unseen being Laura alternately called the succubus, the critter, or Hortense the Creeping Terror.
“If I can pass just one nugget of wisdom on to you, youngster,” Laura said, “let it be this—don’t ever get pregnant.”
Erica, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pursed her lips. As if anyone had to tell her that. “Once the kid’s born, it’ll be all you think about. Like Leanne and Angelica.”
Laura scowled. “Leanne’s just putting on an act to trick you into making the same mistake she made. Don’t be fooled. Don’t have kids. Don’t even think about boys. Go find a cave and live by yourself. Keep a cat for company. Or a chicken.”
Laura’s husband, Webb, who was sitting across the room quietly reading a mystery, looked up from his book, smiling. “She’ll make a great mom, won’t she?”
Laura roused herself enough to shoot a threatening look his way. “ You don’t get to say a word on this subject. You’re not the one incubating the critter.”
“Really?” He laughed. “Your bitching and moaning makes it all so real for me, I sometimes forget.”
“Secondhand suffering doesn’t count for squat.”
Erica sighed. It used to be fun to come to the farm and listen to Webb and Laura’s scrappy way of communicating, which provided a refreshing contrast to the bored silence sporadically broken by real scrapping between Leanne and Erica’s dad. At the moment, though, she just wished everyone in her family talked like normal people. “I’m supposed to bring something to the youth group’s Christmas party at church later this afternoon,” she said. “Something like cookies.”
“Why don’t you take a plate of bacon to the party?” Laura asked. “It’s more nutritrious.”
“And what’s more festive for kids than a platter of Christmas bacon?” Webb asked.
“It’s got protein,” she shot back.
Erica couldn’t help rolling her