Hot Cocoa Hearts Read online

  He shook his head. “No … something else.” He pulled a container of whipped cream from behind his back and aimed it at me. “Snow!” Before I had time to react, he squirted the whipped cream toward my face. The can was nearly empty, which made the stream of white spray out in a volcanic spritz.

  I screeched, then leapt behind the counter and tackled him. “Oh, you are so going to pay for that.” I wrestled the can from his hands, aimed, and fired, and white flecks splayed across his face. He tickled me to loosen my grasp on the can, but I depressed the nozzle, and soon, we were both covered in white.

  We were bent over laughing and nearly out of breath when I heard someone clear his throat. We glanced up into the astonished face of Alex’s abuelo.

  “¿Qué pasó?” he asked, surveying the dusting of white coating most of the counter, floor, and us. But there was a smile on his face. “The whipped cream has been misbehaving again, eh?”

  I snuffled a giggle, and Alex and I began brushing at the whipped cream sprinkled all over our clothes.

  “Lo siento, Abuelo,” Alex said, his voice light with laughter. “Sorry. We’ll clean up everything.”

  “No te preocupes,” Señor Perez said with a dismissive wave before heading toward the shop’s back room. “Fun is always worth a little mess.”

  As the back room door swung shut, I caught Alex’s eye, and we cracked up all over again. But as we finished cleaning and closing up the store together, I felt a niggling in my stomach. I couldn’t help wondering, What would Sawyer have done if he’d been with us in Cocoa Cravings tonight? Would he have been hiding behind the counter with me, laughing ridiculously and ducking sprays of whipped cream?

  I tried to imagine him there beside me, but somehow, the picture never quite crystallized in my mind.

  “Are you sure this dress looks okay?” I asked Jez for the hundredth time as the car pulled up in front of the Teen Center.

  “It looks just like it did two minutes ago. And two minutes before that.” She gave me a teasing look as she patted down the layers of her glittery pink tutu. “Fabulous.”

  I smiled gratefully. “Thanks.” But I still couldn’t stop smoothing the layers of purple lace that made up the skirt.

  I’d chosen my favorite dress for the concert—it had a fitted black sleeveless bodice adorned with zippers. I paired it with black leggings, a purple feathered barrette in my hair, and my Doc Marten boots. (I was sure Nyssa would be horrified, which was how I knew it was perfect.) It was an outfit I always felt great in, but tonight, it wasn’t doing a thing to settle my nerves.

  Jez’s mom leaned over the front seat, peering at us sternly. “All right, Emery, Jasmina.” Beside me, I felt Jez stiffen at the use of her full name. Her mom refused to call her by her nickname, and it was a constant source of frustration for Jez. “Mr. Mason will pick you up at ten.”

  “Come on, Em.” Jez swung the door open. “Let’s go find the boys—I mean—band.”

  “What?!” Mrs. Vesudez cried, but Jez was already shutting the door, laughing.

  I shook my head at her. “You keep messing with her head, and she’ll never let you out of the house.”

  “Sure she will.” Jez slipped her arm through mine. “She thinks you’re a good influence on me.” I snorted, and she grinned.

  Then I took a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

  We walked into the Teen Center, where a disco ball threw beads of light in spinning rivers around the darkened room. Groups of kids, most of whom I recognized from school, mingled on the floor and around a snack table set up toward the back. My breath caught when I spotted Sawyer talking with Gabe and a few other Undergrounds at the front of the room by the stage.

  He looked adorable in his faded, ripped jeans and a black hoodie with a vintage Blink-182 tee over top. See me, see me, see me, I thought, pounding out a hopeful rhythm in my heart. Finally, he lifted his head and our eyes met. He stopped talking midsentence, then smiled, and my knees turned to putty as he headed in our direction.

  “Hey,” he said when he reached me. “I’m glad you made it.”

  He was? He was! I blinked in blissful delirium but couldn’t find my voice until Jez squeezed my arm. “Me too!” I finally spluttered. I motioned around the room. “It looks like a great turnout. Are you nervous about performing in front of so many people?”

  A flicker of amusement lit his face. “Nah. I have this mindfulness thing I do. I pick one person in the audience and imagine I’m playing just for them.” He shrugged. “It makes it easier. Besides, my music has a deeper meaning. I can’t let something as pedestrian as stage fright stand in its way.”

  Pedestrian. How much did I love that he used words like that? “It’s cool that you can do that. You know, visualize.”

  “Sawyer!” A voice called, and we looked toward the stage to see Gabe waving him over. “It’s time to warm up.”

  “That’s my cue,” he said. “I’ve got to get backstage.”

  Sigh. The casual way he threw “backstage” out there made him sound like such a bona fide pro.

  “I’ve always wondered what goes on back there,” I said to him. “Top secret rituals? Signing autographs? Bingeing on gummy worms and Pixy Stix?”

  I expected him to laugh at the joke, but his expression stayed serious. “It’s all about focusing, you know, getting in the right place mentally.”

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling foolish for making a joke, when clearly Sawyer took pre-concert prepping pretty seriously. I also felt a little disappointed that it wasn’t anything more exciting. “I’d love to check it out sometime,” I said, hinting.

  I’d hoped he’d jump on that, but his brow furrowed. “Yeah, the thing is, normally, I need my space after a show. To decompress, you know.”

  Omigod, this was embarrassing. I’d put myself out there, and now he was rejecting me. “Of course!” I blurted, smiling to let him know I was totally okay with that. “It’s fine. I didn’t really—”

  “No, I’m sorry. You can come backstage afterward.” He put his hand on mine, and I trembled at his touch. “I can unwind later.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, and he nodded.

  “And hey,” he added, “I saved you and Jez some seats in the front row for the show.”

  “Really?” I asked, then mentally kicked myself for sounding so thrilled. “Thanks. That was nice of you.”

  “Well, I had some ulterior motives.” He looked at me from under that fringe of jagged bangs. “I want to see you while I sing.” My entire body liquefied at his words, and I was grateful the darkness hid my blush.

  Jez nodded enthusiastically. “We’ll be the best groupies you’ve ever had.”

  At “groupies,” his brow crinkled ever so slightly. “That sounds way too Justin Bieber for Sweet Garbage.”

  “Definitely!” I laughed, commiserating, then rolled my eyes at Jez.

  She glanced at me questioningly, then caught on and jumped in with “Right! Who needs legions of swooning, screaming fans anyway?”

  Sawyer gave a short laugh. “Exactly. It’s all about the music.” Then he turned toward the stage, lifting a hand in parting. “See you after.”

  “After,” I called to him jubilantly.

  Jez and I hurried to grab our seats, which were—as promised—front and center. A few minutes later, the edgy, opening chords of “Hallmark Holidaze” rang out, and the stage curtain opened to reveal Sawyer at the microphone, singing in that sullen voice I adored. The bright stage lights haloed Sawyer’s hair with gold, and he performed with a relaxed confidence that made him look even cuter, if that was possible.

  “Wow,” Jez whispered to me at one point as I snapped photos with fiendish speed, “he looks like he’s in pain when he sings.”

  I nodded. The more I listened, the more validated I felt about my own anti-Christmas campaign. Finally, here was someone who understood exactly how I felt about the holidays! It was hard to tell with the bright lights shining on his face, but I could’ve sworn Saw
yer kept looking at me as he sang. Then, suddenly, I didn’t have to guess anymore, because as one of the songs finished, Sawyer took the microphone off the stand and sat down on the edge of the stage, right in front of me!

  In the expectant silence of the room, he said, “Now, this next song is one that none of you have heard before. I wrote it a few days ago, for someone who’s in the audience tonight.”

  I gripped the edge of my seat, my heart thrashing wildly. He couldn’t mean—

  He gave me an encouraging smile. “Em, could you come up here, please?”

  Jez gave me a nudge. “Go on,” she whispered. “Get up there.”

  On shaking legs, I walked to the edge of the stage and sat down beside Sawyer. Even though the gym was a sea of darkness, I sensed the dozens of eyes watching us, waiting.

  “This song’s called ‘Winter Girl,’ ” Sawyer said.

  Behind us onstage, Gabe struck some slow chords on his guitar, the sort of beat you’d hear in a—gulp—love song. Sawyer turned to me, put the microphone to his lips, and began to sing. The song was about a girl made of snow, one who spends her days looking out at the wintry world, making pictures in her mind. The words were beautiful, but I could barely hear them over my deafening heartbeat.

  When the last note of the song faded into the darkness, applause broke out around the room, and Sawyer slipped his hand behind my back to help me slide off the stage.

  I collapsed into my chair, ecstatic and breathless. At that moment, there was one thing I knew beyond any doubt. The most surefire way to get a girl to fall head over heels? Write a song for her.

  I was still in a heady state of bliss when the concert ended. Jez waited at the snack table as I climbed the stairs to the stage alone and walked into the wings. I found Sawyer bent over a bunch of amps and wires, putting equipment away. I took a deep, nervous breath, wondering how things would be between us after what had happened during the concert.

  I took a step toward him, and my heart skipped a beat when he glanced up and smiled.

  “Hey.” He motioned to a folding chair next to his, and I sat down.

  “The concert was incredible,” I started. “And that song.” I smiled, letting my hair fall into my face. “Thank you.”

  “I thought you’d like it.” He tucked his hair behind his ear. “I actually had the idea over a year ago. After a bad breakup with some girl who went to Garber Middle School. Can’t remember her name.”

  “Oh,” I said as brightly as I could, even as my insides deflated.

  This Winter Girl wasn’t me? She was some girl he couldn’t even remember?

  Ouch.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “the song wasn’t coming together for me yet, until I saw those photos you took. All those icicles and snow-covered trees. The sheer desolation of winter, you know, its loneliness. Then everything solidified.”

  “Well, I’m glad I could help.” I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. At least my photos had motivated him, but it would have been way more romantic to hear that I’d inspired him instead of my pictures.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t expect you to really understand the mystique of songwriting. But it’s sweet that you’re trying.”

  I frowned, and for a second I thought he was about to say more, but then a wave of deafening giggles crashed over us from stage right. I turned to see a dozen girls rapidly approaching, clutching CDs in their hands.

  I waited as he signed CDs and chatted with the other girls, knowing that this was part of what soon-to-be-discovered artists did. Once it was all over and they’d gone, Sawyer glanced up and caught my eye, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face, as if he’d forgotten about me entirely.

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” he said. “Fans can get so needy.”

  I smiled. “They really loved you.”

  He nodded, and then we settled into silence. He seemed completely comfortable with it, but for some reason, it made me feel awkward, and I scrambled to fill it. After all the times I’d run through imaginary conversations with Sawyer in my head, I couldn’t come up with anything else to say to him now that we were finally alone? That was ridiculous! I’d always imagined us talking for hours without any effort at all.

  “So, what’d you get from your Secret Santa this week?” I blurted.

  He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out the composition sheets Nyssa and I had made. “Cool, right?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Do you have any idea who it is?”

  He shook his head. “At first, I thought it might be Nyssa. I mean, who else in our class would come up with a fruit-and-cheese gift basket? I was sure her parents probably bought it for her so she wouldn’t have to go to any trouble making something herself.”

  I blushed for Nyssa’s sake, remembering how she’d basically told me the exact same thing.

  “But after the gift I got this week, I have no idea who it is,” Sawyer continued. “There’s no way Nyssa would’ve made these sheets by hand. Not the Glee Princess.”

  I flinched at the nickname. It was one thing to hear Nyssa poke fun at it good-naturedly herself. It was another thing to hear it spoken like an insult.

  “You never know,” I said lightly, trying in the gentlest way possible to help him give her the benefit of the doubt. “People might surprise you.”

  He paused over the wires he was holding. “Not people like her. They don’t know how to think outside the box.” He locked eyes with me. “You know what she’s like, with her high-end fashion and attitude.”

  “She’s not only about that,” I started, my stomach pinching. I couldn’t let his comments about Nyssa go without saying anything. “I used to think Nyssa was a snob, too, but I’ve hung out with her a little lately, and she’s more down-to-earth than I ever gave her credit for.”

  He shook his head. “That seems hard to believe. Anyway, I don’t waste a lot of time on all the Secret Santa drama. I wish I could have opted out of the whole thing.”

  That’s exactly what I would’ve said a couple weeks ago, too. But it was disappointing to hear him say it now, knowing that he was my Secret Santa. Did he still find it that much of a drag, even when it was me he was giving gifts to? The idea made my insides droop. Even so, I was eager to show him that we were kindred spirits in that respect.

  “I hated the idea at first, too,” I admitted. “But at least it will be over next week.” I said it with as much zeal as I could muster, even though I felt an unpleasant nagging sensation as I did, like I was caught in a lie.

  “You read my mind.” He looked at me thoughtfully, then stepped closer. “There is one thing about this holiday season I’m glad for.”

  “What’s that?” I asked weakly, barely able to focus being so close to him.

  He smiled. “It’s giving me the chance to get to know you.”

  My heart stopped. “How?” I managed to whisper, wondering if he was about to confess that I was his Secret Santa secret.

  “Well, if the band hadn’t been putting together the Bah Humbug album, then I never would’ve used your photo, and maybe we wouldn’t be here now. Twists of fate, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I breathed. He was talking about fate. Our fate.

  “Before the last few weeks, I had you all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He laughed. “I used to think you were Christmas-crazed, like the rest of your family. Because of the Holly Jolly House and everything.”

  I groaned. “Tell me about it.” He laughed. “I can’t stand my parents’ decorations. All those tacky plastic elves and reindeer. It’s completely embarrassing. Pathetic even.”

  I expected Sawyer to nod in agreement, but instead, his gaze shifted to something over my shoulder. Much to my disappointment, he took a slight step back from me. It was only when he said, “Hi, Mr. Mason,” that I understood why.

  Dad. Here. Behind me. Crud.

  I turned slowly and saw Dad standing a few feet away, his expression crestfallen. That was when I re
alized he’d heard every single word I’d just said.

  “ ‘Pathetic,’ ” Dad repeated as soon as Jez shut the car door and hurried inside her house. She’d shot me a look of sympathy as she got out, since I’d managed to whisper a rundown of what had happened to her as we left the Teen Center.

  “You called the Holly Jolly House ‘pathetic,’ ” he said again, shaking his head in disbelief.

  I sighed at the woeful way he spoke the word, like I’d said the worst thing imaginable. I hugged my arms against the sudden chill I felt settling over the car, turning toward the window so I wouldn’t have to see Dad’s downcast face.

  “Dad, the Holly Jolly House is your thing. Not mine. I thought you knew how I felt.”

  “I had no idea,” Dad said shortly. He pulled into our driveway, where the blaze of twinkling lights in the front yard made the inside of the car as bright as day. He turned off the ignition but didn’t move to get out. “It’s true, you haven’t been as enthusiastic about it this year, but I kept hoping it was some phase you were going through.”

  I huffed, tightening my shoulders. “It’s not a phase!” I cried in frustration. “This is who I am!”

  Silence stretched between us as Dad stared out at the lawn, where the lit-up penguins were doing their caroling act to “Deck the Halls.” When he finally spoke again, his voice was tired and wavering, almost old-sounding.

  “When you were a little girl, you couldn’t wait for Christmas to come.” He smiled sadly. “You were the reason we started the Holly Jolly House in the first place. Me and your grandma. She told me she hoped you’d never lose your sense of wonder, and that the Holly Jolly House would help you remember—”

  “Things are different than they used to be!” I cried, fighting the sudden urge I had to cover my ears with my hands. I didn’t want to think about Grandma. Not tonight. “I’m different!”

  “I see that now,” Dad said, nodding slowly. He frowned over the steering wheel, as if debating, then reached into the pocket of his jacket. “Look, there’s something I’ve been wanting to give you. I’ve been carrying it around with me for weeks.” He set a worn red velvet jewelry box in my hands. “Grandma asked me to save this for you. You’ve never asked about it, and you might have forgotten, but it’s her Christmas locket. She was sure you’d change your mind someday and want it. She said I’d know when the time was right.” He sighed. “This may not be the perfect time, but I’m hoping this might change the way you feel.”