Chapter 6:

Now Showing in Snowflake

“I warned you this was a bad idea,” frowns Mr. Kerns, rubbing his long, pale hand nervously over his scruffy bald head. “I even showed you the numbers from the last three Christmas Eves, remember? No one comes out to see movies on Christmas Eve, Sasha; no one!”

He’s pacing, too, back and forth between the ticket window and the cheesy game room. That is, if you call Galaga, Centipede and air hockey a “game room.”

“People will come, Mr. Kerns,” I insist stridently, as I’ve been doing for the last two hours straight. “At least the kids will… I think.”
“I don’t know why you keep saying that,” he says, pointing broadly to the empty parking lot and wide, even emptier sidewalk in front of the Snowflake Cinema’s double doors. “Despite all the evidence to the contrary!”

Mr. Kerns is short and, well… plump.

He wears baggy gray slacks, every night.

That and a snug red dress shirt with a gray tie, every night.

He wears a gray sweater vest over the red shirt and gray tie, every night.

His shoes are black sneakers with the heels worn down on the right sides and he’s wearing them down even more tonight as he paces, to and fro, back and forth, on and on.

“Here’s how it works, Mr. Kerns,” I say, again, for like the 100^th time. “Everybody eats dinner, trims the tree, has a glass of champagne or makes hot cocoa, whatever. Then, around 8 or 9, all the kids in town wonder what they’re going to do for the rest of the night, where they’re going to go to meet up. Should they sit around with the family playing Yahtzee? I don’t think so. So, what do they do? Come out and see a movie! It’s the perfect Christmas Eve solution!”

Mr. Kerns turns to me, eyes wide with distress and whines, “But why did I let you convince me to switch out all the top-run movies with… with…”

It’s like he can’t bring himself to say the words or something!

“With… Christmas movies?!?!”

Yeah, see; that’s where I screwed up.

Big.

Time.

Everything was going so well.

It was all going to plan.

A couple cars full of kids have actually pulled up, stepped out, squinted up at the marquee, read titles like Patches the Christmas Elf or Silent Fright Night 3, shook their heads, shot me dirty looks as I lingered, hopefully, by the ticket stand and then gotten back in the car and peeled off toward parts unknown.

The Snowflake Sweet Shop, probably; that’s the only other place open at this godforsaken hour on Christmas Eve.

“Let’s just pack it up,” sighs Mr. Kerns, actually loosening his tie before clocking out for the night.

(What is it, Christmas Eve or something?!?!)

“But… but… look,” I say, spotting a familiar red sports car sliding into a (handicapped) space out front. “Here comes someone now.”

“Someone?” he asks, barely looking back toward the front door. “Listen, you’re an assistant manager now, Sasha. Though I might be demoting you after looking at tonight’s receipts tomorrow morning. You can handle one customer and, when he finishes watching the last 40-minutes of Randolph the Gassy Reindeer, well, you can give him a complimentary candy cane and shoo him out on your own, can’t you?”

“Are you s-s-sure?” I ask, a little worried about the “demotion” comment, although I’m 90% certain – make that 80% certain, okay more like 75% – Kerns was joking.

“You do it all the time, Sasha,” he sighs, grabbing his blue blazer from just inside the employee break room door and walking back toward me on his wobbly sneakers. “Why should tonight be any different?”

“Well, what if I’m right and we get swamped, Mr. Kerns?”

“It’s nearly 11,” he points out, eyeing one of my classmates as he saunters toward the front doors on those crooked sneakers of his. “How busy do you think it’s going to get? Besides, it’s Christmas Eve; I’ve got a family waiting on me at home and, well…”

He lets his voice trail off, but I can finish his sentence for him: “And, well… you don’t. Not really…”

“Merry Christmas,” I murmur as he rushes out into the night, barely holding the door open for none other than Dart McKee, star swimmer for Snowflake High School.

“Bah humbug,” murmurs Dart to Mr. Kerns’ back.

I chuckle, but I’m so nervous it comes out as a snort.

Dart barely looks up as he steps toward the old-timey ticket widow, the kind with the hole in the glass and the little dip underneath where you’re supposed to slide the money.

But then, everything at the Snowflake Cinema is old-timey; from the ticket window to the old-fashioned popcorn popper to the outdated candy to the rickety seats and the giant burgundy curtains used to “sound” proof the side walls in each of our six “spacious” theaters.

“Welcome to Snowflake Cinemas,” I coo as Dart finally looks up. “How can I help you?”
Dart’s brown eyes narrow, then grow soft with recognition.

Then he avoids my eyes completely and says, “Oh, uh, thanks.”

Sheesh, I know we don’t exactly hang with the same crowds, you know (not that I have a crowd or anything), but… it’s Christmas!

Couldn’t he at least fake like he thinks I’m human?

“Can I help you with something?” I ask, still using my fake Snowflake Cinemas voice, as if Mr. Kerns was still around and dock my pay for sounding like an actual teenager.

He’s got his wallet half out of his back pocket, half in and I watch as he shoves it back down and begins to turn.

“Naw,” he says quietly, gently. “I… I… changed my mind.”

“What?” I squawk, before I can stop myself. “But… you came all this way. Don’t back out now!”

He’s half turning, all 6’ 2” of his fine self, 160-pounds of swimmer muscle poured into hot chocolate colored chords, tan leather sneakers with a swish down each side and an off-white fisherman’s sweater with a collar that covers half his throat and keeps scratching the dirty blonde Christmas break stubble that covers his dimpled chin.

His crooked smile only curves halfway up his hollow cheeks as he arches one dark, inquisitive eyebrow.

“But… I’ve never come to the movies alone before.”

“You’re… alone?” I mock gasp.

He nods his head all serious like, turning away all over again.

“I’m kidding. I mean, it’s not a crime, you know? People do it all the time.”

“No, I know they do,” he says quickly, as if he thinks I’m making fun of him because he didn’t get my joke – or maybe just because he’s alone. “It’s just, kind of… sad… you know?”

“Sad? I’ll give you sad; try working at the movies alone. On Christmas Eve. Choking on stale popcorn fumes. Now that’s sad.”

“You’re… alone?” he asks, finally taking his eyes off his buttery leather shoes and peering inside the deserted lobby.

“That was my manager who almost ran you over just now,” I explain, leaning forward on the ticket counter until my face is closest to the little air-hole window thingy.

“Well, yeah, but… you’re getting paid to be here alone,” he points out, finally looking back at me with his dark chocolate eyes. “That’s the opposite of sad.”

“Really?” I ask, getting back up and spreading my eyes wide to reveal the marvel, the wonder, the splendor that is… the Snowflake Cinemas! “Really?”

He kind of chuckles, but there’s a lot of work left to do if I’m ever going to lure him all the way inside.

After all, he’s still as close to his car as he is to the ticket window.

That means I’ve got about a 50-50 chance of this being the night of my dreams… or just another sad shift at Snowflake Cinemas.

“Think!” I say to myself. “Here is your chance to spend Christmas Eve with Dart McKee; THE Dart McKee! Don’t! Blow! It!”

“Popcorn’s free after 11!” I shout, suddenly inspired. “All you can eat!”

“Really?” he asks, inching one step closer to me.

“And soda’s… soda’s… half-price all Christmas Eve!”

He smirks, looks down at his shoes, fiddles with his feet, looks left, sees nobody, looks right, sees even more of nobody, and finally… shrugs.

“Deal!” he says, nearly tripping over his feet to get back to the ticket window and snatch up all these last-minute deals. “I’ll grab one for… hmmmm… well, let’s see. How’s Satan’s Snow Day?”

“Only all kinds of awesome,” I grin, printing him up a ticket before he can back out and choose something lame like Mrs. Claus Goes On Holiday!

I rip it in half as he hands over the six bucks admission fee, and follow him around to stand behind the concession counter.

I can’t beat him there if I go all the way through the side door and walk through, so I do what we all do when no customers are around: slide over the counter on our fannies.

“Nice,” he smirks, fumbling the last few bills out of his wallet. “I’m sure the Health Department loves that move.”

“Why, are you working undercover or something?”

He smiles quietly, brown eyes still a little sad.

“What can I get you?” I ask, eager to keep the conversation flowing.

Dart’s so lively in school, always bounding down the halls in his tight letterman’s sweater and even tighter jeans, sneakers always squeaking on the hallway tiles as he shoves his pals around from locker to locker with one arm always, always around his main squeeze: Tonia Lockhart.

He says, “Well, that popcorn to start, and a soda of course, and… holy smokes, are those… Doo Dads? Seriously… and… Slow Pokes? Gheez, I haven’t had those since my Dad used to take me here as a kid…”

“Coming right up,” I smile, easing two packs of each out of the tray under the smudged (smudged from my butt, that is!) concession stand glass.

“But… I only have enough for the…” he stammers, too shamed to finish his sentence as he shoves them back across the counter instead.

His fingers look wrinkly, like maybe he’s spent half of Christmas Eve swimming in the inside pool at school.

“Relax,” I say, sliding them back over his way. “Merry Christmas!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
I put the cap on his soda and slide it across as well, then bag up a super-extra-double-large popcorn, just because I can.

“Wow!” he says, eyes wide enough to practically touch those dark brown curls of his. “All that’s FREE?”

“Well,” I mock, twirling a lock of my long, red hair nervously around one finger as I lean in conspiratorially, “don’t feel too special. I just have to throw the extra away at the end of the night, anyway.”

He blushes, a little, or maybe my glasses are fogging up from being so close to him, as he looks past me to the overflowing 1962 popcorn fryer.

“Expecting a big crowd tonight?”

“Bigger than this,” I say and, when he frowns, I quickly add, “I mean, not that I’m, I mean… we’re… not glad you didn’t show up! It’s just, well, I kind of convinced my boss that there would be this mad rush of people coming out to see movies after being cooped up with their families all day and…”

“But… all you’re showing is Christmas movies,” he complains.

“Yeah, well, that was my idea, too!”

“But they’re, like, really lame Christmas movies.”

I blush and confess, “Well, I didn’t think kids would be actually watching the movies, you know?”

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” he asks.

“I guess not. Why, what’d you come here to see anyway?”

“The new Space Shots movie.”

I want to groan, but don’t; I thought Dart had better taste than that.

“Too bad my boss already left,” I say. “I could put it back on for you.”

“Naw,” he says, looking down at his ticket. “Satan’s Snow Day sounds… cool?”

“It is,” I say, having never seen it, but with a title like that, how can you miss?

He kind of lingers by the concession stand, his soda, popcorn and snacks still littering the counter I really should be cleaning.

“I feel kind of bad your idea didn’t work out,” he says, and all the while he’s staring at me with those puppy dog brown eyes I’m thinking, “Is one of his jock friends filming this or something?”

“You and me both,” I say just because, hey, I’ve always wanted to.

“I should call all my friends,” he says, still leaning against the customer side of the counter. “That would impress your boss, huh?”
“It would,” I say, wondering why I’m not more excited about his bright idea of his.

“But… it’s kinda late,” he hems.

“Real late,” I say, the idea of having Dart to myself for the rest of the evening suddenly a billion times more important than, you know, my actual job.

“Plus, I mean… you’re not really showing anything good and they’d all hate me if I got them out of the house for nothing.”

Now it’s my turn to look all offended.

“Just kidding, Sasha,” he says, avoiding my eyes again. “I thought you could take a joke.”

I’d come back with something snappy but I’m too busy being flabbergasted by the fact that.

Dart.

McKee.

Knows.

My.

Frickin’.

Name!

“You probably don’t have all that many friends anyway,” I crack, if only to prove to myself I can still speak.

“Oh yeah,” he snorts, reaching for the cell phone outlined in the front pocket of his dark chocolate pants. “Sorry if I’m not head of the ‘Official I’m Too Cool for Friends Club’ like you!”

“I have friends,” I argue, secretly happy when he gives up on digging the phone out of his blissfully snug pocket.

“Yeah, name one,” he challenges, in no hurry to rush and see the opening credits of Satan’s Snow Day. “Sorry, wait; name one who isn’t a teacher, counselor, principal or PE Coach!”

Crap!

“I hang out with that one girl in Home Ec class,” I argue.

“That One Girl?” he chuckles. “Really, Sasha? Is that what it says on her birth certificate?”

“Or how about that new kid from Wisconsin? I hung out with him for a whole day last week!”

“Yeah, because Counselor Wiggum asked you to show him around the school on his FIRST DAY.”

“Okay, so, if you’re rolling in friends, where’s your girlfriend Tonia tonight?”

He shrugs and says, “We kind of broke up.”

“What?” I say, perking up a smidge. “When? Why?”

He cocks his head and looks at me funny.

“What? You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Or read about it? In the paper or anything?”

“Read about what?” I ask.

“Quit pulling my leg,” he frowns.

“Dart, I’ve been working nonstop since Christmas break started last week. This is usually our busy time, and until my Mom gets home from rehab, well, I’ve got to handle all the bills myself, so…”

I pause, hardly believing I’ve let that much slide.

He looks up, at least, past the giant tub of popcorn and matching, gurgling giant soda and says, “I’m sorry, Sasha; I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” I kind of snap, not intending to; he flinches, a little, but not too much. “I mean, I kind of can’t even believe I said all that right now. Out loud. Too… you… of all people.”

He waits me out while I tell the sordid tale; at least, the edited version.

When I’m done, he says, “I never knew all that was going on at home, Sasha. You just always have it so together.”

“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving. You think I’d be working in a dump like this if I didn’t have to pay the frickin’ rent on a double-wide at the Snowflake Motor Court?”

He winces; I guess I am a little shriek-y suddenly.

“Sorry,” I grumble. “I didn’t mean to hijack your big news.”

“Well, you’re about the only person who hasn’t heard it, so I suppose it still is news.”

“What’s news, Dart?”

He blinks, looks down, then up, and says, “We had practice, you know… first weekend of Christmas break? Coach was punishing us for losing that big meet last month. Anyway, I guess over Christmas break the janitors clean out whatever’s left in the lockers. Well, when I got to practice, coach was waiting for me outside; Coach and a couple cops!”

“What?”

“Yeah, I guess the custodian found half a dime bag or something in my gym shorts, called the cops, then called Coach. He was steamed.”

“Did they arrest you?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t see the mug shot, Sasha; it was on the front of the sports page! I mean, not to brag or anything. Hell yeah, they arrested me; cost my Dad like three grand just to bail me out, on top of he lost his job before Halloween and we haven’t made a house payment since Thanksgiving. He’s freaking out!”

“So, what’s gonna happen?”

“Nothing much,” he says, voice leaden with irony. “Only… I have to do about 6,000 hours of community service and am on probation for, like, ever. I can’t even associate with anyone on the swim team, or extracurricular activities. When Tonia found out, she flipped. Said she couldn’t have me ruining her chances of getting into State.”

“Ouch,” I say.

“Yeah, ouch is right. Three years we’ve been dating, and the first time I’m not 100% Mr. America she bails. She’s already dating Brash Masters.”

“Brash?” I say, eyes rolling. “Doesn’t he have, like, an IQ of 38 or something?”
“Yeah, well, he’s all-state in four sports and counting, so… they kind of grade him on a curve, if you know what I mean. Tonia calls him a ‘real asset’ to her ‘well-rounded collegiate lifestyle,’ whatever that means.”

“Cold,” I say, suddenly realizing I’ve been sipping on his soda and munching on his popcorn for the last 10 minutes. “Oh. My. God!”

I gasp and quickly pour him another bucket full of his own, plus a new soda.

“Dart, I had no idea, I’m so sorry. So, what, you figured a little movie time might clear your head?”

His eyes get big, his cheeks flushed. “Clear my head? My Dad kicked me out tonight. Right after my grandparents left, he took me out to the garage. He packed my bags and handed me a few twenty dollar bills. Said he’d booked me a room at the Snowflake Chalet through New Year’s. Wants me to clear my head and think about where I’d like to live once school starts up again.”

“Because you got busted for some weed?” I ask.

“It’s more the newspaper thing. That mug shot really shook him up. He’s in real estate, you know, needs to keep his image up. I think he’s just kind of distancing himself from me, you know?”

“Not really,” I murmur. (I mean, how do you “distance yourself” from your son, am I right?) “No.”

“Yeah, me either.”

“So, what are you going to do? I mean, once the hotel room runs out.”

“Sasha, I have no idea. I can’t live with any of the guys on the team, Tonia’s cut me loose, I have no other family in Snowflake, I mean…”

His voice trails off, his shoe squeaking on the tile floor of the lobby.

“My mom still has 76 days left in rehab,” I say. “That is, if she sticks with it this time. Her room is free, or the couch, or whatever…”

“I couldn’t, Sasha,” he says, face full-on crimson now. “Seriously, that’s… way over the line. I mean, you hardly know me.”

“Know you?” I want to say, but don’t; for obvious reasons. “I’ve been silently stalking you since you transferred here halfway through freshman year, you doof! I know everything about you! Except, you know, for the fact that you’re a total pothead!!!”

“I’m not proposing, dude,” I snort, slugging him playfully on the arm. “Get over yourself.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he says, eyes so desperate I already know his answer before he does.

“Where are you going to go, Dart? It’s a big place; bigger than it looks on the outside. I keep it clean. You… you… can get a job here, help pay some of the bills.”

“Yeah?” he asks, the fact that his head’s not spinning around a pretty good indicator that his not completely disgusted by the idea; by either idea.

“Mr. Kerns made me assistant manager last week and hasn’t hired my replacement, so… I could put in a good word.”

“You’d… do that for me?”

“Yeah, Dart; I would.”

“But… we’ve never said 10 words to each other at school.”

“Yeah?”

“So, I mean, don’t you hate me?”

“Uh, no. I mean, I may think you have rotten taste in chicks and really bad drug hiding skills but, other than that, I actually think you’re kind of… cool.”

“Me too,” he blurts.

“Yeah, most jocks do think they’re cool.”

“No, I mean… I think you’re cool, too.”

“Yeah, well, free popcorn and a warm bed will do that to a guy.”

He blushes again, and looks toward his theater.

“Hey, you wanna… watch the movie with me?”

“I can’t,” I say, too quickly, if only to hide the fact that I’ve been daring him to ask me for the last 15 minutes. “I’ve got to bag the popcorn, clean the soda machine nozzles, spray down the mats…”

“I can help you with that,” he offers, smiling for the first time all night. “After the movie’s over, I mean. Come on, Sasha. I don’t want to watch a movie alone and… and… it’s Christmas.”

“But what if somebody else shows up?” I ask lamely, looking out into the deserted parking lot.

“Hand me your keys,” he says.

I do, not even reluctantly.

He strides toward the front door on long, athletic legs, find the right key after about eight tries, locks the front door with finality and even turns the “Open” sign over to “Closed” in the ticket window.

“There,” he says, handing the keys back. “Now you have no more excuses!”

He’s right; I don’t.

I follow him, both our arms loaded down with movie snacks.

The theater is big and empty and I wait to see where he’ll sit; dead center, last row – my kind of scary movie watcher!

The movie is just about to start, but he kind of lazes his way back there.

He lets me sit first, and I’m waiting for him to do the whole extra seat between us deal like every other guy I’ve ever dated, but he plops himself right down next to me and even offers me his extra box of Slow Pokes!

He waits until we’re settled to ask, “Are you really serious, I mean, about… the couch?”

I practically choke on a popcorn kernel and say, “Are you really serious about helping me clean out the popcorn machine?”
“Yes.”

“Then… yes.”

“I don’t know what to say, Sasha.”

“How about not saying anything,” I joke. “You know, this is a movie theater.”

“But I don’t want to watch the movie anymore,” he says.

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, turning toward me.

“So… what do you want to do then?”

“Well, I just… if we get a jump on the cleanup, maybe I can swing by the Snowflake Chalet and get my deposit back, since I never actually stayed there, and I can give you the money for a start on my rent, and…”

Figures; I finally lure a guy over to my house, and he turns out to be a bigger prude than… than… Santa Claus!!!