The PA system at Orangeside Community College crackled to life, broadcasting the Dean’s voice with the kind of forced whimsy that usually preceded a headache.
“Happy last day before winter break, Orangeside!” Dean Starmer’s voice warbled over a backdrop of synthesized bells. “Time to visit our loved ones. Some of you will travel as far as three miles! And don’t forget to visit our Winter Wonderland, where we’re giving away catalogs of next semester’s classes. Ha-ha-ha! Whoa! What’s that sound? Is that the tippy-tapping of secular boots on the roof? It must be non-denominational Mr. Winter on his way to the student lounge!”
In the cafeteria, Sharon Brenner rubbed her temples. “I am so sick of Dean Starmer jamming his PC-ness down my throat.”
Chase Wright added dryly., a slow, squinting grin spreading across his face. “Wilson, I’d like to commend you for letting that one go,”
“PC-ness,” Wilson muttered, his eyes widening as the gears finally turned. “Now I get it. It sounds like penis.”
“I just got it too,” Tyrone added, looking impressed.
Sharon Brenner ignored them both, her expression a mask of maternal resolve. To Sharon, the holidays weren’t a matter of political correctness or puns; they were a mission. “Well, it’s still Christmas to all of us,” she said, reaching into a shopping bag. “And I made you all a little gift, because you’re like my new family.”
She began sliding beaded bracelets across the table. Chase picked his up, eyeing the plastic letters.
“W-W-B-J-D?” Wilson raised an eyebrow. “If that stands for ‘What Would Billy Joel Do,’ I’ll tell you right now: he’d write another crappy song.”
“Yeah!” Wilson chimed in, pointing a finger at the air. “In your face, Billy Joel! …Who is that?”
Sharon sighed, the kind of sigh that suggested she was already praying for their souls. “It stands for ‘What Would Baby Jesus Do?’ And it’s to remind us that the real meaning of this season is Christmas.”
“Oh. Well, thank you, Sharon,” Christina said, her voice bright and polite as she tucked the bracelet into her purse. “I’m gonna put that in the pocket closest to my heart.”
“No, no, no,” Sharon corrected, her smile tightening. “It’s a bracelet. You put them on. Everybody put them on.”
The group began fumbling with the elastic cords, but the festive atmosphere was cut short by a heavy thud nearby.
Over at the Cookies n Stuff coffee cart, Elvis was being loomed over by a guy who looked like he’d spent the morning drinking protein shakes and watching fight montages. He had a thick mustache and an even thicker sense of entitlement.
“You took all the Winter-Doodles,” the guy growled, his voice a low vibration. “What are you, a douchebag?”
Elvis blinked, holding a tray of cookies. “They’re for my friends. But there are a lot left.”
“No. Only macadamia nut. I have a tree-nut allergy.”
Elvis tilted his head, considering the logic. “You should stay away from Crazy Christmas-tree-shaped cookies.”
The guy stared at him, his face reddening. “Ha-ha-ha! That did not even make allergic sense. What are you, an idiot?”
He shoved Elvis, a hard, unnecessary jolt, knocking over the cookies he had for his friends. Chase saw it and felt the familiar, annoying itch of his conscience. He stood up, smoothing his jacket.
“Okay, we get it,” Chase said, stepping between them. “You and the A-Team are awesome. Now beat it.”
The bully’s eyes traveled up Chase’s frame, lingering on his hair. “Oh, look at that. Pretty boy, standing up for bird-face over here. Give me a Winter-Doodle.”
“If you’re trying to be menacing,” Chase countered, his voice dripping with practiced sarcasm, “maybe don’t call the cookie by its name.”
The guy leaned in, his breath smelling like cheap energy drinks. “Oh, you’re funny. You’re a funny man. Wanna hear something funny? Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” Chase asked, bored.
“My fist up your balls.”
Before Chase could respond to the anatomical impossibility of the joke, the Dean skipped into the area wearing a glittery blue parka and a crown of snowflakes. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry happy!”
The bully stepped back, pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at Chase. “This ain’t over. There won’t always be a Dean around, all right?”
He swaggered off, leaving a lingering sense of unspent adrenaline in the air.
“Still waiting on those cookies, Elvis,” Wilson called out from the table.
Hours later, the group met at the study room, with Elvis regailing everyone with the event. “Chase protected my honor. It was like My Bodyguard, but I was the kid from Meatballs, Chase was from Full Metal Jacket, and the mustache guy was the brother of the guy in Entourage.”
“Thanks for dumbing that down for us,” Chase said.
“You got it.” Elvis replied.
Wilson, however, looked disappointed. “What’s the deal, Chase? You leave your stones in your other suit? Why didn’t you rap that guy in the face?”
Chase sat down, picking up a pen. “For the same reason that I floss, have a bedframe and keep my guitar in its case, Wilson. I’m over twenty-three.”
“I’m proud of you for handling it peacefully, Chase,” Sharon beamed, clutching her “Baby Jesus” bracelet. “Like a certain little birthday boy. Real men turn the other cheek.”
“Let’s see ’em,” Sharon challenged, leaning over to look at everyone’s WWBJD bracelets.
“Nonsense,” Wilson interjected, his boomer clock finally chiming. “Men were wired to fight each other so women could choose the right mate.”
“No,” Christina countered confidently. “The real reason men fight is to release their pent-up gayness.”
“That guy wasn’t gay,” Wilson argued. “He had a mustache.”
“You know what I have?” Chase snapped, slamming his notebook onto the table. “Finals. Are we cramming for Computer Science or not? I need a sixty-seven or I’m gonna flunk the class.”
Amelia frowned. “Why didn’t you do the extra credit if you knew that you were failing?”
“Because doing more than the minimum work is my definition of failing.”
Sharon clapped her hands together, herding the conversation back toward her version of festive. “Quick question: Are you all coming to my Christmas party right after the final, or are you stopping home to Cabare into your Christmas outfits?”
The table went quiet. A subtle shift in the air suggested a collective realization that they were all standing on very different patches of ground.
“I guess I could wear one of my Hanukkah sweaters,” Amelia offered tentatively.
Sharon’s smile faltered. “Ah. Amelia, I didn’t know you weren’t… Christian.”
“Yep,” Amelia said with a small, awkward shrug. “One might even say I’m Jewish.”
“Oh! That’s good for you. That’s wonderful,” Sharon said, her voice rising an octave in a way that signaled it was anything but wonderful. “I respect all religions of the world.”
“I’m Catholic,” Elvis said simply.
“Jehovah’s Witness,” Tyrone added.
“Atheist,” Christina said, almost proudly.
Sharon’s face twitched. “The Lord is testing me.”
“Guys,” Chase warned, sensing the looming theological explosion. “This is a subject that breeds conflict. Can we please—”
“What religion are you, Chase?” Sharon asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m agnostic.”
“Agnostic,” Wilson scoffed. “Lazy man’s atheist.”
“I’m born-again!” Wilson announced, puffing out his chest. “We had a re-birthing ritual in my friend’s hot tub. I’m now a Prime Level Tartarian in my Buddhist community.”
Amelia squinted at him. “That does not sound like Buddhism. Are you sure you’re not in a cult?”
“Just by asking me that question, you put me back down to a Plus Level!” Wilson barked. “You now owe me—”
“Do you know how foolish you sound right now?” Tyrone interrupted. “What else do you believe in, blood transfusions?”
Tyrone looked up. “Jehovah’s Witnesses are a type of Christian, right, Tyrone?” Sharon asked, trying to find common ground.
“Yeah,” Tyrone said, “but we don’t celebrate birthdays or Christmas, and we can’t drink. …But it helps.”
Sharon looked around the table, her eyes darting from the Catholic to the Jew to the Atheist to whatever Wilson was.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to sink a ship.
“Well,” Sharon said, her voice strained as she fought to maintain her holiday spirit. “Don’t we have a diverse little family. I say we open up this party to all faiths. I brought my Star of Bethlehem, which led the Wise Men to the Savior of all mankind. And you guys can bring a little trinket or doodad from your philosophies. Sounds good?”
“As an agnostic,” Chase said, standing up to head to class, “I’m gonna bring my winning smile.”
The Spanish final was a disaster before it even started. Chase stared at the exam paper, his brain feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.
“Ugh,” Cabar groaned. “So boring.”
True or Falso or none of the above?
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Chase muttered.
“Hey, look at that,” a familiar, aggressive voice boomed from the doorway. “Forehead’s taking a test.”
Mike, the mustache-wearing Winter-Doodle enthusiast, was leaning against the doorframe, flanked by two equally beefy friends.
Chase didn’t look up. “Why don’t you get going, Chuck Norris?”
“Did you just shoo me?” Mike stepped into the room, his shadow falling over Chase’s desk.
“Why don’t you just kiss him already?” Christina whispered from the next row.
Mike ignored her, leaning down until he was inches from Chase’s face. “Dude, I will shoo your nose down your throat.”
“Pablo S. Cabar,” Chase called out, exhausted. “Can you do something about this?”
Cabar, who was currently soaking up the drama entering his classroom. “I’ll allow it.”
“What’s not computing here, huh?” Mike sneered, trying to sound mocking.
“It’s DDR5, dude,” Chase corrected, his patience finally snapping. “Even I know that.”
The room went still. Mike’s face turned a shade of purple that suggested a blown gasket was imminent. “You picked the wrong day to correct my tech knowledge, No Sleeves. It’s on.”
Elvis leapt to his feet, and announced to the class, “He’s doing this for me. He’s my bodyguard.”
“You wanna dance?” Mike challenged, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“To some show tunes?” Christina joked.
“No,” Chase said, standing up slowly. The height difference was negligible, but the ego difference was vast. “I want to beat you, and I’m gonna enjoy it. Because you’re like this school. You’re obnoxious, cramping my style, and you smell like french-fry oil.”
“I don’t get it,” Mike blinked.
“Three o’clock,” Chase said, the words feeling like they belonged to someone else. “Bike rack. But not the one by the parking lot.”
“Right,” Mike nodded, suddenly professional. “The one by the trash cans, near the orange cones, where they’re building the wheelchair ramp.”
“Yeah.”
“Best exam ever,” Pablo S. Cabar announced.
Mike turned and walked out, his cronies in tow. “That guy’s awesome,” Tyrone added, looking at Chase with newfound awe.
Chase announced later in the cafeteria. “So help me, if that jerkweed made me fail…”
“Well, I aced it, amigo,” Wilson interjected, “That means cousin.”
“So, what’s my role going to be?” Elvis asked, leaning into Chase’s space. “Is there a key moment where I stand up for myself? Take revenge?”
“Uh, maybe you should just hang back,” Chase said, rubbing his eyes.
“Yeah, I will. In his face.”
“Whatever you do,” Chase warned the group, “don’t tell Sharon about the fight. She’ll start in with all her mothery, guilt-inducing powers. You know what I mean?”
“No,” Tyrone said, looking at his wrist. “I’m wearing this Jesus bracelet because it gets me chicks.”
“I know guys like this Mike,” Wilson said, his voice dropping into a gravelly serious tone. “He used to be a nerd, now he’s a meathead. Dangerous combo. Tyson, Lou Ferrigno, Rachell Zegler.”
Tyrone looked Chase up and down. “You’re a pretty big dude. You’ve probably got moves.”
“Yeah,” Chase lied. “I got some theories.”
“You’ve never been in a fight?” Elvis asked, his voice intrigued.
“Technically, no,” Chase admitted. “I guess I’m too charming and likable. Call me a name.”
“I can’t,” Tyrone said softly.
“Are you telling me you’ve never been punched in the face?” Wilson asked, horrified.
“No, thank God. This is the moneymaker,” Chase said, gesturing to his face.
“First time I got punched in the face,” Tyrone reminisced, “I was like, ‘Oh, no!’ But then I was like, ‘This is a story.’ “
“And a good one.” Chase added.
“Yeah,” Tyrone agreed.”
WIlson emphatically said, “Every man should be punched in the face. It’s a rite of passage. In my day, Friday night was smoke a doobie, feel up a gal, and then get your teeth knocked out by a Republican.”
“Guys,” Chase said, trying to regain control of the narrative. “The plan here isn’t for me to get hit. It’s for me to hit him.”
“Oh, then it’s settled,” Wilson stood up. “We have to teach Chase how to fight. I know a few moves. Tyrone, I assume you’re handy with a switchblade. Elvis, you get back to the family tent, try to find a chicken for Chase to chase.”
“Guys, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I think I got this.”
“Oh, well, look who it is,” a voice boomed. Mike was back, and this time he was holding a tray of food. “We got Forehead, Old Head, Dumb Head, and… the Other Head.”
He walked past them, then paused, turning back with a smirk. “See you at three, Forehead. Give me a snowman, dork.”
He reached out, snatched a paper snowman off the wall, and with a nearby stapler stapled the paper snowman to his head. He then shook his head violently showing the snowman was indeed stapled.
Chase sat frozen witnessing the event occurring.
“Classic Zegler,” Wilson whispered.
Tyrone looked at his friends. “Fight lessons in a half an hour?”
“Good plan,” Chase said.
In the study room, Sharon and Amelia were decorating the room for Christmas. Sharon singing Joy to the World, while Amelia awkwardly listened holding her menorah as part of the holiday celebration.
Sharon, confused, picked up the menorah, and placed it in the tree, as if it were a decoration. Amelia looked confused.
“So,” Sharon continued nervously, “I had no idea you were a Jew.”
“I’d appreciate it if you use the whole word next time,” Amelia corrected.
Sharon internally scolded herself.
“You think people will be showing up soon.”
“Probably after the fight,” Amelia said innocently.
“I’m sorry what?” Sharon responded, containing her rage.
Amelia clarified, “Chase is going to fight that bully. The one that messed with Elvis.”
Sharon nodded with rage, “On Christmas.” Making her way out of the study room.
In one of the empty classes, the transformation from a place of learning to a makeshift dojo was nearly complete. Sharon was gone, preparing her “multi-faith” feast, which gave the group a window of opportunity.
“What’s up? What’s up? What’s up,” Tyrone barked, pacing in front of Chase.
“Whats UP!” Chase spoke back.
“No, it’s a question,” Tyrone corrected, feeling ridiculous. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Chase repeated, but this time his voice dropped an octave, his face hardening.
Tyrone continued “Not a real question, a rhetorical one. You have the answer, he does not. Then you give them the Forest Whitaker eye.”
Tyrone squeezed one eye half-shut while the other remained wide and drifting. It was unsettlingly accurate.
“Oh, that’s pretty good,” Chase admitted.
“Okay, hold that stare,” Tyrone commanded. “There you go. Hold it. Then, look straight through his eyes and deep into his soul.” He paused, leaning in close.”
“And then you lean in for a passionate kiss.” Christina interjected.
“I’m sick and tired of you saying that fighting is gay,” Tyrone turned.
“She’s got a point,” Elvis noted. “In boxing, you fight for the purse and a belt.”
“I’ve gotta write a paper about that,” Christina exasperatedly said.
Wilson stepped forward, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see what we’re working with, Chase. Go ahead, throw a few at the old paws.” He held up his open palms like focus mitts.
Chase hesitated, then threw a tentative, stiff-armed jab. It barely tapped Wilson’s hand.
“What are you?” Wilson scoffed. “A North Korean seamstress?”
“Not if that’s bad,” Chase retorted.
“Get mad, come on! If it helps, think of me as somebody who annoys you.”
Chase took a breath, centered himself, and threw a more solid punch.
“That’s it! That’s good!” Wilson yelled. Suddenly, his eyes darted to Christina. “Christina, put your blouse back on!”
“What?” Christina recoiled, looking down at her fully clothed self.
Whack! Wilson’s hand shot out, catching Chase with a sharp slap across the face while he was distracted.
“Ohh! Ow!” Chase stumbled back, clutching his cheek. “What was that?”
“Dude, that is not cool,” Tyrone said, stepping in.
“Well, that foxy black girl thinks it is,” Wilson said, gesturing vaguely toward the door. Once Tyrone’s attention was diverted, he slapped Tyrone across the cheek as well.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?” Chase asked bewildered.
“Aah! Why she have to be black?” Tyrone groaned.
“What is going on?” Sharon shouted as she entered the room.
The group froze. Sharon stood in the doorway, her arms laden with festive tablecloths and a look of dawning horror on her face. Her eyes darted from Chase’s reddened cheek to Wilson’s aggressive stance.
“We’re trying to get Chase ready for the fi……ght,” Tyrone blurted out. Guilty Tyrone turned to Chase and admitted, “I couldn’t think of another word.”
“Idiot” Chase responded.
“He meant we were figh-ting,” Chase tried to pivot, mimicking a sneeze. “It is hard to think of another word.”
“You realize there’s no way to take this other than as a giant middle finger to the most important day of the year,” Sharon said, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and heartbreak.
“December 12th?” Chase asked, genuinely confused.
“It’s our Christmas!” Sharon’s voice rose. “And I’m having a party. Due to my divorce, and my relatives picking sides, this will be the only Christmas party I throw this year. Will you be there, or will I have another family letting me down?”
The guilt hit the room like a physical weight.
“I told him not to fight,” Wilson said, pointing at Chase. “He wouldn’t listen.”
Sharon stepped closer to him, her expression softening into something far more dangerous: maternal disappointment. She reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic-wrapped square.
“Chase, I have two boys,” she said quietly. “And when we have a serious discussion, I find that a cookie helps them to relax.”
Chase took the cookie, feeling like he was eight years old again. He took a bite. It was delicious, which only made the guilt worse.
“So,” Sharon whispered. “Why do you hate me and Jesus?”
Chase chewed slowly, staring at her. “I don’t think my brownie’s working.”
“Please don’t do something so ugly on a day so important to me,” she pleaded.
“Again,” Chase said, trying to regain his footing, “it’s December 10th.”
WIth a shocked tone Sharon replied, “you think religion is stupid”
Chase stammered for a moment and replied, “To me, religion is like Paul Rudd. I see the appeal and would never take it away from anyone, but I would also never stand in line for it.”
He sighed, looking toward the window. “And the die has been cast with this crazy bully guy. He picked on Elvis, and he corrected my Computer Scients. So you go to your party and I’ll see you soon.”
Sharon’s face hardened. The warmth vanished. “Chase, I forbid you from fighting.”
“Well, you don’t get to,” Chase countered, his own temper flaring. “You’re not my mom.”
“You’re right,” Sharon said, her voice cold and final. “But if you show up for the fight, don’t show up for my party.”
“Oh, come on, Sharon, don’t be mad,” Chase pleaded.
“I’m not mad,” Sharon said, turning her back to them. “I’m disappointed.”
“That’s ‘Mom’ for mad,” Chase called out to Sharon.
The study room had been transformed into a winter wonderland of tinsel and tension. Sharon hummed a Christmas carol with aggressive cheerfulness as she set out plates of food.
“Oh, hash browns and applesauce, that’s nice,” Sharon said, looking at the dish Amelia had brought. She moved to the next container. “And what is that interesting smell?”
“It’s a traditional Mexican dish,” Elvis said.
“Looks delicious,” Sharon lied, her smile tight. “I’m guessing as a woman I won’t be allowed to eat that. That’s too bad.”
She moved down the line. “Oh, look, Christina brought what she believes in. Nothing.”
Christina just rolled her eyes, while Wilson began unpacking a small, ornate wooden object.
“Where should I put my Buddha incense holder?” Wilson asked.
“I’m pretty sure that’s a bong, Wilson,” Christina deadpanned.
Amelia looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the empty chair. “Where’s Chase?”
“I guess he made his choice,” Sharon said quietly.
The silence that followed was broken by the distant sound of a crowd gathering outside.
“I wanna go to Chase’s fight,” Tyrone admitted, his leg bouncing nervously.
“As I told Chase,” Sharon said, her voice dropping into a low, threatening register, “no one that goes to the fight can come to my party. He’s dead to me. And if any of you leave, you’ll be dead to me too.”
She stood in the center of the room and began to sing, her voice strained and forceful. “Jesus is a friend of mine… Jesus is a friend of mine…” She looked at them expectantly. “Everybody!”
“Jesus is a friend of mine…” she sang louder, but the group remained silent, looking at their feet. “You don’t know it?”
“You’re banning Chase from the party?” Christina asked, standing up. “That doesn’t seem very Christian.”
“Well, that’s an interesting point of view coming from an atheist,” Sharon snapped. “I did my best to create a special Christmas for my one intact family. And this is the thanks I get?”
“Sharon, you are a guilt machine,” Amelia said.
“And Amelia knows a thing or two about guilt, am I right, Jew?” Wilson said to Amelia.
“Say the whole word!” Amelia cried.
“Jewie?” Wilson suggested.
“You would never catch a Jehovah’s Witness saying ‘Jewie,’” Tyrone muttered.
“Tell it to the birthday cake you never got,” WIlson shot back.
“You know, there’s an old Buddhist saying—” Wilson started.
“You are not a Buddhist, you are in a cult!” Christina yelled. “Suck it, Nietzsche!”
“Guys” Amelia smoothly interjected. “Everyone’s faith is weird! Let’s just not talk about it.”
“Guys, guys!,” Christina said, her voice raising as she looked upon the group. “Are we really gonna let religion divide us like this? I think there’s one thing we can all agree on.”
“I get seventy-two virgins in heaven?” Elvis asked.
“No,” Christina said. “That we would all like to have Chase at this party.”
Sharon looked away, her eyes glistening. “He can’t come.”
“Sharon,” Christina said, stepping closer. “I get that this is your first Christmas since your husband left you. And I don’t know, maybe that’s why you’re being so stubborn. Because you’re trying so hard to recreate something that you’re afraid you’ve lost forever.”
Sharon’s shoulders slumped.
“But if you really want us to be your second family,” Christina continued, “then you’ve gotta start treating us like one. Even if that means supporting us when we do things that you don’t agree with. And you can start by rooting for Chase while he rolls around on the ground, groping another man.”
Christina paused. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”
The room was silent for a long moment. Sharon looked at the Star of Bethlehem atop her small tree, then at her mismatched, argumentative, beautiful “family.”
She sighed, a long, weary sound that let the anger out of the room. “The cranberry sauce has real cranberries,” she whispered.
Outside, by the bike rack near the orange cones, the air was cold and smelled of damp pavement. Mike was pacing, his muscles bulging under a tight t-shirt.
“If this dude doesn’t show up, we’re definitely going to Waffle House,” Mike told his friends. “Because I’m getting into a fight no matter what today, I’m telling you.”
“Oh, look who showed up,” one of his friends pointed.
Chase was walking toward them, his hands in his pockets, looking far more composed than he felt.
“Oh, check him out!” Mike laughed. “What’s up, dude? No backup today, huh? Looks like Grandpa and Weirdo couldn’t show up to get their teeth knocked out.”
Chase stopped a few feet away. “Can I ask you a question? Are you perpetually on your way to the gym?”
“Dude, my life is a gym,” Mike growled. He stepped into Chase’s space. “Well, what’s up? What’s up? What’s up, man? What’s up? What’s up?”
Mike began a rhythmic, aggressive chant of “What’s up,” bouncing in Chase’s face. Chase stood his ground, maintaining the “Forest Whitaker eye” Tyrone had taught him.
“Whoa,” Mike said, stopping. “Dude, what is that?”
Chase didn’t break the stare. He reached into his pocket. “One sec. These are very expensive.” He took off his designer watch, wallet, and sunglasses, placed them carefully on a nearby concrete ledge.
“What is he wearing?” Mike’s friend whispered.
Mike asked, “What dude, you wear a bracelet?”
Chase looked down at his wrist, at the colorful plastic beads spelling WWBJD Sharon had given him.
“Your name is Mike, right?” Chase asked.
“So?”
“Mike, I’m not gonna fight you,” Chase said quietly. “I have a friend that believes this is the time of year where you put aside your differences and make peace. Me? I don’t believe in any of that. But I do believe in friendship. And as much as I hate you and the cast of Breakin’, I have to ask myself: what would Sharon do?”
Mike blinked, confused and gave Chase a full force punch in the gut. “What would Sharon do?”
“I think,” Chase said, extending his hand, “that she would shake your hand and wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Mike stared at the hand. A slow, mocking grin spread across his face. With his elbow he knocked Chase back to the ground.
“Chase!” Amelia yelled out in concern
Chase turned. The entire study group was running toward them, led by Sharon.
“Kick his ass!” Sharon screamed.
Chase’s jaw dropped. “Sharon?”
“Cavalry’s here!” Wilson yelled, already fumbling with his buttons. “Shirts off, boys!”
Christina looked at the ragtag group of students charging toward them. “Come on, I’m being punk’d, right?”
Mike turned back to Chase and, without warning, Chase landed a heavy punch right into Mikes nose, knocking him to the ground.
The rest of the group was sizing up and battling the troublesome students. Amelia finding a firehose and blasting their rivals with freezing water. Tyrone ripped a sign from the ground, pole and all, and swung it like a battle axe. Sharon peppersprayed anyone that came close to her, and Wilson spread his arm out and spun in circles, eventually making contact with Chase’s face.
“Ow!” Chase cried, stumbling back. “Not the moneymaker! Not the moneymaker!”
The quad erupted into chaos.
Later that evening, the study room was bathed in the warm glow of Christmas lights. The party was back on, though the guests looked like they had been through a car wash full of bricks.
Chase had a massive butterfly bandage across his nose. Tyrone was sporting a black eye. Wilson had a split lip, and even Amelia’s hair was a wild, bird-nested mess.
Wilson played an electric keyboard while Sharon stood by, singing a modified version of a classic.
“# Sensible night… Appropriate night… Snow on ground… Left and right… #”
The group sat around the table, battered but grinning, sipping on Elvis’s traditional Mexican drink and eating Amelia’s hash browns.
“# Round yon purchase… Of decorative things… Tolerant rewrite… Of carols to sing… #”
As the song ended, the room clapped in celebration.
The door swung open. Pablo S. Cabar stood there, holding a snowboard, wearing ski-equipment with triumphant expression. “Yes, it is I, Pablo S. Cabar, hold your applause.” Turning to Sharon and handing her his snowboard, “Shakira, hold this.”
“So, I have finished grading everyone’s finals,” Cabar announced, his eyes gleaming. “And all of you are moving on.”
A cheer went up from the table.
“Except for Chase,” Cabar added, holding for dramatic effect.
The room went silent.
“It turns out, you… will be seeing me next semester.”
“No!” Amelia screamed from the bottom of her soul.
“In Computer Science 102! Ha-ha-ha!” Cabar laughed. “Because he passed, you know. And I’m the only Computer Science teacher.”
“Yay!” Amelia cheered. “I meant about Chase passing. You being our Spanish teacher, eh…”
“Man, Mike got you good,” Cabar said, leaning over to look at Chase’s nose.
“Actually,” Wilson spoke up, “that last bruise was my present to Chase.
“Ha-ha!” Cabar snatched his Snowboard back from Sharon, “I have a mountain to shred.”
Wilson looked at Chase, beaming with pride. “Chase, you’re a man now.”
Chase touched the tender spot on his jaw. “I got hit in the face, like, four times before you punched me, Wilson.”
“Well,” Wilson shrugged, “some people just don’t know how to say thank you.”
Chase looked around at his “family”—the Buddhist cultist, the atheist, the Jehovah’s Witness, the Muslim, the Jew, and the Christian. He picked up his glass.
“Wilson, thank you,” Chase said. “And thanks to all of you for showing up and having my back when we fought those fly dancers.”
He raised his glass. “So, uh… Merry—”
“No, no, no,” Sharon cautioned. “Holiday.”
“Actually,” Chase smiled, “I was gonna say: Merry semester, and a happy next one.”