![]() “Emery Mason.” Mom’s stern voice hissed from outside. There was a pounding on the roof, which was only an inch above my head. “I’m protesting Christmas.” I motioned to the walls of the cottage. “Break character? Never.” His blue eyes twinkled with annoying cheer. ![]() “Dad, would you please quit the Santa act already?” I groaned. This crimson monstrosity, brighter and tackier than Rudolph’s nose, had replaced my favorite Dark Side of the Moon tee, my purple plaid skirt, and black leggings. I rolled my eyes, giving my cherry-red romper a resentful tug. “Don’t you want to bring joy to lots of little girls and boys this Christmas, Emery Elf?” “What’s this I hear about a certain elf going on strike?” He winked. I was going to stay here until: (1) My parents gave in or (2) I turned eighteen and didn’t have to listen to them anymore.Ī red-cheeked Santa ducked his head through the tiny window. Then I scooted farther back into the plastic child-sized gingerbread cottage. I curled up my legs, blinding in their green-and-white-striped tights. In memory of Liz Teed, inspiring teacher and one of theįirst fans of Cake Pop Crush and its offspring. ![]()
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