I get up from my chair and look Hope in the eyes. I go to tell her that she needs to understand that Devon and I are no longer friends; that too much time has passed, when instead I say, ‘Why does he get to be Captain America?’
Damn it.
Hope lets out a high-pitched squeal. ‘Oh my God, wait till I tell Jess you’re a closet nerd. He’s going to freak out. Scarlett, we have like ten years of superhero movies to catch up on and you are going to love them all. And you need to come and see Devon’s movie with me – you’re actually going to die.’
‘Hope, have you not been listening? I’m not into that stuff anymore. Devon coming back doesn’t change any of that. I’m a grown-up. I don’t play with action figures anymore,’ I say, firmly, even stomping my feet a little.
‘Oh please, Jess and I are grown-ups too and believe me when I tell you, if you loved the comic books, wait until you see what they did with the films. Oh, this is like the best day ever,’ Hope exclaims, before taking a big bite of her yoghurt and granola, like she requires all the energy for this momentous day. ‘I understand this might be difficult for you, Scarlett, and I’m not dismissing your emotions, but maybe Devon coming back is a sign. You work so hard, you let your mum dress you, and your idea of fun is watering your cacti and going for walks. You need to allow some of that inner child out and embrace who you are. And don’t get me wrong I love who you are, and I love your plants, but I love you even more now, so please don’t be scared,’ she says, turning to face me, bowl now in her hand as she takes smaller bites in thought.
I stop still and wrap my arms around myself. I don’t know what to say, it’s all so much to take in. While yes, I can feel the excitement bubble in the pit of my stomach over talking about comic books with Hope and Jess, I can also feel the undercurrent of nerves. Suppressing my love of comics all these years has helped me keep my focus at work and be the best personal assistant I can be to Hope.
If I allow myself to get too caught up in that world it will only be a matter of time before I get the itch again – the itch to dream bigger – and I can’t do that to Hope. I can’t do that to my mother. If I start sporting Spider-Man tees again, she’ll have kittens and deem me unmarriageable. She will be the talk of the town; I can’t put her through that.
And Devon, what did Devon want? What did he expect from me? OK, so we say our sorries, put it down to being young and stubborn, then what? Devon leaves again. I can’t get attached. Sometimes you just can’t be the person you want to be or do the things you want to do because you end up letting people down or getting hurt.
‘I’m not scared,’ I mumble stubbornly as Hope pops off her chair and quickly rinses her dish in the sink. ‘Just have a think about it, OK? I’m here for you,’ she says, giving me a little hug and skipping to the front door. I walk to the kitchen door and watch her bundle up for the cold. ‘I’ll be back later to check on you.’
As Hope closes the front door behind her, a cold blast sweeps through the house. The last superhero movie I saw was Captain America: The First Avenger. If the rest of the films are anything like that one, I know I’m in for a treat and I feel a tiny thrill at the idea of getting to watch them with Hope, but at the same time I feel like Steve Rogers – after years of being buried in the ice, I’ve been uncovered. I tiptoe into the living room to switch off the lamp now that the sun is out among the grey clouds while my brain tries to decipher if my past and present colliding is a Christmas wish come true or a gift I need to return.
7
Alone in my house I’m distracted from the emotions that have been overwhelming my mind and body since I got out of bed this morning as I tune in to the lyrics of Wham! and sing my heart out in the kitchen. The Christmas fair project is coming along nicely, and I get a thrill every time I think about the village coming together to decorate their own gingerbread and share their own labour of love, whatever their heart’s desire; maybe they make a hotel, a Christmas tree or a building that holds a special place in their heart. I’ve enjoyed stepping away from the Styrofoam and paints and, though I know that most of the folks in Springhollow have enjoyed my arts and crafts themed stall each year, I hope they will love this idea just as much; if not for the fact that these creative tools are edible and delicious.
For my gingerbread house, which I will be using as the example piece, I’m going to be doing a replica of The Village Gazette building. Our office block is made up of a three-storey old-fashioned town house that dates back to 1923 and the magazine has been running out of there from the very beginning. It’s one of our town’s most beloved buildings along with the village library and Mr and Mrs Rolph’s bakery. I will say that, though my job doesn’t always set my soul on fire, working in the building is something I like about it. It’s cosy and homey, each section of the magazine having a different room, the walls holding notice boards of inspiration for each writer. The horoscope room is a lot of fun. All the artwork pinned to said boards often mesmerises me: the paintings, the colours, the galaxies and their glittering specks.
The top floor, where Hope’s office is, is more open plan, the walls having been knocked through to make just two rooms, one big square with rows of desks, leading to Hope’s office at the end. The ceiling is high and the patterned skirting makes it rather regal-looking and vintage, which it is, but it’s stood the test of time and is still on trend. There are wall-to-wall bookshelves and old-fashioned radiators – those white curvy ones – and grand bay windows that from the street make it look magical, like one of those fancy toyshops. I’m hoping to capture the essence of the building in gingerbread form.
I scour my dining table, looking over the bags of icing sugar and the tray of gingerbread pieces I had made on Wednesday night, to look for my plan. I drew up a rough sketch of what I wanted this thing to look like with a few notes of the dimensions I would need each biscuit piece to be so it would fit together snug. I must have left it in my spare room to ensure no eyes but mine could see it.
I take the stairs two at a time, reaching the landing slightly out of breath. The door to the spare room is the only door that is closed; I don’t like for people to snoop, and by people I mostly mean Hope and Jess. I promise I’m not a bad friend but whenever Hope sees something I’ve crafted, she second-guesses my position as her personal assistant, and I don’t want her to worry about me. Art is my hobby and whenever I feel in the mood to pursue it, I come into my spare room. My “storage room” as it’s known to everyone else, which is just a tiny white lie. My love of superheroes might have been revealed this morning but my dream job I am keeping guarded. Hope needs me at the magazine, especially now that we’re on the cusp of possible closure.
I push open the door and navigate around the cardboard boxes I stacked either side of the door. Twinkling lights are strung around my desk with more potted plants by the window. I wander straight over to my cluttered oak desk that is littered with all different-sized sheets of paper, half-finished sketches, doodles, and pencil crayons that need sharpening. I get the same familiar itch of desire to pull up my chair and get lost in my imagination, which I used to get as a child when Devon and I would draw for hours; creating other worlds and dreaming up our own comic books.