Sock it to Me, Santa! (2 page)

“Yeah, but he’s…” She waved her hand around. “Artsy.” She smiled. “You can make a boy monkey. Besides, I could use an assistant. It’s a full class.”

“Mom, I’ll be the only guy there, and you know it. It’ll be humiliating. What’ll all the old ladies think if I’m sitting there making a sock puppet?”

“Sock monkey. They’re not puppets. And you worry too much about what other people think.”

“Mom…”

“You know, Christmas is only a few weeks away. I think Santa will be more generous to boys who help their mothers in times of need.”

“That’s a dirty trick, playing the Santa card,” I said with a groan.

She smiled and returned to making dinner. “Just wait and see,” she said. “Jamie will love it.”

* * * * *

Monkey madness. That’s the only way I know to describe what transpired Wednesday evening. I understood why my mom dragged me along. I was the one who lugged all the supplies from her SUV to the back room of the craft store where she set up for her class, and afterwards, I was the one who lugged them all back. That part was fine. I didn’t mind helping her set out the sewing machines either. It wasn’t until the room filled with middle-aged women that things started to get crazy.
 

They swarmed around me, eager to introduce themselves to the “nice young man” who’d infiltrated their craft circle. My mom beamed as she explained that I was her “little helper” that night.
 

“You have nothing to worry about,” she said to the group. “If my son can do this, anyone can.”

Sometimes she had too much faith in me.
 

My first mistake was choosing black socks. My mom tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. She’d brought a variety of socks, some with stripes and stars and hearts, but I figured those would be too girly. I went with the plain black ones. I soon found I couldn’t see any of the marks I’d drawn on the fabric and was sewing blind. After butchering one of the monkey’s legs, a “nice old lady” took pity on me and took over on the sewing machine.
 

“Let me help you, Ryan, before you sew your fingers together,” she said, causing the other women to giggle.

I smiled politely and surrendered to my role as the evening’s entertainment.

Once we were done at the sewing machines, we returned to the tables to stuff the various body parts and sew them in place by hand. The ladies on both sides of me got a kick out of teaching me how to sew. At least
they
were having a good time. I, on the other hand, swore under my breath each time I pricked my finger with the needle. I was pretty sure my blood had found its way onto the monkey in several spots, but it was hard to see on the black fabric.

Before we closed up the crotch hole, my mom passed out pieces of red felt. “Now I want you to cut out a heart shape, like so,” she said as she demonstrated. “Then take the heart and insert it through the hole so that it lays inside the monkey’s chest. No one else will know it’s there, but the monkey will appreciate it.”
 

I rolled my eyes. Even I was tempted to say, “This is so gay.” There was no way I was stuffing a heart inside my monkey. Especially not one designated for Jamie Peterson.

“You too, Ryan,” my mom said. “It’s a long-standing sock monkey tradition. If you don’t give your monkey a heart, he could turn into a hoobajoob.”

The ladies giggled.

“
Hoobajoob?
” I felt like the only clueless one in the room.

“The hoobajoob is like the boogie man of the sock monkey world,” my mom said as she scrunched her shoulders and wiggled her fingers. “He preys on the insecurities of the weak. All sock monkeys fear the hoobajoob.”

“Mom, please stop saying that word,” I deadpanned.
 

She laughed, and the other women joined in. I cut out a heart in order to appease them, but I slipped it into my pocket rather than stuffing it inside the monkey. Hoobajoob be damned; that was asking too much.

I tried my best, but my monkey came out lumpy. His ears weren’t even, and his mouth was crooked. Most of the ladies chose black button eyes, but my monkey was black, so I had to choose a different color. My mom didn’t have much of a selection, so I ended up using big red buttons. I figured black and red would look badass.
 

I was wrong. The monkey looked demonic.

One of the elderly women peered over at me and said, “Well, isn’t that frightful?”

My mom flashed me a sympathetic smile.

I wanted to throw the damn thing in the trashcan. I’d spent nearly two hours on it, and it looked like hell.

“Thanks for coming, Ryan,” Mom said on the ride home.
 

I crossed my arms and sulked like a five-year-old. “It was a disaster.”

She laughed. “I should bring you to all my workshops. After seeing your hoobajoob, everyone loved the way their own monkeys turned out.”

I scowled at her. “What about Jamie? I can’t give him that thing, and I’m supposed to drop the gift off to Mrs. Keats by tomorrow.”

“It’s not that bad. I was only teasing.”

“Mom, it looks like a voodoo doll. Complete with blood sacrifice. It’ll probably scare the crap out of him.”

She smiled in amusement. “You’ll figure something out.”

“Can I give him the one you made?”

“It’s not done. I was too busy helping the other women with their finishing touches. Besides, that wouldn’t be right. It’s supposed to come from you.”

I grumbled something about no one knowing the difference, but she’d made up her mind. I was screwed. I reached into my pocket for a stick of gum, but my fingers found the small felt heart instead.

* * * * *

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give Jamie the hoobajoob. I knew if he opened it in class, everyone would laugh, and my embarrassment would give me away. Mike would immediately figure out that I was the one who’d made it. Then he’d want to know why I’d gone to all the trouble in the first place. Hell, I wanted to know that myself.

I tossed and turned that night, trying to come up with an alternative solution. At 5 a.m., I threw the covers back and cursed as I dragged myself out of bed. I rummaged through my closet, determined to find a solution buried among all my junk. In my hour of desperation, I grabbed what I thought would be an acceptable gift, wrapped it, and shoved it in a plastic grocery bag.

I walked by Mrs. Keats’ room three different times that day before I finally worked up the courage to drop off the gift. I was tempted to return after last period and snatch it back out of the pile, but I didn’t have the nerve to do that either. My fate was sealed.
 

“It’s just a stupid gift exchange,” I mumbled to myself. Why was I getting so worked up about it? Even if Jamie hated the gift, he wouldn’t know it was from me.

* * * * *

I had trouble sleeping again that night. I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, tangled in an uncomfortable mass of sweat-soaked sheets. I didn’t have nightmares often, but when I did, they always left me feeling shaky and unsettled. I realized I’d been dreaming of the hoobajoob. I couldn’t remember much of the dream other than the feeling of being paralyzed by a pair of glowing red eyes. I turned and looked for the offending monkey who was hiding in the shadows where I’d haphazardly tossed him on the floor.

“Fucking hell,” I said as I felt for him in the dark and then shoved him in my bottom dresser drawer. Only then did I allow myself to go back to sleep.

* * * * *

I felt better by the time I walked into advisory that morning. I’d convinced myself that my gift didn’t matter. Jamie Peterson was nothing to me, and I was nothing to him. If he liked it, great. If not, so what?

Mike came in and sat by me as usual. “Did you see what Stacey posted on Facebook last night?” he said.

“No.”

“That bitch called me a woman hater and said I should try banging dudes instead.”

I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

“That shit ain’t funny, man.”

“It’s kinda funny.”

“Whatever. She’s a skank. So, did you get me Halo 4?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

Mrs. Keats pulled all of the exchange gifts out of the shopping bags and piled them on her desk. She made a big deal of picking each one up and admiring it before calling out the recipient’s name.
 

When Mike got his gift, he tore into it immediately. It was a tin filled with chocolate chip cookies. “Dude, now I
know
you didn’t pick me. Unless you got your mom to make these.”

When Amber opened her gift, she let out a loud, piercing girly-shriek. “Oh, my God! I love it!”

All eyes turned to see what she was so happy about. Someone had made her a scarf out of shimmering blue and silver yarn. It looked similar to the one Jamie was wearing.

She ran over to Jamie and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you!”

He peeled her off of him and said, “I thought it would look pretty with your eyes.”

I couldn’t explain the pang of jealousy that shot through my chest at the sight of Amber and Jamie hugging each other.
 

Mike must have noticed my discomfort. “Sorry, dude. No way you can compete with that. Even if he is queer. You shoulda made your move on her earlier.”

“How did he make that scarf so fast?”

“Dude, he’s got fairy fingers.”

Amber wrapped the scarf around her neck and pranced back to her seat.

“So I guess you didn’t get Amber’s name,” Mike said.

I shrugged, trying my best to seem disinterested.

When Mrs. Keats called out Jamie’s name, my heart began to race. I reminded myself that no one knew I’d picked Jamie, and that if I played it cool, no one would.

Jamie took the gift and returned to his seat.
 

“Who do you think it’s from?” said one of the girls sitting next to him.

I had to strain to hear his response. He really was soft-spoken.
 

“Probably a guy, based on the way it’s wrapped,” he said. He made a cursory glance around the room, and I immediately broke eye contact when our eyes met.

“Open it!” Kimberly said, nudging Jamie’s arm.

I held my breath as Jamie carefully untaped the paper and opened the box.

My heart sank as his smile fell and his brows furrowed in confusion.
 

Mike snickered. “Classic,” he said. “Someone gave Jamie a tie.”

It wasn’t just any old tie. It had belonged to my dad. Briefly. He’d received it as a gift four years ago, the last Christmas we were together. When he opened it, we all laughed because it was so tacky: red and mint green polka dots on a white background.

“Shame it’ll never get worn,” my dad said. “Maybe I’ll donate it to Goodwill. Otherwise it’ll just sit in the back of my closet. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“It’s not that bad,” my mom said, trying to keep a straight face. “You could wear it. For the right occasion.”

“No, no, no.” He chuckled. “It would take someone far prettier than me to pull that thing off.”

My dad never did get a chance to donate the tie to charity. He had a heart attack a month later. And so it ended up in the back of my closet.

Jamie pulled the silky tie out of the box and inspected it.

“Not cool,” his friend said. “It’s suppose to be a
handmade
gift. You got shafted.”

Mike snorted and said a little too loudly, “I bet he gets
shafted
every day.”
 

Jamie glanced in our direction, and I quickly looked down. Why did Mike have to be such an ass?

“It’s okay,” Jamie said to his friend. “It’s the thought that counts.”

She shook her head. “Yeah, but how much thought went into
that
ugly thing?”

“Hey Jamie,” Mike said in a taunting manner. “I think someone’s trying to send you a message. You need to man up.”

Jamie glared at Mike for a split second, then turned his gaze on me. I felt the panic I’d experienced during the nightmare I’d had the night before. What the fuck? Did Jamie know it was me? How could he possibly know? No, I was just being paranoid.

“Shut up, Mike,” the girl said. “Like you’d know anything about being a man.”

“That’s enough, Kimberly. You too, Mike,” Mrs. Keats said. “I hope you all enjoyed your gifts.”

Mike looked at my empty desk. “Where’s yours?”
 

I shrugged, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
 

“Hey, Mrs. Keats,” Mike said. “Ryan didn’t get a gift.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, looking around her desk. “Did someone bring a gift for Ryan?”
 

No one responded.

“I’m sorry, Ryan. Your partner must have forgotten.” Mrs. Keats gave a disapproving look in Kevin’s direction and reminded the class that we
all
had to participate and that the gifts needed to be
handmade.
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, knowing that last statement was directed towards me.

“Dude, that sucks,” Mike said.

I shrugged again, resigned to the fact that I didn’t deserve a gift. It figured I would be paired with Kevin. Karma was a bitch.

I guess that’s why I was so shocked to find an envelope taped to my locker at the end of the day. Inside I found a note decorated with little candy canes and gingerbread men:

Sorry you didn’t get this sooner.
 

Merry Christmahanakwanzika!

Tucked inside the note was an origami figure that I instantly recognized. It was Yoda wearing his Jedi robes. A message was inscribed along the length of his lightsaber:
Fear is the path to the dark side.

I looked around to see if anyone was watching me, but no one seemed to be paying attention. Had Kevin done this? Highly unlikely. No amount of lecturing from Mrs. Keats would move him to perform an act of kindness. But if he wasn’t my partner, then who was? I’d talked about my love of Star Wars during that stupid toilet paper game. I supposed it could be anyone except Mike or Jamie. I already knew whose names they’d picked.
 

And what was that business about fear and the dark side? I like a good Yoda quote as much as the next guy, but that was hitting a little too close to home. Still, it was a pretty cool gift. Much better than a tie. I’d do better next time.