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Tinsel in a Tangle

By Laurie Germaine

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Crumbling candy canes! Why won’t this stuff melt?
Beads of sweat trickle down my spine despite the icy draft seeping around the windowpanes, and I fidget on my knees beside the miniature lab bench. A mound of multicolored Gummy Bears smiles up from the tabletop. I glower in return, for the chewy candies sizzle and burn with success at every lab around Herr Chemie’s classroom but mine.
I adjust the Bunsen burner under the test tube, turn it up a notch, and wait.
The potassium chlorate remains a powder.
Blowing out a breath, I drum my fingers on the table. Across the aisle, Niklas crouches at his own mini lab, blond locks falling over his forehead, his eyes gleaming with delight as he detonates his Gummy Bears one by one. Perfection, as usual.
In his accomplishments, I mean. Not his looks.
He glances up to catch me staring, and heat stings my cheeks. Okay, his looks, too. His gaze flits to my untouched candy then back to me, and he whispers, “No blunders this time. Remember?”
“I’m capable of melting a simple compound, thanks.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s debatable.”
I make a face. I may be far from perfect, but he won’t be the
only one to ace this—
Glass shatters in front of me.
I yelp and tumble backward, wind-milling my arms and landing on my rear. My eyes flare wide at the remnants of test tube and potassium chlorate littering the tabletop.
Not. Again.
Waving aside the smell of burned sugar, I search the immediate area for the Bunsen burner. Where did it—
Something pops and crackles to my left as Pix Betriebs jabs a dainty finger in my direction. “Fire! Tinsel’s set the cabinet on fire!”
Found it.
Fine time for Herr Chemie to leave the cabinet doors open. My classmates shriek, Herr Chemie shouts, and I yank the
hose to the Bunsen burner. It zooms from the shelf, clattering on the tiled floor, but though Niklas shuts off the gas valve at my bench, the damage is done. Flames already swallow piles of papers and books, and some of the stored chemicals bubble, hiss, and foam. One changes color.
A battery of sparks explodes into the room.
Silent night! I scramble to my feet and race for the fire extinguisher. Clutching it to my chest, I whirl about, pull the trigger, and a cloud of CO2 jets across the cabinet shelf. Debris shoots in every direction, chemical flasks topple and smash on the floor, and a fireball of sunset colors erupts amid the mess. My jaw drops.
Students flee the room in a screaming tsunami. “But...but...” The extinguisher falls limp at my side.
“Forget it, Tinsel.” Niklas tugs my elbow as the monstrous
inferno spreads. “Time to get out of here.”
We dash into the hallway behind our pint-sized, chaotic
classmates and make for the exit on the first floor. As we reach the stairwell, a rumble sounds from Herr Chemie’s room and the building shakes.
Flashing me a lopsided grin, Niklas shouts above the din, “I have a feeling you just bombed your final exam.”
****
We all flee the school toward Main Street, racing and slipping across the snow-covered yard, the acrid stench of scorched chemicals hanging overhead. I glance back once and let out a moan.
I’ve done some coal-worthy things in my life, but this blunder takes the fruitcake.
Smoke pours from the third-floor windows of Flitterndorf’s School of Talents. Flames dance along the sills to bake the frosty air. “Tinsel was here!” they taunt. In the distance, sirens wail as another KA-BOOM vibrates the ground and puckers the roofline.
I compress my lips. This is going to tank my chances for the managerial internship at the Workshop.
Once I reach the sidewalk, classmates cram around me, their little bodies shivering in school-issued lederhosen and dirndls. Main Street becomes a sea of red and green as townsfolk dash from nearby businesses and homes. With wild gestures, they exclaim alongside students and school faculty members. Gazes slant in my direction; mittens cover heated whispers. I brush nonexistent lint from my dirndl apron. Were I not hemmed in on all sides by the expanding mob, I’d be tempted to slip away unnoticed.
Okay, so the unnoticed part is an exaggeration. When you tower over everyone at sixty-five-and-one-quarter inches (the Red and Green Clans consider forty inches the ideal height), there’s no going anywhere unseen.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
The firefighters have maneuvered into position and are blasting the flames with water when my father materializes through the frenzied crowd. His face sags in relief when he sees me, and he wraps a floured arm around my middle. He must have come straight from the bakery’s kitchen. “Tinsel, mein Schatz, are you all right?”
I rub my arms through my wool sweater to stem the chill. “I’m fine, Vati.”
“Any...” He clears his throat and adjusts his green cap before looking up at me. “Anything I should know about before I talk to Meister K?”
I snort. “You mean, did I have a hand in this?”
The one positive in this situation is knowing that at seventeen, I stand at the lowest point I will ever get in life. I can only go up from here, right?
Please tell me I’m right.
I chop at the crusty snow with the curled toe of my boot. “It was supposed to be a simple lab experiment. ‘Even you can’t mess this up,’ Herr Chemie told me. Unfortunately, I believed him.” Bet he’ll never again forget to close those cabinet doors.
Vati nods, brows furrowed, and gives me another squeeze. “You’re a good kid, Tinsel. One day we’ll discover what you’re good at.” He tilts his head back to toss me a bright smile. “I’ll speak with Meister K, ja? Maybe he’ll...maybe he’ll give you a different Penalty this time.”
I don’t dare to hope. Herding sheep (my most recent Penalty when I exploded the oven in Baking 305 two months ago) was the one job I didn’t bungle. Since common sense says to keep me where I do the least amount of damage, I might find myself tripping over wool well beyond graduation in May.
As my father disappears into the crowd, I yank on the brim of my beanie, crimping my ears. The next time something’s on fire, remind me not to reach for the extinguisher.
A few yards away, dressed in a resplendent green overcoat and cap (with matching badges as a visual reminder he holds the second-most powerful job in Flitterndorf), the COE stops to talk with a few teachers. He nods, listens, nods again, then clasps his hands behind his back and scans the area. As his gaze rises to meet mine, his mouth turns down at the corners.
When I become the COE, I won’t look like I swallowed a stocking-full of lemons.
“Tinsel Kuchler, I’d swear on Frosty’s hat you’re trying to destroy Christmas.”
I turn at the nasally voice by my elbow. Classmates Jopper and Pix unite in a glare, but since they come to the middle of my ribcage, peaked hats included, their intimidation falls...short.
Pix crosses her arms. “Figures you’d blast the production wing to smithereens with only three weeks to go. How are the Toy Makers supposed to meet quota now?”
“We could always pit the clans against each other in a competition for ‘most gifts completed.’” I force a smile, my gaze flicking over her cherry red dirndl. “Nothing like the threat of losing to spur the Red Clan into productivity.”
Pix’s eyes narrow as a hand claps me on my shoulder. A strong, confident hand, and I steel myself for another encounter with the only classmate I look up to (literally; so not figuratively).
“Should you ever wonder if you’ll make it into the history books”—Niklas gestures with his perfect chin toward the school, green eyes twinkling—“wonder no more. They’re gonna write your name on the pages with a jumbo-sized marker.”
Shrugging off his hold before his warmth can seep through my sweater, I glance at the building spewing smoke. The red and green timbers have taken on a charred quality, but at least the flames are gone. “I didn’t mean to knock the burner into the chemical cabinet. My hand must have caught the hose when I jerked away, and its trajectory did the rest.”
Niklas’s lips spread into a dimpled grin. “Still, next time you want to go out with a bang, stick to the Crafters’ rooms.”
“Tangled lights!” Jopper flaps his arms. “One-fifth of our school is destroyed, one-fourth of the Christmas presents gone, and you two crack jokes?”
Niklas waves his comment aside. “Look on the bright side, Jipper—”
“Jipper’s over there.” I point to the twin down the street. “This one’s Jopper.”
Niklas’s grin widens as he catches my gaze. “Look on the bright side, Jopper. Thanks to Kuchler’s impromptu school renovations, I’ll be a shoo-in for the managerial internship.”
My stomach drops, but I mask my nerves with a serene smile. “Don’t count your candy canes before they’re striped. Meister K might be so wowed by such spontaneous creativity, he could convince Herr Referat to skip all interviews and outright hand me the internship.”
“Not a chance.” Pix clenches her little hands into fists. “He can’t afford your kind of creativity at the Workshop.”
Niklas taps the bell atop her hat, making it jingle. “I’m sure Grandpop will take many things into account, my friend.”
Pix beams up at him. Probably because he referred to her as “friend.” (She must not realize it’s his cover whenever he can’t remember a name.)
“But setbacks and internships aside”—he skims his hands along his leather suspenders—“let’s not forget the blessing in disguise.”
I arch my eyebrows. “And that would be?”
Niklas turns to address the crowd. “Fellow students, it would seem our winter break has come a day early. For those wishing to stand around and sulk”—he winks in my direction— “carry on. But anyone in the mood for a little celebratory fun, follow me!” With a whoop, he tears off down Main Street, and on his heels scamper a dozen classmates, starry-eyed and smitten. I bet a pound of my mother’s chocolates he calls only two of them by name.
There was a time (back when I was naïve and Niklas wasn’t so puffed up) when my heart would have melted at the fact he knows both my first and last names. Now all it does is—
I grimace. Never mind. The point is, Niklas remembers my name because I’m the one classmate who can (almost) look him in the eye, and I tolerate Niklas for the same reason others fawn over him. His lineage.
And the fact that someday I’ll have to call him “Boss.”
A shoulder nudges mine. “You know you want to join them.”
My gaze slides to Kristof. “I’d rather eat coal for breakfast.” At sixteen, Kristof is not as tall as his brother and has yet to surpass me in height, but I definitely look up to him in the figurative sense. “I’m still searching the books for some loophole that would allow you to usurp Niklas when the time comes.”
Eyes twinkling (it’s a family trait), Kristof shakes his head. “I don’t want the job. I take orders better than I give them, like most everyone else.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicates the dispersing students trailing after Niklas without question, without thought.
“Exactly the problem. Niklas cares more about having fun and racing his SnoMo than learning the family trade. And if he leads for fifteen, twenty, thirty years or more, imagine the state of this place when he’s done.”
Down the street, a snowmobile chugs to life, and Niklas pulls on his helmet. I scowl. “Mischievous, spoiled, doesn’t- appreciate-how-blessed-he-is grandson of a Kringle.”
Which Kringle? Kris, of course, though we call him Meister K around here. And since their family’s mantle usually passes to the oldest son, it’s likely that one day that boy zooming away on his souped-up SnoMo will be the one delivering toys to believing children on Christmas Eve.
I’d fear for our holiday’s continued success, except when Niklas reaches Santa Claus status, I plan to have already established myself as the new COE. This will allow me to counteract any foolhardy decisions he makes in not taking his job seriously.
But first I must nab that managerial internship, the next logical step on the Workshop’s corporate ladder.
And though today’s hiccup might have broken the rung preceding the internship, I’m not about to let that bother me. I have a long reach.
For an elf.

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