Grace
The gingerbread tent looked like Santa’s workshop if Santa let a pack of sugar-fueled raccoons run the place by the time that the three of us arrived. Children shriek as they rush past us. Someone has already dropped a gingerbread wall, and a volunteer is sweeping up the cookie rubble like battlefield debris.
Parker mutters, “Pretty sure that’s a threat,” as a toddler flings a gumdrop at another kid.
I snort just as my mother's voice cuts through all the chaos.
“Oh! There the three of you are!” My mother says as she appears in front of us, her eyes shining. “Ohhh, look at all the community spirit!” She claps her hands in front of her a second later. “You two hurry on, it's about to start.”
Dawson stiffens beside me, his hand resting at the small of my back. Mom clamps a hand a
