The Dark Ice Chronicles - The Magi

Chapter 19 - Could Be A Winner, Boy, You Move Quite Well

“I almost wanna sing a Christmas song right now,” Evan says after a long silence.

“Me too,” I say, putting my hand under her beanie so I can run my fingers through her hair. “Anything but ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’”

“I know, right?” Evan laughs, wrapping her fingers more tightly around my upper arm. “That song is so overplayed. And creepy.” She pauses, then snaps her fingers. “I know!” She starts singing "All I Want For Christmas Is You" - or whatever the hell that song is called.

Evan may be a very good singer - something I’ve never been able to properly appreciate, having never heard her sing before - but that doesn’t stop me clapping my hands over my ears. “Do you have any idea how much I hate that song?”

“What?” Evan looks at me like I’m growing a third eye. “How can you not like that song?”

“Do I look like the sort of guy who’d enjoy Mariah Carey?”

Evan starts laughing her head off. “What? Really? I’ve never met a single person who didn’t like Mariah Carey! It’s like not likin’ Beyoncé!” A dangerous gleam appears in Evan’s eyes, and I cringe, knowing exactly what’s coming. “‘If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it...’”

“Oh my God, make it stop!” I scream, pulling away from Evan and leaping - yes, leaping - away from the porch.

Behind me, Evan continues to laugh up a storm. “You...you...you’re just so odd!” she cries when she finally gets a chance to draw breath again. “So if you don’t appreciate the Queen Bee or Mariah Carey, then what do you like?”

Luckily, it just so happens that I have my iPod on hand at this moment, so I’m able to pull it out of my pocket and show Evan my music selection.

“Hmm...let’s see now,” she says, cycling through my list of artists. “Arcade Fire, Coldplay, Dire Straits, Fall Out Boy, Haim, Muse, Panic! At The Disco, Republica, Sara Bareilles...wait a second. You don’t like Mariah Carey, but you like Sara Bareilles?”

I grin at her. “Sara Bareilles speaks to me like most singers never can. ‘Love Song,’ ‘Uncharted,’ ‘Brave.’ I can safely say I felt like I was the intended recipient of all three at some point.”

“How does that work?” Evan asks. “I’m pretty sure all three have wildly different meanings.”

“You askin’ me to fathom the way my own mind works?” I ask, continuing to grin.

“Kinda, yes.”

“I’m not gonna answer that,” I say, spinning my thumb on the click wheel. “Instead, I’m just gonna subject you to a random choice of one of my tunes.” I hand Evan the earbuds and keep scrolling through the list until I finally find a good one. “You might have heard this one in a few comedy-movie commercials,” I say, putting the song on.

Evan starts waving her fingers in time to the music. “Isn’t this that Arctic Monkeys song?” she asks.

“Nope,” I say. “It does sound similar, though, I’ll give you that. It’s actually ‘The Stroke’ by Billy Squier, and it’s authentic 80s classic rock.”

“This is nice, actually,” Evan says, her head starting to bob around. “Is it normal to feel the urge to rock out with full air guitar and everything?”

“I’d be insulted if you didn’t, love.”

“You’re callin’ me ‘love’ now? What, are you British all of a sudden?”

I put on an accent just like Dad’s as I say, “I bloody well am, love.” I switch back to my regular voice as I add, “Well, half-English, anyway. My dad’s from London.”