Breaking Hearts Has Never Looked So Cool

3 days before Christmas and the snow had settled on the ideally cold, hard ground.

“I’m so excited we’re going to have a white Christmas!” I enthused, jumping up and down a little bit.

“You look like such a plastic today,” commented Annabelle, looking critically at my black pixie boots, worn grey skinny jeans, and bright red stylishly fitted coat, with cream gloves, scarf, and delicate beret style knitted hat, “In a hot, fashionable way, though,” she assured me when I looked a little affronted.

I smiled at her and put an arm around her shoulders, “are you excited about Christmas?” I asked, and she nodded happily.

“Did you find out who sent you the candy cane?” she asked, referring to the mystery sweet I had been sent through the anonymous Christmas delivery system in place at school. Most people looked forward to the day of the deliveries with an almost sad optimism, desperation etched in every hopeful line on their face. I had never gotten one before, I thought the whole process was kind of lame…it was rather a pleasant surprise, I must admit, to have received one.

“No,” I said for what felt like the thousandth time.

“I heard a rumour that it was Christian Black,” she said knowingly, and I made a face of pleasant surprise. Christian was widely acknowledged as one of the better, or more acceptable looking boys in school. He was funny and kind too, as far as I could gauge from sitting next to him in History.

“But,” she added hurriedly, registering my look of mild interest, “forget him, I know someone who’s better for you,”

I sighed impatiently, and turned my eyes towards her in a rather sceptic fashion, “and who might that be, Annabelle?” I asked exasperatedly. She drew a deep breath in order to respond and I took in the scenery in the interval before her speech began. Everything looked nice in the snow. A vandalised, broken bench could look like a piece of modernist art, and a dilapidated homeless shelter could look like a magical gingerbread house, like a scene from the nutcracker. I felt a pang for the previous year when my mum had taken me to see the nutcracker in the city. ‘We must do that next year,’ I said to myself.

“Well, I think you can guess who I’m getting at,” said Annabelle, interrupting my contemplation.

“I really can’t,” I lied, “Who?”

“Mikey’s brother, of course,” she said with the air of a kindergarten teacher explaining something very simple,

“Oh,” was my only possible response,

“He’s going to be at Frank’s Christmas Eve party,” she said in a carefully suggestive tone,

Frank was planning on holding a small gathering 20 or so of his closest acquaintances while his parents went out for a romantic Christmas Eve dinner on their own.

“So?” I said, “We may not even get on,” I was never a great believer in fix-ups, myself. The thing was, I didn’t really have the confidence that I would ever manage to meet a guy that would really look at me and think ‘that’s her. That’s the girl for me.’

“Oh you so will,” she said, completely dismissing my reservations,

“How do you know?” I scoffed, kicking some snow aside with my foot and immediately regretting it because it revealed the dirty sidewalk underneath.

“Because you just will,” she said persuasively, linking her arm with mine, “you HAVE to! Imagine how much fun we could have! It would be so awesome to date brothers, wouldn’t it?”

I looked at Annabelle like she was unhinged and then smiled, “yes it would be pretty awesome,” I conceded, “but there’s nothing to say that we’ll even get on as friends – and he might have a girlfriend at college!” I protested,

“I already checked with Mikey,” said Annabelle smugly, “and he’s as single as you are,”

“You’ve really got this all planned out, haven’t you,” I smirked, and then a thought occurred to me that made me slap my hand to my forehead in shame, “you didn’t actually tell Mikey you wanted to set me up with his brother did you?” I asked, mortified,

“Certainly not!” Annabelle responded indignantly, “Do you think I’m stupid? He’d only go and tell Gerard anyway, I just subtly probed, and yes, he is single,”
“I think you’re crazy,” I stated firmly, “How old is he anyway?”

“He’s only 3 years older,” she said, “He’s 20,”

“My mum would flip,” I said in slight disbelief,

“I thought nothing was going to happen,” Annabelle said slyly, before turning a deaf ear to my protestations and dragging me further down the road.