Secret Santa

01 | It's a Wonderful Lie

JOYCE AWAKES WITH A JOLT.

Scrambling upright in her seat, she gains a glare from a busy redhead, whose eyes spare her only a brief glance before returning to the road ahead of them.

And Joyce looks like she has seen a ghost.

The driver bursts into laughter. "Damn, okay! I know I look bad, but not that bad..." One of her hands leaves its spot on the steering wheel to run her manicured fingers down the freckles on her face. From her broad, short-bridged nose to the corners of her round, wide-set eyes, small brown spots pepper almost every inch of her skin, free from the cosmetics that they would've normally been buried underneath.

Or of the gore that had ultimately startled Joyce from her sleep.

It's Fallon. She's here. She's safe.

As safe as she can be anyway, her corkscrew curls tied back and swaying to an up-and-coming rock band as she steers a sharp turn, her free hand on the car stereo.

"It wasn't you," Joyce whispers under her breath, dazed from a dream that took her back to that fateful day, in the middle of a football game where a girl had fallen, and nearly met her untimely end. She could've sworn she'd caught sight of her friend, lying motionless on the grass, but... "It wasn't you."

Fallon hadn't failed to stick the landing. Holly Bower did. That cheerleader has steel blue eyes and hair the color of honey, although rumor has it that the blood seeping from the back of her head that day had tainted its strands past recognition. But the similarities end there. For all of her Irish coloring, Fallon had inherited a soft, endearing beauty from her dad's Afro-Jamaican side of the family. Even from afar, it sets her apart.

Too bad Joyce's dreams aren't able to make such distinctions.

"Wasn't what? What woke you up?" Fallon asks. "Yeah, I know. I was kidding. Sorry about the music, by the way. You fell asleep to it, so I thought..." She shrugs. "Obviously, I was wrong."

"It's okay. You can put it back on if you want," offers Joyce. "I didn't mind."

Fallon mulls it over for a moment, before her fingers finally draw away from the dial. "Nah. We're too close to the campus anyway. Saves me from having to shut off a bomb ass song when we get there. Man, I can't wait to get my hands on a cup of coffee." Fallon grins, before she spots Joyce's grave expression. "You look spooked. You good?"

Joyce nods. Closing her eyes, she leans her head against the headrest, ruffling her intentionally-messy bun in the process. She hadn't been able to witness the true extent of the accident in real time. Neither her short stature nor the four inches added by her trusty platform boots had stood a chance against the frat boys on the bleachers when those sitting in front of her stood up to get a better look. Each one had tried to talk over the other, the only clear-cut voices in the clamor.

She remembers the moment it dawned on her, amid all the confusion, that the audience may have been buzzing about Fallon. The sheer fear in her system had paralyzed her to the spot in that moment. Knowing that her friend could be injured, or worse, due to a prank that she had come up with?

It was all too much.

(The crowd later assured her that it hadn't been the case. "Holy shit..." A meathead had turned around at one point as he cupped his Roman nose, seeking somebody—anybody—to share his disbelief. Except he'd found a better target when he bellowed, "Don, it's your sister! She fell!")

Yet her dreams have been reliving her remorse ever since.

"Sucks to be left behind, huh? So close to Christmas, too," resumes the redhead, never having seen her nod at all. Or seeing right through it. "Not gonna lie, I'm kinda shocked you're not on that plane with your parents right now. Both Mr. and Mrs. Sison never struck me as the type of people who'd leave their unica hija to fend for herself over the holidays. Especially something that's as family-oriented as this."

Oh. Joyce opens her eyes. That's what Fallon thinks she's worried about?

Smiling at Fallon's use of the Spanish phrase, which Joyce's own dad had been shamelessly sprinkling throughout a conversation inside the very same vehicle hours ago, she responds, "Last year, you told them I was 'grown,' and 'needed to leave the nest.'"

"Yeah, but now they're leaving you with the nest. Worse, they're leaving you with me."

If Joyce has any expectations about this conversation, it wouldn't be this. Her eyebrows furrow at her words. "Worse? Why is it worse?"

"Let's put it this way: You're Cindy Lou Who, and they just pretty much gave you over to the Grinch." Fallon shrugs. "Whatever business they have back in Manila must be serious, since they're letting me out of all people crash over at their crib, considering how much they hate my ass..."

They didn't. Sure, they were disappointed by their daughter's choice in friends, seeing Fallon's dark eyeshadow and her general disregard of authority, but 'hate' is too strong a word. At least they haven't told Joyce to ditch her like the others yet. She thinks her friend's new scholarship may have something to do with it. "They don't hate you. And we still would've invited you over anyway, once my parents found out you'd rather tough it out in a tacky motel room than come home to your mom. Even if they never left. They're strict, not heartless."

"Right," replies Fallon. In a tone suggests that the Filipina is wrong regardless.

Which confuses her, in turn.

"Sometimes, I really don't understand you." Joyce shakes her head. Outside their window, the trees by the roadside sway softly to the wind, as if in agreement. "If you think they hate you so much, then why did you offer to drive them to the airport today?"

"Think of it as rent." Then, "Speaking of..."

Silver letters spell out the words 'WINDELL COLLEGE' against a brick backdrop that also serves as a wall surrounding its immediate perimeter. A silver gate hangs ajar, open for the day. When Fallon drives past the guardhouse, Joyce briefly admires the elegant wrought iron curlicues on top of its otherwise straight bars.

That isn't all there is to admire though.

As the distance decreases, their destination gets clearer and clearer.

The Goodwin Complex.

If Joyce hasn't studied here for a while, she would've been surprised by how they had driven straight from the hustle and bustle of a modernist airport all the way in Atlanta, and into this campus, which is basically a slice of Europe in an idyllic country setting. The Oxford-inspired, Collegiate Gothic quadrangle almost looks too pretty to live in, but it houses not only its vast majority of students in arts and music degrees, but also any facilities that fit their needs, like their gymnasium, dining halls, lecture halls, and a historic, cathedral-style auditorium at the center of it all that casts a glorious shadow on the sapphire fountains in the courtyard.

Even those that aren't, like the admissions office, are wisely located within the complex, for the viewing pleasure of all prospective enrollees who would be thrilled at the thought of residing in one of its wings.

(False advertising at its finest, Joyce thinks to herself. Those from other majors will be sorely disappointed to discover that they'd have to make do in the simpler, though still very stylish Colonial Revival cluster of buildings north of the campus. But that was their problem.)

Fallon sighs happily, all parental issues temporarily forgotten in favor of the frontage ahead of them. She steps on the breaks, admiring the sight. "Dorm sweet dorm."

"Well, a few more meters, and it will be," quips Joyce. 'Meter' is an understatement, of course. They're still pretty far from the Palmer Hall, where their shared rooms await them. Right now, her friend's Sedan has stopped away from the quadrangle, or the proper parking lots nearby. "Why did we stop?"

She didn't have to ask. A second later, she figures out the method to Fallon's madness, just as she rolls down her window to flag it—or rather, him—down.

"Is that...?"

Gorgeous and glistening in sweat, Joyce's long-time crush, Blaise 'The Blaze' Newton, slows down his jog to smile at the girls in greeting. She couldn't see Fallon's face, but she's certain she's amused by how flushed the Filipina's cheeks are becoming. She has seen that happen enough times to know without checking over her shoulder.

Mischievous as always, Fallon asks the man, "'Sup, Rocky Balboa, need a ride?"