The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren Page B

performance. I set the box down near the fence and returned to my car.
    I noticed Mike standing with the EMS crew from the local county.
    He waved to me and pointed to the back of their rig.
    Yeah, I remembered.
    Pulling the costume out of the trunk, I draped it over my shoulders, grabbed the head, and snuck over to the ambulance.
    I went in a human woman. And came out a Salvelinus namaycush , according to Mike, who had taken the time to look up the official name for trout in his never-ending quest to mock me. I especially loved the “saliva” part of the name.
    Good thing we were married, because Mike pulled and prodded the costume onto me and then had to wrestle me to a standing position. He held the head and popped me a quick kiss before lowering it over my head. “Go get ’em, Trout Girl.”
    â€œRah,” I said. But I had to admit, the look of appreciation on his face made me think that perhaps this might be better than being one of those shapely cheerleaders.
    No, probably not.
    â€œWish me luck!”
    â€œOh, you’re the luck, babe!” He patted me on my fishy backside and I waddled my way to the field. With Mike’s alterations to the costume, I could actually jog if I wanted to. I might even be able to do a little sideline jig.
    A strange power began to fill me as I walked through the crowd. People parted for me. A few gave me a thumbs-up.
    I raised my fin. “Go, Trouts!”
    I decided to do a little pregame cheering warm-up and stopped in the parking lot, right outside the stands, holding out my fin.
    Fans whacked it as they went past.
    â€œYeah, Trouts!”
    Smiles abounded.
    â€œGo get ’em!”
    I spied Gretchen Gilstrap approaching, her five- and six-year-old grandchildren in tow. Her eldest grandson played on the team with Kevin. For a second I wasn’t sure if I should run, hide, or just pretend like I didn’t know her. But she stopped in front of me, a look of confusion on her face. “Marianne?”
    â€œHello, Gretchen!” I decided that no explanation might be the best, so instead I bent over at the waist, intent on offering her grandson a chance to fin me. “Hey there! Are you a Trout fan?”
    He reminded me of Neil, with his pudgy cheeks pressed together in a hat that tied under his chin. His yellow jacket sporting a school bus. His blue eyes peering up at me. I held out my fin.
    As I watched, those sweet eyes filled with a sort of horror. He looked at me, looked at my fin, then opened his mouth and screamed.
    He shot away from me and behind his grandma, and I think even tried to climb her. On the other side of Gretchen, her five-year-old granddaughter, Amelia, stood paralyzed with terror, not looking at my eyes, but above me. She clutched her grandmother’s hand as tears filled her eyes.
    â€œIt’s okay. It’s Mrs. Wallace . . . from church? Remember me? This is just a costume.” I tried to open the mouth wider so they could see my face.
    Amelia turned and buried her face in Gretchen’s jacket.
    â€œI’m . . . I’m sorry,” I said, backing away.
    â€œShh,” Gretchen said to Amelia, shooting me a glare. “It’s okay. Mrs. Wallace didn’t mean to scare you.”
    As she pulled the still-screaming, crying children away, I stood there, wanting to launch into my own screaming and crying.
    I heard chuckling and turned to find Pastor Backlund entering the stands. “It’s probably the eyes,” he said. “They looked different on Bud.”
    Yeah, like farther away.
    Pastor finned me as he passed. “This is certainly a different kind of ministry tool, Marianne.”
    My jovial, albeit short-lived, mood sputtered and finally nose-dived into the cold dirt as even Rachel’s children carved a wide arc around me.
    I gave up and trudged onto the field. Above me, the stands were full of happy fans sitting on their padded seats under their stadium