It wasn't really a Christmas party. That was a joke started a long time ago because every year, without fail, Jupiter was at the Church at one o'clock in the afternoon, promptly, to make sure everything was in order for the Christmas Eve service. By two, the elders and deacons were there. And by three, all of there kids were present and accounted for as well.
They all hung out in the youth room, even the kids who'd long aged out or were too young to be there normally. The youth room was a big, brick extension to the otherwise quaint white-washed church. It had been added sometime in the seventies, and hadn't been updated since. Peeling floral wallpaper, brown shag carpet, and orange, cracked plastic chairs that weren't comfortable in the slightest had apparently been all the rage fifty years before.
This was what Picket was thinking about after his mother sent him to change for the fifth time that day. Jacks was sitting on the floor, fussing with his socks and tie. Picket shook his head.
"Let me help."
"No." Jacks said flatly. Picket shrugged, and turned to change his apparently cream shirt to a distinctly white one. He turned back to see that Jacks had given up on his tie and was instead watching a YouTube video on his tablet. Picket shook his head.
"Well, If you won't let me help, ask Father." He said, pointing to the door. Jacks got up, and, eyes still glued to the screen, wandered out of the room.
He wondered how many kids would show up early tonight. At least sixteen.
"Picket! Grab some extra blankets, the car heater isn't working again!" Heather shouted up the stairs. Picket appeared at the landing a moment later, carrying an armful of blankets. He promptly dumped them down the staircase and onto his sister. She let out a startled cry.
Picket laughed.
"Picket!" She shrieked, stomping up the stairs in heels. She glared at him, her hair slightly undone and coming further so as she stood there, hands on her hips. "Are you five?" She snapped.
"Your hair is falling out."
"Augh. Go pick the blankets up." The door to her room slammed as she evidently went to fix her hair. Picket went cheerfully down, picked up the blankets, and tossed them into the trunk of the car.
It was then he realized how heavily it was snowing. Earlier that morning there had been about four inches of snow on the ground, now there was six, and it was rapidly growing. The temperature was dropping quickly, and the sky was overcast and dark.
"Heather, come now!" Picket could hear his mother all the way in the garage. He got into the car, where Jacks was already sitting, wrapped in a blanket, eyes still glued to whatever youtuber he was watching. Heather came out in a bad mood, and sat in a moody silence.
"Who you dressed up for?" Picket asked, aiming to annoy her. Heather shot him a look. "What, you want me to guess?" She elbowed him sharply. Picket doubled over, wheezing with laughter and pain. Making fun of Heather for the way she blushed and fumbled around Smalls was so easy it was hard for him to resist. Not that Smalls himself was any better.
"Will you two shut up?" Jacks mumbled.
"This weather really is terrible." Whittel muttered from the driver's seat. "I can't see a thing." He turned up the road, and into the Church parking lot. No one had shoveled, and only the tire tracks from previous cars made any dent in the thick snow. "I hope this clears up." Whittel said, shaking his head as he pulled into a parking spot. "The service will be light tonight." Picket got out, pulling his coat tight as the wind hit him.
"It's cold." Jacks said, hugging himself. Picket handed Heather her jacket, and then went to help his mother with the food in the trunk.
.
.
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This...Is not my best work.