Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (20 page)

Soon I was walking through the cobbled village lane, my Au Revoir bag neatly rolled and tucked inside my school bag. Kids were running around excitedly, playing catch with a small ball in spite of the slick surfaces. Our next-door neighbor Vivienne drove by and even waved at me. I waved back. She had a special place in my heart now that she’d helped Mom out. I hadn’t exactly forgotten her comments about my guitar playing, but, well, no one’s perfect.

When I got to Fishcoteque, I pushed open the door. It was nearly deserted for once—probably because it was so close to Christmas.

“Hello, luv. How have you been?” Jeannie asked me.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “I’ve been pretty good.”

“What’re you doing here? Should be home wrapping gifts,” she said. “We’ll be closing in about an hour, for the holidays.”

“I’m meeting someone,” I said. At that moment, Jack pushed open the door and waved at me.

“I’ll get us a booth,” he said.

I turned back to the counter.

“Dishy, that one is.” She smiled at me. “Nicely done.”

“Oh, uh, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s just, uh, a friend,” I stammered. I could feel the heat rush to my face.

“Mm-hmm, righto,” she said. “The usual, then?”

“Just two Fantas,” I said and pulled my wallet out of my bag.

“If I can make a suggestion, you should always let the chap pay. Trains ’em right from the start,” she said. “But I’m old fashioned, I know.” She took my money, got my change, and I was on my way.

I slid into the booth across from Jack.

“Thank you,” he said as I handed him a Fanta. “So, as you can guess, the column is definitely going strong. As I told you in my e-mail, I thought your response to this week’s question was spot on. Appropriate for the situation they wrote in about, and an answer all the readers can apply somewhere else to themselves. Well done!”

“Thanks.” I felt the blush coming back. I was no less resistant to his praise than Hazelle, apparently.

“So, the column is a go. Here’s how it’ll work. You’ll write two columns a month. I’ll pull all the questions people submit out of the box at school or from the e-mail account I’ve set up, and then you and I will go over them together and decide which are to go in the paper. You’ll be able to write them up, do promotion as the youngest Auntie Agatha ever, and the paper will fly out the door!”

I sipped the rest of my Fanta and resisted the urge to indulge in a little imaginary moment about how the “youngest Auntie Agatha ever” promotion would look. Then I answered, “It all sounds great . . . except for one part.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“I don’t want my identity to be known. I want to remain secret.”

Jack said nothing for a moment. “Why? You can have your own desk in the paper office. You’ll have your own WA
Times
pen. You can do publicity for us. People will know your name.”

“It’s all because of Father Christmas,” I explained. “Remember when Melissa sent me to interview him?”

Jack looked confused but nodded.

“Well . . . along the way—” I chose my words carefully so as to tell the truth but not let his secret loose—“he told me something. I asked him why it mattered to him that people didn’t know who he was. He told me that, you know, he did more good as Father Christmas than if people knew he was a regular bloke. So if I remain secret, then people will really believe that I have good things to say. But if they know who I am, then they might see me get a poor grade from time to time or make a mistake in a friendship or something. And the mystery will be gone.”

Jack nodded. “Yes . . . yes, I can see the wisdom in that. Actually, that proves to me that you really
are
the right person for the job. Thinking of the readers—and the paper—before yourself. You meant what you said in this week’s column about keeping secrets, didn’t you?”

He’d never know, unless I shared it with him, how much it was going to cost me to learn each lesson before I could write a column about it.

“I really meant what I said,” I answered. Maybe someday I’d tell him the rest. But not now.

The restaurant crew came out and started cleaning the floors—an obvious hint to us that we should be moving on. And who could blame them? They had their own Christmases to prepare for. Jack and I stood up, and I looped the straps from my book bag over my shoulder.

As we reached the door, he hugged me. “Thanks, Savvy. You’ll still deliver the papers, right?”

I nodded. “Yes. The ever-faithful delivery girl.”

He pulled away and smiled, and this time I knew that smile was only for me.

“Well done, Savvy.” He waved as he began to walk away. “Cheers.”

I started down the street toward my house.

Okay, Father Christmas,
I thought.
I’ve come through for you. I hope you come through for Louanne.

The next night, Christmas Eve, we pulled into an overflowing church parking lot—the church that Dad and Louanne, and, okay, Giggle, and I had checked out not long before.

“Ready?” Dad shut off the car engine.

“Ready,” I said.
Please, Lord, let this work for us.

We walked inside the double doors, and a man in a wheelchair held out his hand and warmly greeted us as we entered. His kindness made me feel welcome right off. The hallways were decorated with strings of lights, poinsettias, and greenery all the way down to the sanctuary.

“Welcome, welcome,” a woman said as she handed us a bulletin.

We walked partway down the aisle and then squished into the center of one of the rows. We sat next to another family with kids. In fact, there seemed to be a lot of families everywhere.

I closed my eyes as the lights dimmed, and when I opened them again the room blazed with candlelight. Five thousand miles away from home I felt . . . at home. I looked at my mother, my father, my sister. They looked comfortable. At home too.

Ushers came down the aisle and handed us each an orange with a ribbon and a candle. I looked down at my bulletin to see what all of this meant.

I looked at my orange. I touched where I thought Seattle would be on this globe. Then I traced my finger along the orange skin till I landed at what should be London. I made a tiny mark with my fingernail. I was in London now. This was my very own place in His universe right now, and no matter where I was, I could orbit Him. He moved me here, and He placed me here to do good. And He promised He would be with me too.

As we began to sing “Silent Night,” I knew I was home.

On the way back from church, Louanne asked, “Does Father Christmas come tonight? Or tomorrow morning?”

A nervous glance passed between my parents.

Christmas morning I was the first person up. In past years that would have been so I could scope out the gifts under the tree. This year it was to
give
my gift. I tiptoed downstairs and avoided the middle of the third stair and the right side of the fifth one, and I skipped the last one altogether. I’d already figured out the squeaky spots.

“Come on, Growl,” I whispered to the dog, who was huddled near the back of his crate. Nothing doing. He just stared at me.

“Okay, then,
Giggle
,” I said. With a self-satisfied smirk on his dog face, he obeyed.

Anyone who says dogs don’t understand English hasn’t met this one.

I took him outside and then dragged him into the downstairs bathroom. I could tell he was worried. What was I doing? This was unusual!

“Bath, boy,” I said. My gift to Louanne this year was to get Giggle looking his best. If she couldn’t show her dog, at least her dog could look like a show dog.

Giggle started to whine, and he looked like he sorely regretted obeying. I fed him the first of about a thousand dog treats to keep him quiet. I’d purchased some dog shampoo—Dr. Ruff’s organic dog wash. “Contains an enriching native blend of organic herbs, lemon-scented tea tree, rosalina, kunzea, and eucalyptus oils. You and your dog will feel fantastic!” the bottle promised.

At the moment, up to my elbows in suds, I wasn’t feeling fantastic. Growl was desperately trying to paddle in the four inches of water I’d put into the tub. He couldn’t, so it just splashed all over me. Then he started whining again.

I finished rinsing him off and then burst out laughing. With all his fur matted down, he looked like a rodent, not a dog.

He glared at me. He knew who I was laughing at.

I towel-dried him off and got the blow-dryer out. Apparently Growl was afraid of the blow-dryer, because he began to pass gas every time I turned it on.

Great. Locked in a small bathroom with a flatulent dog. Not exactly how I’d planned my Christmas morning.

Eventually he stopped. I brushed him out, trimmed his nails a little, and lightly sprayed him with a dog misting product I’d found at Boots. The final touch: a bow tie. I attached it to his collar.

“You look quite smart indeed,” I said in my best British accent. He preened in front of me, and we went to wake up Louanne.

“Giggle!” she cried as he leaped onto her bed. He ran over and licked her cheek. “What happened to him? He looks great!” She buried her nose in his fur. “And smells great too!”

“Merry Christmas from me to you,” I said. “And you can keep the organic dog wash and lavender-scented dog mist.”

Louanne jumped out of bed. “Come on downstairs. I have something for you, too.”

Mom and Dad heard the ruckus and came downstairs to meet us. After making some cinnamon rolls and coffee, we gathered in the living room and opened the rest of the gifts.

“I love the cookie sheets!” Mom said. “I’ll use them all through the year—and also for next year’s cookie exchange.”

“And maybe now I’ll understand British football,” Dad said as he planted a kiss on each of our cheeks.

I opened a small package from Louanne—five different colors of nail polish—and thanked her for it.

“I think there are two presents in the kitchen,” Mom said. “Louanne, why don’t you go and get them?”

Louanne jumped up, grabbed the gifts, and ran back into the room. “They’re from Father Christmas!” she said as she handed mine to me.

Father Christmas’s handwriting looks an awful lot like Dad’s,
I thought, but I said nothing.

“You first,” I said to Louanne. She tore into the box and lifted out a dog leash and collar.

“Oh, this is good,” she said, but I could hear the disappointment in her voice.

“Isn’t there anything else in the box?” Mom asked. Louanne lifted up some tissue paper and pulled out an envelope. She opened it.

“It’s a registration for the junior dog showing!” She jumped up and down and raced around the room.

I looked at Growl.
You poor fool. You have no idea what’s in store for you.

“Savannah, your turn,” Dad said.

I held the package on my lap for a moment. I tried to steel myself. I was sure it was a jumper—sweater—to replace the one I’d shrunk. Probably in some color that worked if you were, well, older, but not for me. Like mustard. Or chive green. But they meant well, and I’d smile and put on my best happy performance.

I slit open the tape on the sides of the box and then carefully took the paper off. I lifted the lid and took a piece of tissue paper off the top.

“BLACK ZIP-UP BOOTS!” I grabbed them, one in each hand, and pulled them out. “Patent! Very, very stylish.” I hugged both Mom and Dad. “But how did Father Christmas know?”

They each shrugged their shoulders but I noticed that Louanne grinned. I smiled back at her. She must have put that in her letter she’d had me deliver to Father Christmas, who then had e-mailed the information to my mom and dad.

“I’m going to take Giggle out for a walk,” Louanne said. “Will you come too, Dad?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Dad put on his jacket and then opened the front door. As he did, something fell away from it.

“Something was propped against the door,” Dad said. He picked up the package and read the label. “It’s for you, Savvy. It says it’s from Father Christmas.”

He looked so puzzled I knew he wasn’t playing dumb. And when I read the writing, it wasn’t Mom’s or Dad’s.

I sat down on the couch and unwrapped the gift. Inside the box was a pen. An actual
Times
of London pen! I carefully set it next to me on the couch and then opened the note.

“That was nice,” Mom said. “Good thing Louanne put our return address on her letter, eh?”

And that he’s a postman
, I thought, but said nothing.

Mom stood up. “I’m going to get another batch of rolls in the oven.”

“Come on.” Louanne pulled Dad out of the door. “Let’s help Giggle practice!”

I waved good-bye to them and headed upstairs. I popped a few Smarties in my mouth and then placed my new pen in the center of my desk. I opened my laptop and kissed the screen saver with supercute Ryan and the baseball team good-bye before I deleted it.

Then I inserted one of the newspaper team that had been handed out for publicity. Everyone was there: Hazelle and her lipstick; Melissa and her grapefruit-scented hair; Rob, with his hands in his pockets; and everyone else. Jack, smiling that smile, front and center. And I was in it too. Way, way in the back. Not even noticeable really.

Yet.

Your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.
   M
ATTHEW
6:4 (
NIV
)