Humbug Holiday (11 page)

But it wasn't regular London light from 1843.

It was a flickery blue light.

And it was coming from a couple of things that weren't around a hundred and a half years ago.

I gasped to see them. Frankie did, too.

“The zapper gates!”

Chapter 17

While Scrooge laughed and laughed, Frankie and I stepped out of the office and over to the gates. Their blue sparks sizzled in the crisp, cold Christmas-y air.

“Is it time already?” I said. “I mean, there's still stuff to do, isn't there?”

Frankie opened the book. There was only one page left. “Scrooge is changed. Everything is good. The zapper gates are here. Don't you want to go back home?”

“I do,” I said. “Sort of. But I also … I want to go back two days.”

“Devin—”

“Frankie, I mean it. It's been bothering me since Marley's ghost opened that window and we looked out. You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, but what about the zapper gates?” she said. “What if they fade?”

“We just have to hope they don't,” I said. “I have to take care of this. Look, it's okay. You can stay here and listen to Scrooge laugh, but I won't be able to laugh—not really—until I do this one last thing.”

Frankie cracked a grin. “Yeah, right. After all we've been through? As if I'm going to let you go bouncing around a classic book all by yourself.”

I knew what she really meant to say. It felt good to hear it. “Frankie. You know, I really do—”

“Say it, and I'll whack that troublemaking backpack right over your weird head.”

I laughed. “Okay, okay. Then, come on. We'll be back before the gates fade. I promise.”

“Don't promise,” she said. “Just hope.”

I opened the book to the exact page we were on. Then I did something I'd never done before.

I did a reverse flip. Back through the book.

All the way back to page 51.

“Brace yourself, Frankie,” I said. “It's meltdown time!”

I expected the nice bright Christmas sky to turn black and me and Frankie to get tumbled like T-shirts in a dryer. But it didn't, and we didn't. Instead, a calm, warm breeze fluttered out of the fluttering pages of the book.

“Whoa. This is unexpected!” I said.

Frankie grinned suddenly. “And I bet I know why. It's okay to go back and reread parts of a book. In fact, books are made for rereading!”

“That is so cool!” I said. “I'm telling you, if you try, you can learn something new just about every day.”

When the pages stopped fluttering, the warm breeze stopped, too, and the bright sky faded, and there we were, out on the dark street outside Scrooge's house.

It was Christmas Eve again. Icy wind was moaning between the buildings. Snow was falling. And the air was filled with the howling of phantoms, all rushing around, throwing their arms up, pleading and howling.

“It's just like it was when we were here before,” I said.

“I didn't like it much the first time,” said Frankie.

“But this will be different,” I said. “I promise.”

Looking up, we saw Marley's ghost float out Scrooge's window and join the spirits howling in the air. “There,” said Frankie, pointing through the thickening snow. “I know that's why you came. There she is.”

And there she was, that poor woman huddled on a doorstep of the building across Scrooge's street. She tried to keep her baby covered against the falling snow, but it was coming down very heavily now.

The spirits around us wailed and moaned.

“The ghosts are trying to help her,” said Frankie. “But they can't. It's too late for them.”

“But not for us,” I said. “I think that's the real lesson of this book. That maybe you can have a second chance, if you really want one. Come on, Frankie.”

We made our way over to the woman. She seemed startled and afraid to see us. She held her baby closer.

“Hey,” I said. “I just wanted to give you something.”

I unslung my pack, pulled open the top, and took out the plastic container of cookies. I popped open the lid and the air blossomed with the smell of chocolate chips.

Those cookies smelled so good. I could eat every one of them right then and there. But I didn't want to.

“Here,” I said to the woman. “They're yours.”

Her eyes grew large. “For me?”

“For you,” I said. “It's not a lot, but maybe it'll help.”

“And I have something, too,” said Frankie. She dug into her pocket and pulled out the coin we got. “I don't know my old English coins, but maybe it's worth a little, at least.”

The woman started to cry.

“No, no, don't do that,” I said. “Your tears will freeze! Besides, it's Christmas Eve. Try to be happy. And as soon as you can, go and see Mr. Scrooge. I'm sure he'll help you. And your baby. I know he wants to.”

At just that moment, the spirits seemed to fade into the mist and fog around us. Their voices faded together, too, leaving only the faint pealing of church bells.

The woman smiled at us, then bundled her baby up and made her way down the street, even as the snow stopped, and the sky began to grow brighter.

I gave a sigh. “Nice one, Frankie. I'd forgotten that coin. I can't imagine a better thing to do with it.”

“Or a better way to use those cookies,” she said. “Of course, now you'll be in trouble with Mr. Wexler, just like I am.”

I chuckled at that. “Frankie, I can't imagine a better person to be in trouble with. Besides, do you think we could ever actually be
out
of trouble?”

She laughed. “I sort of hope not. It's too much fun. So, Devin, are we good to go?”

I closed up my backpack. “We're good to go.”

Carefully, we moved ahead through the pages, seeing the story again in fast motion, until we were once again at Scrooge's office. I swear, even after our little detour back through the book, the guy was still at his desk, laughing like a crackpot.

“Good-bye, Mr. Scrooge,” said Frankie. “It's been nice being haunted with you.”

“Oh, we have had quite a time, haven't we?” he said, his cheeks all rosy. “I have learned so much during our travels. I've learned that it's wrong to cut myself off from everyone. And that the real joys of life are those you find with other people, with friends, and family. And that—while you have the power—you must help people, because
they
are what matter!”

“I should write that down for class,” I whispered. “It sounds just like the theme of the book!”

Frankie grinned. “And it sounds like you got the Christmas spirit, all right, Mr. Scrooge. I'm sure Charles Dickens would be very happy.”

“Who?” said Scrooge, laughing louder than ever. “Dear, dear, there are so many people I must meet. Yes, my two friends, I shall never forget our time together.”

I knew for certain he never would.

“I'm glad you found your backpack,” he said. “What was in it that you needed so badly?”

I thought about that. “I didn't really need it so badly, after all. But someone else did. So I gave it away.”

Scrooge's eyes twinkled like an elf. “Then I wasn't the only one who was helped by the spirits?”

“Nope,” said Frankie. “I think we all were. And, by the way, a lady and a baby will probably come to see you today. Maybe you can—”

“I shall help them,” he said. “It will be an honor.”

“And now—” I held up the last page of the book. “I think it's time for us to go, and for you to get on with your life.”

“Then let me wish you well,” said Scrooge. “And to quote our friend Tiny Tim, ‘God bless us, every one!'”

With that, we said our good-byes, dashed out of Scrooge's office, and sprang straight between the waiting zapper gates.

Kkkkk!

The whole old world of London in 1843 seemed to flash bright blue. Then everything went dark for a half second until—
blam!
—“Ouch!”—“Oof!”—Frankie and I slammed into the wall of the library workroom, the blue light vanished, and we were home.

At instant later, Mrs. Figglehopper stepped into the room. She blinked and shook her head.

“Why are you on the floor?” she asked, a slight smile starting on her lips. “Shouldn't you two be at the Christmas Banquet?”

Frankie jumped up. “We didn't miss it? Awesome!”

“You haven't been here
that
long,” said Mrs. Figglehopper. “Now, if you are quite done fixing that book, Mr. Wexler has asked that everyone join him in the cafeteria. The Christmas Banquet is about to begin.”

“I want to help!” I said.

“Me, too!” said Frankie. “There's a lot we can do.”

“That sounds like the Christmas spirit,” Mrs. Figglehopper said.

I smiled. “Yeah, there's a lot of that going around.”

Her eyes twinkled merrily, and she swished out the door and down the hall, singing, “Come! Come!”

When we entered the cafeteria, there was a line of people from Palmdale who needed food. Some of them weren't dressed very well, and there were kids there, which broke my heart. But it felt better when Frankie and I hopped into the serving line and got right to work.

While Mrs. Figglehopper sliced turkey, and Mr. Wexler put it on the plates, I gave everyone heaps of mashed potatoes and gobs of stuffing. Next to me, Frankie spooned out lakes of gravy and mounds of cranberries.

It was work, but it made me realize how much stuff I have, and I felt good doing a little bit to help people who didn't have as much. I had to thank the book for that. I could tell that Frankie felt the same way.

“Merry Christmas,” we said to everyone who passed through the line.

Then, when things slowed down a bit, Mr. Wexler pointed to a podium set up with a microphone at one end of the cafeteria. “Would you care to read to us?” he asked. “A Christmas story would be nice.”

Frankie and I looked at each other and grinned.

“I think we know the perfect story,” said Frankie.

We hustled to the podium, and while everyone settled into their dinners, Frankie opened to the first page of the book, moving it over so both of us could read it.

“You start,” she said, so I did, with the very first line.

“‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.…'”

For the next two hours, Frankie and I took turns reading while people came and went and ate and drank.

Finally, we got to the last page.

“‘Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all and infinitely more. And to Tiny Tim, who did
not
die, he was a second father.'”

Then Frankie took over. “‘He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world.'”

“Lots of
good-olds
there,” I said. “Should we keep going?”

“Please,” said Mrs. Figglehopper. Mr. Wexler nodded.

“ ‘And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, every one!'”

Everybody stood and cheered as we closed the book and headed to the tables for our own Christmas supper.

Plopping down into our seats, I said, “You know, Frankie, this is shaping up to be one of our best Christmases ever. Not bad for a couple of slackers, is it?”

“You said it,” she said. “And I have to admit, Dev, I like happy endings. I like the way that Christmas can sort of, you know, make you a better person.”

I thought about that, then grinned. “Just like books!”

“You can say that again!” chirped Mrs. Figglehopper, who had overheard us.

But we couldn't.

Our mouths were way too crammed with food.

F
ROM THE
D
ESK OF

I
RENE
M. F
IGGLEHOPPER
, L
IBRARIAN

Dear Reader:

Charles Dickens is one of my favorite authors, and I'm tickled pink that Devin and Frankie like him, too. Certainly, they seem to know
A Christmas Carol
backward and forward!

Even today, many readers call Dickens the greatest English novelist who ever lived. Certainly he was something of a superstar in his own day!

Born in Portsmouth, England, in 1812, Dickens remembered his early childhood as his happiest time. He loved to learn, liked school, and had an unquenchable passion for books (I can certainly appreciate that!).

When his family moved to London in 1822, things began to change. Dickens's father was sentenced to several months in a debtor's prison for not paying his bills. To make ends meet, Dickens was sent to work in a dismal factory pasting labels on bottles of boot polish. This experience affected him deeply. He became determined to make his fortune and never be poor again.

While still in his teens, Dickens started writing political and social news for London newspapers. Adopting the pen name Boz, he collected his writings in his first book,
Sketches by Boz
, and achieved some success.

But nothing prepared Dickens for the instant fame he would gain by writing the comical adventure novel
The Pickwick Papers
, when he was only twenty-four. Like nearly all of Dickens's later novels,
Papers
was first published in monthly installments. Tens of thousands of eager readers clamored for each new installment as quickly as he could write them. His fortune was made!

In quick sequence, Dickens wrote
Oliver Twist
,
Nicholas Nickleby
, and
The Old Curiosity Shop
, and, as if it were possible, became even more famous.

But Dickens never forgot his early hardships. In 1843 he hit on the idea of writing a Christmas book, but one that would have as a theme the plight of the poor and the importance of giving.