Jingle Boy (15 page)

Forgetting about trying to blend, I took off after Marge, afraid that she’d disappear inside a store or something before I found her again. But when I got to the other side of the escalator, I spotted her in the crowd, making her way back around toward Santa Land.

“Hey, buddy! Watch where you’re going!” an angry dad called out as I practically tripped over his stroller. This time I didn’t even stop to apologize. I was on to something.

When I came around the second escalator, Santa’s throne and the Santa Shack were in full view. Scooby was just walking into the shack from the front door as Marge slipped in through the back! My whole body sizzled with anticipation. Marge and Scooby! Of course! How could I not have seen it before? They’d been together at the mall last night and they were both, well, totally slimy! They were clearly up to something together!

Moving as quietly as I could, I crept up the snowy hills of the North Pole and crawled over to the window in the side of the Santa Shack. I held my breath, turned my baseball cap around, and peeked over the bottom edge of the window. What I saw inside was better than any visions of sugarplums that had ever danced in anyone’s head.

Marge and Scooby were divvying up the bills from the charity tin.

“What are you doing?” Scooby demanded, grabbing Marge’s bony wrist. “You’re taking more than half!”

“That’s because you, my little elf, took seventy-five percent last time, remember?” Marge said with a sneer. “To pay for those diamond earrings I got you at discount?”

“Yeah, well, you should’ve just stolen ’em for me,” Scooby said petulantly. “After everything I’ve done for you . . .”

It took me a moment to snap out of my shock and realize the importance of what I was seeing, but when I did, a devious smile spread slowly from cheek to cheek. At that moment it all fell into place.

IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS

“DALE! DALE!” I STAGE-WHISPERED AS I RUSHED TOWARD the security guard, who was still at his Diamond Center post. I waved at him, trying to get his attention. When his eyes finally fell on me, he planted his legs wide apart and put his hand on his nightstick. His mustache twitched. He looked like a dog sniffing the air for trouble.

“You just stay where you are, friend,” he said, holding out his free hand. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Dale! It’s me!” I said desperately, my heart pounding. We were losing precious time. I looked down at my getup and exhaled in frustration. “Look!” I said, pulling down my beard. “It’s me, Paul.”

Dale’s tiny eyes narrowed and he didn’t remove his hand from that nightstick. Duh. Why should he? He thought I was a “disturbed teen” who’d tried to burn down the mall.

“Dale, you have to come with me,” I said, letting the beard snap back to my chin. (Ow!) “There’s a crime in the works.”

I knew that old-time detective-speak would get his attention. He pressed his lips together and pulled himself up to full height, which wasn’t all that impressive.

“Show me,” he said.

Moving as quickly as possible, I led Dale up the North Pole hills to the window in the Santa Shack. The glittery fake snow crumbled and shed under our feet, but neither one of us could be bothered with the damage. The moment Dale peeked inside the shack, his face reddened and he started fumbling for his walkie-talkie.

“There’s no time for backup,” I whispered, grabbing his hand so that he wouldn’t make any unnecessary noise. “This bust is all yours, Dombrowski.”

His face lit up from the inside and he gazed off past my shoulder. I could just imagine what he was seeing in his mind—commendations, his picture on the front page of the
Record.
This was the kind of glory most mall security guys only dreamed of. With determination in his eyes Dale stood up, walked around to the back door of the Santa Shack, and kicked it in. Okay, it was a little dramatic, but who was I to burst his
NYPD Blue
bubble? I heard Marge yelp and the whole structure shimmied. For a moment I thought it was going to collapse again, but it miraculously held.

“Freeze!” Dale said, pulling out his pepper spray. “I’ve caught you red-handed!”

I stepped up behind him and smiled at the stunned faces of Marge, who had a few bills sticking out of the low collar of her shirt, and Scooby, who was holding a whole wad of cash in his grubby hand.

“The jig is up, my friends,” I said, rubbing my palms together as I grinned. “The jig . . . is . . . up.”

Dale had Scooby and Marge stand against the wall while he radioed upstairs for a few of his men to come down. Marge glared at me as we waited, but Scooby, well, Scooby started to cry like a baby without a pacifier. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so darn pathetic.

Three of Dale’s deputies appeared and the four of them escorted the criminals up to the mall offices to await the actual police. I waved at them happily as they were led away. It was an utterly perfect moment. My number one enemy and my mom’s number one enemy being hauled off to face criminal charges. And it was all because of me . . . and Santa.

Yep,
I thought, leaning only half my weight against the precarious Santa Shack.
Christmas is starting to
look a whole lot rosier.

“Mom! Why are those policemen arresting Santa?” a tearful voice squeaked nearby.

My heart dropped and I looked down at the line of kids waiting for Santa’s return, all of whom were watching with big, sad eyes as Scooby ascended the escalator. Santa in custody—can you say “traumatizing”? I couldn’t believe it. In the midst of my triumph, I’d ruined Christmas for about fifty little kids. Somehow I didn’t think this was what Santa had in mind. I had to fix it.

I slipped into the Santa Shack and propped up the fallen door over the opening, then ripped open Scooby’s locker, which had been left unlocked in all the commotion. Hanging from one of the hooks was a nice clean spare Santa suit. I said a silent thank-you that Scooby had done at least one thing right in his life.

As I stuffed my arms into the velvety sleeves and buttoned up the fake leather buttons, I could hear the commotion outside growing louder and louder. Most of the kids were wailing and that poor Eve was being accosted by no fewer than six Jersey Mall Moms—plus one Jersey Mall Dad, a rare but dangerously frustrated breed. I glued the beard to my face as quickly as possible, yanked the wig and hat on over my head, and exploded through the front door of the Santa Shack.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” I shouted, spreading my arms wide. “Merry Christmas!”

The blubbering and screaming stopped. The Jersey Mall Parents’ mouths snapped shut. And in that moment, when all hopeful eyes turned to me, I felt a tingling rush that started at my toes and whipped through my body, drawing me up with its warmth and bringing a gleeful smile to my paste-covered face.

The Christmas spirit was back. I was back. And it was good to be me.

“Santa!” a cherubic boy with tears drying on his face shouted. “But . . . but they took you away!”

“Ho ho ho,” I chuckled, holding my bowl-full-of-jelly stomach. “No, they didn’t, little Timmy—”

Eve’s eyebrows shot up.

“Peyton. My name’s Peyton,” the kid said.

Okay, so maybe I got a little carried away there. The spirit was back, but it hadn’t instilled me with Santa’s clairvoyance.

“Right, of course,
Peyton,
” I replied. “That wasn’t me. That was one of my . . . helpers. And it turned out he wasn’t such a good guy. Apparently there was a little blip in the whole naughty-and-nice system. But . . . well . . . nobody’s perfect, not even Santa, and . . .”

The kids were all staring at me, confused, and Eve started to wave her hand frantically, telling me to just sit down. I fell into the throne and told myself to shut the heck up and get on with business before I made Santa Claus look like a wack job.

“Okay!” I said. “Who’s first?”

Peyton came running up to me and climbed into my lap. He wiped his face with the backs of his pudgy hands and sniffled as he adjusted himself on my thigh. Then he straightened his jacket, folded his hands together, looked right into my eyes, and said, with a seriousness typical of a wizened adult, “Santa, all I want for Christmas is for my sister to get better.”

My heart squeezed tightly in my chest and I glanced over at his mother, who was waiting at the bottom of the red carpet. Her hand flew up to cover her heart and I knew she was feeling the same thing I was—a mixture of warm pride and sadness. Any Grinch I had left in me was sent packing at that moment.

I smiled, feeling my eyes crinkle at the edges just like Santa’s always did in the drawings in picture books, and put my gloved hand on top of Peyton’s head.

“You’re a good kid, and your sister is lucky to have you,” I told him.

“Thanks, Santa!” Peyton said. Then he pushed himself down, his feet slapped the ground, and he was off and running. He found his mother’s hand in the crowd and they walked off together.

“Santa thinks I’m a good kid!” Peyton exclaimed.

“I know! I heard!” his mother replied, doing everything she could to keep from crying. “I happen to agree with him.”

I felt like my heart was being pulled out of my chest toward them and I realized that Peyton had it right. He knew what the spirit of Christmas was about. The giving, the love, the selflessness. That was what I had been missing. How had I gotten through the last few weeks without it?

I grinned and ho-ho-hoed as the next little girl approached me. And as I picked her up to put her on my lap, I promised myself I’d never let anything get in the way of Christmas again. Not ever.

A few hours later my thigh was tingling from all the little bottoms that had jumped onto it and my throat was sore and dry from all the chuckling and talking, but I couldn’t have been happier. The mall was about to close and things were winding down when I saw my mother smiling at me from the exact same spot where I’d stood earlier, watching Scooby. It seemed like eons ago.

“Merry Christmas!” I called out one last time, standing and waving after my last lap crawler as he scurried off. Eve strung the red rope across the entrance and walked over to me.

“Nice job, Paul,” she said, sliding her green cap from her head. “You really saved me here today.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t do it for you,” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied sarcastically, but with a smile.

“No! I mean . . .” I looked out at the empty space where the line used to be and Eve followed my gaze. I was too exhausted to put what I was thinking into words.

“I know,” she said finally. “You did it for them.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly.”

“Well, I hope I see you around,” Eve said, starting into the Santa Shack. “I mean, I hope you don’t end up locked up in a prison cell with some overgrown beauty queen named Bubba.”

I laughed. “Thanks,” I said. “Right back at ya.”

I loped down the red carpet to my mother, who pushed herself away from her pillar. She was still smiling, but up close I could see that the smile wasn’t just about me potentially getting my Santa job back. She had good news. I could taste it.

“What’s up?” I asked, unbuttoning the Santa coat and letting in some air.

“Well, thanks to you, I hear, That Awful Woman confessed to skimming money from the registers!” my mother announced, her face all aglow. She looked about fifteen years younger than she had last night at the police station.

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed, realization washing over me. “No wonder she didn’t think it was you!”

“Yep! Because she knew it was her!” my mother said with a laugh. “Anyway, Mr. Steiger called me and apologized and asked me to come in, so I did and—”

“He rehired you?” I asked, grasping her elbows. She grasped mine right back.

“Not only that, he made me assistant manager!” my mother exclaimed, practically shrieking.

“No way!” I said, my mind reeling. No more lame reindeer outfit! No more handing out spicy sausages and cheese! My mother grabbed me up in a hug and even though there were still people milling around the mall, I hugged her back, right there in public.

“But wait, it gets even better,” my mother told me as I put my arm around her shoulders and we headed back up the red carpet to get my clothes from the Santa Shack.

“What else?” I asked.

“Your father’s coming home tomorrow night,” she told me, happy tears shining in her eyes. “They say he’s made a lot of progress and he can’t wait to get home!”

I paused in front of the Santa Shack and looked down at my shiny black boots. I immediately remembered the real Santa’s shoes and how scuffed and worn they were. I felt that old, familiar heaviness of guilt start to weigh down on me. I didn’t deserve a visit from Santa. Not after the way I’d treated everyone around me.

“Paul? What’s wrong? I know a lot has gone on the past few days, but I thought you’d be happy,” my mother said, searching my face.

“I know. And I am,” I replied. “It’s just . . . I don’t want Dad to hate me.”

“Oh, Paul, your father could never hate you. He loves you,” my mother replied, reaching up to touch my face and grabbing my synthetic beard. “We both do.”

My heart constricted. After everything I’d done . . . I had no idea what to say.

“I just wish there was something I could do to—”

And then it hit me. The one thing I could do to make my father happy, to prove that nothing had changed, to show everyone that I was back in the spirit of the season. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Santa Claus had already shown me the way.

“Mom?” I said, lifting one corner of my mouth. “Can I stay home from school tomorrow?”

“Why?” she asked slowly, suspiciously narrowing her eyes.

“I have a really,
really
good reason,” I promised her.

“And that is?” she prompted.

“You’ll see,” I said with a grin. “Everyone will see.”

I paced across the living room, then back over to the window, looked out, then paced across the living room again and back. I sat down. I stood up. I paced. I picked up a glass ball that had fallen from the tree, tried to fasten it to a branch, and found I couldn’t get my fingers to work. Then I sat down again. Stood up again. Looked out the window.

There was nothing on the street. Not a car, not a bike, not a sound. And then something hit the windowpane in front of me. A small, minuscule dot of water. Then another. Then another. There was a low, pleasant hissing as a Honda Civic slipped by and I looked up at one of the streetlights to better see, holding my breath with hope.

And there it was. Snow. Tentative and swirly at first, but then coming faster and thickening. I stood there, mesmerized, watching as the bushes in old Mrs. Gillus’s yard were coated in white, as the grass on the front lawn iced over and grew crunchy, as the windshield of my dad’s car disappeared. I have no idea how long I watched, but by the time the headlights of my mother’s car flashed through the window, I was no longer nervous.

“Dad,” I whispered.

I hooked the glass ball onto the nearest tree branch and ran for the door. My father was slowly emerging from the car with my mother’s help. She slammed the door and I flicked on the light switch that controlled the outside lights. The whole world seemed to illuminate and I watched from the foyer window as my father’s face lit up with joy. My heart overflowed and I knew. I had done the right thing.

I opened the door and walked out, my hands in the pockets of my dark green cords. My boots made wet footprints in the new sheen of snow on the front walk as I joined my parents and turned to look up at our house. And at the Santa in Space light display in all its cheesy, over-the-top Christmas glory.

“How did you do it?” my father asked, gazing at Santa’s spaceship, dumbfounded.

“Worked all day,” I told him over the lump in my throat. “Plus I had some pretty good blueprints to follow.”

I glanced at my mother, who smiled proudly at me, then looked at my father. He couldn’t have been more emotional if I’d told him he was going to the Lumberjacking Finals in Minnesota next year.