Ho-Ho-NOOO!

by Bill Myers

  The OOOFFs and UGHs came as the helicopter’s cable kept sticking. It would lower her a foot and then jerk to a stop, then lower her another foot and stop. The more it jerked, the more she squirmed. And the more she squirmed, the more she began to swing back and forth.

  But no one paid attention. They had all turned to the food TJ was setting out. Some had even started eating it . . . or trying to.

  “Blah!” An older woman spat out her first bite. “What is this garbage?”

  One of the news cameramen moved in for a close-up as another man gagged on his bite.

  “They’re caviar cream puffs,” TJ explained.

  “Caviar what?!” The woman sniffed at what was left in her hand . . . as the cameraman moved in closer and Hesper swung farther.

  “I hereby OUCH!”

  “Get that camera out of my face!” the old woman shouted.

  “I hereby AGHH!”

  “What does she think we are?” a man yelled as he threw his caviar puff to the ground. “This stuff isn’t fit for animals.”

  “That’s how she’s treating us,” another growled.

  “Like animals,” another agreed.

  “We’re her little pet project,” another sneered.

  “Get your camera out of my face!” the first woman repeated.

  Things were definitely not going well in a very unwell kind of way. Not only were the people angry, but Hesper kept swinging closer and closer to the nozzle of the snow machine.

  “You want a bite?” the woman yelled at the cameraman who still wouldn’t leave her alone. “Then have a bite!” With that she

  the caviar puff directly onto his lens.

  Some of the crowd laughed . . . until the cameraman grabbed a puff off the table and

  it into the woman’s face.

  Now everyone was laughing as another man grabbed a puff and shoved it into his neighbor’s face. And then another one threw it into another face. And then another. Before you knew it, Chef Ego’s delicacies were

  through the air as a good, old-fashioned

  food fight began. (At least they discovered his food was good for something.)

  Now everybody was fling-ing and SPLAT!-ing and having the time of their lives. Well, everybody but Hesper. The fairy godangel just kept swinging back and forth until she finally

  into the snow machine nozzle, completely snapping it off.

  No problem . . . except for the water that began gush-ing from the broken nozzle. And we’re not talking a little gush-ing. We’re talking a major

  Within seconds the place had more water than . . . well, than a Bags Fifth Avenue department store on Christmas Eve.

  But no one cared as the caviar puffs continued to

  Yes, sir, it was a great time . . . until a little voice began screaming, “Help me! Help me!”

  TJ spun around to see Number Thuree. The water had roared down the gutter and was washing her away. She was heading directly for a drain opening under the sidewalk . . . an opening big enough for her tiny body to slip through and be swept away forever!

  Before TJ could react, Number One was out of the taxi. Forget the crowd; forget the germs—that was her little sister and she wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.

  But she was too slow.

  Number Thuree screamed as the water swept her the last few feet and washed her down into the drain.

  Washed her down . . . but not away.

  At the last second, a skin-and-bones homeless kid had appeared. With lightning speed, he had leaped into the drain and caught the little girl.

  Caught her . . . but not saved her.

  Because now, like Number Thuree, he was also inside the drain. He had managed to grab the edge and cling to it with one hand, while holding the girl with the other. But as the water beat down on top of them, his grip was slipping. Still, he would not let go of her. Even if it meant being washed into the storm sewer with her, he would not let go.

  “Climb on top of me!” he shouted over the roaring water. “Climb onto my shoulders!”

  But Number Thuree was too terrified to move as she kept screaming, “Help me! Help me!”

  Finally Number One arrived. For the briefest moment, the big sister hesitated. The water was black with filth and sludge. There was no telling how many billion germs were in it. But she saw no other way. Trembling with fear and summoning all of her courage, Number One slowly knelt in the rushing water. It flooded and splashed all around her.

  Stretching her arm down into the raging torrent, she yelled, “Grab my hand!”

  Number Thuree looked up, her eyes wide in fear.

  “Grab her hand!” the boy yelled. “Climb onto my shoulders and grab her hand!”

  The water grew deeper and swifter by the second. Any moment the current would become too powerful for the kid to hang on. Any second, he and Number Thuree would be swept away, down and under the street.

  “Do it!” Number One shouted as water flooded around her, splashing into her face, even into her mouth. “Hurry!”

  Finally, very carefully so she would not slip, Number Thuree began climbing up the boy’s chest.

  “That’s it!” Number One shouted. “Keep climbing!”

  “You can do it!” the boy yelled over the roaring water. But even as he shouted, his grip was weakening.

  “You’re almost here!” Number One yelled.

  As Number Thuree climbed, the boy adjusted his weight, trying to brace himself. But it was a losing battle. His fingers started to slip. And then, just before they gave way, Number One took a deep breath and stuck her face into the muddy torrent. It took forever, but at last she came up gasping and choking. And in her arms was her baby sister.

  Everyone broke into cheers and clapped as they moved in to help. Everyone but the boy.

  He was nowhere to be found.

  “Where is he?” the old woman shouted as she approached the drain.

  More people arrived. Some knelt. Others dropped onto their hands and knees, peering into the opening. But gradually, one by one, they raised their heads and slowly shook them.

  The boy was gone.

  A heavy silence fell over the crowd. Everyone became very, very quiet . . . except for Hesper Breakahart. She was too busy fixing her hair and checking for broken nails to have noticed what happened.

  “Come on, everybody,” she called as she approached the tables. “Dig in.”

  TJ couldn’t believe her ears.

  Neither could anyone else as they slowly turned and stared at the TV star.

  But Hesper was completely oblivious. “They’re really, really yummy,” she said as she cranked up her smile to ultrafake.

  No one smiled back.

  Then, from somewhere in the back of the group, TJ heard a shout.

  “There he is! There’s the boy!”

  The crowd craned their necks. And there, climbing out of a drain a block away, was the skin-and-bones kid. He’d been washed underground for the entire block but somehow managed to grab the edge of the next drain and pull himself up.

  Once again, cheers rose from the group and several raced down the street to greet him. He was jostled a bit as they raised him onto their shoulders, his hair dripping, his body covered in mud and goop.

  Unfortunately, Hesper Breakahart was still too focused on . . . well, on Hesper Breakahart. “No need to thank me,” she shouted over the cheers. “These yummy caviar puffs were the least I could do . . . and the most expensive. So just enjoy them and—”

  “Mmwickk!” Hesper screamed as she reached up to wipe the gooey mess from her face . . . and to spit out a mouthful of fish eggs. “Look what you’ve done to my (spit-spit) makeup and to my expensively styled—”

  “MMWICKK!” she screamed louder as she rewiped and respit. But the food fight had resumed.

  And this time there was no stopping it. Because this time, everyone had found a common

  enemy. Within seconds Hesper looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy, covered from head to foot in g
ooey dough . . . with the beauty bonus of a billion smelly fish eggs.

  TJ tried not to laugh (though not very hard) as she hustled the three children toward the taxi. She had to hurry and get home.

  As they were climbing inside, her cell phone rang her favorite love theme. She pulled the phone from her pocket and answered, “Hello?”

  “How’s it going?” Chad asked.

  “Not bad,” she said, ducking a few

  stray caviar puffs.

  “Great,” Chad said. “Listen, we’ve got way more food here at the church than we know what to do with. Any chance of sending some of your people our way?”

  TJ looked over the crowd. “Sure, I think we can send a few—

  mweople.”

  (Sometimes love slows down your ducking reflexes.)

  “Terrific,” Chad said. “Thanks!”

  After hanging up and wiping her face, TJ turned to the group and gave them the news. From the clapping and excitement, she guessed they were in the mood for some real food. And despite Hesper’s protests, they started for the church. As they left, TJ began to join the kids in the taxi. There was no time to waste. She had to get home. She had to give Dad the $125. It wasn’t much, but $125 was better than—

  “Hey, you! Girlie!”

  All four of the taxi drivers she’d hired were standing in a line beside the cab.

  “Where’s our money?” the first demanded.

  “Oh,” TJ sighed. “Right. Sorry.” She dug into her pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Let’s see; the four of us at 25 bucks apiece—that comes to $100.”

  TJ’s heart sank. Amazing. Unbelievable. After working herself to death all week, all she had left was a measly $25.

  “And 20 bucks for tips.”

  Make that a measly $5. Not even enough for a taxi ride home.

  By the time TJ and the three children had trudged to her house on foot, nearly another hour had passed. But for some strange reason, nobody was home.

  Well, nobody from her century.

  She’d barely stepped through the front door before she saw the boys. They sat working in front of a giant pile of broken electronics at the foot of the stairs. Broken electronics that were mixed in with what was left of one very destroyed Christmas tree.

  “Tuna? Herby?” she cried. “What happened?”

  Tuna looked up. He was covered with tape from head to toe. Come to think of it, so was Herby. Glancing across the pile of electronic gizmos and tree branches, he said, “Apparently, one of us forgot to disengage the force field at the top of the stairs.”

  “It wasn’t me, dude,” Herby said as he tried taping one of the broken pieces to another.

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t me,” Tuna said as he tried jamming his own two pieces together.

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “Well, it wasn’t—”

  “So what happened?” TJ interrupted.

  Herby answered, “The delivery dudes were kinda carrying your dad’s TV up to his room when they kinda ran into the force field and dropped it, and it kinda bounced down the steps and crashed into your Christmas tree and kinda turned into . . .” He motioned to the pile of broken branches and electronics.

  “That’s the TV set Violet bought?” TJ asked in astonishment.

  “Was,” Tuna corrected.

  Herby let out a whoop as he successfully taped his pieces together . . . well, successfully except for also having his fingers taped to them.

  Meanwhile, Number Too and his sisters had crowded into the room. “Hey!” the boy demanded.

  “Where are those voices—?”

  Without bothering to look, Herby struggled to reach into his pocket, pulled out the Swiss Army Knife, and

  froze the children in time.

  (Well, not really froze, more like slowed them down in an it-will-take-forever-for-the-kid-to-finish-his-sentence kind of way).

  “No need to worry,” Tuna said, as he returned to jamming his two pieces together . . . until they exploded into a dozen more, smaller pieces. “We will have this repaired in no time.” Giving up, he tossed the pieces over his shoulder to a growing discard pile and reached for a couple more.

  “That’s right, no prob,” Herby said as he successfully removed his fingers from his taped pieces . . . only to discover he’d now taped his foot to them.

  “So where did everybody go?” TJ asked. “Where are Dad and Violet and Dorie?”

  “Violet was majorly bummed about the TV,” Herby said.

  Tuna added, “And Dorie was rather distraught about the destruction of the Christmas tree.”

  “So?”

  “So with neither a tree nor presents, your father thought he’d cheer them up by taking them to church. Apparently they were holding some sort of dinner there. You’ll find a note on the table.”

  TJ dragged her exhausted body across the room to the table. “This is the worst Christmas ever,” she grumbled. “It’ll probably take another hour to get there and I’m so tired I can barely—”

  Before she finished her sentence, she heard a clear and distinct

  which, as everyone knows, is the sound made when you are transported across town by a 23rd-century Transporter Beam shooting from a 23rd-century Swiss Army Knife.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wrapping Up

  TIME TRAVEL LOG:

  Malibu, California, December 24—supplemental of supplemental of . . .

  Begin Transmission

  Thanks to our brilliant brilliance, ingenious genius, and humbling humility, our subject has learned her lesson. This time.

  End Transmission

  “TJ!”

  She spun around to see little Dorie running at her full speed.

  “No, Squid, don’t. I’m too tired to catch—

  you.”

  As Dorie landed in her arms, the two

  backward until they landed in someone else’s arms.

  “Whoa, you okay?”

  TJ turned to see that she was being held by (insert dreamy sigh here) Chad Steel. He wore an apron and stood behind a long table, where he was serving mashed potatoes and gravy.

  “Yikes,” she sorta screamed as she scrambled out of his arms. She would have stayed there forever, but there was something about a church full of people staring at her that made it feel a bit awkward. Then there was the minor detail of her father standing directly beside them.

  “Daddy?!” This time she really did scream.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” He grinned. He was wearing his own apron and holding a serving spoon. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Oh,” she squeaked as her eyes shot back and forth between Dad and Chad like she was watching a tennis match. “I just sort of, you know, popped in.”

  Dad nodded and motioned to Chad. “I see you’ve met our next-door neighbor.”

  “Hey.” Chad smiled.

  TJ felt her face growing hot.

  Chad motioned to the crowd of people. Some were still in line. Others sat or stood in small groups, eating, talking, and seeming to have a great time. Most were the street people who had come over from Hesper’s Christmas catastrophe, though there were plenty of church folks, too. “Thanks for sending them our way,” Chad said.

  TJ peered out over the crowd and nodded.

  “Did you see our Christmas tree?” little Dorie asked. She pointed across the room, where a handful of people were decorating a tree and chattering away.

  “TJ,” Dad asked, “are you okay? You look really tired.”

  “It’s been a long day,” TJ sighed.

  “So I heard.”

  “From who?”

  “Chad here, for one. He says you’ve really been putting in the hours.”

  She threw a look at Chad, feeling her face burn all the hotter.

  “Actually, he’s been saying a lot of good things about you.” With a twinkle, he added, “He’s quite the fan. Isn’t that right, Chad?”

  Chad smiled good-naturedly. If TJ’s fac
e was burning before, it was time to call the fire department now. She eyed her father, who was grinning warmly. Then she blurted out, “Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

  His grin faded and he looked puzzled. “For what?”

  She felt her throat tighten. “I wanted so much for you to have a great Christmas. I mean, with Mom gone and all, I just wanted . . .” And then, before she could stop them, the tears came. Tears of exhaustion, of frustration, of disappointment. “I worked so hard so I could give you some money, you know, to help with the bills and everything.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out the ragged $5 bill. “And now all I’ve got is . . . all I can give you is . . .” The tears came faster, and she couldn’t continue.

  “Oh, sweetheart . . .”

  She gave her eyes a swipe, but it did no good.

  She knew Chad was watching, but she couldn’t stop. “And Vi . . .” She gulped a breath. “I saw what happened to the TV she bought you. I wanted to give you a better present than hers, but now . . . now you’ve got . . . you’ve got . . .” The tears turned into sobs. Talk about embarrassing.

  “Oh, TJ.”

  Try as she might, it was impossible to catch her breath. The week had been too long, the defeats too overwhelming. Before she knew it, her father was wrapping those big arms around her.

  “I’m sorry,” she choked. “Everything went all wrong.”

  “What are you talking about? Nothing went wrong.”

  “You were supposed to have the greatest Christmas ever. And now . . . and . . .”

  “TJ . . . look at me.”

  She raised her eyes and saw his face wavering through her tears.

  “I am having a great Christmas.”

  “But—”

  “Look around you.”

  She glanced about the room—at the groups of people eating, talking, laughing. Even Violet seemed to be enjoying herself, chattering with a bunch of geeks who were no doubt creating a plan for world peace.