by Marc Franco
“Do you know something about my friends?”
He shook his head, like he was keeping a dark secret. “Not yet. Just wait for further instructions.” There was no doubt what Benji had done. He’d looked at my friends funny. Did it have something to do with Tiff’s dream? Was one of my friends really going to be wayward by Christmas Eve? Benji smiled warmly as Logan and Fleep rejoined us, then continued back on the conversation about Santa.
“Listen, Santa’s allergic to caffeine. Once he sips the elf tea, he’ll begin to lose focus. He’ll forget what he's supposed to be doing and may exhibit bizarre behavior, even run into walls. Jakob, you and only you will be able to see him. So make sure you get to him quickly and sit him down so he doesn’t get hurt. He’s counting on you. It’s the only way to lure S.R. out of hiding.”
“Isn’t that dangerous, eating and drinking stuff when you have allergies?” Logan asked, concerned.
“Oh he knows what’s kosher for him to eat or drink and what isn’t.” Benji held up his right hand. “His gloves have built-in scanners. The instant he touches something it scans it. That’s why you’ll need to visit a dwarf friend of mine. He’ll give you a special cup to trick the scanners, the elf tea, and some emergency equipment—in case things don’t go as planned. Jakob,” Benji hunched slightly and stared into me. “Listen to me. I’ll send you an e-mail soon with details on where and when to meet my friend. It’s the safest and most secure way to get you the information. I cannot stress enough the importance of keeping this information confidential.”
“You mean don’t tell Tiff,” Logan said.
Benji straightened. “Yes. She’s too vulnerable with her parents and her brother taken. If she knew where I’m sending you, she could be tempted to use the information against us. Don’t print the e-mail either. Commit the instructions to memory.”
“Here,” Benji pulled four red business cards from his pants pocket, handed one to Logan, one to Fleep and two to me. “There’s an extra one for your friend—Shig, isn’t it?”
I nodded. The card was solid red with his name and e-mail address, [email protected], written in white text.
“Did S.R. direct you to thekringlechronicles.com and tell you to solve a riddle?” he asked.
I nodded.
“And have you solved it?”
“Yes—”
Honk, honk.
“It’s my mom,” Logan said in a hurry.
“We’ve got to go,” I said, looking up at Benji. He grabbed my arm. I stopped. So did my friends.
“Promise me you’ll follow the dwarf’s instructions, Jakob.”
“I promise.”
“Good, now off you go,” he said, ushering me toward the exit. “And don’t worry. I’ll be around Christmas Eve … in case you get into trouble.”
I smiled at the thought of Benji being around, then confidently walked to the SUV. Everything was coming together. All I needed was the tea and the cup, which would be in my hands soon enough.
Logan rode shotgun and Fleep and I sat in the back while we endured Mrs. Raffo’s complaints about how Mr. Raffo had suddenly canceled their ski trip to Colorado.
“We were leaving the day after Christmas,” Mrs. Raffo said. “And now, without any discussion, I find out that your father canceled the trip this past Friday.”
Logan perked up, shuffled in her seat. “Wait, did you say Friday, like this past Friday?” Logan asked.
“Yes! When was he going to tell me? Ugh! He’s unbelievable,” Mrs. Raffo said.
“Did you hear that, Jakob? This past Friday,” Logan said, quickly turning around. She silently raised her eyebrows and pantomimed exaggerated gestures. It took me a minute, but I finally understood what she was trying to tell me: her dad canceled the trip the same day Rick embarrassed me at school. She thought the two were related. For once, I actually believed that Logan might be right about her dad. After all, he did have an elf spy working for him!
It was two days before Christmas and it was officially weird—the weather that is. There was an unusually powerful cold front over Florida. In fact, it was so cold that it was actually snowing in parts of the Sunshine State. The town I lived in, Winter Garden, was hovering around a crazy 20 degrees, which meant that if it rained, it would freeze to snow—and that would be awesome. The weather was all my New Jersey-born-and-raised mom talked about on the way back from Sarasota. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in Sarasota.
Well, when I got back from The Teashroom, my Dad surprised the whole family with a whirlwind trip to stay overnight in a nearby resort. It was his way of forcing my mom to chill out, even if only for one day. The holidays always seem to wind her up. So, I’d spent the last nineteen hours with my annoying twin sisters and now-relaxed parents … all the while ready to jump out of my skin and get back to the problems at hand.
As we finally pulled into my subdivision, my thoughts were on Fleep and Tiff. How had they managed to explain Rick’s absence? Had the Sanchez’s figured out that Rick wasn’t staying at a friend’s house, that he had actually been taken by magical smoke? And had Clark Cove been taken over by the FBI’s paranormal unit? I anxiously inched forward in my seat as my street came into view. Thankfully it looked as normal as ever. That was a relief.
As soon as I got settled into my room I checked my e-mail, hoping to find one from Benji. There was nothing. Bummer, I thought. It was two days before Christmas, and no instructions. Suddenly I felt anxious. I had a plan, but it required the tea. I grabbed my phone and called Logan.
“Hey, you’re back,” Logan said excitedly. “Are you coming over now?”
“Yeah. What about Shig and Fleep?”
“Shig’s gone for the day, and I’ll IM Fleep.”
“Okay,” I said and hung up. I sprinted downstairs, got permission to go to Logan’s, and took off.
I saw Mr. Raffo as he was backing out from the garage, probably leaving for The Teashroom. He waved for me to go on in through the open garage, then smiled mysteriously. I couldn’t help but stare at him. There was something secretive in the way he smiled. Like he had a secret to tell, but wouldn’t. I waved and walked inside.
As I walked into the kitchen, Mrs. Raffo peeked over the refrigerator door at me.
“Mr. Raffo said I could come in,” I said nervously then pointed over my shoulder toward the garage. Just then the garage door closed with a loud bang.
“It’s okay, honey. Logan and Fleep are in her room.”
“Thanks,” I said and rushed off.
Logan was sitting in front of her MacBook and Fleep was on the floor leaning against Logan’s bed. I got right to it and asked Logan for an update on what had happened the past nineteen hours.
“Nothing, nothing happened,” Logan said. “It’s been quiet and I stayed away from Tiff’s house like I promised.”
Fleep nodded.
“What about the book, did it roar again?”
“Nope, and no sign of S.R. or attacking smoke. It’s been quiet.”
“Good.”
“Did Benji write?” Logan asked.
I shook my head. “But he will.”
“So, what’s our plan then?”
“Well, assuming we get the tea, then Fleep and … hey, where is Tiff?”
Fleep looked at me gravely. “My dad grounded her ‘cause she won’t tell him where Rick is.”
“Great. Well, you and Tiff need to be at the house that’s for sale—across the street from mine—around eleven-thirty p.m. on Christmas Eve. I’ll have to be asleep at my house for Santa to come. Once inside, find a place where you have a clear view of my living room table through our front window. That’s where the special cup with the elf tea will be. If Benji is right—and I’m guessing he is—then Santa will slam the drink. Remember, you can’t see him … you’ll just see the cup moving by itself. Then text me from your phone. Once I have Santa, you get the gang.”
I turned to Logan. “Fleep will tap three times on your bedroom window, then Shig’s. That’s t
he signal to meet at my house. Hopefully by then Santa’s forces will have sprung their trap and caught S.R.”
“Sounds pretty simple,” Fleep said.
“All we can do now is hope nothing else happens before then,” Logan said.
That evening, my dad and mom went out on a date, so my sisters and I ended up eating dinner with the Sanchez family. After devouring dinner, Fleep and I decided to shoot hoops outside under his driveway lights. As we walked out through the garage, I thought I heard a faint shriek. The vampire owls in Tiff’s kitchen. I glanced over at Tiff’s dark house but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just then a gust of cold air swept under my jacket and up my back, forcing me to retreat into the garage.
“What are you doing?” Fleep asked.
“It’s freezing! I’m not playing.”
“Oh come on. We’ll play twenty-one, and maybe our sweat will freeze,” Fleep smiled, dribbling the ball.
“No!”
Fleep jogged toward me then suddenly sprinted past saying, “Fine, then first one to the fridge wins.”
“Hey!” I shouted then took off after him with no chance of winning.
“What do you want?” Fleep asked, jerking the fridge door open.
“Whatever,” I groaned just as his hand appeared over his shoulder holding a bottle of water. I snatched the water and walked over to the door that led into the kitchen. It was cracked open. I heard voices. His parents were arguing. I peeked.
“He’s going to figure it out, plain and simple,” Mr. Sanchez said forcefully. It was easy to understand him, but don’t ask me what his mom was saying. I could never understand her. Her Scottish accent was thick, and she spoke fast and used strange words when she was angry. I looked over at Fleep. He was closing the fridge door. “Should we go inside?” I asked in a whisper.
“No,” Fleep said somberly.
I listened some more. They went back and forth for the next minute. I gathered—understanding only half of the conversation, mind you—that they were arguing about Christmas. Fleep came over beside me and listened in. His dad was talking.
“He’s not too young. Everyone has one, and he should get what he asks Santa for.” Then his mom said something, but like I said, I couldn’t understand her.
“Skateboards are too dangerous,” Fleep said, translating his mom’s response in a whisper. It was weird, but I welcomed the help.
“I had a board at his age,” Mr. Sanchez said.
“And you broke your ankle,” Fleep said, continuing the translation.
“This will be the fourth year in a row that boy has asked for a skateboard. Don’t you think he’s going to start asking questions—”
“Yes, I am,” Fleep said, barely audible. Mr. Sanchez continued.
“—wondering why Santa isn’t bringing it? And what are you going to say to him? That there is no Santa?”
I could just see Mrs. Sanchez shrug her shoulders. Mr. Sanchez threw his arms up then slapped his thighs in defeat.
“Great, so he’ll think Santa’s not real, tell his friends, and bam, we have a neighborhood event. Here comes the drama: ‘Your son told my son,’ and, before you know it, Christmas is ruined for Clark Cove. We may as well start packing now.”
Mr. Sanchez stormed out of sight. I could hear pouring. When he came back into view, a few seconds later, he was holding a cup of something hot.
“Let’s tell his little brother while we’re at it.” He sipped. “We can kill two birds with one stone. I mean, how many five-year-olds believe in Santa these days? Right, so how do we do it? You know what? Don’t answer that. This is just brilliant, really … brilliant.”
Mr. Sanchez stormed toward the door, the one we were hiding behind. I shoved past Fleep and grabbed him by the arm, but he jerked free. Whatever—if you’re going to get caught listening, it’s every man for himself. I ran over to the refrigerator, opened it, and messed around, pretending to get a bottle. After a few seconds, I realized Mr. Sanchez wasn’t coming and returned to Fleep’s side. His mom shouted something, but Fleep didn’t offer a translation. It sounded like, “I didn’t say that,” I think.
Then there was dead silence—awkward silence. Seconds felt like an eternity. I rubbed my face and sighed like I was tired, but I wasn’t physically tired; I was emotionally tired, frustrated by all of the Christmas drama. What happened to this being a time of cheer and happiness? I couldn’t bring myself to look at Fleep but knew I had to. He was crushed, shoulders sagging, his glassy eyes struggling to hold back the growing pool of tears. His parents had dropped a huge bomb. Of course, their conversation didn’t shake my faith in Santa, not in the slightest, because I knew there were unbelieving parents out there. So hearing the argument wasn’t a big shock to me. I just didn’t expect to hear it from them. And I’m sure that was Fleep’s problem.
“Come on, buddy. Santa is real.” Nothing. Fleep wouldn’t even look at me. “Hey, come on man. You know your dad didn’t mean it. He was mad. Parents say dumb things when they’re mad. Come on, let’s go back outside.”
Still Fleep wouldn’t move, or even acknowledge me. He just stood there, like he was in a trance, staring into his kitchen from behind the cracked door. I could see half of his face, one eye, and the teary trail down his cheek. Was he angry or sad? Probably both.
“Seriously,” I said in a forceful whisper, “your dad’s just trying to make a point—that you’re not going to believe in Santa if you don’t get the skateboard. I think that’s pretty cool of him to stick up for you.” I had no idea if I was making any sense but I had to say something to my friend. “Come on. We should go.”
I grabbed Fleep by the jacket and managed, with a tug, to get him moving. Silently he followed me out of the laundry room. I ended up shooting hoops by myself in the freezing cold for about five minutes while he sulked in a lawn chair. Then he stood and finally broke the silence.
“Rick was right all along. There’s no stupid Santa. It’s all fake, the whole thing.” I didn’t say anything. Fleep needed to vent. “And even if Santa is real, he’s not bringing me what I want. What am I saying? He’s not real, and you know what? The more I talk about it, the more I realize it’s all just a fairytale. I hate Santa and I hate my lying parents!”
I stopped bouncing the basketball and stared at Fleep. His rant had suddenly turned foul. I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t believe I was watching and listening to one of my best friends—one of the nicest guys I knew—disrespect his parents. My mouth hung so low you probably could have driven a train through it. I rushed over to him.
“Take it back Fleep! Take it all back. You don’t mean it. You don’t mean what you just said. I’m telling you. You don’t want to mess around with the Wayward List. It’s real.”
“Made-up Wikipedia garbage—”
“What? Not Wikipedia. The Kringle Chronicles Web site. There’s a whole page dedicated to the Wayward List …” I hesitated. I was so nervous for my friend. “On the site, there’s a silhouette of a large man, Santa, on his knees sobbing over this long list. I clicked on the list and, well, nothing I read was good. Disrespecting your parents is one way to get your name written on that Wayward List.” I studied Fleep for a moment and let what I’d said sink in. He didn’t say anything, just stared through me with his tearing blue eyes.
“I don’t care about some fake Wayward List,” Fleep said smugly, then wiped his cheeks.
“It’s not fake! Tiff’s book even mentions it. I read about the list. It talks about the disposal of kids, Fleep. You know what that means, don’t you—disposal?”
Fleep didn’t answer.
“Throw away! It means to throw away, Fleep. It talks about punishing and disposing of kids whose names are on the Wayward List.” I gripped his shoulders, hoping he’d say something but he didn’t.
“Fleep, you have to believe. You have to take back what you just said … all of it! You don’t hate your parents or Santa, right? And the other things you said … they just slipped out.
You were just mad, that’s all. Right?” I asked poking him in the chest.
“Cut it out,” he protested and swatted at my hand, missing. I heard a loud engine. It was my parents. They rounded the corner in our SUV. Fleep and I moved toward the garage as they pulled into Fleep’s driveway and honked the horn. I waved then turned back to Fleep.
“You’ve seen S.R., and if he’s real, it’s only logical that Santa is too. Come on, forget all the stuff your parents said and listen to what I’m telling you. Believe.”
“I do believe, in S.R. because I can see him; that’s what really matters,” Fleep said.
“Fleep, don’t do this. You need to believe. I need you to—”
Just then Fleep’s dad came out with my sisters in tow and loaded them into the SUV.
“Just go home,” Fleep said, walking into his garage. I felt betrayed. One of my best friends didn’t trust me. He gave me one last look and shook his head gravely as he reached over and pressed the garage door opener. The door slowly closed, reminding me of the falling curtains from a play. I wondered if Fleep’s faith would get an encore or if his door of belief had closed forever.
That evening I got e-mail from Benji, Santa’s elf spy. It read:
Jakob,
First thing tomorrow morning go to The Kringle Shop in Christmas, Florida. It’s not far from you, about thirty minutes drive east. Bring Logan, Shig and Fleep … but by no means are you to bring Tiff.
Once there, look for a little person with a long black ponytail and a handlebar moustache. Tell him Benji sent you. He will almost certainly not believe you, so show him the glasses I gave you. If he still doesn’t believe you, then say to him, “Baum is no bum.” That’s all. He’ll have to believe you then. Listen to him, do as he says, take what he gives you, and you will succeed tomorrow night.
Benji
I thought about the Kringle Shop. I knew of it. It was in a town actually named Christmas, Florida. It was where the locals and tourists went to mail their Christmas cards, buy gifts, and whatnot. I glanced over at the time and yawned. It was late, and I was tired, so I shut down the computer—the right way—and climbed into bed.