“O.K., Ninesters,” Goody-Two-Shoes said, clapping her hands, “let’s go pitch in!”
“Aw, do we hafta?” the Hooligan said.
“Yeah, why should we?” the Rude said. “What else have the elves got to do anyway? They can’t make toys anymore.”
“It’s our fault,” Goody said, “so we have to help.”
“It’s not our fault. It’s his fault!” the Hooligan said, pointing at me.
I shrank.
It was my fault, and I felt really bad about it. There might be no Christmas this year—because of me. Maybe the Truant Officer was right about me being a negodnik menace to society.
“Don’t say that about yourself!” Goody said.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t feel bad,” the Rude said. “At least we got some time in the Toy Factory before your screw-up. I’ll never forget it!”
“Me, I’m glad you burned it down,” the Brat said. “Just think—we got to play with the toys of the nice kids of the world and they never will!”
We all went to the ruins of the factory, which were still smoking. Only one wall was left standing, the one with the graffiti on it.
“Who keeps d-d-doing that?” the Know-It-All said.
We looked at the Rude.
“It still ain’t me!” he said.
Although the elves continued not to talk to us—they could really hold a grudge—we did our best to help haul off the rubble and debris. As we worked, we uncovered lots and lots of toys. Or what was left of them.
“Hey, lookit! Pop guns!” the Hooligan said. But they were all melted together.
We found the glass eyes of teddy bears scattered everywhere and some sad-looking dolls, with porcelain heads cracked like eggs and bald from their hair being singed off.
We shoveled the debris into sacks, which got put onto reindeer sleighs and dumped into the sea.
Did I mention the flying reindeer?
It was pretty amazing how they could fly and all, but once you got used to them, it wasn’t such a big deal. And they were otherwise pretty disappointing.
For one thing, they didn’t have names. There was no Dasher or Dancer, no Prancer or Vixen—just a herd of indistinguishable, unnamed, and kind of mangy reindeer. With fleas.
“How can fleas even survive in this cold?” the Brat said, plucking one off his neck.
“They’re magic fleas, ya stupid!” the Rude said as a reindeer rubbed its head on his shirt.
It went on like this for days. At the end of each day, we were covered in black soot and exhausted and hungry.
Back at the barracks, Lefty made us dinner, which was the same thing as lunch, which was the same thing as breakfast.
Gruel.
Despite its awful-sounding name, gruel is just a kind of oatmeal. It doesn’t have to taste terrible.
Unfortunately for us, in addition to being a terrible toy maker, Lefty was a terrible cook. So it did taste terrible.
Still, we gobbled it up, because anything tastes better than starving.
“So what would happen if Santa did die?” the Rude said, his mouth chock-full of gruel. “Would Christmas be kaput? Over forever?”
“Oh, no!” Lefty said. “Christmas will never be over. Lots of Santas have died.”
Lefty explained that “Santa” was just their term for the chief elf. When a Santa died, a conclave of elves elected a new one. The present Santa, Lefty said, was the one who had changed everything.
“Before him, we made the toys by hand in small workshops. It was so much fun! But he bulldozed the old cottages down and built that steam-powered factory and all the other industrial buildings. The only thing he cares about is making more and more toys,” Lefty said, shaking his head and scraping the bottom of his bowl with a spoon. “It used to be that kids only got one thing for Christmas, but this Santa wants to give them everything they ask for.”
“Except the naughty ones,” the Cruel said.
“Oh yeah,” Lefty said. “He sure doesn’t like the naughty ones.”
In addition to setting up the factory, Santa had put his right-hand elf, Amanuensis, in charge of a team of elves who kept tabs on kids. Amanuensis was the keeper of the Naughty and Nice Lists, and went with Santa on Christmas night to tell him which kids got which toys, and which kids got coal. “When a page is done, he sets it on fire and leaves it to burn in the fireplace while he and Santa go up the chimney.”
“So that’s how the Naughty List got left at my h-h-h-h—”
The Know-It-All couldn’t get the word out before
—BZZT!—Attention, HUMAN children! Please report to the TOWER at oh nine hundred hours tomorrow morning. Repeat: ALL HUMAN children must report to the Tower at oh nine hundred hours!—BZZT!—
We looked at each other.
“Guess we’ll find out what’s gonna happen to us now,” the Rude said. And let out a stinky gruel-fueled belch.
38. THE EYE IS WATCHING YOU
The Square, which stood at the center of Isle X, was lined with brick buildings. At one end lay the ruins of the Toy Factory; at the opposite end rose the Tower, which dominated the Square like some kind of cathedral. At the peak of the Tower, a glass clock showed its face to all of Isle X. The elves called it the Eye, and it served as the central office of Santa’s entire industrial operation. At night, the Eye glowed whenever Amanuensis was working inside. And he was always working inside.
“Amanuensis is the one who makes the announcements,” Lefty told us as we walked. “He runs pretty much everything for Santa.”
Mounted right below the 6 of the clock was a fat loudspeaker, a big mouth to go with the Tower’s all-seeing Eye. From behind it, a thick web of wires spread out to connect it to all the other loudspeakers across Isle X.
I felt a shiver, and it wasn’t because of the wind.
“So you go in through there,” Lefty said, pointing to a heavy iron-and-wood door at the base of the Tower.
“You’re not c-c-coming with us?” the Know-It-All said.
Lefty shook his head furiously and said there was NO WAY he was going in there.
“I’m afraid of Amanuensis,” he said. “He keeps a list for elves, too!”
Lefty hurried back across the Square.
I was ready to follow him when the Cruel pressed the button beside the door. A moment later there was a
ZZZ-ZZZ
and the door opened.
“Wow, that’s jake!” the Rude said. “A magic door!”
“It’s not magic, it’s automated,” the Know-It-All said, and pointed to the mechanism that controlled its swing.
“Killjoy,” the Rude grumbled.
There was only one way to go—up—so we climbed the stairs, which went even higher than the stairs of the lighthouse.
At the top, we found a room that looked more like it was for managing war than managing Christmas. A giant globe of the world sat in front of the one window in the room—the clock face of the Eye—and there were maps with thousands of pins stuck in them hanging on all four walls. Below the maps were filing cabinets. So many filing cabinets!
In the middle of it all sat two heavy oak desks, one enormous, the other just a little bit less enormous. On them were brass nameplates that read SANTA CLAUS and AMANUENSIS.
Santa was seated at his desk looking over blueprints, dressed in his red suit. Behind him stood another elf, this one dressed like a factory boss in a dark suit and waistcoat. This was Amanuensis.
Neither of them acknowledged us, until:
“So what’s in all the filing cabinets, fellers?”
Both Santa and Amanuensis looked up through their reading glasses at the Rude like he was something they needed to spit out.
“The List,” Amanuensis said coldly.
“Mr. Santa, sir,” Goody-Two-Shoes said. “We want to apologize again
for everything that happened. We never meant—”
Santa held up a hand to stop her. “The List,” he said to Amanuensis. “Read them the List.”
Amanuensis smiled.
The elf walked over to one of the filing cabinets. He stood at one for a minute, pulling out folder after folder until he had a great big stack that he dropped on his desk with a
THUD!
Amanuensis cleared his throat and opened the first folder.
“Henry Alistair ‘Sparky’ Chaudfront III,” he began.
We all turned to look at the
“BRAT. Age twelve. On list: seven years. Naughty activities include talking back to parents, yelling at servants, insulting teachers, and once telling a storekeeper My father can buy and sell you.”
Santa shook his head disapprovingly from side to side while the Brat’s face went the color of raw steak.
“Naughty List status,” Amanuensis declared. “Permanent!”
The elf picked up an even thicker folder.
“John ‘Johnny’ Colson. RUDE.”
“Right here!” The Rude raised his hand and grinned.
Amanuensis grunted.
“Age eleven. On list: four years. Naughty activities include swearing, obscene gestures, talking back to adults, chewing with mouth open, urinating in public, and farting in public.”
“I did do all that,” the Rude said proudly. “Plus a lot more you missed!”
“Status,” Amanuensis said, “was annual review. Now, permanent!”
He marked a big X on the page and shut the folder. The next one was
“Luigi ‘Looie’ Curidi. LIAR. Age twelve.”
Gulp.
Amanuensis went through a lengthy list of my Naughty crimes, to the end of which he said could now be added burning down the Toy Factory.
“Which I still feel really, really bad about!”
Santa harrumphed.
The only one who did not seem to be feeling the slightest bit bad about any of her Naughty crimes was the Cruel. The list of things she had done was so long that Amanuensis just stopped and said, “You all get the idea.”
The Cruel glowered at him in such a way that even Amanuensis looked cowed.
“Moving on, there’s this one . . .” he said. He shook his head as he flipped through the pages in the folder. “This one was a mistake. You’re not even supposed to be on the Naughty List.”
“I knew it!” the Rude said. “I knew Miss Goody-Two-Shoes never did a naughty thing in her life!”
“You mean her?” Amanuensis said, crooking a finger at Goody. He let out a belly laugh. “Oh no, not her! She’s been on the list for years.”
The elf reached across his desk to a different file.
“Mimi Choice. VANDAL! Age twelve. On list: four years. Naughty activity includes vandalism by graffiti.”
We all turned to Goody-Two-Shoes.
She shrank.
“It was you!” the Thief said.
“That’s what the V stands for!” the Brat said. “Vandal!”
The Rude gave her a thumbs-up.
I was pretty impressed, too. I knew she fit in with the team.
For once, the only one not paying attention to Goody was the Know-It-All.
“But who then?” he asked the elf. “Who is on the Naughty List by m-m-m-mistake?”
Amanuensis looked at him like he was a moron.
“You!” he said. “One of the secretary elves got you mixed up with another twelve-year-old Peter Czaplynsky who lives in Sewickley, Wisconsin. Who would ever think there could be two humans with such a ridiculous name!”
“B-b-but,” he stammered, “the list says I’m a know-it-all.”
“Being a know-it-all doesn’t get you on the Naughty List!” Santa interjected. He took his glasses off. “If only you had sent me a letter—a petition—we would’ve made a correction. In fact, I would have made a special delivery of all the toys you were missing!”
“But you’re sure on the Naughty List now,” Amanuensis said, and made a big mark in his folder. “Forever!”
The Know-It-All got his most pukeful look yet. I felt like I had to stand up and defend him. But I was beaten to the punch by—of all people—the Brat.
“But he did write a petition!” the Brat said. “And that’s why he came up with this entire plan—to hand deliver it to you!”
“Show ’em!” the Hooligan said, slapping the Know-It-All on the back so hard that he almost fell over.
The Know-It-All fumbled through his pockets and started unfolding a piece of paper, stuttering and stammering. “I-i-it’s about . . . well, the p-p-p-petition . . . it’s not just for m-m-m-me, it’s for all the children of the world, and how the N-N-N-Naughty List is not fair—”
“Not fair?” Santa thundered, cutting him off. “Not FAIR? Were you not LISTENING to what Amanuensis just read? To what you all have DONE? And then—instead of writing me a letter or attempting to better yourselves—you children ran away from home, snuck onto our island, and broke into our factory to play with what didn’t belong to you. And then you BURNED it down!”
“Santa, calm down,” Amanuensis said. “Before you have another heart attack.”
“Let me FINISH!” Santa said, his face getting every bit as red as the Brat’s ever got. (Well, almost.) “If what you children have done proves anything, it is how IMPORTANT the Naughty List is. Human children are horrible little monsters who must be given a reason to be good. The whole POINT of Christmas is to try and get you creatures to behave.”
“That’s the point of Christmas?” Goody-Two-Shoes said. “I thought it was peace on earth.”
Santa scoffed at the thought.
The other kids kept trying to argue with Santa, but it was useless. He was just another adult who was never going to change his mind about anything, especially not because a bunch of kids told him to. Whether or not we were right made no difference.
What I wanted to know was what was going to happen to us. And if he was going to take us away in a flying sleigh.
Because that would be aces!
“No, you will NOT be leaving in one of my sleighs,” Santa said. “You will go back the way you came. On the mail steamer. Once you are off this island, I suggest you go home to your parents and beg their forgiveness. But while you are HERE, you will keep working to try and clean up the mess you have created. You are dismissed!”
“But what about—” the Brat said.
“Dis”—Amanuensis cut him off—“missed.”
39. THE BIG GOODBYE
I sure couldn’t imagine begging my parents for forgiveness, but I did try hard to think about what it would be like to go home. To see my mom and dad, my brothers and sisters, my cousins, and—geez, it was exhausting just remembering them all!
It’d be nice to visit my family, but I couldn’t picture living back there again. Sleeping on the floor of that tiny little apartment, ditching school, and waiting for the day when I had to go work in some crummy factory like my older brother Enzo—if I was lucky enough to get a job.
No, I did not want to go home. At least, not to my home.
Of course, none of the Ninesters wanted to go home, either. Mostly, it was understandable. The Rude lived in a lousy flophouse and worked two jobs, while the Hooligan was worried he’d wind up in prison like his older brother if he fell back in with his old gang. The Cruel’s orphanage didn’t sound like much fun, and it wasn’t like any of us ever wanted to see Mummy Rummy again, least of all the Thief. The Brat would have to go back to boarding school, and who wants to live at school?
There were only a couple of kids I didn’t really understand not wanting to go home. The Know-It-All said he was scared of the whupping he’d get from his dad, but I got beat up all the time and I still didn’t get to live in a nice house like his. Heck, he only had
to share his room with one sister!
And I still didn’t get why Goody-Two-Shoes was so afraid of her parents. Or why she had done all that graffiti.
Of course, after the reading of the Naughty List, that was all anyone wanted to ask her about. But she kept mum.
The funny thing is, when she did talk about it, it was me that she talked to. Maybe it was because I was a good secret-keeper, or because if I did spill her secrets, no one would believe me.
She did the graffiti, Goody said, because her parents expected her to be perfect all the time.
I told her I didn’t get it.
“My whole life has always been about making them happy. So the only way to get back at them was to do something they would hate.”
She shrugged.
“That, plus I really like painting big signs on walls.”
I nodded.
“Now I get it,” I said, although I still didn’t. I just wanted to ask her the question that had been bothering me since that first time we met her.
Why had she waited until her mom left the room to put her glasses on?
“Because my mother doesn’t like me wearing glasses. She thinks they make me look ugly,” Goody said. “She says that a girl’s job is not to see, but to be seen.”
And now I got it.
So we all had our reasons for not going home, but we had to go someplace. We just didn’t know where.
Capt. Smudge and the Sinbad still weren’t due back for another couple of weeks, but we were all antsy to go, what with how much the elves hated us and the way Santa worked us. He was always barking to do this better and clean up that faster.
It was while we were working that we heard a distant steam whistle blow.
One of the elves pointed out to sea. It was the mail steamer.
“The ship came early! The ship came early!” the elves chanted and cheered.
I got a tingle of excitement and then it hit me: We were about to leave.
I wasn’t prepared for the moment to come so soon, and I felt a sudden stab of regret. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get off this island—I did—it was more the feeling that we hadn’t done what we had set out to do. I mean, nobody would say that the first mission of the No-Good Nine was a rousing success, and I was worried that it would be our last and only one.
The No-Good Nine Page 15