The Christmasaurus

by Tom Fletcher

  On this particular day, William had just wheeled himself to the end of the cereal aisle for the seventh time, lost in feelings of emptiness and worries about his lonely dad, when he heard giggling behind him.

  He spun his wheelchair around and stared down the long aisle of breakfast foods, but no one was there.

  How odd.

  Suddenly, some scurrying footsteps rushed past, but by the time William whizzed his chair around, whoever it was had gone.

  “Hello?” William called, but no one answered.

  He was just about to go to find his dad when he saw something rather strange out of the corner of his eye. Something white and floaty was coming toward him from the far end of the cereal aisle at great speed. He couldn’t quite make out what it was. He’d never seen anything like it before. It was large and white and floating through the air, continuously changing shape, wibbling and blobbling like a thick, wet ghost!

  William froze in his wheelchair. He didn’t know what to do. He felt completely helpless as this weird blob of whiteness flew through the air toward him, until…

  William was hit square in the face by a flying super-sized tub of double-thick, extra-creamy whipped cream!

  You wouldn’t believe how much cream there was! However much you’re imagining, double it…then add a bit more, and that’s still probably not quite enough.

  William was coated from head to toe. He looked like a delicious ghost!

  But that wasn’t all. The flying wave of dairy hit him with such force that it sent his wheelchair whooshing backward, slipping and sliding on the cream-covered floor of the cereal aisle, until he smashed into the shelves. Luckily, the cardboard boxes of his favorite frosted choco-drops crumpled behind him, softening the impact—but as one box fell over, it knocked another box, which knocked over the next box, and the one after that…until suddenly every box was knocking over every box next to it, like a game of breakfast-cereal dominoes!

  There was an almighty crash as clouds of flakes and puffs of corn and oats filled the air. Shoppers ran for the fire exits in a frosted-flake frenzy, the likes of which had never been seen before—and right in the middle of the commotion was William, covered from head to toe in double-thick, extra-creamy whipped cream and sprinkled with every sort of breakfast cereal you could possibly imagine.

  Then, just as William thought it was over, the unusual amount of whole-grain dust in the air set off the fire sprinklers, and the aisles were flooded with freezing water. The water mixed with the double-thick, extra-creamy cream, transforming the supermarket into the world’s largest bowl of cereal. Within ten minutes officials from Guinness World Records had shown up, confirmed it, and hung a plaque on the wall!

  William knew there was only one person mean enough to throw cream at someone in a supermarket while they were choosing their cereal. At that moment, the water from the sprinklers showered away some of the thick cream from his eyes, just in time for him to see the long golden twirls of Brenda Payne as she skipped merrily away and made her escape through a fire exit.

  * * *

  —

  Mr. Trundle wheeled his sad, soggy son home through the crowded, snow-covered streets. Moms and dads wandered merrily with their children through the falling snowflakes with a twinkle of Christmas magic in their eyes, but William couldn’t help feeling absolutely rotten.

  Feeling rotten is much worse than feeling just bad or sad. Feeling rotten is when it seems like no one else in the world understands how you’re feeling. When you’re feeling rotten, everything around you seems rotten. For example, can you think of the tastiest, yummiest, cheesiest cheeseburger you’ve ever had? Well, even if William had eaten that exact same cheeseburger right then, it would have tasted absolutely rotten to him. That’s how rottenly rotten he was feeling!

  Everyone feels rotten from time to time, and that’s perfectly OK—but no little boy or girl should feel rotten at Christmastime. That’s just rotten!

  Right then, William didn’t care about Christmas. In fact, at that moment, he didn’t feel like caring much about anything at all. William just wanted to go to his rotten home and go to rotten bed.

  With their heads full of worries, Mr. Trundle and William trundled home, unaware that somewhere close behind them, hiding in the shadows, someone was watching them.

  William was being followed!

  That evening, William sat in his wheelchair at the dinner table in his wonky little home. Mr. Trundle had made him his favorite meal (golden-crumby fishy fingers and crispy-crunch potato waffles with baked beans), but to William it just looked like a rotten plateful of rottenness.

  “I’m not hungry, Dad,” William said. “Can I go to bed early, please?”

  Mr. Trundle looked at William with that look that parents have when they’re worried but trying not to look worried.

  “Of course you can, my Willypoos,” said Mr. Trundle, trying to make William smile.

  “I hate it when you call me that, Dad. Why can’t we just be like a normal family!” William snapped, and wheeled himself away from the rotten dinner table, out of the stinking dining room, down the crummy hallway, and into his wretched bedroom, which was on the ground floor, next to the living room.

  He parked his chair right next to his bed and pulled himself out so that he was sitting on top of his dinosaur-patterned comforter. He wriggled out of his clothes and put on his favorite pair of pajamas (which were also dinosaur-patterned) and slid his favorite bedtime story out from under his pillow (which was a very silly story about a dinosaur that pooped a planet). Since the day Brenda Payne had entered his life and made being in a wheelchair completely rotten, dinosaurs had been just about the only thing that could cheer William up.

  Just then, Mr. Trundle appeared in William’s doorway carrying a bag of William’s favorite chocolate chip cookies and a large mug of warm milk. William’s rotten levels dropped dramatically when he saw them.

  A few minutes later, they’d finished reading William’s favorite silly book, the bag of cookies was empty, and they were just starting to share the warm mug of milk when Mr. Trundle said, “Have you thought about what you’re going to ask Santa for this year, William?”

  William wiped the milky mustache away from his lips and suddenly felt a little bit rotten again.

  “My dear boy, what on earth is wrong?” Mr. Trundle asked.

  “Well…it’s…it’s just that…I don’t think Santa can get me what I want this year, Dad,” William said sadly.

  Of course, Mr. Trundle had heard him say that before, but this year William wasn’t staring longingly at his dinosaur posters. The emptiness in his stomach was telling him he wanted something far greater than that.

  William looked up at his dad, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, and then his eyes were caught by the empty air next to Mr. Trundle. William finally looked down at his legs and sighed a deeply unhappy sigh. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to wish he wasn’t the way he was. As though all the problems in the world came back around to one thing: his legs.

  Mr. Trundle tucked William into bed and pulled out a pen and William’s favorite dinosaur notebook from the desk in the corner of the room.

  “Well, perhaps you’re asking Santa for the wrong thing,” Mr. Trundle said. “Before you go to sleep, I want you to have a think about what you really want this year, and then write your letter to Santa.”

  William still felt a little troubled. There was something he wanted to say, but he didn’t quite know how to say it. Still, he knew that sometimes the hardest things to say are the most important ones. So he took a breath and said, “Dad…”

  “Yes, William?” replied Mr. Trundle as he searched the bag of cookies for any remaining crumbs.

  “Are you…lonely?” asked William.

  Mr. Trundle paused in amazement.

  “My dear Willypoos…I mean, William. What on earth made yo
u think that?” he said, a tiny wobble in his voice.

  “It’s just that—well—I’ve been thinking it because…you spend all of your time looking after me, because I am the way I am.”

  “And that’s just the way I like it,” said Mr. Trundle sharply.

  “But are you happy?” asked William. “Like, really happy?”

  “Happier than a bauble on a Christmas tree. Now I won’t hear any more of this nonsense.”

  They both sat quietly for a moment. William looked around his bedroom at the photos hanging on the wall and sitting on the shelf. They were all of just two people: him and his dad.

  “Now, there’s time for one more story before bed. What would you like?” Mr. Trundle asked.

  “The story you used to tell me, about the elves and Santa and the North Pole!” William said. His dad told that one the best.

  But as Mr. Trundle started talking, William’s mind started wandering and wondering. Something that Brenda had said was stuck in his mind: I bet he still believes in Santa!

  “What’s on your mind, son?” asked Mr. Trundle.

  “Dad. This story. Is it…true? Is it real or just make-believe?” asked William, almost as if he were scared to hear the answer.

  Mr. Trundle peered down at William through the round spectacles perched on his nose (which were always dirty) and smiled softly, as though he’d been expecting William to ask this exact question.

  “Now, William, that is a very good question,” said Mr. Trundle as he made himself comfortable on William’s bed. He put his hand over his heart, as he did whenever he was telling the truth. “I believe this story is true. Therefore, it is true,” he said.

  “But…how does that work?” questioned William, desperate to know more. “If I’ve never seen something, how do I know it’s real?”

  “Ah, William! You’ve got it the wrong way around!” said Mr. Trundle, smiling. “Believing has to come first. People who don’t believe in things will never see those things. Believing is seeing.”

  But William still looked uncertain.

  “But, Dad, some kids at school don’t believe in Santa. What if I believe he’s real and someone else doesn’t? If we both believe different things, then we can’t both be right, can we?” asked William.

  Mr. Trundle thought for a moment, then suddenly picked up the mug and downed half the warm, creamy milk inside. “Mmmmm,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Now, look inside this mug and what do you see?”

  “Well, you’ve drunk half of it, so it’s half-empty now!” said William, looking a little miffed that his dad had just slurped up so much of his delicious drink.

  “Are you sure?” asked Mr. Trundle. “Do you believe it’s half-empty?”

  “Yes, of course I believe it’s half-empty. I can see that it is!” said William.

  “Well, I don’t believe that at all,” said Mr. Trundle, leaving William looking rather puzzled. Was his dad completely out of his mind? The mug was quite clearly half-empty. It was as plain as day. William was sure of it.

  “I believe something completely different,” Mr. Trundle continued with a little smile. “I believe this mug of milk is not half-empty….I believe it is half-full!”

  William looked at the half-empty mug of milk in front of him for a moment before realizing that his dad might actually be right too. Even though he and his dad believed different things, they were both right.

  “You see, William, we both believe completely opposite things, but it doesn’t mean that either of us is wrong. This mug is both half-empty AND half-full at the same time,” said Mr. Trundle as William sat there with the expression of a young boy whose mind is in the process of being completely blown. “People believe all sorts of wild, wacky, weird, and wonderful things, but it doesn’t mean that anyone is wrong or that anyone is right. What is important isn’t what is wrong, right, real, fake, true, or false. What matters is that whatever you believe makes you a happier, better person.”

  William was listening closely. “But, Dad, what if I believe in something that doesn’t really exist? Aren’t I believing in nothing?” he asked worriedly.

  “Believing in nothing is better than not believing in anything at all. Belief, William, is what makes the impossible possible. The undoable doable. And, whatever you believe in, William, you will most definitely find! I believed in the milk and found it. You believed in the emptiness and found that. Neither of us was wrong, but one of us was happier!” Mr. Trundle finished, and gave the half-empty, half-full mug of milk to William.

  “Thanks, Dad,” said William, and he gulped down the rest of the gloriously warm milk. He placed the mug full of emptiness on his bedside table and picked up the pen, ready to write his letter to Santa. Then he paused.

  “So, Dad…if I really, really believe it, will there be one last chocolate chip cookie in that bag for me?” asked William with a cheeky grin, knowing full well that they’d eaten all the cookies.

  Mr. Trundle looked in the empty cookie bag and shook his head.

  “Oh, William, I think it would take a bit more than belief to make that happen!”

  He leaned over, placed one hand on William’s pillow, and gave him a kiss good night. “Get some sleep after you’ve finished that letter to Santa. You can take it to the mailbox in the morning,” said Mr. Trundle.

  Just before he left William alone in his bedroom, he stopped at the door. “William, if you want me to be happy, then ask Santa for something that will make you happy,” he said. “Something you’ve always wanted. Good night.”

  William sat thinking of something to ask Santa for. He thought and thought and thought. He thought so hard that it made his brain hurt a bit. As he looked around his room, his old dinosaur posters caught his eye. He stared at them, looking for inspiration, when suddenly his face started aching. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in his bedroom window and realized he was smiling! He hadn’t seen that look on his face for quite some time. William knew exactly what he wanted from Santa. He started scribbling his letter, which looked like this:

  William folded the letter in half, popped it on his bedside table, and switched off his light with the dinosaur lampshade. As he wriggled down under the covers and laid his head on his pillow, he felt something crumbly on his cheek. There, sitting on the pillow, right next to his head, was one last chocolate chip cookie.

  William smiled and whispered, “Thanks, Dad,” before gobbling it up and going to sleep.

  The next morning, William woke up feeling a lot less rotten than he had the night before. Now he was just looking forward to popping his letter to Santa in the mailbox on the way to visit his favorite place in the world: the museum!

  William had loved visiting the museum for as long as he could remember, not just because Mr. Trundle worked there part-time at the gift shop, so William got free dinosaur stickers, but because to William it was the most magical place in the world.

  It was the only place where William could escape from the world when he was feeling rotten and see huge models of dinosaurs and real dinosaur bones and skeletons. At the museum, William didn’t care that his friends had all deserted him and signed up to join Brenda Payne’s Army of Pain. He actually quite liked being on his own. He could be as slow as he liked and get lost in his own imaginary world full of dinosaurs, and that’s exactly what he planned to do today.

  Mr. Trundle wheeled William out of their wonky little house, which was covered from wonky chimney to wonky flower beds in colorful Christmas lights. He locked up, and they went down the ramp that led from the front door to the pavement outside, then headed through the town, William holding on tight to the letter for Santa.

  As they wheeled down the street toward the big mailbox, which was now wearing a white hat of snow, they passed a woman who William had seen a few times before. She was a very pretty lady, and when she walked by, Mr. Trundle said, “Merry Christmas!” and nodd
ed in a silly, old-fashioned sort of way, as though he were tipping an invisible top hat. But the lady said nothing back. In fact, she quickly crossed over to the other side of the street, shaking her head disapprovingly.

  “What a Scroogey lady!” said William.

  “Naughty List for sure,” said Mr. Trundle as he patted his invisible top hat back on his head. They both laughed as they continued toward the mailbox. Suddenly, William applied the brakes on his wheelchair.

  “What’s wrong, son?” said Mr. Trundle as they slowed to a stop.

  William had stopped because he’d seen something up ahead, something that made his heart sink: a glimpse of perfect, twirly blond hair peeking out from behind the mailbox.

  Brenda Payne!

  “Maybe I should mail my letter tomorrow,” William said nervously. The last thing he wanted right now was to see that stinker!

  “What on earth for, William? We’re here now,” said Mr. Trundle. “Let’s just pop it in the mailbox and head to the museum.”

  Mr. Trundle pushed William’s chair and they carried on toward the mailbox and Brenda. What was she doing hanging out next to the mailbox anyway? She was pacing back and forth as if she were waiting for someone to show up.

  Then William saw her pause and smile as a little boy approached the mailbox with his mother. William recognized him from school: it was Gregory, the boy who peed himself daily.

  As they got nearer, William could see that Brenda was up to no good. She had that look at me, I’m so perfect sort of look on her face, but it didn’t fool William. He slowed down again so that he could see exactly what she was up to.