Don't Call Me Christina Kringle

  The cat rubbed against her ankles and purred.

  “Come on.”

  Christina unlocked the several locks on the front door and pushed it open.

  Before she even flicked on the overhead lights, the cat hissed.

  Then it leapt up to the counter and flew through the curtains into the back room.

  Shoes toppled and polish tins crashed to the floor.

  Then Christina heard voices in the back room:

  “Get outta here! Scram! Scat, cat!”

  “The cat is most likely hungry.”

  “For what? Finger sandwiches? Ouch! That’s my finger!”

  The voices sounded funny—like the burglars had been inhaling helium from birthday balloons.

  Christina stepped toward the curtains.

  “Don’t you hiss at me, sister!” screamed the angrier of the two voices.

  “Actually, Nails, hissing is a feline’s instinctual defensive gesture. …”

  “I don’t care! She’s giving me a saliva shower here. …”

  Christina moved closer.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  “Cheese it,” said the tough guy. “It’s a human person!”

  Christina bravely grabbed hold of the curtain and yanked it to the side.

  “Oh my!”

  She saw them.

  Two little men. One in a top hat and tails. The other in a carpenter’s smock. They were flinging shoe-polish lids and brass grommets at the cat.

  “Dust ’em!” yelled the one in the smock.

  The one in the top hat scoffed at that. “Oh, I don’t think the situation calls for—”

  Christina grabbed a broom and started swinging.

  “Dust ’em!” screamed the tiny carpenter. “Dust ’em both! Now!”

  The two trespassers (who had to be figments of Christina’s cocoa-powered imagination) pulled out striped straws, bit off the tips, stuck the straws into their mouths and blew.

  A cloud of sparkling purple powder surrounded Christina and the cat.

  The alley cat stopped hissing.

  Christina smiled and felt drowsy.

  The last thing she heard before drifting off to sleep was the tiny carpenter person saying, “Pixie dust. Works every time.”

  Twenty

  Across town, over where people had so much money they sometimes used it for tissue when they blew their noses, Donald McCracken, the lanky Scotsman with the carrot-colored hair, was visiting a squat pastry chef named Pierre who was about to open a brand-new bakery.

  “Sacré bleu! Mon grand opening is tomorrow morning!” sighed Pierre. Since he was French, it sounded very dramatic. “Monsieur McCracken, kindly allow me to tell zee truth: I do not know how to bake! I do not know how to whip zee butter! I do not even know how to crack zee eggs or turn on zee oven! I am, how you say, a fake! A fraud! A French phone-knee!”

  He brought his wrist to his forehead for extra drama.

  “Don’t you worry,” said McCracken as he set two small boxes on the stainless-steel kitchen countertop.

  “Oh, why did I open a bakery when I cannot bake even a potato?” the chef bellowed. “I am so stupid!” When he said it, it sounded like “stew-peed.” He was, after all, French.

  “I told you not to worry, lad,” said McCracken, flicking open the little brass latches on the fronts of his crates. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be makin’ money hand over fist. Your tarts shall be so tasty, your cream puffs so puffy, you’ll have customers lined up around the block.”

  “How can zees be?” asked the chef. “Did you not hear me? I cannot cook! Oui, I am French, but I cannot even make French toast! Soon, zey will come. Zey will come and take away my toque!”

  “Your what?”

  “My poofy white chef hat! The French ambassador will come and he will say I am not worthy to wear zee poofy white hat!”

  “Relax, Pierre. Relax. Ye need worry no more.”

  “But I love my poofy hat.”

  McCracken had more work to do in other shops around town, so he changed the subject.

  “Did you set out all the ingredients as I instructed?”

  “Oui, oui.” The chef pointed to bags and tins and bottles lined up on the countertop. “Butter. Eggs. Flour. Sugar. Salt. More butter. Milk. Vanilla extract. Almond extract. Butter. Butter extract. We French? We like zee butter. The more butter zee better zee batter.”

  “And did ye start the job?”

  “Oui. I pour the flour into zee bowl. Should I do more?”

  “No. Go home. Come back in the morning when ye’ll be sellin’ the finest baked goods anyone has ever tasted. Better than anything they be baking back in Paris.”

  “You are certain of zees?”

  “Aye. All ye need do is pay me my fee.”

  “Merci, Monsieur McCracken. Merry Christmas! Joyeux Noel!”

  The happy chef handed McCracken a flour sack stuffed with money.

  “Ah, cash,” said McCracken, peeking inside the bag. “Everybody’s favorite Christmas gift.”

  Twenty-one

  The purring cat was sitting on Christina’s lap.

  Christina was sitting on a stool near the workbench. Her head felt kind of wobbly. So did her stomach. Her vision was all sorts of blurry because her eyes felt wobbly inside their sockets, too.

  She was slowly waking up, drifting out of her daze.

  “Well, hello there!” said the skinny little man in the top hat who, apparently, had been sitting on the edge of the work table waiting for Christina to wake up. He stood. Dusted off his trousers. Smiled.

  “You … you’re …”

  She didn’t know what to say. Christina had never seen a nine-and-a-half inch man in a top hat and tails before. She also didn’t know if she was still asleep and having a nightmare. She’d had a turkey sandwich with mayo and then the cocoa. Cocoa and mayo may have made her loco.

  “You’re a little person,” she said when her mouth finally caught up to her brain.

  “Yes, indeedy. Nine and three-quarter inches tall to be precise.”

  “And it’s all solid muscle, every inch,” said his friend who flexed both his arms to prove his point. His arms ballooned up. Christina vaguely remembered hearing somebody call this gruff little guy “Nails.” Made sense. He wore a carpenter’s apron and had a tiny nail perched in his lips like a toothpick. In fact, he almost looked like a miniature version of Grandpa’s motorized mannequin in the shop window.

  Christina forced her eyes to focus.

  “This is a bad dream, right?” Christina said.

  Suddenly, the gruff guy hammered her nail—her fingernail.

  “Ow!”

  “Nails!” said the little guy in the top hat as Christina sucked her finger to take away the sting.

  “You feel that?” asked Nails.

  “Yes!”

  The carpenter shrugged, holstered his hammer with a twirling flourish. “Guess we ain’t no dream then, huh?”

  His friend shook his head in dismay. “Honestly, Nails. That was rather rude.”

  “So sue me.”

  “So, what are you guys supposed to be?” said Christina. “Santa’s elves or something?”

  “Hey, watch it, little lady,” snapped Nails. “Just because I gave you a wake-up whack don’t mean you get to call us names!”

  “Technically,” said the other one, who sounded very proper and refined, “we are brownies, not elves.”

  “Brownies?” said Christina. “Like the Girl Scouts?”

  Nails threw up his arms. “Ya see? We always get that. ‘Brownies. Just like the Girl Scouts.’ Why? Because nobody knows their legends and lore no more. They can’t tell a brownie from an elf from a sprite from a—”

  “Okay,” said Christina feeling wide awake, “this is now officially weird. I’m sitting on a stool talking to … brownies?”

  “Yes indeedy,” said the smart-looking fellow who had a miniature pair of glasses perched on the tip of his pointy nose. “Perhaps a brief histo
ry lesson regarding magical creatures is called for. You see we brownies are good-natured spirits.”

  “Speak for yourself,” snapped Nails.

  The smart one pressed up on his spectacles, cleared his throat, and continued. “We brownies are good-natured spirits—present company excluded—who come to finish work left undone by humans.”

  “We’re like a good closer in baseball,” said Nails. “We only come in to finish up what somebody else has already started.”

  “Like the shoes you finished for Grandpa?” said Christina.

  “Precisely,” said the skinny one. “And when we complete our task, we expect nothing in return, save, perchance, a bowl of cream or a slice of cake.”

  “Oh. I had cocoa. It had whipped cream on top. …”

  “We know,” said Nails. “It spilled. During the catfight. Nearly scorched my toes. Stained my boots. They’re suede, you know.”

  Christina glanced at the little man’s shoes. In front, they curled up like a genie’s lamp. She wondered how many toes he had in there and whether the toes were curled, too.

  “Sorry about that,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, suede stains don’t come out easy.”

  “They do if you prevent the moisture from soaking through the nap,” said his scholarly friend. “Blot it, my good fellow. Blot it immediately!”

  “Yeah, right, Professor. As if I got nothin’ better to do here than blot.”

  “Uhm,” said Christina, as Nails dabbed at his boot with one of Grandpa’s soiled rags, “what exactly are you guys doing here?”

  “Well,” said the skinny one, “we are currently on the run from—”

  “Whoa,” said Nails, tossing away the rag. “Chill, Professor. I’ll field this question.”

  “Very well.” The elegant brownie bowed slightly. “Proceed, my good man. Proceed.”

  Nails looped his hands underneath the straps of his carpenter’s apron. “Ahem. We two brownies are here to, uh, grant unto you your, you know, your fondest Christmas wish!”

  “Nails?” said the professor, sounding miffed. “Honestly!”

  “Sorry,” said Nails. “Couldn’t resist. Saw that in a movie once. That bit about granting Christmas wishes and whatnot. Always wanted to say it. …”

  Christina’s face saddened. “Well you two can’t grant my Christmas wish. I don’t care if you really are fairy-tale brownies or how much magical purple powder you blow up my nose. Nobody can make my wish come true.”

  The professor frowned solemnly and took off his top hat.

  “Well then,” he said, “perhaps you will be so kind as to grant us our wish.”

  Christina looked up.

  “Truth be told,” he continued nervously, “we are currently on the run and in need of a safe haven, a place of refuge. We would be much obliged if you would allow us to tarry here beneath your roof for a spell.” Now he gestured at the big box of badly soled shoes. “We could finish the work your yeoman cobbler has begun.”

  “Yeah,” chimed in Nails. “Sure beats workin’ for that nutjob Mister Fred. The guy packs a pistol. A sequin-crusted pistol! Plus, he made us sweaters! Holly-jolly holiday sweaters. I have wool issues.”

  “You know what?” said Christina, staring at the two little men standing amidst the nail jars and tools scattered across her grandfather’s workbench. “I really cannot wait for this dream to be over.”

  “If I may reiterate,” said the professor, “this is not a dream. We are quite real. I am Professor Pencilneck. This is my comrade Mister Nails. We are delighted to make your acquaintance Miss … I’m sorry, I do not believe we know your name.”

  Christina looked stunned. “Professor Pencilneck?”

  The little man blinked. “Correct. That is my name.”

  Christina tried not to giggle. “Pencilneck?”

  The little man blushed, blinked some more, and then tugged at his collar, which was quite loose around his extremely narrow neck.

  “Yes. Pencilneck.” He tried his best to remain dignified.

  Christina could see she had embarrassed the little man so she held out her finger to shake his hand (trying not to notice how pencilesque his fingers were, too).

  “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor. I’m Christina Lucci.”

  The professor bowed and beamed. “Ah! What a magnificent name. Christina. As festive and joyous as the Christmas season itself. Lucci. Italian for light, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hey, Christina,” said Nails, “not for nothing, but you got anything to eat around this joint?”

  “You mean like cream or a slice of cake?”

  “Those are our traditional foods,” said Professor Pencilneck.

  “Yeah,” said Nails, “but I prefer Oreo cookies. Hydrox will do, too. Any kind of cookies-and-cream combo.”

  Christina smiled. She liked the little tough guy. He was feisty. She liked the professor, too. Sure, he sounded sort of snooty, but he was extremely sweet.

  “Sorry. No Oreo cookies.”

  “Look,” said Nails, rubbing his belly bump, “I’m starving here.”

  “Um, I’ll run back to the store. Grab some cookies. And some cream.”

  “Better make it half-and-half,” suggested Nails. “I’m getting a little bit of a cream gut. Always happens every year near the holidays.”

  Christina stood up from the stool. “I’ll be right back.”

  “If it’s not too much of an imposition,” said the professor, “we prefer the Mini Oreo cookies.”

  “Right. Mini. Because you’re—”

  “What?” Nails balled up his fists. “Small? Tiny? Diminutive? Midgets?”

  Christina shook her head. “Because you’re … hungry.”

  The alley cat hopped up to the tabletop.

  Professor Pencilneck smiled anxiously. “Indeed. We are famished. Let us hope, however, your cat is not.”

  Twenty-two

  Sunday came and went.

  Christina had stocked the back room of the shoe shop with Mini Oreo cookies and mini-muffins and plastic cartons of single-bite brownies, even though those dainty baked goods sounded semi-cannibalistic to her visitors.

  She had also filled the small refrigerator in the workshop with half-and-half, heavy cream, whole milk, Cool Whip, whipped cream spray cans and frozen Creamsicle cream pops. She even bought a jar of powdered Cremora, just in case her uninvited visitors lapped up everything else and got desperate.

  The shoe store was so well stocked with brownie favorites, Christina knew the two little men wouldn’t starve if she stayed away for a day.

  Unless, of course they weren’t real.

  Then she’d just eat all the cookies and cakes herself and give the cream to the alley cat.

  She and Grandpa spent Sunday in their apartment. Grandpa watched Christmas movies and holiday specials. Christina tugged on her headphones so she wouldn’t have to listen to the syrupy dreck blaring out of the television. She stayed in her room and played video games on her computer: Santa-shooting games.

  Because, as you know, Christina Lucci hated Christmas.

  And Rudolph’s glowing red nose made him a very easy target.

  Twenty-three

  First thing Monday morning, over on the swanky side of town, early morning shoppers were already lined up outside Chef Pierre’s bakery.

  As Mr. McCracken predicted, the crowd of eager customers stretched out the door, up the block, and around the corner because word had already spread from the Sunday brunch crowd to the Monday morning rush hour mob: the brand new French bakery had the most magically marvelous Christmas cookies anyone had ever tasted anywhere.

  Chef Pierre charged fifty dollars a pound on Sunday. Monday morning, the price had been doubled: One hundred dollars per pound for the world’s most exquisite blend of eggs, butter, flour, sugar, and extraordinary deliciousness. And people were paying it. Gladly.

  While Chef Pierre raked in the cash and list
ened to his cash register ring, one man waiting in the line, a man wearing a trench coat, was showing everyone his shimmering, sparkling shoes.

  “Giuseppe did them!” he proclaimed, hopping up and clicking his heels. “Over on the other side of town. Giuseppe’s Shoe Shop. The old man is a genius! An old-world craftsman!”

  “Do you think he could make my shoes look like that?” asked the woman behind him in line.

  “Of course! Because Giuseppe Lucci takes shoe leather and spins it into gold.”

  Now people were staring at him.

  “Really?” asked a man in very dowdy loafers.

  “If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself! Here’s his address!” The man in the trench coat passed out the little cards he had printed up on his home computer.

  And so, word spread about Giuseppe Lucci, the world-class cobbler nobody had ever heard of before.

  Twenty-four

  On Monday morning, Giuseppe was inside his shop with Mr. Bailey, the banker.

  The CLOSED sign still hung in the window. He had not switched on the electric Christmas extravaganza in the window. His weary eyes were riveted on the stuffed angel doll Mr. Bailey had just handed him.

  “Why is this angel wearing a fireman’s hat?” he asked.

  “He’s a fireman angel,” said the banker, trying to remember the spiel Ms. Dingler had spun about the angels dangling off her memory tree. “So your loved ones who are dead can still come home for the holidays.”

  “This fireman angel,” said Giuseppe, turning the lacy doll around in his weathered hands, “… where is his halo? Underneath his fireman’s hat? I no see no halo. …”

  “Maybe he lost it in a fire! Maybe it melted. I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t care.” The banker snapped his briefcase shut. “Just give it to your granddaughter.”

  “Christina?”

  “Yes. It’s a Christmas gift. From the shopkeeper next door.”

  “Oh. Perhaps you should take it back. Christina no like Christmas no more.”

  “Then just stick in on that tree.”

  “Oh, no. That is the shoe tree.”

  “So? Put the angel up top.”