Humbug Holiday

  Frankie grinned. “And it sounds like you got the Christmas spirit, all right, Mr. Scrooge. I’m sure Charles Dickens would be very happy.”

  “Who?” said Scrooge, laughing louder than ever. “Dear, dear, there are so many people I must meet. Yes, my two friends, I shall never forget our time together.”

  I knew for certain he never would.

  “I’m glad you found your backpack,” he said. “What was in it that you needed so badly?”

  I thought about that. “I didn’t really need it so badly, after all. But someone else did. So I gave it away.”

  Scrooge’s eyes twinkled like an elf. “Then I wasn’t the only one who was helped by the spirits?”

  “Nope,” said Frankie. “I think we all were. And, by the way, a lady and a baby will probably come to see you today. Maybe you can—”

  “I shall help them,” he said. “It will be an honor.”

  “And now—” I held up the last page of the book. “I think it’s time for us to go, and for you to get on with your life.”

  “Then let me wish you well,” said Scrooge. “And to quote our friend Tiny Tim, ‘God bless us, every one!’”

  With that, we said our good-byes, dashed out of Scrooge’s office, and sprang straight between the waiting zapper gates.

  Kkkkk!

  The whole old world of London in 1843 seemed to flash bright blue. Then everything went dark for a half second until—blam!—“Ouch!”—“Oof!”—Frankie and I slammed into the wall of the library workroom, the blue light vanished, and we were home.

  At instant later, Mrs. Figglehopper stepped into the room. She blinked and shook her head.

  “Why are you on the floor?” she asked, a slight smile starting on her lips. “Shouldn’t you two be at the Christmas Banquet?”

  Frankie jumped up. “We didn’t miss it? Awesome!”

  “You haven’t been here that long,” said Mrs. Figglehopper. “Now, if you are quite done fixing that book, Mr. Wexler has asked that everyone join him in the cafeteria. The Christmas Banquet is about to begin.”

  “I want to help!” I said.

  “Me, too!” said Frankie. “There’s a lot we can do.”

  “That sounds like the Christmas spirit,” Mrs. Figglehopper said.

  I smiled. “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around.”

  Her eyes twinkled merrily, and she swished out the door and down the hall, singing, “Come! Come!”

  When we entered the cafeteria, there was a line of people from Palmdale who needed food. Some of them weren’t dressed very well, and there were kids there, which broke my heart. But it felt better when Frankie and I hopped into the serving line and got right to work.

  While Mrs. Figglehopper sliced turkey, and Mr. Wexler put it on the plates, I gave everyone heaps of mashed potatoes and gobs of stuffing. Next to me, Frankie spooned out lakes of gravy and mounds of cranberries.

  It was work, but it made me realize how much stuff I have, and I felt good doing a little bit to help people who didn’t have as much. I had to thank the book for that. I could tell that Frankie felt the same way.

  “Merry Christmas,” we said to everyone who passed through the line.

  Then, when things slowed down a bit, Mr. Wexler pointed to a podium set up with a microphone at one end of the cafeteria. “Would you care to read to us?” he asked. “A Christmas story would be nice.”

  Frankie and I looked at each other and grinned.

  “I think we know the perfect story,” said Frankie.

  We hustled to the podium, and while everyone settled into their dinners, Frankie opened to the first page of the book, moving it over so both of us could read it.

  “You start,” she said, so I did, with the very first line.

  “‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.…’”

  For the next two hours, Frankie and I took turns reading while people came and went and ate and drank.

  Finally, we got to the last page.

  “‘Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all and infinitely more. And to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father.’”

  Then Frankie took over. “‘He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world.’”

  “Lots of good-olds there,” I said. “Should we keep going?”

  “Please,” said Mrs. Figglehopper. Mr. Wexler nodded.

  “ ‘And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, every one!’”

  Everybody stood and cheered as we closed the book and headed to the tables for our own Christmas supper.

  Plopping down into our seats, I said, “You know, Frankie, this is shaping up to be one of our best Christmases ever. Not bad for a couple of slackers, is it?”

  “You said it,” she said. “And I have to admit, Dev, I like happy endings. I like the way that Christmas can sort of, you know, make you a better person.”

  I thought about that, then grinned. “Just like books!”

  “You can say that again!” chirped Mrs. Figglehopper, who had overheard us.

  But we couldn’t.

  Our mouths were way too crammed with food.

  FROM THE DESK OF

  IRENE M. FIGGLEHOPPER, LIBRARIAN

  Dear Reader:

  Charles Dickens is one of my favorite authors, and I’m tickled pink that Devin and Frankie like him, too. Certainly, they seem to know A Christmas Carol backward and forward!

  Even today, many readers call Dickens the greatest English novelist who ever lived. Certainly he was something of a superstar in his own day!

  Born in Portsmouth, England, in 1812, Dickens remembered his early childhood as his happiest time. He loved to learn, liked school, and had an unquenchable passion for books (I can certainly appreciate that!).

  When his family moved to London in 1822, things began to change. Dickens’s father was sentenced to several months in a debtor’s prison for not paying his bills. To make ends meet, Dickens was sent to work in a dismal factory pasting labels on bottles of boot polish. This experience affected him deeply. He became determined to make his fortune and never be poor again.

  While still in his teens, Dickens started writing political and social news for London newspapers. Adopting the pen name Boz, he collected his writings in his first book, Sketches by Boz, and achieved some success.

  But nothing prepared Dickens for the instant fame he would gain by writing the comical adventure novel The Pickwick Papers, when he was only twenty-four. Like nearly all of Dickens’s later novels, Papers was first published in monthly installments. Tens of thousands of eager readers clamored for each new installment as quickly as he could write them. His fortune was made!

  In quick sequence, Dickens wrote Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, and The Old Curiosity Shop, and, as if it were possible, became even more famous.

  But Dickens never forgot his early hardships. In 1843 he hit on the idea of writing a Christmas book, but one that would have as a theme the plight of the poor and the importance of giving.

  A Christmas Carol was born!

  This delightful “ghost story of Christmas” remains one of Dickens’s most famous and well-known works.

  After writing the autobiographical David Copperfield (1850), and what many call his masterpiece, Bleak House (1853), Dickens embarked on a series of very popular but exhausting speaking tours throughout England and the United States. The strain of these tours weakened him. In 1870, he died at the age of fifty-eight, leaving his final work, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, unfinished.

  To this day, Charles Dickens is universally beloved as a great writer, a witty and sensitive man, and a champion of the poor. Despite the 800-page length of some of his novels (yes, I can hear Frankie and Devin gasp!), he is read and enjoyed by every
age, from children on up.

  Try checking out his books—you’ll make your librarian happy!

  I. M. Figglehopper

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Cracked Classics series

  Chapter 1

  Splish … splash.…

  I opened my eyes. I was lounging in a very comfy beach chair on the shore of a beautiful tropical island.

  The sun was blazing, breezes were blowing through tall palm trees, warm waves were tickling every single one of my toes.

  “Ahhhh …” I sighed loudly, shifting up for a better view. On a blanket next to me was my best-friend-even-though-she’s-a-girl, Francine (Frankie) Lang.

  “Frankie, this is truly the life,” I said. “Just the waves, the sun, the sand. No bushy-eyebrowed, assignment-giving English teacher Mr. Wexler—”

  “No bun-haired, flower-dressed, book-loving librarian Mrs. Figglehopper—” Frankie added.

  “Just the whole beautiful beachy extravaganza!” I finished, popping open the cooler and munching a bunch of crunchy chips. “What I mean is, whoever created vacations has my vote to win the official Devin Bundy coolness award, don’t you think?”

  “Think? Not unless I have to,” she said with a chuckle. “And speaking of coolness, how cool is it to wear a jacket and tie when you go surfing?”

  “Not very,” I said.

  “How about a long dress?”

  “Even worse.”

  “Then we have a severe dress-code alert, Devin. Because somebody’s surfing the surf on a surf board—and they’re all dressed up!”

  Standing for a better look, I noticed two people riding a big fat surfboard over a giant wave. In front was a guy with bushy eyebrows and a frowny face, his hair flying up in little wisps. Behind him was a woman in a totally unsurferlike flowery dress and tightly bunned hair.

  “That’s not somebody,” I said. “It’s Mr. Wexler! And Mrs. Figglehopper! Our teacher! And our librarian! But what are they doing here?”

  Before Frankie could answer, the giant wave surged. It got huger and huger until it towered over the beach like a tidal wave.

  “Holy cow!” I cried. “They’re coming right for me!”

  “Run for the hills!” Frankie shouted.

  “But there are no hills! And I can’t run! My feet are stuck in the sand—wipeout!”

  The giant wave slammed into me and threw me down—wham!—

  Right out of my desk—

  And onto the floor—

  Of Mr. Wexler’s English class.

  To the sound of everyone laughing.

  “Owww!” I groaned. Sitting up, I saw Frankie sprawled on the floor next to me.

  “You were sleeping too?” I asked.

  She rubbed her eyes and nodded. “Dude, you totally busted my dream when you fell out of your desk. I was at the mall. Shoes were free. What was it for you? Since you screamed ‘wipeout,’ I guess it was the beach dream again?”

  I nodded. “The cooler was chock-full of chips.”

  Frankie sighed. “Waking up is so cruel.”

  “At least everyone’s laughing,” I said.

  “Um … not everyone.”

  Frankie was right. Mr. Wexler wasn’t laughing.

  “Frankie and Devin—!” our teacher growled as he stormed down the aisle, his head wobbling on his neck.

  I knew that head wobble. It was all about him being disappointed in Frankie and me. It was because Frankie and I weren’t the best students in the sixth grade at Palmdale Middle School.

  We were not even close to being the best students.

  It’s just that Frankie and I are not too good at the reading thing. All those words. All those pages. Not only that, people expect you to read every single one of them or it doesn’t count. More later; here comes Mr. Wexler.

  “So, my two wonder students,” he said, glaring down at us, “may I presume you were dreaming again?”

  Frankie helped me up. “Sorry, sir,” she said. “I guess we drifted off to sleep.”

  “And off our chairs,” I said.

  “You’re always drifting off,” Mr. Wexler said. “How do you expect to report on your character?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure you’d want to hear about my character,” said Frankie. “I haven’t really formed it yet.”

  I nodded. “My mom said she hoped I’d develop a character some day. But I’m not so sure.”

  “No, no,” said the teacher. “That’s not what I mean. You’re both supposed to choose characters from the book we’re reading and do a report on those characters.”

  “The book we’re reading?” said Frankie. “Why is it always books in this class? Books, books, books!”

  “It’s called English class, Francine,” Mr. Wexler said, his eyebrows fusing into a single hedge over his eyes. “We read books. And today we’re reading the great classic adventure book by Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island. You were supposed to go to the library last week and check out a copy—”

  “Last week?” I said. “Weren’t we on vacation last week?”

  The man positively grunted at that. “No, but maybe your minds were on vacation while the rest of us were hard at work reading Treasure Island.”

  It didn’t look good for us. Mr. Wexler didn’t look so good, either. The little veins on his neck had become big veins, and he was turning several shades of red.

  Luckily, Frankie came to the rescue. “I have an idea, Mr. Wexler,” she said brightly. “How about Devin and I go to the library now and get copies of this book you’re talking about, read it tonight, then do our reports first thing tomorrow morning!”

  I wiped my forehead. “Phew! Good save from Frankie. Can we, Mr. Wexler? Can we, please, huh?”

  Mr. Wexler squinted first at Frankie, then at me. His mouth made all sorts of interesting sounds, but none of them sounded like words. Finally, he breathed out.

  “All right. But I’m only doing this because for some freakish reason you have actually gotten good grades in here before. Frankie, you do a report on Jim Hawkins. Devin, you take the character of Long John Silver. They are both major characters in Treasure Island. Read the book tonight and give your reports tomorrow.”

  “We’ll do it,” said Frankie. “After all, Mr. Wexler, you just said we get good grades if we want to, right?”

  He continued narrowing his eyes at us. “The question is, do you want to? Understanding the characters is the key to the real treasure of this book. Now, scoot to the library and check out a copy! You have three minutes. Go!”

  We went. Down one hallway, then the next, then the next, until we pulled up right outside the library. Just before Frankie tugged open the doors, I stopped her.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let’s think about this. Every time we go in here, something weird happens. You know what I mean.”

  Frankie nodded, giving a slight shudder. She was thinking what I was thinking. We actually have gotten a couple of good grades in English, and it was because of what happens in Mrs. Figglehopper’s library. But if I told you what happens—what really happens—you’d say it was impossible.

  Very impossible.

  In fact, that’s exactly what Frankie and I call what happens in that library.

  The Very Impossible Thing.

  I looked at her. She looked at me. We both wondered if it would happen again.

  “Time’s running out,” she said. “Tick, tock.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn us.”

  Gulping loudly, we pulled the library doors open and barged right in.

  And smushed our faces into a solid wall of cardboard boxes.

  Chapter 2

  “Ow!” I groaned, bouncing back into the hall and clutching my poor nose. “What gives?”

  “Not my forehead, for sure,” said Frankie, rubbing her eyebrows as she scanned the boxes blocking our way. “This looks like moving day. Devin, do you think the library’s moving away because we don’t use it enough?”

  I blinked. ??
?I don’t know, but Mr. Wexler gave us only three minutes to get the book, so we’d better find out. I see a little space between some of the boxes. Follow me.”

  I slipped between two tall columns of cartons and entered what turned out to be a zigzagging maze of boxes. First we went right, then left, then right again.

  “How can we find the book in all this?” I said.

  “Mrs. Figglehopper will know,” said Frankie.

  “Sure, but first we need to find her. Mrs. Figglehopper!”

  Now, let me tell you, Mrs. Figglehopper has never met a book she didn’t like. She’s all about books. Big books, small books, all books. But especially classic books.

  It’s like Mrs. Figglehopper and Mr. Wexler are the one-two punch of classic books. He assigns them and she just happens to have shelfloads of them in her library.

  Talk about a plot? It’s a conspiracy!

  “Mrs. Figglehopper?” Frankie called.

  “Hello? Hello!” called a voice from somewhere in the maze. We recognized it right away as the voice of the librarian herself. “Who’s there?

  “Me!” I replied.

  “And me!” said Frankie

  “Me and me who?” Mrs. Figglehopper called over the walls of boxes. It sounded like she was getting closer.

  “Us and us! Frankie and Devin!” I said. “We need a book. A classic book.”

  Just then, her head popped up above the wall of boxes. “Oh, there you are! I’m in the middle of reorganizing my collection of books. Thus, all the boxes.”

  “We thought you were moving,” I said.

  “Ha! Never!” said the librarian, finally slipping between the boxes and into view. She had a clipboard with a yellow pad on it. “Now, what brings you here today?”

  “Mr. Wexler sent us to find a book,” said Frankie. “It’s called Treasure Island—”

  The lady’s eyes beamed. “I love that book! It’s a story about pirates and a quest for buried treasure!”

  “I like treasure,” I said. “Well, I would if I ever found any.”

  “You will if you read the book!” Mrs. Figglehopper said. “Robert Louis Stevenson forever changed the way adventure stories are written. They are adventures, but it’s his characters that you remember.”