Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (14 page)

On Sunday we tried the third church. Apparently my dad had read something about this church in the paper, and it sounded
lively
, he said. Well, I’m all for lively, because the last church we were at was about as lively as watching bread dough rise. But I think we all came to the conclusion pretty quickly that this wasn’t the church for us either.

We were greeted warmly, and people seemed genuinely interested in seeing us. I felt the presence of the Lord there, and honestly, I had at the really traditional churches too. But these guys were a bit
too
exuberant for me. During worship they were waving flags or banners or something, and one of them accidentally hit my dad on the side of the head. The woman who hit him was really apologetic. The thing is, my dad is a tall, thin computer nerd. Kind of, uh, calm. Precise. Orderly. Drinks tomato juice for breakfast.

Not lively.

On the way home my mom said, “Well, that wasn’t too bad.”

Dad looked at her. “I don’t think it’s the place for us.”

“Maybe we’ll have to make do,” I said. “I mean, what if this is the best there is?”

Dad sighed. “Then we’ll go back. But let’s pray about it for a while longer. Rome wasn’t built in a night.”

“Dad,” Louanne said matter-of-factly. “We’re in London, not Rome.”

On Monday morning Jack grabbed me in the hall and slipped me a piece of paper. “It’s this week’s question,” he said quietly. “You’ve got a few days to get this one done. We’ll put out the first column next Thursday. I’ll give you the second question after the first column comes out, and you’ll have till the next Tuesday to get it done.”

I nodded. “That’s the girl,” he said. I grinned. Even if no one else knew I was on the team—yet—Union Jack did.

I made it to history and then unfolded the paper to read the question, hoping the teacher wouldn’t notice. He was a stickler for details. And his left eye twitched when he was training it on you if you were doing something wrong.

Well, that would have to change. What would we name this column, anyway?

Left Out

I slowly folded up the piece of paper and hid it away. This was not the question I wanted to tackle first. The sample question I’d experienced a long time ago—it was a scar and not a wound. But this one? Uh-uh. I didn’t know why, but I felt a little dizzy, and I promised myself I’d actually eat my lunch today instead of talking with Melissa and listening to everyone’s article plans.
You have eight days to answer it, Savvy,
I thought.
Don’t panic.

I was one of the first to arrive at the lunch table. Most of the others were having school dinner, that is, hot lunch. I set my sack on the table and sat down. Melissa came up to me—with no lunch at all.

“I’ve had a bit of a family emergency,” she said. “I’ve got to go to London till Thursday night.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, flattered that she was treating me like a friend. She was obviously on her way out of school.

“So, here’s the thing, Savvy. I’ve got my Father Christmas interview lined up for tomorrow after school. I can’t cancel it. He only appears once before the Christmas season gets going—for a photo shoot. Then it’s back to wherever he lives till it’s time to start taking requests. In all these years as Father Christmas, he’s never let his real identity slip. I’ve got my questions all typed out. Would you be willing to go and interview him for me?”

I felt as if I’d lifted off of my chair. I cleared my throat to steady my voice before answering. “I’d . . . I’d love to, Melissa.”
Why me?
I wondered with delight. But I didn’t have to wonder long.

“Brilliant, Savvy.” She looked relieved. “Jack’s all tied up in his other paper and sports responsibilities, and, well . . . honestly, I don’t trust any of the other reporters on the WA
Times
not to scoop me or take the article in their direction and not mine. This article is really important to the paper because the shops will sponsor a big ad around the Father Christmas story.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I really appreciate you trusting me. I’ll ask exactly the questions you have written down.”

“Thank you.” She handed me a folder. “Everything’s in here. I’ve included the address and time to interview him—he’ll be doing a photo op at the town center tomorrow, and he agreed to meet me just beforehand.”

“What should I do with my notes when I’m done?” I asked. Secretly I hoped she’d say that I should bring them over to her house and we’d hang out together and go over writing ideas and all that.

“Hand them back to Jack. I told him I’m having you do the research. He’ll lock up the answers in the file cabinet in the newspaper office, and I’ll pick them up on Friday morning when I get back.”

“Don’t worry about anything here,” I reassured her. “I’ll make sure everything goes just right.”

“I know you will, Savvy. That’s why I asked you. I trust you.” With that, she slung her bag—a fashionable, glossy, pink patent leather bag, I might add—over her shoulder.

The town center was only a few blocks from our house. We’d seen a couple of events there—a band had played one night last month, and when a local football team had won the regional championship, they’d had a celebratory bonfire there. From what I’d heard though, the biggest event there by far was the annual appearance of Father Christmas. He showed up for a few hours each day the week before Christmas.

“I’ll be back soon,” I said to my mom as I left the house.

She grinned and squeezed my hand. “I’m so excited for you.”

“I’m so excited for me too!” With that, I slipped Melissa’s folder into my book bag, made sure I had not one, not two, but three working pens, and headed out the door.

As I walked down the stone streets, a rare snow shower swirled around my face and my feet. I whistled the notes to “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas” as I walked and felt glad to be in an ancient village, in an ancient country, interviewing Father Christmas. When I got to the town center, I saw him all right. Not many other dudes sporting a huge white beard. That was about all he had in common with Santa Claus though. He had on thick blue and green velour robes that swished when he walked, and he had a garland on his head.

If you asked me, he kind of looked like Gandalf from
The Lord of the Rings
or one of those dudes from Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol
. Both of which were written near London, after all.

The camera crew was setting up. Was I supposed to just walk right up to him? Did he have a personal assistant or something? Suddenly I felt more like the fifteen-year-old schoolgirl I really was, not the journalist I was aiming to become.

I heard him telling the crew where to set the chair and the camera in order to get the shops in the picture. “A little to the left, no, a bit right, that’s it. Two more feet to the front and Bob’s your uncle!”

Bob’s your uncle?
I looked around. It just seemed to be the two of them. No uncle figure nearby. And why would Father Christmas be talking about the cameraman’s family right now anyway? It was all kind of disorienting. Plus, I didn’t know if I was supposed to be standing here or what.

Being Father Christmas and all, he noticed my distress and helped me out. “Young lady, are you from Wexburg Academy?” He motioned toward me. “I’ve been expecting you.”

I walked forward and sat on the little stool next to his, um, throne? That’s kind of what it looked like anyway. I’d have to mark that down for Melissa. “My name is Savannah Smith, and I’m here to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

“Quite all right,” he answered. “American, are you?”

“Yes. Is it . . . that noticeable?” I thought I looked very British indeed in my tweed coat and woolen scarf.

“Just the accent, that’s all. We’ve got a lot of language in common, but sometimes one thing or another sticks out.” He patted his largish stomach. “Now, what can I answer for you?”

I looked down at my sheet and asked the first question. “How long have you been Father Christmas in Wexburg?”

“Well, now, I’ve been Father Christmas for a very, very long time, but I’ve been in Wexburg Centre for about seventy-five years.”

“You don’t look that old!” I blurted out.
Oh, Savvy, reporters don’t blurt.

“Well, Father Christmas is rather timeless, isn’t he?” By that I knew he meant that
a
Father Christmas had been there that long. Not necessarily him.

I worked through a few more questions about what kind of gifts he liked to give most (books) and least (pets that squirmed, bit, or made wee-wee), and then I got to the last question. “What’s the best thing about being Father Christmas?” I asked.

“Helping others,” he said. “Seeing the joy when I’ve done something to make them happy. I hear a lot of secrets, and I hear a lot of sorrow, as you can imagine. It all gets whispered right here.” He pointed to his ear. “Or sometimes it’s written in the letters that are delivered to me. I try to do a bit of good where I can—helping people sort things out for the holiday. That’s what’s most rewarding to me.”

I liked him. I kind of felt the same way. I’d finished my official questions and was ready to snap my notebook shut when I decided to look him over closely again so Melissa could describe him in detail. Santa Claus was supposed to have a twinkle in his eye. Did Father Christmas too?

His eyes were a hazel green, like a lot of people’s, but with some flecks of brown. Nothing necessarily
twinkly
though. Kind, of course, but . . .

Wait. Was that a bruise by his left eye? I thought it was. It was almost completely covered in makeup—I’d guessed that he had makeup on, and I also figured maybe it was a false beard. But if you looked hard, you could just barely see the purple skin underneath.

I decided to take a risk and ask a question that wasn’t on Melissa’s form. “Is that a black eye?” I asked. “A bruise?”

He grinned. “Well, I guess Mother Christmas didn’t do a good enough job with the cover-up, eh?”

I laughed. “Did someone get angry with their Christmas gift and chuck it at you?”

He laughed along with me, and his belly did actually jiggle like a bowlful of jelly. So maybe he and Santa were cousins or something. “No. I ran into an open door. Suppose Father Christmas might need glasses soon.”

Should I write this little fact down? Or would Melissa be mad that I’d gone off of her precise script? I decided to hold back—for now.

I stood and held out my hand. “Thank you. I’m sure Melissa will be in touch.”

Late that night, at home, I furiously typed out the notes and then spell-checked and grammar-checked them. I printed them out on the cleanest, flattest sheets of white paper in my dad’s office. I wanted them to look perfect. For Melissa. For Jack. This week, research for another reporter. Next week, my own secret column. In January—my own byline.

What writer didn’t want her own byline, those little words at the end of the article that gave her name, her credentials, and a little bit of interesting fluff? It’s what made writing worthwhile. What made writers famous. How people noticed you in class and in the hall. I’d seen it happen for Jack. I’d even seen it happen, in maths, for Hazelle.

Savannah Smith, Advice Columnist Extraordinaire.

The next day after school, I met Jack at the paper office. My Au Revoir bag was empty, having restocked that week’s edition for the day. But my book bag carried Melissa’s folder.

Except for Jack, the office was empty, since the paper was done for the week.

“Knock, knock,” I said, alerting him before I walked in. “I have Melissa’s research for her. She said you’d lock it in the cabinet?”

“Right, Savvy. Nice work. So you met with old FC then, eh?”

“FC?”

“Father Christmas,” he said. “Hidden hero of the holiday and all that.” He flashed that smile, and I was almost distracted from what I was going to say.

“He’s hardly hidden. He’s in the middle of the town center!”

“Ah yes, but where is he the rest of the year? Tell me that, and you’ll really earn your byline.”

“I dunno,” I admitted. “Though I know he’s married. Does that count?”

Jack rolled his eyes as if to say,
No, absolutely not, that does not count,
and he held out his hand for the folder. I put it in his open palm.

“So what are you planning to call the advice column?” I asked. I was careful not to call it
my
advice column.

“No idea,” he said. “Dear something . . . you know.”

“How about Dear Lizzy?” I offered. “You know, after the Queen!” In my mind’s eye, I could see it now. It would be a huge hit. Word of it would filter back to London somehow . . . maybe a member of the Queen’s staff had a child at Wexburg Academy. Or a grandchild. Or lined a birdcage with our paper. Whatever. The word
Lizzy
would catch the Queen’s eye, and she’d be drawn to the column. She’d read it and decide it was wise. She’d have one of her ladies-in-waiting track me down and . . . we’d have tea!

“Savvy!” Jack’s voice snapped me back to reality. “Savvy, are you paying attention?”

“Oh yes, of course.” I looked him in the eye to show him my powers of concentration.

He had a worried look on his face. That smile had disappeared. “Savvy, no one calls the Queen ‘Lizzy.’ It’s ‘Her Royal Highness’ or ‘Your Majesty.’ It concerns me that you’d even suggest that. It’s the kind of thing I was worried about with having an outsider write the column.”

An outsider?
I shifted into recovery mode fast. “I wasn’t totally serious,” I said, and I saw him relax a little. I had to come up with something—and quick. “How about . . . Asking for Trouble? It’s to the point, hip, knowledgeable. And everyone who writes in is in trouble of some kind.”

That smile was back. “Brilliant!” he said. “Asking for Trouble it is. I’ll look for your first trial article on Tuesday. Be in early.”