Don't Call Me Christina Kringle (9 page)

I hate Christmas
, she thought as she made her way back to Kaio's desk.
Too much to do. Too many deadlines.

“Um, Happy Holidays,” she said, not knowing if Kaio and her family celebrated Christmas or something else. “Sorry your present is a little late.” She handed Kaio the glimmering gold box.

Kaio smiled. “Thank you. Shall I open it?”

Christina shrugged. “Sure. 'Tis the season.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Just something we say at Christmas.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

Christina wished Kaio would rip off the wrapping paper the way Zach had torn open the peppermint-covered pretzels box because she wanted to see what Professor Pencilneck and Nails had picked out for a girl they'd never even met. Instead, Kaio's slender fingers slowly untied the delicate ribbon and bow. Then she used her dainty pinky-finger nail to slice through the single strip of tape on the bottom of the box. After that, she carefully folded up the shimmering foil paper into a tidy square so she could re-use it to make a gold origami bird or something.

Slowly, extremely slowly, Kaio raised the lid on the box and revealed …five plastic-wrapped tubes of sausage and a canned ham.

“Ah!” said Kaio. “Ham sausage!”

Way to go, Professor,
thought Christina.
Nothing says Happy Holidays like ham sausage.

And then Kaio hugged her.

“You are so very kind to give me my favorite Oseibo gift!”

“Huh?”

“Oseibo is the end-of-the-year gift-giving season in Japan. But surely, you knew this for ham sausage and canned hams are both very popular gifts during Oseibo. I totally prefer it to seaweed or soy sauce. Ham is my favorite food in the whole world!”

Christina just stood there nodding, amazed at just how brilliant the two brownies really were.

“Yeah,” she finally said. “I love a good ham for Christmas, too.”

When Nails and Professor Pencilneck pushed open the door and dashed into the boys' bathroom they were shocked by what they saw sitting on the floor.

Three other brownies.

That is, three little men in navy blue jumpsuits with name patches sewn above the chest pocket. Each one held a toothbrush with frayed bristles.

“Greetings, brownie brothers!” said the professor, bowing grandly. “I am Professor Pencilneck. I design shoes. This is my comrade, Nails.”

“I make the shoes.”

The three jumpsuited men jumped up. “Greetings,” said the sad-eyed man in the middle. He had a hangdog expression on his face and unshaved white stubble speckling his chin. He wore an upside down aluminum bucket for a hat, the handle acting as a chinstrap. “We clean toilets,” he proclaimed weakly, gesturing toward the toilet stalls with his toothbrush staff.

“We also scrub sinks,” said the yarn-haired fellow to his left. His shaggy mane was a bright yellow, his face a dull gray. He seemed even sadder than his friend with the bucket hat.

“And spigots,” said the third, whose straw-colored hair shot straight up like a bundle of hay. His heavy eyelids drooped down in the saddest slant of all. “We polish spigots.” He sounded very glum and gloomy. “We make the spigots shine so bright, you can see your reflection, even if you no longer recognize your own face.”

Then the three of them stood there, slump-shouldered, staring down at the floor, looking absolutely miserable.

“Pardon me for asking,” said the professor, “but what are those clothes you're wearing?”

“Uniforms,” said the man in the middle. “The janitor gave them to us.”

Nails arched an eyebrow angrily. “He gave you clothes? The lousy, no-good …”

“Easy,” said the professor, gesturing gently with his cane. “This might prove most beneficial, Nails.”

“I'm Buckets,” said the one standing in the center of the pack, pointing to his nametag.

“I am so grossed out,” muttered Nails.

“You don't like my name?”

“No, the name's fine. It's the uniforms that cottage my cheese.”

“I'm Mops,” said the one with the ragdoll hair.

“I'm Broom,” said the one with twelve-inch bristle top.

“We finish the work the janitor leaves undone,” said Buckets.

“Which is just about everything in the school,” added Mops.

“You ever empty a cafeteria slop barrel?” asked Broom. “Ever clean out a clogged sewer?”

“That's disgusting!” said Nails.

“Oh, after a while, you get used to it,” said Broom.

“You just need to breathe through your mouth,” said Buckets.

“I meant the uniforms!” screamed Nails. “He gave you clothes? The nerve of this guy. Why are you still here?”

“What would you have us do?” asked Broom.

“Leave! Run away! Me and the professor did when our human humiliated us with holiday sweaters!”

“But,” said Buckets, “where would we go? We live to serve. To help humans.”

“So come help us help our humans!” said the professor.

“Yeah,” said Nails. “Trust me—our two people need all the help they can get.”

“Tell me, lads,” said the professor, “have any of you ever worked on shoes?”

“My first polishing job was in a shoe shop,” said Mops.

“That guy Thom McCan, the one who sells shoes in the malls, you ever heard of him?” asked Broom.

“Sure,” said the professor.

“I taught him everything he knows.”

“I worked in Hollywood!” said Buckets, eagerly. “Years ago. In the costume shop. Ben Hur's sandals? Those were mine and weren't they fine?”

“Indeed!” said Professor Pencilneck. “Gentlemen, since your current human has, as my esteemed colleague Nails here has repeatedly pointed out, insulted you by giving you clothes—”

“Uniforms?” Nails spat out his toothpick nail. “Pah!”

“—perhaps you three would care to join us at Giuseppe's Old World Shoe Repair Shop? We promise you a most congenial working atmosphere, plenty of cream …”

“And,” shouted Nails, raising his fist in triumph, “no uniforms! No dress code! Heck, you can work naked for all we care!”

“Ahem,” said the professor, “only when no humans are present.”

“Natch,” said Nails. “What? You think I'm nutty or something?”

“Oh, no,” said the professor, rolling his eyes. “Never.”

At that, the three sad brownies lost their jumpsuits and found their smiles.

“Come on!” said Buckets to his two friends. “We have shoes to do!”

As soon as the final bell rang, Christina raced to her locker.

She wanted to thank the two brownies for finding the absolutely perfect gift for Kaio Tanaka. She yanked open the door and knelt on the floor so she could talk to her backpack.

“You guys?”

“Yes?” said the professor from inside the bag.

“That ham and sausage box you made for Kaio was awesome! Apparently it's the perfect Oseibo gift, which you're supposed to give by December 20.”

“We know.”

“Last year, someone gave her like a gallon of soy sauce. Yuk. Who wants to drink fermented soybeans and liquid salt? Oh, did you know, in Japan, they call it ‘shoyu?' Doesn't make it taste any better.”

“So,” said Nails, poking his head out of a zippered pouch, “you had fun?”

“Yeah. I guess. I made a new friend. Kaio's pretty cool.”

“Dig it,” said Nails, snapping his fingers.

Christina gave him a puzzled look.

“What? Isn't finger snapping cool anymore?”

“Uh, no.”

“When did that happen?”

“Like fifty years ago.”

“Nobody told me!”

“You didn't ask,” said a voice Christina didn't recognize.

“I like soy sauce,” said another unfamiliar voice.

“You're crazy, too!” said yet a third strange voice. “You pour it on pancakes!”

Christina opened the top of her book bag. She saw the professor, Nails, and three other nine-inch-tall men dressed in bright red long johns.

“Um, who are you guys?”

“I'm Mops!”

“I'm Broom!”

“Buckets here, have no fear!”

The one who called himself Mops slapped his forehead. “Are you gonna start in with that rhyming stuff again?”

“Why not?” said Buckets defensively. “It sounds brownie-ish.”

“It's annoying,” said Mops.

Professor Pencilneck motioned for the three new brownies to settle down. “We'll discuss this later, gentlemen.” He turned and smiled nervously up at Christina. “As you can see, we made a few new friends today, as well.”

“Swell guys,” said Nails. “Gonna help us cobble.”

“And,” said Buckets, “your food we promise not to gobble!”

“He's doing it again,” said Broom. “That rhyming thing!”

“These guys are coming home with us?” Christina whispered.

“What?” said Nails, his arms akimbo. “You don't expect me to do all the work, do you?”

“Whatever,” said Christina as she quickly re-zipped her bag and swung it up to her back.

“Easy!” said one of the new guys. Maybe Mops. “Brownies on board!”

Christina thought she might topple backwards. Her backpack weighed a lot more than it had in the morning. Tightening the straps, she headed up the hall.

“Aw,” she heard Nails moan. “She never ate her banana!”

“So?” whispered Professor Pencilneck. “What's the problem?”

“I'm sittin' in it!”

“Oooh,” groaned the other four little voices. “Gross.”

“Indubitably,” added the professor.

That night, down near the docks, in a dilapidated warehouse shrouded by thick fog, Donald McCracken was meeting with one of his customers, a pompous and flighty shoemaker who arrogantly called himself “Mister Fred.”

The two men sat huddled atop overturned wooden crates in the vast and dreary room. A kerosene lantern flickered on the floor between them, providing the empty warehouse's only dim light. Water plunked down from the ceiling, a droplet or two sizzling the instant they hit the grimy lid of the glowing lantern.

“You gave them
sweaters
?” asked McCracken incredulously.

“Of course I did!” said Mister Fred haughtily. “Their own clothes were so threadbare and shabby.”

“You gave a brownie a new set of clothes?”

“I most certainly did.”

“Did you read the instruction manual?”

“What?”

“When I delivered ye your brownies, did you not read the instructions?”

“Maybe. I don't know. Probably not.”

The lanky Scotsman sighed and raised his giant frame off the makeshift stool. Sighing some more, he loped over to another crate where he kept a half-empty bottle of whisky and a stack of dirty drinking glasses. He blew the dust out of one, poured in an inch or two of amber-colored liquid, and slugged down the entire drink in one quick gulp.

He hissed when the whisky burned his throat.

Mister Fred fidgeted with the briefcase on his lap.

“Y'know,” said McCracken, “back home in Scotland, brownies are everywhere. Factories. Shops. Milk barns. And as long as the wee little creatures are kept content—with cake and cream and work to do—well, Mister Fred, they never long to stray from hearth nor home.”

“I gave them work.”

McCracken, his long limbs moving languidly, circled Mister Fred.

“Brownies, y'see, they live to give,” he said, practically ignoring Mister Fred, speaking as if he were giving a lecture in an empty auditorium. “But, if you act like you think they want something in return for their cheerful labors, if you give them compensation, pay them with something like, oh, let's say a holiday sweater …”

“With a snowflake pattern on the back!”

“Aye. You give them clothes—a sweater with a snowflake pattern on the back, a tiny pair of blue jeans, even a jaunty little hat—well, laddy, that ruins it for them! You take away their joy by assuming they're just as greedy as you are! And when you take away their joy, Mister Fred, well, the wee ones become miserable. Their eyes droop down in abject sadness!”

“They ran away!”

“And can ye blame 'em? You made your brownies look as piggish and grubby as you!”

“Okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have given them the jolly holiday sweaters. Fine. But what do I do now? How do I get Nails and Professor Pencilneck back?”

“Simple,” said McCracken, creaking back down to sit on his crate. “You go to the bank, lad. You bring me a big bag of money. Say fifty thousand dollars. Then, you sit tight while I go out and catch your runaway brownies.”

“You can do that? You promise?”

“Aye. I'll find 'em both and bring 'em back to you. Or I ain't Donald McCracken, Brownie Hunter!”

He went to another wooden crate.

The one where he stored his brownie traps.

The December days were growing shorter so it was already dark out when Christina walked down the street to her grandfather's shoe shop.

“Oooh, look at all the pretty lights in the window!” said Mops, peeking through the flap of her backpack.

“Indeed,” said Professor Pencilneck. “As we said, it is a warm and festive workplace.”

“And,” said Nails, “you don't got to wear no uniforms or nametags.”

“That elf dummy with the hammer?” said Broom. “He looks like my cousin Morty.”

“What? Your cousin's a dummy?”

“Okay, you guys,” said Christina. “Settle down. We don't want to give grandpa a heart attack. Everybody, back in the bag.”

While the five brownies squirmed into their hiding positions in her book bag, Christina tried to push open the door.

It wouldn't budge.

There were too many shoes piled up on the other side. Dozens and dozens of shoes heaped in a mound, spilling across the floor, tumbling down to block the door.