Ho-Ho-NOOO! (4 page)

“Get out!” the manager ordered.

He turned for the door, shaking his head in confusion.

Tuna whispered, “This is working out rather nicely, wouldn't you agree?”

TJ had no answer. She could only stare as the assistant manager moved to the next in line—a blonde beauty queen.

“And what about you, cupcake?” the manager sneered. “You got any zecretz you feel like zharing?”

The girl opened her mouth but did not speak.

“What'z wrong?”

“I, uh, er . . .”

“Zpit it out.”

“I'm sorry; it's just that . . . I've never seen anyone quite as ugly as you.” She clamped her hands over her mouth but still managed to say, “Though I saw a Bigfoot drawing on the Discovery Channel once that reminds me of—”

“Next!”

A college student with enough grease in his hair to start a Jiffy Lube answered, “I'm looking for a job where I can slack without getting caught and—”

“Next!”

An older man replied, “My parole officer said this would be a good—”

“Next!”

A middle-aged woman answered, “I've got a crush on the store's Santa Claus and—”

“Next!”

TJ glanced around and took a deep breath. There was no next, next to her. She was the last one there.

The manager leaned in and snarled, “And what are your qualificationz?”

TJ cleared her throat.

“Well?”

Before she could stop herself, the words spilled out. “I'm a hard worker, honest, and very considerate of people.”

The manager leaned closer, suspiciously eyeing her.

“And I really don't think you're ugly.”

The manager continued staring.

TJ swallowed. “Well, not ugly enough to be on the Discovery Channel.”

The manager folded her arms.

TJ fidgeted, grateful the woman didn't ask her what she thought of her breath.

“And why do you want zee job?” the manager asked.

“I really need the money so I can give it to my dad, 'cause he really deserves it, and my sister Violet, she—”

“All right,” the woman said.

“—can really be a pain, and, I mean, I love her and everything, but she's planning on getting him this real expensive—”

“I zaid, all right.”

“—big-screen TV and I want to give him something even better so—”

“ZTOP!”

TJ clamped her mouth shut.

The assistant manager paused a long moment before finally speaking. “All right, you've got zee job.”

“I do?” TJ croaked.

“Go down to zee fitting room and get your elf coztume.”

“What . . . now?”

“Do you want zee job or not?”

“Yes, ma'am. Like I said, my sister is buying him this—”

“Go.”

“—very expensive—”

“GO!”

“Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much.” TJ turned to gather her things. “I promise you won't be disappointed.”

And she was right. The woman would not be disappointed. Totally astonished, yes. Completely horrified, absolutely. But disappointed, no. That was far too mild a word for what was about to happen.

TIME TRAVEL LOG:

Malibu, California, December 19—supplemental

Begin Transmission

Subject learning the joys of work. Still refuses our companionship. Reasons unknown as I actually showered this morning. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll try using soap.

End Transmission

After putting on an elf costume that was baggy in all the wrong places and tight in all the others (although the floppy hat with the white ball on top was cool), TJ headed into the store’s lobby to begin work as Santa’s helper. They’d decorated the area to look like a mountain forest, complete with rocks, fake trees, and fir branches around the floor.

The good news was TJ had finally convinced Tuna and Herby to go home and leave her alone.

The bad news was TJ had finally convinced Tuna and Herby to go home and leave her alone.

Actually, the job was simple enough. She just had to make sure the kids sitting on Santa’s lap smiled when their pictures were taken.

For the older kids, this meant something complicated like standing behind the photographer and saying, “Smile!”

For the younger kids, she had a bright pink dinosaur toy that

when she squeezed it. (A real sidesplitter if you’re four years old.)

But for the youngest children . . . well, that’s where she could have used some 23rd-century help. Because little Jimmie Johnson was definitely not in the mood to grin.

“Okay, smile!” TJ said.

Little Jimmie Johnson began to cry.

TJ grabbed the pink dinosaur and

it.

Little Jimmie Johnson began to wail.

“Okay,” TJ said, trying to think of a solution. “Hey, check out my funny face!” She stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes.

Little Jimmie Johnson looked at her, blinked, then screamed his lungs out.

Unfortunately, Santa wasn’t so helpful either. “Shut up,” he growled at the child. And when Jimmie didn’t feel like shutting up, Santa tried a more sensitive approach by yelling, “Keep your yap shut or I’ll
really
give you something to cry about!” (It’s not that Santa didn’t have feelings for children. He had plenty. It’s just that none of them were good.)

Glaring at TJ, he yelled, “Do something!”

“Right.” TJ’s mind raced until she had another solution. She began jumping up and down while making funny

sounds.

That nearly did the trick. Little Jimmie grew quiet for almost a second.

Almost.

TJ shouted louder. She jumped higher . . . which made the little ball on the end of her elf hat begin to

her in the face. This added feature should have sent Jimmie into hysterical fits.

Unfortunately, he was too busy screaming to notice.

Next, TJ added waving both of her arms to the routine. And we’re not talking a little waving. We’re talking out-of-control-airplane-propeller waving.

Jimmie cranked up the volume from earhurting to earsplitting. (I don’t want to say he was loud, but the cars outside were pulling over for what they thought was an approaching fire truck.)

“Do something!” Santa shouted at TJ.

“I’m (
jump jump jump
) try(
wave wave wave
)ing!”

TJ yelled as her little white ball kept

her in the face and she kept

“WELL, TRY HARDER!” Santa shouted.

She shouted back, “O—

“—KAY!”

But nothing worked. Until Santa, being the seasoned professional he was, grabbed Jimmie by the shoulders, spun him around, and shouted into his face. “STOP IT, YOU LITTLE BRAT!”

The good news was Jimmie Johnson immediately stopped screaming.

The bad news was Jimmie Johnson passed out in fear.

The baddest news was Jimmie Johnson’s mother (better known as Mrs. Johnson) replaced her son’s screaming with her own:
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BABY?”

(I guess we know where her baby got his lung power.)

And the fun and games weren’t exactly over. . . .

Thanks to Jimmie’s screaming, Santa’s yelling, and Mommy’s shouting, every child in line was crying.

“WILL YOU DO SOMETHING?!” Santa yelled at TJ.

With no other plan, TJ grabbed the pink dinosaur and raced to the children,

and of course,

her heart out as she ran up and down the line making goofy faces.

To be honest, she didn’t know if it would work.

And when she reached the end of the line, she didn’t much care. Because there, holding the hand of his terrified little cousin, stood Chad Steel.

Chad Steel . . . whose name TJ had scrawled all over the inside of her notebook.

Chad Steel . . . who already thought TJ belonged in a mental hospital.

Chad Steel . . . who