Читать книгу The Christmas MEGAPACK ® - Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Страница 11

THE SANTA TRAP, by Robin Aurelian

It was Subtraction Eve, and the children went through the house looking at everything they cherished, wondering which things Santa would sneak in and steal that night. Janie’s birthday was the week before Subtraction. She hated the fact that her birthday was so close to the holiday. She only got to play with her presents for a week before most of them disappeared forever. Sometimes she thought her parents gave her crummy gifts on purpose—why spend money on something she would lose before she even got a chance to break it? Mike’s birthday was in the spring and he always got much neater things.

“This time I’m going to hide the truck behind the toilet,” Mike said, cradling his yellow Tonka truck in his arms.

“Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t matter where you put it. The more you don’t want him to find it, the more he can find it. He’s got some kind of sniffer to find the stuff you like the best,” said Janie.

“He didn’t find Monkey Man last year,” Mike said.

“You didn’t like Monkey Man last year. You didn’t like Monkey Man until he was the only toy left.” Janie looked at her doll, Brewster. Worn and battered Brewster, with the hair half off his head, his clothes all torn and stained. Janie had her own way of dealing with Brewster and Santa. She had had Brewster for four years now. She roughed him up right before Subtraction, made him ugly and dirty, looked at him and thought bad thoughts. She spent all of Subtraction Eve thinking about anything other than Brewster; if she thought of Brewster she thought about him as her most hated toy. So far, Brewster had been there each Subtraction morning, and she could get back to taking good care of him.

She wasn’t sure her method would work this year. Even though Santa was only supposed to take the good things, the new things and the neat things to give to other kids who didn’t have enough money to get their own neat new things, Janie had heard of Santa taking someone’s best loved teddy bear even though it was missing both eyes and an ear. She thought Santa took things just for spite sometimes.

She had never heard of a single person who had gotten anything from Santa. She had her suspicions. She thought Santa took everything to the stores so when they opened up the day after Subtraction, the biggest shopping day of the year because people had to go buy replacements for stuff Santa had stolen, the stores would have just what people needed.

She had better put Brewster down. If she carried him much longer maybe Santa would sniff out the stink of her concern on him.

She put him on the mantel, right near the spot where they always left milk and cookies She tried to make it seem as if she wanted Santa to take Brewster. That was part of her reverse psychology too, but it fueled her worry to leave Brewster there in plain sight.

She had better go play with the toys she liked least.

Mike looked at his Tonka truck and let out a howl. “I’m sick of this!” he yelled. “I don’t want Santa taking one more thing from me!”

“Shhh!” said Janie. “He knows if you’ve been naughty.”

“I don’t care!” Mike said. “He always takes everything anyway, even when I’ve been good! I’d like to catch him and take away everything he likes, see how he feels about it!”

“Oh, Mike!” Janie breathed, awed by the idea.

* * * *

Everyone left their front door unlocked on Subtraction Eve. It was a rule. If Santa tried your front door and found it locked, he reported your family to the IRS. Santa might drive a hyper-toad-drawn sleigh, and steal all your favorite things, but nobody wanted to be reported to the IRS: unlike Santa, the auditors took away things you couldn’t live without.

One year there had been a rash of burglaries on Subtraction Eve. All those unlocked doors! All the burglars had been caught. Janie heard they had been fed to Santa’s hyper-toads. This gave her pause.

“We wouldn’t be burglars,” Mike said. “Catching Santa isn’t like stealing from other people. Or maybe it’s just stealing from other people after they’ve been robbed.”

“Fed to toads,” Janie said meditatively.

“We’ll wear masks,” Mike said. “He’ll never know who did it.”

“He knows whose house it is, persimmon-brain.”

They looked at each other. Is this worth it? Janie wondered. She stared at the presents on her desk, all the really cool stuff she had gotten for her birthday. A big sketch pad—her mom had told her if she drew on all the pages before Subtraction she would be able to keep it, and she had doodled on each page with her new markers, the box of thirty-six with colors like aquamarine and celestial blue and crimson and scarlet and chartreuse. She liked the paper and pens so much she was sure she couldn’t keep them. Mike had given her a stuffed alligator, and she loved that too, though she had tried not to. She’d named it Wally, even though naming things was a bad idea. Daddy had given her a doll this year, a really neat one she’d seen advertised on TV and had asked for specifically: Talk Back Jack. He came with three outfits: mountain climber, dirt bike rider, and cowboy. If you talked to him, he cussed you. All right, they were wimpy cusses, but still.

Usually she didn’t get such neat stuff.

Mike sat on her bed and hugged his Tonka truck.

“Do you think he turns on the lights when he comes in?” Janie said.

* * * *

They put the trip wire about three feet from the front door so the door wouldn’t hit the wire when it opened. Janie held the big pillow case, and Mike held the electric cord. They sat across from each other, Mike just inside the living room entrance, Janie behind the coat rack in the front hall, and they waited.

Mom and Daddy had gone to bed an hour earlier, after putting Mike and Janie to bed. “Sleep well, sleep deep, sleep late, children,” Mom had said as she tucked them in. “Tomorrow afternoon we’ll go to a movie, how about that?”

Janie grabbed Mom and gave her a big kiss. Toad food couldn’t go to the movies.

Splat-splat-splat-splat, splat-splat. Janie straightened, gripping the pillow case with both hands. Had to be toads in the driveway.

The front door opened slowly inward. Santa was muttering as he came in. “Blasted bug-grubbing flim-flamming distelfinks,” he growled, stumbling over the threshold as he grabbed for the front hall lightswitch and turned on the light. “Yowtch!” He tripped quite nicely over the wire. Janie was on him in an instant, pulling the pillow case down over his head, while Mike wrapped the cord around his wrists, binding his arms behind him. “Burning brands!” cried the muffled Santa. His snatcher-sack had fallen as he fell. “Blistering boards!”

Janie was panting. Fortunately this was a very small, skinny Santa, though all dressed in traditional red.

“Frag mag zigzag,” muttered Santa as Janie and Mike rolled him over. “Third time tonight! What do you bleeping want?”

“We want you not to take anything this year, Santa.” Janie said.

“Is that all you want?” he said. He had a nice voice, Janie thought, confused.

“I want to see what’s in your bag,” Mike said. “I want to find something you really like and take it away from you.”

“I don’t,” said Janie.

“There’s nothing I like,” Santa said.

“That’s not fair,” said Mike.

“Oh well,” said Santa.

“What do we have to do to get you to go away without stealing our stuff this year?” Janie asked.

“There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“What if we just don’t let you go?”

“You’re going to let me go, aren’t you?”

Well, this plan wasn’t working at all, Janie thought. “Are you going to feed us to your toads?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You’re not going to tell the IRS on us, are you?”

“How much taxes do you pay?”

“None,” said Janie.

“There you go.”

“What about our parents?”

“Did they help you plan this?”

“No.”

“There you go,” said Santa, and sighed.

“Untie the cord, Mike,” Janie said, pulling the pillow slip off Santa’s head. He blinked at her. He was awfully skinny, and had a lot of dark curls, all messy with being tripped and tied up, and he had very dark eyes. His eyes looked nice. How could Santa look nice?

“I will not,” said Mike. He grabbed Santa’s snatcher-sack and reached into it.

“Don’t do that,” Santa said. He sounded depressed.

“Ouch!” yelled Mike. He jerked his hand out of the sack.

“There you go,” said Santa tonelessly. “Got a future now, young man.”

The back of Mike’s hand was smoking. Mike began to cry: no sound, but tears rolled down his cheeks.

“What happened?” asked Janie.

“He got the brand. He’s going to be a Santa when he grows up. What do you least want me to take this year?” Santa said.

Janie stared at him. Was he going to be nice, just this once, and let her keep what she most loved? After she had tied him up? Not likely. “My new doll,” she said, “Talk Back Jack.”

Santa sighed. He tensed his muscles. The cord broke and his hands were free. “I hate this job,” he said. He stood up, grabbed his snatcher-sack, and headed upstairs.

Janie went into the kitchen and got some ice for Mike’s hand. Tears were still welling up from his eyes. On the back of his hand, inflamed and red, was a jagged “S.” She gave him ice in a rag to press against it.

She poured milk, put some cookies on a plate, took cup and plate to the mantel.

Santa came back downstairs, his sack bulging. “Sorry about this, kids,” he said. He wandered into the living room and drank the milk and ate the cookies. “I hate this job.” He looked at Mike.

Mike sniffed. He said, “Do you get to play with the toys before you give them to someone else?”

“I guess you could, if you wanted to,” Santa said. He cocked his head, eyed Brewster, glanced at Janie. I hate that doll, she thought as hard as she could.

Santa picked up Brewster.

Hate him, Janie thought.

Santa put Brewster back down and sighed. “You’re not going to try this again next year, are you?”

Janie and Mike shook their heads.

“Good,” said Santa. He went out the front door. Janie and Mike watched as he climbed into his sleigh. The hyper-toads did a couple of limbering hops and then took off.

Janie watched until Santa was out of sight. Then she went and got Brewster, hugged him tight. She went up to her room. Not a single birthday present left—even the underwear Grandma had sent was gone. There was a note, though, in six different colors, on a page torn out of her sketch pad. “Write me in the pen,” it said, and gave the address of the state prison.

Janie sighed and slipped the note into her desk drawer.