He’s early!
I quickly fold the letter and stuff it into the envelope.
But before I can get out of the room, there is a huge crash. And then a stream of angry cursing. Well, I think it’s cursing. Some of the words are new to me, but they sound like the sort of thing I’d get into trouble for repeating.
A cloud of black soot explodes from the fireplace, followed by Santa.
At least, I think it’s Santa . . .
There’s no big white beard or red suit, and he’s as skinny as a rake. He is clad in black leather with chains and silver studs. His face is covered in a dark three-day-old growth and one of his front teeth is missing. He has a black eye and a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his ear. And worst of all, little Frankenstein bolts coming out of his neck.
He seems strangely familiar. Where have I seen this man before?
And then I remember.
I created him. He’s one of the mutant Santas from Jen’s Christmas cards.
‘Stop right there, you little weasel!’ he booms. ‘It’s time all good children were in bed! What are you doing still up?’
‘I–I–I was in bed,’ I say, ‘but then I remembered I’d forgotten to put out some cookies and a glass of milk for you.’
‘Milk?’ he snarls, and then spits into the fireplace. He picks up the glass and throws the milk in my face. ‘Milk? What sort of a wuss do you think I am! Got anything stronger?’
‘There’s maybe a coke in the fridge,’ I say, wiping the milk from my eyes.
‘I mean even stronger! It’s cold out there dammit! And as for these . . .’
Santa picks up the chocolate-chip cookies in his bony hands and crumbles them into dust.
‘These are for kids! I travel all the way from the North Pole and you think a few cookies will satisfy my hunger. I want a steak! Medium rare! Now!’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I say. I run to the kitchen and open the freezer. There are no steaks. All we’ve got is vegie-burgers. Completely frozen. I guess they’ll have to do. I grab the box and go back to the loungeroom.
Santa is scratching his bum.
‘Well?’ he says.
‘How about a vegie-burger?’ I say, offering the box.
He shakes his head.
‘You’re an idiot!’ he says. ‘I don’t know why I waste my time. What’s that in your other hand?’
I’m still holding my letter to Santa.
‘It’s a letter for you . . .’ I say. ‘With a few of the things I was hoping for . . .’
‘Give it here!’ he says, striding over and snatching it out of my hand.
But he doesn’t read it. He wipes his nose with it, crumples it into a ball and throws it into the fireplace.
He sniffs loudly and reaches into a black duffle bag that’s slung over his shoulder.
‘Okay, Mr Vege-bloody-tarian! Since you like vegetables so much, this is for you. Catch!’
He throws me a small silver ball.
It stinks.
‘Open it,’ he says.
I peel off a bit of the foil. The smell gets worse.
‘Keep going!’
I keep peeling the foil. It’s a potato. Dark-grey. Mouldy. Stinking.
‘Now,’ says Santa, ‘eat it!’
And he laughs and he laughs and that’s when I wake up – with a horrible taste in my mouth – wishing I’d never played that stupid childish practical joke on Jen.
Christmas is now only five days away. I’ve had the rotten potato dream the last three nights in a row. I’m too scared to sleep. I’ve got to tell Jen what I’ve done.
I can hear her talking in the kitchen. I get out of bed. I’ve got to confess.
I open the kitchen door. Jen is yelling. She sees me and slams the telephone down.
‘What do you want, you little snoop!’ she snaps. She’s holding a card. There’s a ripped envelope on the floor.
‘Nothing,’ I say and go straight out. She’s had another fight with another one of her friends. She’ll probably be friendless for the rest of her life.
And it’s all my fault.
It’s the night before Christmas. There’s a large box wrapped in gold paper underneath the Christmas tree. I hadn’t noticed it until now. My name’s on the card. And it’s from Jen! I hold it up to my ear and shake it. No clues. I peel a bit of the sticky tape away from one end of the paper to try to get a glimpse of what it is.
‘Oh, hi,’ says Jen. ‘I see you’ve found your present.’
Sprung bad. I drop the present and turn around.
‘Yes, I mean, no, I wasn’t doing anything,’ I stutter.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s your present. Merry Christmas.’
‘Thanks, Jen.’
But instead of making me happy it makes me feel even more guilty.
I betrayed her trust.
I defaced her cards.
All her friends hate her – and it’s all my fault.
It’s now or never.
‘Urn – Jen – this is probably a really cool present and all, but I really don’t deserve it . . . you see, I changed your cards . . . and I’ve been feeling really bad about it . . .’
‘So it was you!’ she says. ‘I thought so!’
‘I know it was dumb,’ I say. ‘But . . .’
‘Dumb? No way! It was brilliant!’
‘Huh?’ I say, so surprised I almost fall over. ‘But over the last couple of weeks you’ve seemed really upset – I thought it was my fault.’
‘Oh that,’ she laughs. ‘I broke up with Rob, but it’s no big deal. We made up last night.’
‘So, you actually liked the cards?’
‘My friends loved them!’ she says. ‘You’ve started a real craze. Come and see!’
She takes me to her bedroom.
This is a very special privilege. She once told me that if I ever came in here she would personally pull out each and every one of my teeth with a rusty pair of pliers – without anaesthetic.
She points to an enormous bunch of cards on her window sill.
I can’t believe my eyes.
On each of the cards there is a different sort of Santa. A sneering punk Santa with a safety pin through his nose. A long-haired heavy metal Santa playing a guitar solo on his reindeer’s antlers. There’re grunge Santas, hip-hop Santas, hippy Santas, Frankenstein Santas – even a dreadlocked Reggae Santa smoking a huge white cigar. Wow! Who would’ve ever thought Jen’s friends had a sense of humour?
‘Just promise me one thing,’ says Jen. ‘Don’t tell anybody you changed the cards. See, they all think it was my idea and I’d kind of like to keep it that way.’
‘Okay’ I say, ‘as long as you promise me something.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t breathe a word about this to Santa.’
Jen puts a finger up to her mouth. ‘My lips are sealed,’ she says.
WHAT PEOPLE SAID ABOUT JUST TRICKING!
‘Mad, fun and way out there!’
DISNEY ADVENTURES
‘Entertaining tales of pranks and mischief will have the kids giggling with delight’
THE AGE
‘Just Tricking! with its anarchic, irreverent style has few literary pretensions. It is a book to read for fun’
MAGPIES
WHAT PEOPLE SAID ABOUT JUST ANNOYING!
‘Over the top tales from a born story-teller’
MAGPIES
‘The stories are far-fetched and imaginative–every young trickster will love them’
AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER AND PUBLISHER
‘Original, funny and lots of fun’
SUNDAY MAIL (Brisbane)
‘This boy needs some discipline!’
SUN-HERALD (Sydney)
‘Children aren’t going to learn much of any benefit from this book–in fact, they may pick up a few tricks you wish they’d never learnt’
CAIRNS POST
riffiths, Just Tricking!
Just Tricking! Page 8
