PARINITA SHETTY
When Santa went missing
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PUFFIN BOOKS
WHEN SANTA WENT MISSING
Parinita Shetty buys more books than she should. She is considering building a spaceship made of books because her house has run out of shelf space. She accidentally wrote her first book called The Monster Hunters in 2013. She has never been to the North Pole. Maybe the spaceship can get her there.
To Mom,
for filling my childhood with books
(So the fact that I’m now attempting to bury our house under an avalanche of paperbacks may technically be your fault. You’ve created a book-devouring monster.)
1
Five things the North Pole elves are no good at:
1. Dressing themselves
A missing shoe here or an extra hat there has now become an everyday affair. And every now and then they happily walk around with a sock on their heads.
2. Hide-and-seek
Sometimes they take to hiding in perfectly obvious places (like the top of my head). At other times, they follow me around long after the game is over because they’re convinced that not losing sight of me somehow means they’re winning.
3. Climbing down from trees
Someone from my family has to go rescue all the stranded elves who take it upon themselves to climb a tree and are then terrified at the thought of getting back down.
4. Snowball fights
They end up pelting the snowballs at their own faces, giggle hysterically for about five minutes, dust themselves off and calmly go back to whatever they were doing.
5. Geography
Just because they live on the other side of the planet, they think that people in Australia walk upside down.
One thing that the elves are good at is levitating objects. Being able to float things off the ground is a very helpful skill to have for loading heavy sacks of gifts on to the sleigh every Christmas Eve. But it’s not so helpful when they’re using it to dangle an eleven-year-old girl off the classroom ceiling.
‘PUT ME DOWN!’ I bellowed as I felt the blood rush to my brain.
‘We’re just practising,’ giggled Simon, who stood with the group of elves below me.
‘Professor Myrtle said she’s going to test us next week,’ Neo added, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. ‘We need all the practice we can get!’
‘IF YOU DON’T GET ME DOWN FROM HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT, YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE A LOT MORE THAN SOME STUPID TEST TO WORRY ABOUT!’
Usually, by the time Friday rolls around, I can’t wait to rush back home to a weekend full of unread books. But today Avery decided to forget his bag of props in this classroom. Every week, he conducts a drama workshop for elves who want to learn how to act. Being the helpful sister that I am, I offered to pick his stuff up for him. And the next thing I know, I was being flung to the ceiling by these little lunatics.
‘Will you give us some chocolate cake if we let you down?’ Lea blinked up at me innocently.
Brat!
‘Not the one Mrs Claus makes though,’ Neo added hurriedly. Not even they were crazy enough to want to risk my mother’s cooking.
‘The only thing you’re getting is beaten up,’ I informed them. ‘Wait till I get my—’
Suddenly we all heard a noise outside the door. The elves squealed in alarm and ran to the window, scrambling over each other to get out. They probably thought it was Professor Myrtle returning to her classroom. She didn’t tolerate any shenanigans as far as school was concerned.
However, the elves forgot one tiny little thing as they made their mad dash out of the room.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!’ I screamed, my eyes shut in terror as I plummeted towards the ground. Professor Myrtle, who had just entered the room, looked up in astonishment.
I managed to fall with a tremendous thump, knock the professor over and somehow not break my bones, all at the same time.
I tried to untangle my long legs from their current position around my knee-high teacher. Standing up sheepishly, I tucked a wavy strand of carrot-red hair behind my ear and launched into profuse apologies.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ the stern elf choked out once she got her breath back. ‘Are you trying to fly, you silly girl? You are not a reindeer!’
I hurriedly gave her some lame explanations, gathered up my things and limped out of there.
I went to look for my brother, with his props in tow. I found him in an empty classroom where the desks had been stacked against the wall. Avery stood in the front, dressed like . . . a tree?
‘To act like a tree, you have to be the tree,’ he announced to a solemn group of elves that sat facing him.
‘Feel the wind blowing through your leaves.’ He shook his head violently.
‘Feel your roots moving through the soil.’ He wiggled his toes like he had ants on them.
‘Feel the scampering squirrels tickling your bark.’ His body trembled like he was possessed by a ghost.
The elves all stared at him in awe. I snorted, marched over to him and thrust the bag into his hands. ‘Here!’ I said grumpily. ‘I hope you’re happy!’
‘Trees are always happy!’ he told me dramatically. ‘Unless someone threatens us with an axe.’ The elves nodded in agreement.
‘Right.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m off.’
At the ripe old age of fourteen, my brother has decided that he wants absolutely nothing to do with the whole Santa Claus thing.
Instead, he wants to be an actor. He just isn’t very good at it. Acting isn’t a dangerous thing not to be good at, however, unlike that alarming sword-fighting phase he went through when he was ten, during which he dented several walls, caused a ceiling to collapse and nearly beheaded Dad.
I checked to see that my coat was properly buttoned, adjusted my hat, slipped on my extra-large boots (they had to be specially made to fit my feet) and left the school building. It had snowed heavily yesterday and the ground was crunchy underfoot.
Frankly, I don’t even understand the need for this drama club. The elves can’t make head or tail of what Avery’s saying (his fault), nor do they understand the concept of pretending to be something they’re not (their fault). They listen to Avery intently and nod their heads devotedly as he tells them how to become trees or mountains or astronauts or whatever rubbish he comes up with. And when it’s their turn to act, they just stand absolutely still and talk in extra-loud voices.
As I neared my house, I decided to see if my other brother wanted to come home today.
I entered the reindeer stables and walked to the stall at the very end.
‘Xander?’ I peered over the gate to see a flame-haired four-year-old with shining yellow antlers nuzzling against a large brown reindeer. ‘Want to have lunch with us?’
He whinnied at me. I took that as a no and ma
de my way home.
Xander loves to play pretend. He spends his days deciding what he should be next. One day he’ll pretend to be a chair and the next he insists he’s a piece of cheese. Avery, of course, couldn’t be more thrilled; he sees major acting potential in our youngest sibling.
Three weeks ago, someone had the bright idea of gifting Xander a pair of plastic light-up antlers for his birthday. He has been convinced he’s a reindeer ever since. He sits with the reindeer all day long, eats with them, plays with them and even tries to talk to them—all while wearing those ridiculous antlers of his.
Instead of doing the normal thing to do in such a situation, that is, have him examined by a mental health professional, my parents encourage his ludicrous antics! They believe that their kids should always be allowed to express their true selves. Of course, whenever I try to express my true self by commenting on the insanity that is our lives, I’m ‘being impertinent’ and ‘should learn to do something constructive with my time’.
I know I’m too old to wish on birthday candles and shooting stars, but there’s only one thing I ask for each time. All I want to do is lead a normal life with a normal family and normal friends and not have to worry about dealing with psychotic elves, deranged brothers and Santa Claus for a father.
2
Reasons I need to be adopted by a new family:
1. My brothers were clearly dropped on their heads a lot.
2. We end up in the elf hospital at least once a month thanks to Mom’s food experiments.
3. I don’t get to watch my favourite films because Dad is always hogging the television. And the rubbish he orders from those teleshopping channels always ends up breaking down or blowing up.
4. Whenever Mom is stressed, she goes on this furious knitting spree, producing copious amounts of socks and sweaters that are always five sizes too big or three sizes too small.
5. When I asked my parents for a pet, they got me a Venus flytrap.
I let myself in the front door, dropped my things in a pile on the floor and breathed a huge sigh of relief. No more school until March. Christmas was almost upon us, which meant all hands on the Yuletide deck.
Don’t get me wrong. I like school. I like the subjects they teach us. I like the professors, too, even though sometimes I wish I had a teacher who was more than one-third my height.
What I don’t like is being the only non-elf in class. Those young elves, they’re pleasant enough to talk to but completely bonkers. Xander is too young to attend school and Avery studies in an older class. Frankly, I don’t know which set of loons I would rather be with.
Most days, we only have classes in the morning. The elves have to study other courses in the afternoons. Thankfully, I wasn’t required to learn Toy Production 101, How to Train Your Reindeer, General Postmastery or Sleigh Maintenance. Levitation seems like a fun class. I wouldn’t mind attending if the elves promised not to use me as their test subject.
Toy Production 101, on the other hand, has to be the singular most dangerous course in the history of elfish education. The professor is a bit of a nut himself, while the students taking it are a little like mad scientists. Even outside school, they’re always tinkering with objects to figure out how they work. Experimenting with the best ways of creating new toys is their favourite activity. Loud explosions and singed eyebrows are an absurdly common sight in that class. Much like in Mom’s kitchen.
Speaking of which . . .
‘Noel, is that you?’ Mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Her wavy black hair was covered with some sort of gooey green substance. I could even spot traces of it on her striped dress and a large lump on her leather boots. Not exactly a sight to inspire confidence in the day’s lunch menu. ‘Come eat some Ruby-style Eggplant!’ she said cheerfully.
‘Is it supposed to be green?’ I asked with some concern.
‘Well, no,’ Mom hesitated. ‘Let’s call that a happy accident!’
‘Um, I ate at school,’ I lied, hoping my traitorous growling stomach wouldn’t give me away. ‘Can I use Dad’s computer?’ I asked hurriedly. ‘There are some new books I need to order.’
‘You know he doesn’t like you lot to fiddle around with his computer this close to Christmas,’ Mom warned. ‘Remember what happened last time?’
Ah, yes. Avery had wanted to watch some stupid acting videos while I wanted to catch a live podcast by one of my favourite authors. One thing led to another and I ended up throwing the monitor at his head.
‘Avery’s not here,’ I said. ‘And Dad’s been away ages. Nobody will know.’ I shot her my most winsome smile.
‘No can do, Noel,’ Mom replied, trying to pick off a chunk of Ruby-style Eggplant from the back of her ear. ‘Why don’t you use your own computer?’
‘Because it will take two and a half million years to work properly,’ I moaned and stomped to my room.
Dad could have ordered the books for me but he was still away on a factory inspection in Antarctica. Apparently, the toy machine there decided to stop working and everyone freaked out. It must have been a pretty major glitch because he’s been away for more than two weeks.
Contrary to popular belief, Dad doesn’t just have one toy factory at the North Pole. What kind of business sense would that make? Distribution would be a nightmare! In fact, the North Pole toy factory isn’t a toy factory at all. There used to be a time when all the world’s Christmas toys were produced and shipped from the North Pole. But that was many, many Santas before Dad was even born.
It was early in the 17th century when the then Santa decided it would make more sense and make HIS life much easier to have a factory somewhere other than at the edge of the world. So factories were eventually set up all over the world. That way, Santa has a convenient outlet on every continent to pick up toys from. The base back home is still called the North Pole toy factory for tradition’s sake. But no toys are actually produced here—at least none that are shipped to kids. Instead, the North Pole toy factory plays host to a bunch of other Christmas-related activities.
The factory itself is located in a giant igloo. The structure is hundreds of years old and fifty times the size of a normal igloo. Once all the work was done in a Christmas cottage in the centre of the village. But one of the old Santas was very prone to catching colds. So he thought about the best method to stay warm in a land of ice and snow and decided that an igloo factory was the way to go. The current building is his legacy.
The igloo factory is divided into four main departments. Post-elves look after all the letters Dad receives from the children and sort them out geographically. They then coordinate deliveries and make sure the correct toys reach the correct kids.
Reindeer specialists study reindeer and their behaviour. They focus on their habits, habitats, food and psychology. Whenever Dad has a problem with any of his reindeer, it’s these elves he turns to.
Sleigh engineers are responsible for maintaining Dad’s main mode of transport.They also build cool new upgrades for existing models of the sleighs and design new models to get him around the world quicker.
This doesn’t mean that absolutely no toys are made at the factory. The toymakers are inventors; they not only come up with new ways to make toys but also create brand new kinds of exciting playthings—child-sized cars that run on water or life-sized board games that fit in regular-sized boxes, colourful guns that shoot bubble gum or toy castles made of bubble wrap. Anything you think of, the toymakers can create! It’s hard to compete with all the screens the kids have these days, which is why they’re constantly working on new inventions. Much like at school, the toy department is the most dangerous area of the building (and the most fun!).
Christmas is certainly not a once-a-year affair. Dad has a full-time job like any other office-goer. In fact he works much harder considering all the departments he has to oversee. And technically, he is supposed to have weekends off. But since the North Pole village isn’t very large, and our house is its most famo
us landmark, he has a constant stream of visitors on his days off.
I decided I would remain holed up in my room to protest against the unfairness of having to deal with an almost-dead computer. I would have stayed out of the house all day if I had anyone to stay out with. But just as I was slipping into my favourite pyjamas, there was an urgent knock on the front door. It got louder and louder until, eventually, all I could hear was a lot of banging and a few shouts from the other side. I came out of my room to investigate.
‘What on earth . . .?’ Mom opened the door and saw a small group of old elves shepherding Xander and Avery in front of them.
‘What did they do?’ I asked the elves, shooting my brothers a curious glance.
‘This is an utter disaster!’ squeaked one of the elves who appeared completely unnerved. He was ancient-looking by normal standards—his white beard was long enough to tuck into his belt and his face was a mass of wrinkles. But compared to the other two elves, he looked positively juvenile. ‘What are we going to do? What are we going to do?’ he muttered in dismay.
‘Get a grip, Gilmore,’ admonished the elderly female elf. ‘How do you expect to keep them calm if you can’t handle it yourself?’
‘Handle what exactly?’ I asked as Avery flapped his hands and exclaimed, ‘Unhand me! You’re uprooting a tree!’ Xander butted the nearest elf with his plastic- antlered head.
‘I think all of you need to sit down before we get any further,’ replied the third elf. He was the oldest one of them all. Now that I looked closer at this vertically-challenged gathering, I noticed that all of them wore grim expressions of worry.
‘What’s the matter, Austen?’ asked Mom, looking at him apprehensively. ‘Selena?’ She turned to the female elf. I could see Mom was getting plenty worried even though she was trying to sound calm. She kept sneaking glances at the pile of unfinished knitting near the fireplace. Of course, Xander had to pick that very moment to throw his fake reindeer tantrum. He growled and snorted at all three elves, tore across the room and accidentally bumped his head against an armchair.
When Santa Went Missing Page 1
