Catching Santa

by Marc Franco

  I stared at my screen with a triumphant smile. There was no doubt in my mind the e-mail was a hoax, and Rick and his sister were behind it. First, it made absolutely no sense; neither did Rick. Second, Tiff often used big words, sounding like an adult. Third, the sender called me a young boy, which was impossible for him to know. So having figured it all out, I grabbed my mouse and was about to click Delete when I suddenly changed my mind. It was Logan. She needed real convincing, not Fleep and Shig. Telling her that I’d received an e-mail from Rick masquerading as someone named S.R. wouldn’t persuade her to my side. No, Logan had to read it. After all, she was just as smart as me and hopefully would then come to the same conclusion … that Rick sent the e-mail.

  Now determined to dig into this e-mail full force, I grabbed a notepad and pen from my desk and wrote myself a note to look up the meanings of some of the big words I didn’t know, such as euphoric and portly, at Webster.com.

  I looked at the time on my computer. It was almost eight-thirty. Bible time, I thought. My dad would be in my room any minute to read two chapters from the Bible like he did every night before bed. Just as I was moving the cursor to close out the e-mail program, a new message arrived. It was from S.R. I hesitated for a moment, deciding whether to shutdown the computer or read the e-mail. I quickly opened it.

  Stormtrooper TK421, Six days remain. Time is running out, and I impatiently await your response. Please reply immediately.

  S.R.

  Reply? You want a reply? I’ll give you a reply, Rick Lang. Without a thought, I clicked Reply to fire off a heated response and end this charade, then suddenly heard my dad’s voice in the hall. Oh no! I was out of time. What was I thinking? I should have been in bed and not replying to an e-mail, much less one that appeared to be from a stranger. My dad would go ballistic. I quickly closed the e-mail window expecting the program to instantly close, but it didn’t.

  To my horror, a Checking Mail window popped up on the screen. The computer was auto-checking for new e-mail. Argh! Not now! I banged on the keyboard. My dad was just outside my room, yelling back to the twins. Frantic and heart slamming hard against my chest, I repeatedly clicked Cancel. The unimaginable happened next: the computer froze with Rick’s, a.k.a. S.R.’s, second e-mail splashed open on the screen. This isn’t happening, I said under my breath.

  My dad walked into my room just as I reached back from pressing the main switch on the power strip. The screen blinked off as the computer came to a hard stop. I sighed and knew I was in trouble. My dad had lectured me one too many times for doing what he’d just seen me do, and I was about to get the speech again. I stared at him from the chair, guilt written all over my face … guilty, guilty, guilty.

  “Jakob! How many times have I told you?” my dad said in utter disbelief.

  He didn’t want an answer, but I gave him one anyway.

  “A lot,” I replied, sounding more like I was asking a question.

  “Break the computer and you’re paying for it.” My dad went on and on, talking about the repercussions of killing the power and corrupting the hard drive, but I wasn’t listening. All I could think about was the computer as I climbed into bed. Would it restart? Losing Rick’s, a.k.a. S.R.’s, e-mail to a system crash before Logan could read it would be my luck. Tuning back into my dad’s voice, I endured my fiftieth or so lecture on how lucky I had been so far since hard drives couldn’t take that kind of abuse. Was this it, though? Was the fiftieth time going to be the switch of death for my computer? I could only hope not. I really wanted Logan to read the e-mail.

  It was night, and I was outside in the cold being chased by a tall man wearing a hooded, dusty cloak and carrying a sack over his shoulder. Suddenly I heard panting to my left and realized someone was running beside me, but I couldn’t see who because the moon had gone behind a cloud. Then I heard the cloaked man shout, “It’s too late! I have you, my wooden boy.”

  Just then I stumbled and collided into the figure running beside me, and both of us tumbled to the ground. As I lay momentarily dazed, the moon reappeared and I could clearly see who, or what, I’d crashed into. What I saw horrified me. It wasn’t a person at all, but a humanoid, wooden creature. I could see the wooden, grainy texture of its arms and neck, but where there should have been a head … there was nothing. The thing was quickly disintegrating before my very eyes, dissolving into a dusty trail that led to a black rock-looking thing. With a start, I realized the creature was being transformed into a lump of coal! I watched, frozen in fear, as the transformation became complete. The cloaked man swooped in, scooped up the rock and stared at me ominously. His confident, glowing eyes locked with mine as he held up the coal and said, “You are next, Jakob!”

  I sat bolt upright in bed. It was December 20, five days before Christmas, and I’d just had a nightmare. I wiped the sweat-soaked hair from my forehead, then peeled off the covers and climbed out of bed. I tried to brush the nightmare aside, but couldn’t rid my mind of the image of the disintegrating wooden creature.

  When I came downstairs, my mom was in the kitchen with her back to me, standing by the sink holding a package. She was in mid-sentence talking to my dad, who was seated across the counter at the bar.

  “… just strange, that’s all I’m saying. Normal people don’t do this kind of stuff.”

  “What stuff ?” I asked. My mom turned around.

  “This stuff.” My mom held up a package about the size of a hardcover book. “Mr. Raffo just dropped it off.” Logan’s Dad, I thought. It was a standard, white envelope padded with bubble wrap, the same kind Mr. Raffo always dropped off. I shrugged my shoulders.

  “We have a business arrangement. You know that,” I said.

  “Why doesn’t he just place it in our mailbox instead of giving it to you? I don’t like you handling a package and not knowing what’s inside,” my mom said.

  “He wants Jakob to work for his money,” my dad said.

  Every so often, Mr. Raffo would give me a package to mail with my home listed as the return address, and I always had to put it in my mailbox. It was the easiest five bucks I’d ever made. My dad was cool with it and thought it was pretty entrepreneurial of me to do. My mom and Logan, on the other hand, were extremely suspicious, especially since they had no idea what was in the packages. Logan was certain that her dad was some sort of spy. My guess was that because Logan’s paranoia had gotten so far out of hand, Mr. Raffo needed me to mail his goods to prevent her from opening the packages. She wouldn’t dare reach into my mailbox.

  I reached for the package. Hesitantly, my mom gave it to me. “Logan’s right; only spies and criminals do this kind of stuff,” my mom said.

  “He’s not a criminal,” my dad said with a chuckle.

  “Okay, explain why I saw people wearing hazardous suits at the Raffos’ house,” my mom said.

  Hazmat suits, that’s what my mom was talking about. Yeah, I’d seen them, too, but not just at Logan’s house. I’d also seen them at her dad’s shop, The Teashroom, when it was being built. Holy smoke, I’d never really given it much thought before, but it was very odd. Construction people do not wear hazmat suits, especially in Florida. Maybe there is more to Mr. Raffo than meets the eye. Maybe Logan is right and her dad is some sort of spy. I laughed at the thought.

  “Not that again,” my dad said, sounding irritated. “He’s already told us what they’re doing.”

  “And you believe him?” my mom said.

  “Yeah, I do!”

  “Well, I don’t. Workers finishing an attic do not wear hazardous suits, period,” my mom countered.

  “Hazmat. They can if they’re dealing with fiberglass. You don’t want to be breathing that stuff. Heck, I’d wear a suit.”

  “Yes, but the fiberglass was removed two weeks ago. He’s moved on to polished steel and a lot of it. Trust me, there’s something else going on over there.” I watched my mom as she talked about Mr. Raffo. Man, she was seriously suspicious of him and getting feisty too, probably because s
he still had a lot to do before Christmas.

  I left the kitchen, walked outside and placed the package in my mailbox for Logan’s dad. Even though it was Africa-hot outside, it still felt pretty Christmassy, thanks in part to the neighbors who had decorated their homes. It was obvious that retro lights were all the rage this year, and there seemed to be a competition for the yard with the largest animated Christmas-whatever. I kid you not, the house beside Logan’s had a twenty-foot-tall, animated snowman, and the house across the street from Shig’s had a giant mechanical elf that jumped out of a present. All I needed now to have that true Christmas feel was a bone-chilling wind like when we visited my mom’s home state of New Jersey. Fat chance on that happening here in Central Florida, though.

  I gave my house a disappointed look. It was a big, brown two-story with no Christmas lights. Not a one and

  it was all because of my dad. My mom had one word for him. Cheap! He had promised last year that, after Christmas, he’d buy lights on clearance to put up this year. He hadn’t and, yet again, we were the dullest house in the neighborhood.

  I looked at the house to my right and felt a little better. It was Shig’s house, an olive green two-story, also bare of Christmas lights. But at least he had an excuse. They were going “green” this year. Shig’s dad, Mr. Sugihara, was out front washing his white, unmarked police car with Shig’s younger brother, Koji. Koji was seven. Mr. Sugihara was actually Lieutenant Sugihara of our local police department. I looked down past the Sugihara’s to the next house, a tan single-story where Logan lived, and saw her walking my way.

  Then my eyes wandered across the street to the house where Rick lived, and my face suddenly flushed with anger. Fleep and Shig were shooting hoops with Rick. I crossed my arms in a huff and glared at them, hoping they’d see me.

  Fleep saw me first, then Shig. They waved, but I didn’t wave back. I was really irritated with them. I mean, come on, they were hanging with the enemy. Rick just stood there for a second, real cocky-like, with his hand on his hip, staring at me, then he finally shot the basketball.

  “Miss!” I said, hopeful. He did. I smirked, and was just starting to put up the flag on our mailbox when Logan finally reached my driveway.

  “What’s in there, one of my dad’s packages?” she said accusingly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me see it!” Logan demanded, as if asking sternly would make me give it to her.

  “No.”

  “Well, did you at least shake it?”

  “I don’t do that anymore. You’re the one who thinks he’s a spy.”

  “He is and I’m going to prove it. I’m going to open it,” Logan said, walking to my mailbox.

  “Open it and you’ll go to jail. Ask Shig if you don’t believe me.”

  “Spies go to jail too, and so do their accomplices,” Logan retorted with a flip of her hair and started to walk back home.

  “Wait, stop.” She didn’t. “I got a reply to my e-mail.” Logan quickly turned around. I thought her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets.

  “No way,” she exclaimed, running back to me. “What did it say?”

  “Well—”

  “Stop! Don’t tell me. I want to read it. Besides, you’ll get it all wrong.”

  I groaned. “You are so rude sometimes, you know that?”

  “I don’t mean it like that. It’s just that, well, you’re a boy and you’ll forget something. I’ll just read it. Come on, let’s go,” she encouraged me, really amped up and ready to go. We were already halfway up my driveway when we heard a loud HONK. Logan’s Dad pulled up in his SUV and impatiently waved for her. Mr. Raffo was a muscular man with a light-skinned face that looked like it had been cut from stone, and long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was really nice, but not the kind of guy you kept waiting. In that instance I realized something that sent chills up my spine: Mr. Raffo looked cool … spy cool.

  Logan cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. “I’m not coming!” Her dad shook his head disapprovingly. “Ah man, he’s making me go. It’s not fair. I want to read that e-mail,” she said, frustrated, “This is all because I have to meet some dumb new guy my dad hired.”

  Her dad owned The Teashroom, a tea and herbal shop that was built in the shape of a giant mushroom and designed to appeal to both kids and adults. It was really cool looking. The outside looked like a giant mushroom from a Japanese video game. Definitely one of the coolest places to hang out. The inside was awesome too. There were four soundproof gaming rooms, each with its very own gaming console and flat screen. Being friends with Logan was like having your own personal arcade.

  “Just let me tell you what the e-mail says.”

  “No thanks. I’ll read it later. In the meantime, I’ll do some more undercover surveillance on Dad. I’m going to prove The Teashroom’s some sort of secret spy place.” Logan winked, walking off.

  Rolling my eyes jokingly at Logan, I glanced down the street and saw that Fleep and Shig were walking my way. Perfect timing I thought, then went inside and waited for them in the kitchen. A minute later Shig arrived, followed by a sweaty Fleep. I stared them down. Yeah, I was upset that they’d been playing with Rick, but I would never admit it. Not that I had to anyway; it showed on my face.

  “What? I was bored, and he asked me to play,” Fleep protested with open arms.

  “I don’t care who you guys hang with, but you’ll never find me hanging with Rick.”

  “Water, I need water,” Shig panted. While they raided my refrigerator and got what they wanted, I told them about the reply e-mail.

  “From the curse people?” Fleep said.

  “Yeah, the curse people, now—” The sound of three knocks at my front door broke in.

  I had a pretty good view of the front door from the barstool, and sighed at what I saw.

  “What is Rick doing here?” I said, a little disgusted.

  My dad shot us a glance as he reached for the door. “His dad and I both agree that you two need to fix your little problem. So get outside and figure it out.”

  “Yeah, but I was—”

  “No buts, Jakob. Go!”

  “Fine,” I said, defeated.

  “Never find you playing with Rick, huh?” Shig beamed.

  “Whatever,” I said, frustrated.

  “Come on. Rick and his friends are waiting outside for you guys!” my dad called, half outside.

  “Let’s just get this over with. I’ll show you the e-mail later,” I said then ambled to the front door with Fleep and Shig on my heels.

  “And hey, we’re talking about showing a movie at poolside tonight with the neighbors—so no fighting!” my dad said as we walked past him. We have this really cool, lagoon-style pool with a huge deck and an outdoor fireplace, and my Dad had rigged a ten-foot-tall screen so we could watch movies outdoors. I popped into the garage to grab my bike and helmet, when Rick walked up to me.

  “Man, you need to chill and learn how to take a joke.”

  I got in his face. “What you did was no joke. You mocked me in front of the entire school.” Okay, so I was exaggerating.

  “I’m sorry, alright? You want to believe in Santa— that’s your thing, even if you’re the only sixth grader who does.”

  “Actually, since we’re on the topic …” Shig began. “Fleep, I think that now’s a good time for us to, well, set the record straight and—”

  I interrupted Shig. “What are you doing?”

  Shig shrugged. “Doing what the Eleventh Rule said—in case the curse is real. Right, Fleep?”

  “Uh, yeah, okay—well … I believe in Santa,” Fleep said, looking at Rick.

  “Yeah, and so do I, and so does Logan. But she has to tell you herself, right?” Shig said to Rick.

  “I don’t know,” Rick said, shrugging.

  “Come on, Rick. Does Logan have to tell you in person?” I asked suspiciously. Not that I really cared. I had one thing on my mind—prove that Rick was behind the e-mail and
this curse business.

  “You’re strange, and I don’t care what you guys believe. What happened at recess was just a joke. We had fun.”

  “You had fun,” I said, correcting Rick. I leaned in closer to him and whispered. “I’m onto you, man. I know you’re up to something and I’m going to prove it.”

  Rick backed away, holding his hands up. “Look—I apologized. Now what’s your problem?”

  “You. You’re a jerk to me, to us! That’s our problem. Right, guys?”

  “Right,” Shig said. Fleep didn’t answer. He was enviously watching Rick’s skater friends out in the street doing tricks on their boards.

  “Hopeless,” was all Rick said as he left to meet up with his friends. A minute later, Logan’s dad pulled up in my driveway and Logan got out. The Teashroom was only a two-minute drive down the road, so it was no surprise she was back already.

  “Did you meet the new guy?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he’s a little strange,” Logan said, seemingly lost in thought for the moment. “So hey,” she shot back, “let’s read the e-mail now.”

  “We can’t,” I said. “My dad kicked us out.”

  “What? No! Come on!”

  “Chill out. You’ll read it later. I promise.” I watched Fleep. He was still mesmerized by the skaters. I have to say, they were doing some pretty cool tricks. Wistfully, Fleep mumbled something about never getting the skateboard he asked Santa for. We heard this every Christmas.

  Logan tapped Fleep on the shoulder. “Fleep, I’m going to tell you my secret to getting what I want from Santa. It’s simple, really. Just send him, like, twenty e-mails a day until Christmas Eve.”

  “You spam Santa? That’s not right,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Yeah, that’s not going to get him a skateboard!” Shig said dismissively, then turned to Fleep. “It’s your parents; they’re probably not signing your Santa wish list. They have to sign it,” Shig insisted.