Catching Santa

by Marc Franco

  S.R.

  “I know who S.R. is!” Shig said, almost shouting.

  Logan placed her hands on her hips.

  “Really? Who?” Fleep said.

  “Yeah, who?” I asked, extremely interested in the answer. Come on, buddy, don’t let me down.

  “Rick. Rick is S.R.,” Shig said. Finally, I thought, someone’s using his brain. I smiled and so wanted to do a victory dance.

  Logan turned to me and said, “You told him to say that, didn’t you?”

  Ugh, she was killing me.

  “No, he didn’t tell me to say it,” Shig fired back. Logan was ready with more ammo, but I cut her off.

  “Search your feelings, Logan,” I said, making a Darth Vader breathing sound. “You know Shig is right. It’s just too much of a coincidence.” I stopped the Vader act. “Catch Santa? Come on. It’s Rick,” I said.

  “So, just like that, we go from being freaked to ‘Oh! Rick did it!’”

  “Uh-uh, don’t include me in the freaked-out moment. You’re the only one freaking out.”

  Fleep interrupted us, raising his hand like he was in class or something. “The snowman freaked me out,” he admitted.

  “Rick is S.R.,” I said.

  Logan threw her hands in the air then smacked her thighs. “No way, I don’t believe it. Rick is not S.R., guys,” she said to Fleep and Shig. “Remember the snowmen and the melting curse letter.” She turned to me and said, “We’re cursed, running out of time, and you’re not helping with all of this negativity!”

  “Me, negative? What do you call believing in a curse?” I asked. “Guys, I’m right. All I need is a little more proof, and you’ll be thanking me for not having to worry about a fake curse.”

  “Then prove it or shut up about Rick!” Logan said.

  “Fine. I’ll prove it! Check this out. S.R., a.k.a. Rick, is sending me an e-mail every hour on the hour, twenty-four e-mails a day.”

  I showed them my deleted items folder. It had a lot of e-mails from S.R., each entitled “Time Is Running Out.”

  I started a new e-mail.

  “I’m going to reply to S.R.’s last e-mail and tell him I know he’s Rick. Once he realizes that I’m onto him, I bet the hourly e-mails will stop.

  I read as I typed.

  You are so busted, dear respected S.R.! How about I call you by your real name, Rick Lang? Logan, Shig, Fleep, and I know. The e-mails, the Wikipedia articles, and even the curse are all bogus. Nice try, man. We know it’s you, Rick, so stop sending me the stupid e-mails. You are really in for it. Wait until I get my hands on you …

  “No threats. You shouldn’t make documented threats,” Shig said.

  “Okay, Officer Sugihara,” I said, then pressed the Delete key and watched my threat disappear. There, now it was short and to the point. The last thing I wanted to do was waste any more of my Christmas vacation on it or Rick.

  I clicked Send.

  “There, done!” I said, hopping out of the chair. “Just remember this night. This is the night that I proved that Rick is S.R.”

  Logan shook her head. “You’re brainless.”

  I gave her a dismissive look as we left my room to go outside and watch the movie. We all sat around the outdoor fireplace since the weather was still getting strangely colder, and tried to forget about curses and quarrels. If our parents noticed that we were a little distracted, they didn’t say anything, probably just chalking it up to Christmas excitement.

  An hour later, everyone had gone home, my parents had tucked me in, and I was in bed staring at my dark ceiling. Surprisingly, I was a little anxious thinking about the e-mail. I wanted to find out if the hourly e-mails had stopped; that would prove Rick is S.R. I glanced over at my clock. It was almost eleven p.m. It didn’t matter; I had to check. I got out of bed—probably not as quietly as I should have—and started my computer. Drumming my index fingers on the keyboard, I waited anxiously for the computer to boot. A minute later, I stared at the mail icon. This was it: the moment of truth. I clicked open my e-mail program, then just as I was about to click Check Mail, my dad walked in. And would you believe that I did it again? What was wrong with me? Like a spastic game show contestant, I reached over and pressed the button—the button that killed the power to my computer.

  “I thought I tucked you in?”

  “You did, but I wanted … I mean, I’m just going to bed now—”

  “You can quit your bumbling. I saw what you did. Actually, I heard it. You see that switch over there, the one you can’t stop pressing? Well, it makes a clicking sound. You know, click, click! The sound should be very familiar to you, considering the number of times you’ve pressed it.”

  Ugh! Man, I wish I could take it back, but it was an instant reaction based on pure instinct. The excuse I offered up didn’t matter, so I’m sure you can guess what happened. Yep. I lost the computer. But it wasn’t too harsh a punishment this time; probably because of my dad’s forgiving Christmas spirit. I lost it for a day. Not harsh, but still a bummer, because I wouldn’t know for another twenty-four hours if the e-mails had stopped. I sighed, said my nightly prayers, and fell asleep.

  I saw something in the darkness, growing bigger as it came toward me. Suddenly the moonlight revealed a tall man wearing a dusty hooded cloak. My heart raced. It was the man from my dreams. The same man who had threatened to turn me into coal. I tried to run, but my legs refused to move. My arms wouldn’t budge. Only my eyes were free to look. A prisoner in my own body, I gazed upon the frightening man. His black hood concealed most of his face, but I could see his cold smile, the whiskers on his cheeks, and a long, braided goatee that reminded me of the Egyptian King Tut.

  “For me? You shouldn’t have,” the cloaked man said gleefully, motioning downward.

  My eyes cut to the ground, to snow, and to the unconscious body of a very large, muscular man lying on his back. His face was shadowed by a black military helmet. He was some kind of soldier. But before I could look at the rest of him, some hazy movement next to the soldier caught my eye. It was a serpentine trail of black dust particles. The trail led to a lone pair of pants and combat boots that stood about five feet from the soldier. The pants were definitely military issue because of the many bulging pockets and the way they tapered around the combat boots. But, even in my fear, something struck me as odd about the pants. They were way too small to belong to an adult.

  That’s when I realized what was happening. A kid, dressed in soldier gear for some reason, was being transformed into a lump of coal. The small pants and boots were all that remained of him. Horrified, I tried to speak but couldn’t. So I watched helplessly. A moment later, the last of the boots disintegrated and floated away.

  “The Wayward are mine. They always have been … and always will be!” The cloaked man announced then rushed over to the unconscious soldier, bent down, and without hesitation reached for something. I couldn’t see what he touched on the soldier because it all happened so fast. But whatever he was trying to do didn’t work. He was instantly shocked by a flash of blue light that threw both him and me back several feet.

  I sat bolt upright in bed. It was the next morning, December 21, four days before Christmas and I’d just had my second nightmare in two days. This was Rick’s fault. He and the stupid fake curse were interfering with my sleep. Regardless, the nightmare really scared me. I tried to put it out of my mind by thinking about the e-mails. I stared at my computer. I was one keystroke away from finding out the answer to the mystery question. Did Rick, a.k.a. S.R. reply to my e-mail? I walked over to turn it on, then remembered last night—that stupid kill switch. I peeked out into the hallway. No Dad. Cool, the coast was clear. I ran back to my desk and reached for the computer’s power button.

  “Jakob!” I jerked my hand back like I’d just been burned.

  “Breakfast! Get up!” It was my mom calling from downstairs. Only her voice sounded like it was just outside my room.

  It took a couple of dry swallows, but I finally
cleared my heart from my throat and managed to answer. “I’m awake. Be right down.”

  I gave the power switch one last longing look then left my room. Yeah, maybe I could have stalled coming to breakfast and turned on the computer without my dad ever knowing, but was it really worth it? No, it wasn’t. Instead I’d try a classic kid approach: begging. So that’s just what I did at the breakfast table, and it worked. Dad said I could have the computer back after lunch. I did the elbow thingy you do when you’ve just scored, then looked up at my mom.

  “Can I have lunch at eleven?”

  She smiled.

  “It doesn’t work that way, and you know it,” my dad said between laughs. “You’ll get it back after lunch. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, shoving a fork full of pancake into my mouth. Just then the doorbell rang. My twin sisters took off from the table and beelined it to the front door. I stood up halfway, peering my head high enough to see the front door. It was Logan.

  “Wow, it’s only nine o’clock. You two have something special planned?” my mom asked, walking back to the cook top.

  “Yeah, the two of you’ve been hanging out a lot. Nice.” My dad winked at me.

  “We’ve all been hanging out. Shig and Fleep, too. We’re on vacation, remember?” I said, getting up from the table.

  “It’s Logan!” Jadyn shouted in a sing-songy voice.

  “We know!” I sang back, then returned my dad’s wink. He smiled as I walked away. Parents are so odd, I thought.

  “Hey,” I said, opening the door.

  “Hey.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute—just finishing breakfast.”

  “Did the e-mails stop?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t use the computer until after lunch.”

  “What?”

  “Chill—I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Unbelievable.” And with that, Logan walked off.

  Logan wasn’t hanging around waiting when I came out after breakfast. As I walked down my driveway, I was blasted with a gust of cold air. Man, it was chilly out—too cold to be wearing a t-shirt and shorts, which of course was what I had on. I spotted Logan on her driveway talking—no, yelling—at Shig and Fleep, and holding up what looked like the melting blue letter the snowman had delivered. Wow, was she animated. Shig and Fleep had their letters too; that seemed to be the topic of argument. I took my eyes off the drama for a minute and looked across the street at Fleep’s house. His mom, Mrs. Sanchez, a big woman—larger than most men, stood in the driveway talking to Tiff. She appeared to be consoling Tiff, then gave her a hug that swallowed her whole. I wondered what that was about. Sappy girl stuff, probably.

  Glancing back to my friends, I let out a whistle and waved. Logan was now talking to her dad, but she managed to acknowledge me. Fleep wasted no time and jogged over right away. He was smiling from ear to ear.

  “Why are you smiling? You look dorky.”

  “Guess whose parents left last night for a couple of days?” Fleep asked, wiping sweat and his long, blond hair from his forehead.

  How in the world was he sweating in this cold? “Uh—I give up,” I said, spotting Shig a few feet away.

  “Tiff and Rick,” Fleep said excitedly. “We’re watching them.”

  “Is he joking?” I asked Shig as he ambled up to us.

  Shig shrugged.

  “Well, you’re not watching anyone, your parents are,” I said loftily. “So is Rick sleeping in your room?”

  Fleep looked at me, smile gone, face serious.

  “Yeah, but, it’s not like we’re friends or anything.”

  “Whatever,” I said, standing. The wind kicked up. I crossed my arms and shivered with cold. “You two can shoot hoops and be skater friends for life,” I said condescendingly.

  Fleep looked hurt then got up to leave.

  “Hey,” I said, quickly grabbing his arm. “I’m sorry. I was being a jerk. It’s just that I’m still mad at Rick. Come on, so tell me what happened with Rick’s parents.” I sat down, hoping he would do the same. He did.

  “Family emergency. Someone’s really sick; I think it’s a grandparent, but I’m not sure.”

  “My parents would never leave me or Koji alone, even if it was a family emergency,” Shig said.

  I didn’t say it, but I was thinking the exact same thing. My parents would have taken us, especially during the holidays; but, hey, different parenting styles, I guess.

  “Well, I hope whoever it is gets better,” I said. Shig and Fleep agreed. That’s when I looked for Logan. She was just passing Shig’s house, almost to us. “So … four more days until Christmas, including today,” I said excitedly.

  “Yeah, and I’ll finally …” Fleep stopped in midsentence and suddenly looked deflated.

  My smiled faded. “And what? You’ll finally what?”

  I asked.

  Fleep frowned. “I was going to say get a skateboard, but we’re cursed, remember?

  “Don’t be stupid, Fleep! I told you, Rick is tricking you.”

  “You guys fighting already?” Logan asked, walking up and waving her magic melting letter.

  “Yeah, round two of curse vs. no curse,” Shig said.

  Logan held up her melting magic paper. “Well this might help decide the winner. Look at my curse letter. Over a quarter of it has melted.”

  “Yeah, because you didn’t tear it. It’s trick paper,” I said, a little frustrated we were going through this again.

  “I knew you were going to say that,” Logan said. “Guys, show him.”

  Fleep and Shig dug into to their pockets and pulled out their letters.

  “It started melting again. Even the part I tore came back. Really weird,” Fleep said.

  “Yeah, mine too. I even put mine in the freezer, hoping it would stop melting,” Shig said, shaking his head. “It still melted.”

  “Of course it did! And you want to know something else, Jakob?” Logan’s tone was mysterious. “Tiff said you’re the Pole mentioned in the snowman letter. You are the only one who can lift the curse.”

  “What! Tiff’s crazy.”

  “I’m serious,” Logan insisted.

  “Me too,” I said, shivering. “So did you hear why Rick’s parents took off?” I asked Logan, hoping to change the subject. She placed her hands on her hips and stared at me for a moment, as if to say I know what you’re doing, then finally spoke.

  “Yeah, it’s terrible.”

  “Yep, bummer. And we’re still cursed,” Fleep said.

  “What does that have to—?” I began.

  “Guys, don’t make the Pole mad,” Logan warned Fleep. “We need his help.”

  “Don’t call me a Pole!” I was so annoyed. My friends had lost their minds. Just then Rick rode up on his bike. Feeling both surprised and excited, I moved past Fleep and approached Rick real casual-like. Rick had no idea he was about to confess everything.

  “What’s up … S.R.?”

  “What did you call me?” Rick asked.

  “S.R., that’s your alias, isn’t it?” Shig asked.

  I motioned to the gang. “Surround him.” I sat on his front tire and squeezed his brakes while Logan stood to his left, Shig to his right and Fleep took the rear. Confronting Rick for the answer was quicker than having to wait to get my computer back.

  “Admit it—you’re busted,” I demanded.

  “So busted,” Shig said, leaning into Rick’s ear. Annoyed, Rick jerked his head to the left.

  “I don’t know what you guys are talking about. Move out of the way.”

  “Grab him!” I shouted.

  Logan grabbed Rick’s left arm while Shig grabbed his right arm. Rick struggled for a second then broke free from Shig. I reached up and snatched his arm back.

  He wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Let go of me, you weirdoes!” Rick said.

  “You are S.R. You’re the one who wrote that stupid Wikipedia article about Christmas Rule Eleven and the curse. Admit it. Yo
u know what I’m talking about. You got the e-mail that I sent you last night!”

  “Wiki-e-mail, what? I didn’t write anything, and I’m not S.R.” Rick’s face was turning red. He was filled with anger—mad enough that he jerked his bike violently to break everyone’s hold. We backed away for a second then grabbed the bike again. I’d never seen Rick so angry.

  “Look, we just want answers, so relax,” Shig said. He paused, saw that Rick had settled, and began again. “So you’re saying that you’re not S.R.?”

  Rick nodded. “I am not S.R., or whoever.”

  “Did you make the snowmen and the magic melting paper?” Fleep asked innocently.

  “What!” Rick said in utter disbelief. “Snowmen—are you insane? Wait, is this more Santa stuff?”

  We didn’t answer.

  “Look, if you guys want to believe in a man in a red suit and snowmen, then be my guest. But leave me out of your wackiness.”

  “I don’t believe you. I need proof,” I said, now inches from Rick’s face. “Isn’t that what you want: proof that the fat, I mean portly man, exists?”

  “Hey, Rick! Rick!” It was Tiff. She stopped at Shig’s driveway, ignoring the fact that we were holding her brother hostage and, in some sick sister way, probably feeling happy about it. Even so, I motioned for the others to release Rick, and we backed away.

  “What?” he asked Tiff as he jerked away his bike and pedaled toward her.

  “The phone. A friend, says it’s important. Someone named S.R.!”

  Tiff shouted S.R. pretty loudly and with unmistakable emphasis. Yeah, right … this had setup written all over it. And this answered my question about Tiff: she was definitely helping her brother. Why wasn’t it obvious to Logan and Fleep? How much more proof did they need?

  “Did you hear that?” I asked. “A friend named S.R.?”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Shig said, nodding.

  “We are about to get scammed if we fall for this S.R.-and-curse garbage,” I said, a little worked up.