Don't Call Me Christina Kringle Read online

  “Monaciello!”

  “Um,” said Christina, “maybe you better sit down, Grandpa.”

  “Monaciello!”

  “Okay. Is he having a heart attack or something?” she asked the professor.

  “Hardly.”

  “So why does he keep saying …”

  “Monaciello!” Grandpa said it again.

  “Ah,” said the professor. “A Monaciello is a type of Italian fairy that appears in the dead of night to help those in dire need. Typically, they dress in monk robes.”

  That’s when Nails popped up behind Christina’s other shoulder.

  This time Grandpa’s gasp was more like a squeak.

  “Who’s wearing a robe?” said Nails.

  “Nobody,” said the professor. “I was simply attempting to …”

  “You will take me to the treasure!” Grandpa suddenly blurted. “Like when I was a little boy in Napoli, sì?”

  “Whoa,” said Christina. “You’ve seen ‘little people’ before?”

  “Sì, sì, sì! Haven’t you, Christina?”

  “Well not until …”

  “I must go light a candle in thanksgiving! The Monacielli will save me!

  Giuseppe skipped out the door like a giddy child.

  Christina shook her head and, slogging across the shoe-strewn floor, placed her backpack on the counter. All five brownies scampered out of the bag and stared down at the jumble of shoes in need of repair.

  “Oh my,” said Mops.

  “That’s a lot of shoes,” said Broom.

  “For us to do’s,” said Buckets, because it almost rhymed.

  While the three newcomers and the professor gaped down anxiously, Nails whipped out a miniature cell phone and pressed speed dial.

  “Yo, Winky?” he said into his phone. “Yeah. How you doin’? No kiddin’. Swell. Hey look, I need to call in that favor. Yeah. We got a situation over here. We need everybody you can round up. The more the merrier.”

  He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Christina.

  “You got any more of that whipped cream that squirts out of the cans?”

  She nodded.

  “Yo, Winky—tell everybody they get squirty cream when the job is done. Yeah. Thanks.”

  Professor Pencilneck rocked up on his heels. “Christina, my dear, do not fear. Help, I am certain, will soon be here!”

  Oh, boy. Now he was rhyming, too!

  Thirty-five

  Donald McCracken pried up the wire door to his brownie trap.

  The spring was a little rusty so he had to struggle to raise the bar up to the latch plate. When it was finally secure, he reached his long arm all the way into the cage (it was large enough to hold two or three of the crafty little creatures) and removed the bait cup, which he would fill with heavy cream. As he did so, he had to be very careful not to trip the trigger that would send the barred door slamming back down.

  Someone banged on the door.

  It startled McCracken.

  Made him drop the cup.

  And spring the trap.

  “Ooooouucccch!”

  The heavy trap door caught his arm and bit into his skin.

  “Mr. McCracken?” someone yelled outside. “Zees is an emergency!” Only it sounded like “ee-merge-jen-zee” because the idiot knocking on the door was French.

  “Just a minute,” McCracken moaned as he made his way to the door, still wearing the brownie cage on his sleeve.

  With his free hand, and in a great deal of pain, he undid the door locks.

  It was Pierre. The French chef.

  “Sacré bleu!” the cookie maker blubbered. “Trixie and Flixie! Poof! They run away! Without my wee assistants, my marvelously magical cookies taste like dirt. Baked dirt!”

  McCracken grit his teeth and kept his caged arm hidden behind the door. “Did you give the little lassies clothing, Pierre?”

  “No!” said the baker. “Of course not. It is against the rules to give them clothes.”

  McCracken narrowed his eyes. “Then what did you give them?”

  “Nothing,” said the chef, tugging at his collar. “Just little hats. Little poofy chef hats. Zey looked so cute.”

  McCracken rolled his eyes.

  He was going to need more traps.

  Thirty-six

  Christina sat behind the counter of the closed shoe shop watching the two newest arrivals fluff out their blonde hair.

  If these two had wings on their backs, they could have been pixies. They were dressed in snug little mini-skirts the color of evergreen trees and had wide, innocent eyes bigger than winter-coat buttons.

  “Do I have hat hair?” asked the one named Trixie as she used a plastic deli fork to comb out her long locks.

  “No,” said Christina.

  “The nerve of that guy,” said the one who called herself Flixie and could’ve been Tinkerbell’s cousin. Both brownies had a sassy nasal twang and sounded like showgirls from the 1930s, at least the ones Christina had seen in old black-and-white movies on TV.

  “So, honey,” said Trixie, smoothing out her tiny flower-petal skirt, “you were saying, you never even met your mother?”

  Yes, it was true. Christina had been having a long “girl talk” with girls the size of most girls’ Barbie Dolls. She’d told them all about her mom and her dad and how Captain Dave wanted her to bake cookies for the firehouse holiday party tomorrow night and how hard it was going to be to even go to that party because she missed her dad so much and, anyway, her grandfather needed her here, helping fix shoes or he’d get evicted so maybe she wouldn’t even go to the firehouse party but she probably should.

  Yes, Christina had been bottling up a lot of stuff she needed to talk about. It came gushing out like whipped cream from a well-shaken can. The two blondes, with their big brownie ears and sympathetic eyes, were extremely good listeners.

  “My mother died the night I was born,” Christina said sadly. “I never even met her.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” said Flixie, wiping away the tears that sparkled on her rosy cheeks like silver glitter flakes on a Christmas card. She tenderly placed both her tiny hands on Christina’s thumb knuckle. “My mom passed away when I was little, too. I mean littler than I am now. But, there’s not a day that goes by I don’t miss her, you know?”

  “Yeah,” said Christina.

  “Now, your dad,” said Trixie, who had been admiring the framed photograph on the counter, “he sure was a looker, honey. What dreamy Italian eyes.”

  “I guess,” said Christina.

  “Oh, no,” said Trixie, snapping her chewing gum. “They’re dreamy. Am I right, Flixie?”

  “He’s gorgeous, honey. Gorgeous. A cutie patootie.”

  Christina shook her head and smiled. It was hard not to smile around the two brassy little ladies.

  Suddenly, something fell through the mail slot in the front door and landed on the wood floor with a heavy thud.

  Another brownie. This one had jet-black hair so slicked down it looked like he was wearing a wet and wavy motorcycle helmet. A gigantic diamond earring, the size of a dime, sparkled in his left earlobe. Christina couldn’t see the tips of his ears. They were plastered underneath the waxy hair.

  “Hello, ladies,” the newcomer said suavely as he dusted himself off. “Is this where all the action is?” He winked.

  “Do we know you?” asked Flixie, one hand placed defiantly on her hip.

  “Smoothie’s my name. Helping humans is my game. I’m here to help with the ‘situation.’ So, what do they call you two lovely ladies besides gorgeous?”

  “I’m Trixie.”

  “Flixie.”

  “Oooh,” said Smoothie, “you ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie!”

  The new guy thought he was being clever. Trixie and Flixie, however, just thought he was being weird.

  The cocky young brownie, strutted across the floor, which wasn’t crowded with shoes anymore because Nails, Professor Pencilneck, Buckets, and about two dozen
other brownies had hauled them all downstairs to the basement where they’d set up something of a shoe-repair assembly line. “I hear this is the place to be for every able-bodied brownie. And, ladies, check out this body.” He struck a body-builder pose. Flexed. Pumped his guns. “It is ready, willing, and extremely able.”

  Trixie yawned. Flixie rolled her eyes.

  “The other guys are downstairs,” said Christina.

  “Who’s she?” Smoothie asked with a flick of his head toward Christina.

  “Our new friend,” said Trixie.

  “We’re helping her out,” said Flixie. “You got a problem with that, Muscle Brain?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Smoothie, doing a quick double-finger snap-clap. “I’m here to help.” He swaggered around the counter. A floor panel had been propped up to expose the steep staircase leading down into the cramped shop’s basement. “Hi-hoo, hi-hoo, Smoothie’s got work to do.”

  He froze.

  Because he finally saw the snoozing cat curled up on a shaggy rug near the radiator.

  “It’s a c-c-c … a c-c-c …”

  “Don’t worry,” said Christina, “she’s very sweet. She’s been pixie-dusted.”

  Hearing that, Smoothie found his strut again.

  “Oh. Cool. Hey, cat. What’s shaking?”

  The cat purred and stretched.

  Smoothie skipped down the steps to the cellar.

  When he was gone, Trixie put a hand to her mouth and whispered sideways to Flixie, “Did you get a load of that earring?”

  “Yeah. Must weigh a ton. I wonder how he keeps his head from tilting sideways.”

  “Hey,” said Christina, “with no brains inside, it’s probably easy.”

  The three new girlfriends laughed.

  “Good one, honey.”

  “So,” said Flixie, “how many cookies do your firemen friends need for their party tomorrow?”

  “Well, it’s usually a pretty big crowd. I already started making the batter back at our apartment. …”

  “Uh-oh,” said Trixie. “Sounds like yet another human task left undone.”

  “You better haul us over there,” said Flixie, climbing up into Christina’s backpack. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Trixie hesitated. “You’re not baking brownies, are you, hon?”

  “No way,” said Christina. “Just cookies. Besides, I prefer my brownies half-baked, like you two.”

  As they all laughed, Christina realized she didn’t hate Christmas half as much as she had that morning.

  Thirty-seven

  “These are incredible!” said Christine, nibbling on a snowman sugar cookie. “It tastes like, I don’t know—fresh fallen snow.”

  “That’s the peppermint,” said Trixie.

  “I could eat a million of these!”

  “Go ahead,” said Flixie. “They’re zero calories.”

  “What? What about all that butter and sugar you whipped together?”

  Flixie waved her hand dismissively. “Our magic sparkle flakes take care of all the calories. Makes ’em evaporate or somethin’.”

  “Wow.” Christina put down the snowman and bit into a gingerbread man. “Mmmm. Like a caramel apple covered with ginger snaps!”

  “Wait ’til you taste the gumdrop buttons, honey.”

  Christina plucked off a red one. It tasted like fireworks, cherries, and then, strawberry syrup.

  The three of them had stayed up all night baking. Well, Christina took a nap between three and six a.m. Now every flat surface in the kitchen, except, of course, the floor, was covered with fresh-baked cookies on cooling racks.

  Christina picked up a glittering snowflake cookie.

  “Is that sugar?”

  “Better,” said Flixie. “Pixie dust.”

  Christina devoured the snowflake, which, strangely, made her feel all warm and cozy; like she could tell these two little people anything and they wouldn’t laugh or judge her. They’d just listen.

  “These cookies are our gift to you and all the brave firefighters,” Trixie said proudly.

  “My Dad loved giving,” said Christina. “He always told me, ‘Giving makes you feel better than getting ever can.’”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” said Trixie.

  “His favorite Christmas story was the one about the Three wise men. You know—with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh?”

  Flixie looked confused. “Who’s Merv?”

  “Myrrh,” said Christina. “It’s like biblical body lotion.”

  “Oh. Nice.”

  “He always said: ‘The first Christmas gifts were given; they weren’t exchanged.’ ”

  “So what’d these three wise guys do?” asked Trixie.

  “They followed a star, hundreds of miles, all the way to Bethlehem. They gave their gifts to the newborn baby Jesus but they didn’t get anything in return. Or did they? That’s what my Dad would say: ‘Or did they?’ And then he’d just wink at you and smile.”

  The two brownies nodded and let that soak in.

  “Mmmm. I was working across the street when I smelled something sweet.” With another double-finger snap-clap, the new guy, Smoothie, strolled into the kitchen. “Oh, and there’s cookies too.”

  “Help yourself,” said Trixie.

  “Just don’t drip any of your hair goop on ’em,” added Flixie.

  “No problemo,” said Smoothie as he ambled over to the rack of chocolate chips.

  “So,” Trixie said to Christina, “speaking of gifts, you never found the one your father wanted to give you last Christmas?”

  “Nope. And Grandpa and I searched everywhere. You wanna see what I was going to give to him?”

  “Sure!”

  “Hang on.” Christina left the kitchen and ran to her bedroom.

  While she was gone, Trixie turned to Smoothie, filled him in.

  “Her father was a fireman. Took toys to sick kids stuck in hospitals on Christmas Eve.”

  “And poor kids in housing projects,” added Flixie. “Just like the three wise guys who followed a movie star to Bethlehem.”

  “Last Christmas Eve,” said Trixie, “he died. Before he could give Christina her big Christmas gift.”

  Smoothie nodded. “Gotcha. Thanks for the update, ladies.”

  Christina hurried back into the room with a white box. She pulled out a red velvet Santa hat trimmed with fluffy white fur.

  Flixie and Trixie gasped.

  “Don’t worry,” said Christina. “It’s fake fur.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah. He, you know, needed a new one.” Her voice caught when she said it. “The thing he’d worn for like fifteen years was starting to look ratty.”

  “Sure, honey, sure.”

  Now Christina pulled a folded piece of paper from the box. “This was the story in the newspaper. About how he died on Christmas Eve.”

  She spread the clipping out on the kitchen table so her new friends could read it.

  HERO FIREFIGHTER NICHOLAS “SAINT NICK” LUCCI DIES IN CHRISTMAS EVE BLAZE, blared the banner headline. Gray type surrounded a portrait of Christina’s smiling dad decked out in his Engine 23 helmet and turnout gear.

  “There’s those eyes again,” sighed Trixie.

  Smoothie moseyed over to the table, licking melted brown goo off his fingertips.

  “That your dad?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Christina.

  “Huh. I knew this guy.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. Saint Nick Lucci. Used to work at my firehouse.”

  “Engine 23?”

  “Yeah. I was their kitchen brownie. Engine 23. Cleaned up the pots and pans they left soaking in the sink. Let me tell you, those guys could make a mess. …”

  Christina smiled, remembering. “Making spaghetti.”

  “Yeah. Spaghetti. The bell would ring, they’d run off in their truck, I’d clean up the kitchen.”

  “Were you there last Christmas Eve?”


  “Oh, yeah. Big fire. Just like it says in the newspaper there.”

  “And you saw my father?”

  “Sure. And he had this one big gift on the back of the truck. It was all wrapped up. Big tag on the side said: ‘To Christina, from Santa.’ ”

  Thirty-eight

  That same morning, at King Tony’s Toy Castle, four parents were fighting over the last Dumping Dino remaining on the shelf.

  The costumed bears from out front, decked out in their fuzzy plumed hats, had to storm into the store and break up the fight in aisle six with their balsa-wood spears.

  Every boy and girl in the city wanted a Dumping Dino—the remote-controlled dump truck that could wondrously transform itself into a Tyrannosaurus Rex. However, three days before Christmas, there was only one left and no other store in town had them! They were a King Tony exclusive.

  Tony Scungilli, the king of the Toy Castle, headed downstairs to Santa’s workshop. Actually, it was just a dingy corner of the basement where two brownie brothers, Gustav and Gizmo, cranked out all the best-selling toys in the store. They were surrounded by rolling bins and boxes full of parts and pieces, widgets and thingamabobs, whatchamacallits and doohickeys—all imported from China: gobs and gobs of unfinished human business.

  “Fellas?” the toy mogul shouted to be heard over the clatter of plastic snapping into plastic. “You got a minute?”

  The two brothers looked up from their cluttered workbenches. Both Gustav and Gizmo were dressed in carpenter aprons and knickers. They wore eye-googling goggles made out of magnifying-glass lenses so they could see all the pee-wee parts and properly insert all the tab As into all the slot Bs. The goggles made them look like bug-eyed beavers, busily building King Tony’s toys. Their tiny hands were whirling blurs of swirling, non-stop action as they quickly assembled new intricate knickknacks.

  “Can’t chat,” said Gustav.

  “Busy,” said Gizmo.

  The two brothers were brownies of few words. They let their hands do all their talking. In fact, in the time it took them to say those three words, they had constructed one Wetty Betty and a Bopping Beano Bear who sang lullabies when you bopped him on the nose.

  “Right,” said Tony. “I was wondering—could youse guys maybe work a little faster?”