Free The Holly Joliday by Megan McDonald

 

     
    Stink was glued to the weather channel, when out on the porch he heard such a clatter!
Thunk! Clunk!
Stink sprang from the sofa to see what was the matter. “Mailman!” he shouted with glee. “Somebody got a package!”
     
    “Stink, I hope you didn’t write more letters and order more free stuff,” Judy called after him. “Mom and Dad will be mad.”
     
    “Nope,” said Stink, opening the door and running down the walk to catch the mail truck before it pulled away. He liked talking to Mr. Harvey, the mailman. Mr. Harvey had a ponytail and a dog named Pork Chop.
     
    “How’s Pork Chop?” Stink asked, but when the mailman turned around, it wasn’t the mailman at all. He did not have a ponytail. And he did not look like someone who had a dog named Pork Chop.
     
    This guy had white fuzzy hair and smiley wrinkles. He had a white bushy beard and hairy eyebrows, and he wore a furry hat with the earflaps turned up. He did not look like a mailman.
     

     
    “Who are you?” asked Stink. “And where’s Mr. Harvey?”
     
    “I’m the new guy,” said the not-mailman. “Glad to meet you. My name’s Frost. Call me Jack,” said Mr. Frost, grinning and winking and raising his bushy white eyebrows.
     
    “No way! You mean
you’re
Jack Frost? For real? Like the snowman? Like the guy that paints frosty pictures on leaves and windows?”
     
    “That’s me,” said the mailman. “And guess what happens when a dog bites me?”
     
    “What?” Stink asked.
     
    “I get
Frost
bite,” Jack said, grinning. Stink howled over that one.
     
    Jack Frost handed Stink two more boxes. “Special delivery today. These didn’t fit in your mailbox.”
     
    “Are any from the North Pole?” Stink shook the boxes. One was from the L. L. Beanery and smelled like coffee. The other one was as heavy as books but sounded like . . . fruitcake! Sick!
     
    “Probably just fruitcake,” said Stink. “My grandma Lou sends us one every year around the holidays. Our cat, Mouse, is the only one who eats it!”
     
    “Better luck next time, huh?” Jack said.
     
    “Hey, if you’re Jack Frost,” said Stink, “I was wondering . . . do you think you could deliver snow this year? All I want for Christmas is snow.”
     
    “Snow, huh? Well, you never know. Might be able to arrange it for you this year.”
     
    “You can do that?” Stink asked. “For real?”
     
    Jack Frost laughed and tugged at his white beard, winking and looking up at the sky. “From what I can tell, there’s a low-pressure system moving in. Cold front could get here as early as this weekend.”
     
    “Wow!” said Stink. “So you can predict the weather, too?”
     
    “I’ve been in this line of work for a lot of years. I can feel the weather in my bones.” Jack Frost stuck out his tongue. “Right now, I can almost taste snow in the air.”
     
    “I have a super-good sniffer,” said Stink. “Maybe I can smell it in the air.” He closed his eyes and stuck his nose in the air.
Sniff, sniff.
He pictured catching snowflakes on his tongue.
Sniff, sniff.
He pictured a snowball fight.
Sniff, sniff.
He pictured a great big whopping whiteout. “Yep, I think I smell snow,” said Stink.
     
    Stink and Jack Frost were quiet for a minute. Together they looked up at the gloomy gray sky and sniffed the moist, damp air.
     
    “My big sister says it never snows in Virginia,” said Stink. “My big sister says there’s too much globe warming. My big sister says there’s like a billion-to-one chance for snow this year.”
     
    “Your big sister sounds pretty smart, huh?”
     
    “She thinks so,” said Stink.
     
    “It could happen,” said Jack Frost. “One winter, back in 1980, we got thirteen and a half inches in one day. Broke all the records.”
     
    “Whoa!” said Stink.
     
    “See? You just might get your fluffy stuff after all,” said Jack Frost. “Think
snow.
Feel it in your bones.”
     
    “Thanks!” said Stink. “It’s lucky I ran