Free Don't Call Me Christina Kringle by Chris Grabenstein

his head, “this is a true Christmas miracle. You answered every question correctly. And your extra-credit work is exemplary. Congratulations, Miss Lucci. You might actually pass this class after all.”
    He strolled up the aisle to continue collecting papers. Christina leaned over to find a fresh pencil in her book bag.
    Actually, she wanted to whisper a word to Professor Pencilneck who was hiding behind her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. “Show-off,” she said with a very grateful smile.
    The professor touched the tip of his cane to the brim of his top hat and gave her a slight bow.
    â€œJust finishing the work you had started,” he said in a hushed voice. “After all, it’s what we brownies do.”

Twenty-six
    After math came language arts.
    The usual teacher was out with the flu. They had a substitute: a lady with big hair and poinsettias knit all over her sweater.
    Elizabeth Grabowski stood in front of the class and proudly presented her essay on her family’s favorite holiday traditions.
    â€œChristmas is the smell of cloves and mulled cider. It is a fuzzy-faced nutcracker nestled upon the mantle. It is warm cocoa and cozy mittens. It is family and friends and, just like the song says, it is the most wonderful time of the year! The end.”
    The girl smiled smugly.
    â€œBravo!” the substitute teacher gushed. “Gosh, I feel all warm and toasty inside. Thank you, Elizabeth! Thank you for sharing your gift.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œLet’s see …” The teacher scanned her roster. “Is there a Miss Lucci? A Miss Christina Lucci?”
    Christina limply raised her hand. “Here.”
    â€œCome on up. You’re next, dear!”
    â€œCan someone else go before me?”
    â€œWhy? Is there some problem?”
    â€œYeah,” said Christina. “I’m still in sugar shock from listening to Elizabeth’s sappy essay.”
    Her friends laughed. The teacher did not.
    â€œMiss Lucci, I may be a substitute but I demand full-time respect.” She snapped her fingers. Pointed to a spot on the floor directly in front of the blackboard. “Your essay. Now, if you please.”
    â€œBut, I …”
    â€œNow, young lady!”
    Christina shuffled to the front of the class. She had a crumpled sheet of paper stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans. Most of her friends wouldn’t look at her. They looked down at their desks or their feet because they felt so sorry for her. Christina hated it when people pitied her.
    â€œWe’re waiting,” said the teacher.
    Christina unfolded her essay even though she hardly glanced at the paper while she spoke.
    â€œChristmas Traditions,” she said, her voice strong and somewhat angry. “We have so many in my family because my father absolutely loves Christmas. We decorate every room in the apartment and every window. We buy a tree on the Friday after Thanksgiving and decorate it that night. We help my grandfather decorate his shoe shop. We exchange gifts on the morning of Christmas Eve. Right after breakfast. We open all the gifts except one. We each save one special gift for Christmas night.”
    The teacher sat back in her chair and smiled. Christina could tell she was feeling all warm and toasty again. The lady loved Christmas. Stupid substitute teacher.
    â€œWhy do we save one special gift for Christmas night?” Christina continued. “Because on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, when normal people open their presents, my father is always busy. He puts on his Santa hat and loads up his fire truck with all sorts of toys to take to the kids in the hospitals and up in the housing projects. Kids who aren’t going to get anything else for Christmas, just the stuff Santa delivers off the back of the Engine Company 23 fire truck.
    â€œBut then, last year, Santa, my dad, gets a 10-75 call. That’s an All-Hands Fire. So Engine Company 23