Free Don't Call Me Christina Kringle by Chris Grabenstein Page A

responds to the scene and Santa never comes home. There’s no special gift on Christmas day. No nothing. Just his empty place at the dinner table and a framed photograph and his bronze baby booties hanging on a fake aluminum tree in a crummy little shoe repair shop. Christmas traditions? They just remind you of what you used to do with people who aren’t around anymore. They stink. They stink like crappy chunks of cloves floating around in stinking mulled cider at Elizabeth Grabowski’s house. They stink like Christmas stinks.”
    She folded up her paper.
    â€œThe end.”
    The horrified substitute’s jaw was hanging so low you could count her fillings.
    Christina sat down at her desk and jammed the essay into her backpack.
    When she did, she heard Nails whispering: “Boy, somebody up there sure needs a Christmas miracle. Either that, or a year’s supply of pixie dust.”

Twenty-seven
    While Christina was reading her “holiday traditions” essay to the class, the school janitor, a roly-poly man with plastered-back hair so black and glossy it looked like he painted it on his head every morning, was waddling up the hall toward the boys’ bathroom.
    The janitor was carrying a very large wooden toolbox, a crate so heavy it made him tilt to the side.
    â€œJust a few more feet,” he said to himself, huffing. “Almost there.”
    This was the hardest part of his job: lugging the box up and down the school’s corridors.
    He used his free hand to push open the swinging bathroom door and stepped inside. Since classes were in session, no boys were in the boys’ room. He set the wooden toolbox down on the tile floor, went over to a sink, and swiped its water spigot with a rag. Twice. Then he touched a toilet seat with a bristle brush. Once.
    â€œOh, me,” he said in a loud and stilted voice. “Some human has started cleaning this bathroom but they have not finished the job.”
    He flipped up the latches on his toolbox and raised the lid.
    â€œI’ll be back,” he said to his tools. “Do a good job, and I’ll bring you a carton of milk from the cafeteria!”

Twenty-eight
    Between classes, Christina went to her locker to stow her backpack.
    â€œThanks for the help on the math, Professor,” she said as she stuffed the nylon bag into the bottom of the locker.
    â€œYou’re welcome. Perhaps, this evening, we could take a second look at your holiday traditions essay. Jolly it up a wee bit?”
    â€œNo thanks. Look, I have to go to science class now and I don’t want you guys playing with the chemicals and junk.”
    â€œI make a swell foaming volcano,” said Nails.
    â€œThat’s what I’m afraid of.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause we’re not studying volcanoes!”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œJust stay in here and try to stay out of trouble. Maybe you could grab a quick nap. Don’t forget, you’re going to be working on shoes all night. You need the rest.”
    Professor Pencilneck poked his head out of the book bag. He had torn off a corner of Christina’s lunch sack and origamied it into a beautiful brown rose. “My condolences on the loss of your father,” he said, handing Christina the delicate paper flower.
    â€œYeah,” said Nails who had climbed up beside the professor. “Ditto.”
    Christina smiled faintly. “Thanks,” she said. She took the brown rose and tucked it into the pocket of the hoody she always wore to school in the winter. “After science, I have to go to this stupid Secret Santa party in social studies.”
    â€œSounds like fun!” said the professor.
    â€œYeah. Right. The whole thing’s a rip-off. Besides, I forgot to buy anybody anything. Just another human task left undone.”
    â€œWon’t Miss Tanake be disappointed?” said the professor.
    â€œHow’d you know I drew Kaio’s name?”
    â€œI saw