Humbug Holiday

Humbug Holiday

(A Christmas Carol)

Tony Abbott

Chapter 1

“Hilli-ho, Devin!” a voice called out as I crashed through the front doors of Palmdale Middle School and tramped into the cafeteria.

“Yo-ho, there, Frankie!” the voice chirped as my best-friend-forever-despite-the-fact-that-she's-a-girl Frankie Lang breezed into the caf alongside me.

Frankie and I screeched to a stop.

The chirpy voice belonged to Mr. Wexler, our English teacher. He came trotting toward us now, a huge grin on his face and his wispy hair flying up behind him.

“Warning, warning,” I said. “Mr. Wexler smiling. We have suddenly entered an alternate dimension of weirdness!”

Frankie chuckled. “Or maybe it's just good old Christmas spirit. After all, it's only two days till the big day.”

“Which translates to—the last day of school before vacation!” I added.

“Well, well!” Mr. Wexler said, his face still beaming. “What do you think? Pretty wonderful, isn't it?”

He waved his arm around the cafeteria as if he were swishing an invisible cape.

The place was jammed with kids from our English class, taping red and green streamers to the ceiling, stringing twinkly white lights around the fake-frosted windows, decorating a Christmas tree, and piling up holiday baked goods on a couple of long tables.

“All this, just for us?” I said. “I feel honored. …”

Mr. Wexler laughed. “Ha! Good one, Devin. Now, really. What have you two brought in today, hmm?”

“Just ourselves, for a great day at school!” Frankie said, her smile twinkling like those Christmas lights.

“A great
last
day of school,” I said, just because it sounded so good.

But as cheery as Frankie and I were getting, our teacher wasn't. He pointed up to a huge banner hanging over our heads. It read:

6
TH
-G
RADE
C
OMMUNITY
C
HRISTMAS
B
ANQUET

F
OOD
D
ONATIONS
D
UE
—T
ODAY!

“You do know our Christmas Banquet is today, don't you?” he asked. “We're hosting the Palmdale Homeless Shelter. You were supposed to bring in food for the charity dinner. You knew about this.”

I blinked at the guy. “Are you sure we knew about this? Because my brain tells me we sort of didn't.”

“You should have known about it,” he replied. “We've talked about it for the last month in class—”

“Oh, in class!” said Frankie. Then she turned to me and whispered. “There's the problem, Devin. You were probably snoring too loud for me to hear.”

I grumbled at my friend. “I don't snore. I sleep quite soundly, thank you—”

“We've talked about how there are families, even in sunny Palmdale, who don't eat as well as we do,” Mr. Wexler went on. “Some people—children like yourselves—don't have as many clothes as we do.”

“That's not good,” I said.

“Hundreds of people in our own town don't have proper food or shelter,” our teacher said. “Our Christmas Banquet is just one way to help. It's part of the book project we're working on. Remember?”

Frankie frowned. “I guess we forgot to remember.”

“Or maybe we remembered to forget,” I said.

A huge sigh came from our teacher. “So, you didn't bring in food. Did you at least read the book?”

We stared at our teacher.

One thing you have to realize about Frankie and me is that as bad as we are about remembering (or even hearing) about school stuff, we're probably worse at the whole reading thing.

People say we don't read well because we fail to grasp that we're actually supposed to open the books, not just carry them around.

I say it's because they cram too many words in books and make you read all of the words, or it doesn't count.

“Do you even
have
the book?” Mr. Wexler asked, setting his hands on his hips in that out-of-patience way he has. “You both have backpacks. Are they empty?”

“Of course not!” Frankie scoffed. She tipped her backpack over. A hairbrush fell out. “Now it's empty.”

Mr. Wexler grumbled, then turned to me. “Devin?”

“Mine's not empty, but it sure isn't crammed with books!” I said.

Narrowing his eyes, Mr. Wexler stepped over to a table, picked up a thin book, and held it up in front of us. “It's called
A Christmas Carol.
Jog any memories?”

“Wait a second,” I said. “I know this book. Isn't it all about a girl named Carol who wears red and green at the same time?”

“That's right,” said Frankie. “Even though red and green together is a way tremendous fashion risk. I heard about that book, too. Wasn't there a movie—”

“Not even close,” Mr. Wexler cut in, wrinkling his eyebrows. Or, I should say
eyebrow,
since he really only has one. It stretches over both eyes, is very bushy, and wiggles like a fuzzy black caterpillar when he gets mad.

It was wiggling now.

He shook his head at me. “Frankly, I expected much better things.…”

“No, I'm Devin. She's Frankly,” I said.

I was joking. But actually we both knew why Mr. Wexler expected better things from us. You see, even though we find it tough to read, Frankie and I have actually gotten good grades in Mr. Wexler's English class.

How, you ask?

I'll tell you, I say!

In a single word—the zapper gates.

That's three words,
Frankie would say, because she's such a math whiz.

What are the zapper gates, you ask?

I will tell you that, too.

The zapper gates are these old, supposedly busted security gates that our school librarian, Mrs. Figglehopper, keeps in the library workroom. But—as Frankie and I have found out—those gates are anything but busted.

They are the most amazing—and secret—things ever. What happens when you get near them is—

Wait, I'll tell you later. Mr. Wexler is talking again.

“Perhaps you'd both better just report to the library,” he said. “I'm sure Mrs. Figglehopper will find a copy of the book for you to read!”

“But if we go to the library, we'll miss the beginning of the banquet,” I protested.

“And while you're there,” he continued, “maybe you can think about how important this event is to everyone—and why it should be important to you, too.”

“But, Mr. Wexler, there's food here. And we love food,” Frankie pleaded. “Do we have to go right now?”

He gave us the eyebrow.

We went right then.

Chapter 2

“This is so not fair,” I grumbled.

Frankie snorted. “Except that it probably is. We totally blew it, Devin. We're slackers. Get used to it.”

“Oh, I'm used to it,” I said. “It's other people who keep wanting to change us. As if that's possible!”

We trudged out of the caf and entered the crazy maze of hallways to the library. Actually, the library was practically next door to the cafeteria.

It's just that Frankie and I always take the long way.

Because, for us, the library usually spells work. Plus a few other words, like danger and weirdness and trouble and—did I mention work?

As we slunk past the main office for the fifth time and up to the double doors of the library, Frankie stopped.

“What's that?” she asked, leaning
very
close to me.

“Um, I think it's called my personal space—”

“No, that smell.”

“What smell? I don't smell anything. There's no smell. Say, isn't the weather mild today—”

She gasped. “It's chocolate!”

“No, it's not. Chocolate? Here? That's just nutty! Have you been chewing your pencils again—”

“You have chocolate!” she said, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Your mother made her famous chocolate-chip cookies, didn't she? Oh! She did! I can smell them in your backpack! Open!”

“No way! If there are chocolate-chip cookies in my bag, then by law they're mine!” I jerked my pack away.

But she turned that look on me. The one where she tries to bore a hole through my brain just by using her eyes. Very effective. I started feeling dizzy right away.

“Okay, obeying …” I mumbled.

Carefully, I lifted the flap on my pack, loosened the drawstring, and pulled open the top. The aroma of chocolate-chip cookies blossomed out into the hallway.

“Oh, man!” she murmured, her eyes getting huge.

“Oh, man, is right,” I said. “Four dozen silver-dollar-size special Christmas chocolate-chip cookies totally home-baked. Mom must have put them in my backpack for a lunchtime surprise. Isn't she the best?”

Frankie took one look at my beaming face, then burst into a short, sudden laugh. “Devin, you walnut! Those cookies aren't for your lunch! Your mother sent them in for the Christmas Banquet soup-kitchen thingy—”

“That's crazy talk!” I blurted out. “Cookies don't go with soup!”

“Devin, trust me. Why would your mom
ever
give you forty-eight cookies for lunch?”

I thought about it. “Because it's Christmas?”

“Christmas Banquet, you mean.”

I stomped my foot. “Oh, man. I can't believe it! And I thought it was just a case of awesome holiday spirit. I should have known it was too good to be true!”

“You'd better tell Mr. Wexler that you brought food.”

“Oh, no,” I said, waving my arms. “It's too late for that. My stomach already got a whiff of these cookies. If I don't feed it, it'll rebel. I'll give cookies next time—”

“Devin, what if there is no next time? What if this is the last Christmas Banquet ever? What if those people go hungry? What if you never get a second chance?”

“Now you're scaring me, Frankie,” I said. “Besides, I'm pretty sure the cookies will get stale just sitting out on some table waiting for people. And staleness is a major health risk. They'll stay fresher in my backpack.”

She squinted at me. “It couldn't be that you're just being stingy and want to eat them all yourself?”

I shook my head. “I'm only thinking of the cookies!”

“I know you are. That's the problem.” Then she took a whiff. “They do smell good.”

“I'm sure they are good,” I said.

“You have enough in there to feed an army.”

“Yeah, an army of one.”

Frankie frowned. “Give me one—”

“Kkkkk!”
I said. “What did you say?
Keee-oooo-kkkkk!
Sorry, Frank—
kkk
—kie! Bad—connection! Too much—
kkkk!
—static—”

“Ahem!” boomed a voice over our shoulders.

Whirling around, we saw a woman hustling up behind us. It was Mrs. Figglehopper. The librarian.

Mrs. Figglehopper is a bit older than my mom and a bit younger than my grandmother. She always wears dresses with big flowers on them and her hair tied up in a tight bun. For years, she's been head of books at Palmdale Middle. She is absolutely nutzoid about books.

“And what brings my two favorite students to the library today?” she asked as she opened the double doors and whisked us into her book-filled lair. “Could it be that you haven't really been paying attention in class?”

“That's just a nasty rumor,” said Frankie. “But, yeah.”

“Actually, we're here to pick up a copy of some book,” I told her.

Mrs. Figglehopper stood there with a half-smiling, half-quizzical expression on her face. It was an expression she seemed to use a lot when Frankie and I were around. “Let me guess. Is it called
A Christmas Carol?”

“How did you know?” asked Frankie.

“Just a hunch,” said the librarian. “It's Mr. Wexler's project for the Christmas Banquet. I've given copies to all your classmates, and now I have only one copy left. It's in the workroom. Follow me!”