I’d have to mark that down for Melissa. “My name is Savannah Smith, and I’m here to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”
“Quite all right,” he answered. “American, are you?”
“Yes. Is it . . . that noticeable?” I thought I looked very British indeed in my tweed coat and woolen scarf.
“Just the accent, that’s all. We’ve got a lot of language in common, but sometimes one thing or another sticks out.” He patted his largish stomach. “Now, what can I answer for you?”
I looked down at my sheet and asked the first question. “How long have you been Father Christmas in Wexburg?”
“Well, now, I’ve been Father Christmas for a very, very long time, but I’ve been in Wexburg Centre for about seventy-five years.”
“You don’t look that old!” I blurted out. Oh, Savvy, reporters don’t blurt.
“Well, Father Christmas is rather timeless, isn’t he?” By that I knew he meant that a Father Christmas had been there that long. Not necessarily him.
I worked through a few more questions about what kind of gifts he liked to give most (books) and least (pets that squirmed, bit, or made wee-wee), and then I got to the last question. “What’s the best thing about being Father Christmas?” I asked.
“Helping others,” he said. “Seeing the joy when I’ve done something to make them happy. I hear a lot of secrets, and I hear a lot of sorrow, as you can imagine. It all gets whispered right here.” He pointed to his ear. “Or sometimes it’s written in the letters that are delivered to me. I try to do a bit of good where I can—helping people sort things out for the holiday. That’s what’s most rewarding to me.”
I liked him. I kind of felt the same way. I’d finished my official questions and was ready to snap my notebook shut when I decided to look him over closely again so Melissa could describe him in detail. Santa Claus was supposed to have a twinkle in his eye. Did Father Christmas too?
His eyes were a hazel green, like a lot of people’s, but with some flecks of brown. Nothing necessarily twinkly though. Kind, of course, but . . .
Wait. Was that a bruise by his left eye? I thought it was. It was almost completely covered in makeup—I’d guessed that he had makeup on, and I also figured maybe it was a false beard. But if you looked hard, you could just barely see the purple skin underneath.
I decided to take a risk and ask a question that wasn’t on Melissa’s form. “Is that a black eye?” I asked. “A bruise?”
He grinned. “Well, I guess Mother Christmas didn’t do a good enough job with the cover-up, eh?”
I laughed. “Did someone get angry with their Christmas gift and chuck it at you?”
He laughed along with me, and his belly did actually jiggle like a bowlful of jelly. So maybe he and Santa were cousins or something. “No. I ran into an open door. Suppose Father Christmas might need glasses soon.”
Should I write this little fact down? Or would Melissa be mad that I’d gone off of her precise script? I decided to hold back—for now.
I stood and held out my hand. “Thank you. I’m sure Melissa will be in touch.”
Late that night, at home, I furiously typed out the notes and then spell-checked and grammar-checked them. I printed them out on the cleanest, flattest sheets of white paper in my dad’s office. I wanted them to look perfect. For Melissa. For Jack. This week, research for another reporter. Next week, my own secret column. In January—my own byline.
What writer didn’t want her own byline, those little words at the end of the article that gave her name, her credentials, and a little bit of interesting fluff? It’s what made writing worthwhile. What made writers famous. How people noticed you in class and in the hall. I’d seen it happen for Jack. I’d even seen it happen, in maths, for Hazelle.
Savannah Smith, Advice Columnist Extraordinaire.
The next day after school, I met Jack at the paper office. My Au Revoir
“Quite all right,” he answered. “American, are you?”
“Yes. Is it . . . that noticeable?” I thought I looked very British indeed in my tweed coat and woolen scarf.
“Just the accent, that’s all. We’ve got a lot of language in common, but sometimes one thing or another sticks out.” He patted his largish stomach. “Now, what can I answer for you?”
I looked down at my sheet and asked the first question. “How long have you been Father Christmas in Wexburg?”
“Well, now, I’ve been Father Christmas for a very, very long time, but I’ve been in Wexburg Centre for about seventy-five years.”
“You don’t look that old!” I blurted out. Oh, Savvy, reporters don’t blurt.
“Well, Father Christmas is rather timeless, isn’t he?” By that I knew he meant that a Father Christmas had been there that long. Not necessarily him.
I worked through a few more questions about what kind of gifts he liked to give most (books) and least (pets that squirmed, bit, or made wee-wee), and then I got to the last question. “What’s the best thing about being Father Christmas?” I asked.
“Helping others,” he said. “Seeing the joy when I’ve done something to make them happy. I hear a lot of secrets, and I hear a lot of sorrow, as you can imagine. It all gets whispered right here.” He pointed to his ear. “Or sometimes it’s written in the letters that are delivered to me. I try to do a bit of good where I can—helping people sort things out for the holiday. That’s what’s most rewarding to me.”
I liked him. I kind of felt the same way. I’d finished my official questions and was ready to snap my notebook shut when I decided to look him over closely again so Melissa could describe him in detail. Santa Claus was supposed to have a twinkle in his eye. Did Father Christmas too?
His eyes were a hazel green, like a lot of people’s, but with some flecks of brown. Nothing necessarily twinkly though. Kind, of course, but . . .
Wait. Was that a bruise by his left eye? I thought it was. It was almost completely covered in makeup—I’d guessed that he had makeup on, and I also figured maybe it was a false beard. But if you looked hard, you could just barely see the purple skin underneath.
I decided to take a risk and ask a question that wasn’t on Melissa’s form. “Is that a black eye?” I asked. “A bruise?”
He grinned. “Well, I guess Mother Christmas didn’t do a good enough job with the cover-up, eh?”
I laughed. “Did someone get angry with their Christmas gift and chuck it at you?”
He laughed along with me, and his belly did actually jiggle like a bowlful of jelly. So maybe he and Santa were cousins or something. “No. I ran into an open door. Suppose Father Christmas might need glasses soon.”
Should I write this little fact down? Or would Melissa be mad that I’d gone off of her precise script? I decided to hold back—for now.
I stood and held out my hand. “Thank you. I’m sure Melissa will be in touch.”
Late that night, at home, I furiously typed out the notes and then spell-checked and grammar-checked them. I printed them out on the cleanest, flattest sheets of white paper in my dad’s office. I wanted them to look perfect. For Melissa. For Jack. This week, research for another reporter. Next week, my own secret column. In January—my own byline.
What writer didn’t want her own byline, those little words at the end of the article that gave her name, her credentials, and a little bit of interesting fluff? It’s what made writing worthwhile. What made writers famous. How people noticed you in class and in the hall. I’d seen it happen for Jack. I’d even seen it happen, in maths, for Hazelle.
Savannah Smith, Advice Columnist Extraordinaire.
The next day after school, I met Jack at the paper office. My Au Revoir
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