Don't Call Me Christina Kringle by Chris Grabenstein

helping her out,” said Flixie. “You got a problem with that, Muscle Brain?”
    â€œNo, ma’am,” said Smoothie, doing a quick double-finger snap-clap. “I’m here to help.” He swaggered around the counter. A floor panel had been propped up to expose the steep staircase leading down into the cramped shop’s basement. “Hi-hoo, hi-hoo, Smoothie’s got work to do.”
    He froze.
    Because he finally saw the snoozing cat curled up on a shaggy rug near the radiator.
    â€œIt’s a c-c-c … a c-c-c …”
    â€œDon’t worry,” said Christina, “she’s very sweet. She’s been pixie-dusted.”
    Hearing that, Smoothie found his strut again.
    â€œOh. Cool. Hey, cat. What’s shaking?”
    The cat purred and stretched.
    Smoothie skipped down the steps to the cellar.
    When he was gone, Trixie put a hand to her mouth and whispered sideways to Flixie, “Did you get a load of that earring?”
    â€œYeah. Must weigh a ton. I wonder how he keeps his head from tilting sideways.”
    â€œHey,” said Christina, “with no brains inside, it’s probably easy.”
    The three new girlfriends laughed.
    â€œGood one, honey.”
    â€œSo,” said Flixie, “how many cookies do your firemen friends need for their party tomorrow?”
    â€œWell, it’s usually a pretty big crowd. I already started making the batter back at our apartment. …”
    â€œUh-oh,” said Trixie. “Sounds like yet another human task left undone.”
    â€œYou better haul us over there,” said Flixie, climbing up into Christina’s backpack. “We’ve got work to do.”
    Trixie hesitated. “You’re not baking brownies, are you, hon?”
    â€œNo way,” said Christina. “Just cookies. Besides, I prefer my brownies half-baked, like you two.”
    As they all laughed, Christina realized she didn’t hate Christmas half as much as she had that morning.

Thirty-seven
    â€œThese are incredible!” said Christine, nibbling on a snowman sugar cookie. “It tastes like, I don’t know—fresh fallen snow.”
    â€œThat’s the peppermint,” said Trixie.
    â€œI could eat a million of these!”
    â€œGo ahead,” said Flixie. “They’re zero calories.”
    â€œWhat? What about all that butter and sugar you whipped together?”
    Flixie waved her hand dismissively. “Our magic sparkle flakes take care of all the calories. Makes ’em evaporate or somethin’.”
    â€œWow.” Christina put down the snowman and bit into a gingerbread man. “Mmmm. Like a caramel apple covered with ginger snaps!”
    â€œWait ’til you taste the gumdrop buttons, honey.”
    Christina plucked off a red one. It tasted like fireworks, cherries, and then, strawberry syrup.
    The three of them had stayed up all night baking. Well, Christina took a nap between three and six a.m. Now every flat surface in the kitchen, except, of course, the floor, was covered with fresh-baked cookies on cooling racks.
    Christina picked up a glittering snowflake cookie.
    â€œIs that sugar?”
    â€œBetter,” said Flixie. “Pixie dust.”
    Christina devoured the snowflake, which, strangely, made her feel all warm and cozy; like she could tell these two little people anything and they wouldn’t laugh or judge her. They’d just listen.
    â€œThese cookies are our gift to you and all the brave firefighters,” Trixie said proudly.
    â€œMy Dad loved giving,” said Christina. “He always told me, ‘Giving makes you feel better than getting ever can.’”
    â€œAin’t it the truth,” said Trixie.
    â€œHis favorite Christmas story was the one about the Three wise men. You know—with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh?”
    Flixie looked confused. “Who’s Merv?”
    â€œMyrrh,” said