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

Christina. “It’s like biblical body lotion.”
    â€œOh. Nice.”
    â€œHe always said: ‘The first Christmas gifts were given; they weren’t exchanged.’ ”
    â€œSo what’d these three wise guys do?” asked Trixie.
    â€œThey followed a star, hundreds of miles, all the way to Bethlehem. They gave their gifts to the newborn baby Jesus but they didn’t get anything in return. Or did they? That’s what my Dad would say: ‘Or did they?’ And then he’d just wink at you and smile.”
    The two brownies nodded and let that soak in.
    â€œMmmm. I was working across the street when I smelled something sweet.” With another double-finger snap-clap, the new guy, Smoothie, strolled into the kitchen. “Oh, and there’s cookies too.”
    â€œHelp yourself,” said Trixie.
    â€œJust don’t drip any of your hair goop on ’em,” added Flixie.
    â€œNo problemo,” said Smoothie as he ambled over to the rack of chocolate chips.
    â€œSo,” Trixie said to Christina, “speaking of gifts, you never found the one your father wanted to give you last Christmas?”
    â€œNope. And Grandpa and I searched everywhere. You wanna see what I was going to give to him?”
    â€œSure!”
    â€œHang on.” Christina left the kitchen and ran to her bedroom.
    While she was gone, Trixie turned to Smoothie, filled him in.
    â€œHer father was a fireman. Took toys to sick kids stuck in hospitals on Christmas Eve.”
    â€œAnd poor kids in housing projects,” added Flixie. “Just like the three wise guys who followed a movie star to Bethlehem.”
    â€œLast Christmas Eve,” said Trixie, “he died. Before he could give Christina her big Christmas gift.”
    Smoothie nodded. “Gotcha. Thanks for the update, ladies.”
    Christina hurried back into the room with a white box. She pulled out a red velvet Santa hat trimmed with fluffy white fur.
    Flixie and Trixie gasped.
    â€œDon’t worry,” said Christina. “It’s fake fur.”
    â€œIt’s beautiful.”
    â€œYeah. He, you know, needed a new one.” Her voice caught when she said it. “The thing he’d worn for like fifteen years was starting to look ratty.”
    â€œSure, honey, sure.”
    Now Christina pulled a folded piece of paper from the box. “This was the story in the newspaper. About how he died on Christmas Eve.”
    She spread the clipping out on the kitchen table so her new friends could read it.
    HERO FIREFIGHTER NICHOLAS “SAINT NICK” LUCCI DIES IN CHRISTMAS EVE BLAZE, blared the banner headline. Gray type surrounded a portrait of Christina’s smiling dad decked out in his Engine 23 helmet and turnout gear.
    â€œThere’s those eyes again,” sighed Trixie.
    Smoothie moseyed over to the table, licking melted brown goo off his fingertips.
    â€œThat your dad?” he asked.
    â€œYeah,” said Christina.
    â€œHuh. I knew this guy.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSure. Saint Nick Lucci. Used to work at my firehouse.”
    â€œEngine 23?”
    â€œYeah. I was their kitchen brownie. Engine 23. Cleaned up the pots and pans they left soaking in the sink. Let me tell you, those guys could make a mess. …”
    Christina smiled, remembering. “Making spaghetti.”
    â€œYeah. Spaghetti. The bell would ring, they’d run off in their truck, I’d clean up the kitchen.”
    â€œWere you there last Christmas Eve?”
    â€œOh, yeah. Big fire. Just like it says in the newspaper there.”
    â€œAnd you saw my father?”
    â€œSure. And he had this one big gift on the back of the truck. It was all wrapped up. Big tag on the side said: ‘To Christina, from Santa.’ ”

Thirty-eight
    That same morning, at King Tony’s Toy Castle, four parents were fighting over the last Dumping Dino remaining on the shelf.
    The costumed bears