The Christmas Rat by Avi Page A

pocket.
    â€œAnd I promise to bring home a tree tonight,” my dad said cheerfully. “A good one.”
    â€œWe’ll decorate,” Mom added. “After supper.”
    Kisses, hugs, and then they left.
    It may have been freezing outside but I ate my regular breakfast of cold cereal—a mix of Shredded Wheat and Frosted Flakes—plus a cup of hot chocolate. Sitting alone in the kitchen, I began to think about the vacation ahead. It looked pretty empty and big-time annoying.
    I checked my E-mail (nothing), then played some computer games in my room. But after I killed a zillion Zergs it felt like my brain was beginning to itch.
    I tried the TV. But, you know, how many kiddie cartoons can you watch? The talk shows were boring too. The cooking shows were all turkey. No decent movies, either. Nothing but screaming Christmas ads. “Buy this! Buy that!” shouted by people with grins so wide you’d think they were selling false teeth.
    Mixed in were lots of warnings about the cold snap. “Don’t go out unless you have to!”
    â€œIf you do go out, bundle up tight!”
    â€œBe careful!”
    Then there were, like, all these calls for food, shelter, and clothing for the homeless, the needy, the lonely. “At this time of year . . . the bitter cold . . .”
    I got to feeling so antsy, I sneaked a look under my parents’ bed to check out my Christmas presents. There was a whole bunch of stuff. Not bad. But their main gift was a disappointment. See, they had gotten me this radio-controlled stunt car, a Rebound 4 × 4 Jet. Thing is, what I’d been hinting at was the Rebound 4 × 4 Jet Turbo . It was much better than what they got. It has longer-lasting batteries and goes faster, too.
    That made me feel glad that I’d been a bit—hate to say it—cheap with their presents. But with the money I’d saved I could buy the car I wanted, the Turbo, which was the one Pete had. We’d be able to race when he got home from Florida.
    It wasn’t long before I was sorry I’d looked at my gifts. I mean, what’s the point in knowing what your presents are when you can’t touch them, use them, or even talk about them? The surprise is, you know, totally gone. I felt like I was waiting for something that had already happened.
    By eleven o’clock I was bored stupid. I kept thinking this wasn’t the way Christmas was supposed to be. I felt like sticking my head out the window and shouting, “Help! It’s the end of the world!”
    Then came the knock on our door.
-2-
    â€œWho’s there?” I asked. If you live in a city apartment you’re always supposed to ask that before you open the door. Even grown-ups do it. You’d be amazed at the creeps that come into nice buildings like ours.
    â€œExterminator!” came the answer.
    I flipped the dead bolt, plus the second lock, then pulled open the heavy door.
    A huge guy was standing before me. I mean, he was really big. Underneath a black peaked cap that had a skull-with-wings logo, he had this straight, white-blond hair that reached to his shoulders. His face was long, pale, with a thin nose and glittering eyes. He had this wild mustache—whitish-blond—that stuck out on both sides of his face. The mustache reminded me of the long-horned cows I’d seen on a school video about the old West.
    He was wearing a black leather jacket, fleecelined. Black combat boots. Army issue, I figured. Each hand gripped the handle of a metal box. The boxes had the same picture of a skull-with-wings as his hat.
    There was a smell about him, too. I couldn’t place it.
    â€œFolks home?” he asked in a voice that was low, sort of rumbly.
    â€œThey’re working,” I answered, staring up at him. “But they told me you were coming so I can let you in.”
    â€œGood,” he said.
    I stepped aside.
    â€œWhere’s your kitchen?” he