“I’m really sorry, Mom,” Emily said, perching on the arm of the couch. “Is there anything I can do?”
Mrs. Fields dried her eyes with the embroidered handkerchief she always carried around. “We need to stop this blasphemy. But it’ll take someone infiltrating the group and catching the girls in the act to get the proof we need.” She placed her hand on Emily’s arm. “The Santa Land at the Devon Crest Mall is looking for a new Santa—the old one was fired for hitting on girls.” Mrs. Fields shuddered slightly. “Anyhow, I told Judith you could be the new Santa. It’s a perfect way to spy on these girls.”
“Me? A spy?” Emily blurted. There was no way she was taking a job as Santa Claus. She’d thought about getting a job over the holidays, especially after her father had mentioned that his Christmas bonus was going to be smaller this year, but she had been thinking of something more along the lines of a gift-wrapper at Macy’s or a salesgirl at FrogLand, the swim specialty shop. Playing Santa sounded as challenging as being Mickey Mouse at Disney World. If you got it wrong, you’d ruin a kid’s whole year. Not to mention that she didn’t really fit the part.
“Please, honey?” Mrs. Fields’s chin wobbled. “I really need you to do this.”
“But I don’t have any experience with kids,” Emily protested. “And I don’t think I’d be a good spy.”
Mrs. Fields’s eyebrows made a V. “You have plenty of experience with kids. You did lots of babysitting when you were younger. And what about when you were a Wilderness Guide at Rosewood Happyland Day Camp?”
Like that really counted. Emily and Ali had signed up to be Wilderness Guides the summer between sixth and seventh grades, mostly because Ali had a crush on the canoeing instructor. In the course of the first hour, a little girl peed on Emily’s foot, a boy bit her, and a group of kids pushed her into a patch of poison ivy. After all that, Ali had discovered that Canoe Boy had a girlfriend. They’d quit after lunch and laughed about it all summer. Whenever Emily or Ali was in a bad mood, they’d say, I’m having a Wilderness Guide kind of day.
“And you would make an excellent spy,” Mrs. Fields went on. “The elves are just a few years older than you are, and I know you can break into their clique and dig up some good information on them.”
“Why can’t Carolyn do it?”
Mrs. Fields’s nostrils flared. “Because Carolyn already has a job over the break. She’s working as a waitress at Applebee’s.”
Emily would gladly deliver sizzling fajita pans and margaritas to drunken patrons instead. “But Santa is usually a guy. Won’t kids get confused when they hear my voice?” she asked as a last-ditch effort.
Emily’s dad, who had settled on the couch, shrugged. “Just make your voice sound deeper. This really means a lot to your mom, Em.”
Emily gritted her teeth. This was so classic: Mrs. Fields was always making decisions for Emily without actually asking her first. Like how she just assumed she’d be on the swim team year after year. Or how she bought Emily jeans from the Gap even though Gap jeans hadn’t fit her properly for years. Or how she made reservations at a Broadway-themed restaurant for Emily’s birthday even though Emily hadn’t liked the restaurant since she was nine years old. Sometimes, Emily thought her mother preferred Emily when she was nine—obedient, sweet, no mind of her own.
But then Emily’s gaze fell on the L Word DVD set on top of the media console. Below it was Finding Nemo, which Mrs. Fields had bought for Emily when she’d returned from Iowa, specifically choosing it because Ellen DeGeneres was the voice of one of the fishes. Her mom had finally come around about everything. What if she turned this down and her mom went back to freezing her out? Emily wasn’t sure if she could take that.
“All right,” Emily conceded. “I guess I can at least go in for an interview.”
“Oh, nonsense.” Mrs. Fields waved her hand. “You’ve already got the job. You’re on the schedule for tomorrow. Saturday’s one of the busiest days at Santa Land, so you’ll be diving right in.” She stood up and wrapped her arms around Emily. “Thank you so much, honey. I knew I could count on you.”
Emily stiffly hugged her back, her mind starting to churn. She’d better get to work on her ho ho hos—it looked like she was going to be Santa, ready or not.
Chapter 3
You Better Watch Out, You Better Not Cry . . .
The next day, it took Emily almost twenty minutes to find a parking space at the new Devon Crest Mall, a phoenix of marble, steel, elevators, and upscale department stores that had risen from the ashes of the West Rosewood flea market and fairgrounds. When she finally wedged her mother’s behemoth Volvo wagon into a spot at the very back of a garage, it was almost noon, the time she was supposed to report for Santa duty.
She sprinted for the double doors, maneuvered around a group of women with strollers, nearly collided with a woman giving out free samples of some sort of anti-wrinkle skin product, and finally saw Santa Land at the end of the corridor, a vision of giant candy canes, fake snowdrifts, a gingerbread house, and an unoccupied golden throne with a mural of Santa, Mrs. Claus, and his eight tiny reindeer above it. There was already a line of kids waiting on a candy cane–striped carpet. Most of them were sobbing hysterically.
When Emily had read her horoscope in the Philadelphia Sentinel this morning, it had said, Be prepared for an uncomfortable situation today. No kidding.
Over the booming Christmas music, Emily heard the faintest, haunting giggle. She paused and whipped her head to the left, watching as the shoppers streamed past. Was someone watching?
“Emily?” A tall, graying woman in a red dress and a Santa hat rushed toward her. Even in the Mrs. Claus outfit, Emily recognized Judith Meriwether from church—she was always giving a reading or announcing a canned-goods drive.
“It is you!” Mrs. Meriwether breathed, taking Emily’s hands. Her palms were ice-cold. “Thank goodness you’re here. It’s so nice of you to do this for your mother. For all of us.”
Emily pressed her lips together to keep from saying that she hadn’t really had a choice.
Mrs. Meriwether directed Emily to sit down in the little gingerbread house and fill out some tax forms. As Emily finished writing in her address, she glanced out the diamond-shaped window. Santa Land was wedged between an Aéropostale, a BCBG, and two kiosks. One sold glittery cell phone and iPad cases while the other hawked what looked like some sort of bottled water. DISCOVER THE AMAZING POWER OF AMINOSPA! said a banner draped over the booth. A buff, chiseled guy and a punky girl with jet-black hair stood in the thoroughfare, trying to get passersby to take free samples. The girl’s red lips were drooped in a despondent frown, and she was practically tackling anyone who walked by.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Meriwether bustled into the gingerbread house with a Santa suit in her arms. “It’s fresh from the dry cleaner’s. Our previous Santa wore it too, but he was much bigger than you are. We’ll have to fill you out with some pillows.” She held up the curly white beard to Emily’s face. It felt like silky doll hair against her skin. “Perfect! No one will know you’re a girl!”
Emily pulled the Santa suit over her clothes. When she looked at herself in the small mirror in the back of the gingerbread house, she looked, well, like Santa.
“Now, let me give you the rules,” Mrs. Meriwether said after stuffing a bunch of pillows under Emily’s jacket and down her pant legs. “Try to move the kids along as fast as you can, but always give them a few ho ho hos and let them tell you a couple things they’d like for Christmas. Hold on to them tight for the picture—a lot of kids will want to squirm off your lap—and if someone pees on you, just laugh it off. Our previous Santa got angry, which upset a lot of parents.” She made a face. “Our previous Santa also hit on thirteen-year-old girls. At least you won’t be doing anything like that.”
Emily clomped in her oversized black boots toward the gingerbread door, which had a wobbly knob in the shape of a gumdrop. “So where are these elves I’m supposed to be spying on?”
Mrs. Meriwether’s eyes darted back and forth. “They’re not here yet,” she whispered. “Please keep your mission quiet, though. Sophie’s father is the mall manager. He can’t find out what we’re doing until we have proof—I can’t afford to be fired. But these girls need to be caught. Mrs. Ulster from the church swears they took the Santa sleigh from her front yard. And one of my neighbors woke up a few mornings ago to find her inflatable Frosty in a very . . . compromising position with the inflatable Ho-Ho-Homer Simpson.” She winced.
“Well, I’ll do my best,” Emily assured her. Her phone beeped. She had one text message from Spencer:Want to check out the new Ryan Gosling movie?
I wish but I’m working, Emily wrote back. Then she opened the gingerbread door and stepped outside. All the kids’ heads swiveled around at the sight of her. “It’s Santa!” one of them screamed. “Santa, Santa!” the rest of the kids wailed, jumping up and down.
The girl at the front of the line barreled for Emily before she could sit down, latching herself onto Emily’s leg. “Hi, Santa!” she bellowed. “I’m Fiona!”
“Hello, Fiona,” Emily said, deepening her voice. She lowered herself onto the throne, and the girl climbed up onto her lap. She was about five years old, had her hair in two blond pigtails, and smelled like Lucky Charms. “What would you like for Christmas?” Emily asked.
“A Little Mermaid doll,” the girl said promptly.
Emily couldn’t help but smile. “The Little Mermaid is one of my favorite movies, too.” She’d kind of had a crush on Ariel.
Fiona’s face brightened. “Really?” It was as though she’d just gotten a Santa exclusive.
“That’s right,” Emily said. “Ho ho ho!”
Mrs. Meriwether snapped a picture. Fiona gave her a huge hug, which filled Emily with a surprising sense of happiness. It was pretty cute. After the little girl skipped away, Emily assessed the line again. One child down. A zillion more to go.
The next kid, a boy of about seven, wanted a Star Wars Lego set. The girl after him wouldn’t say a word, but Emily made her smile by pretending to pull a peppermint candy out of her ear. Fifteen or so kids later, a man in a police uniform and a badge that said O’NEAL plopped his daughter on Emily’s lap. The girl, whose name was Tina, recited a very long list of Christmas wants, from several different American Girl dolls to a motorized car Emily had seen in an FAO Schwarz catalogue that cost $1,500. Her father nodded after each request, saying, “Santa will bring that for you, honey. And that, and that, and that.” Emily wanted to scold him. On a cop’s salary? Tina was definitely going to be disappointed Christmas morning.
There were some kids who cried, wiping their snot onto Emily’s sleeve. There was one boy only a few years younger than Emily who was there with his little brothers, who wanted to sit on Emily’s lap too, probably realizing she was a girl. Inevitably, a little girl peed on Emily’s lap out of excitement. Her mother whisked her off immediately, apologizing profusely. “It’s okay,” Emily said, recalling Mrs. Meriwether’s advice. She blotted the warm wet spot on her knee and tried not to gag.
