Twas the night before Christmas.
|“Stop wiggling,” I said to my little four-year-old sister, Vicki. We shared a bed.
She put her icy feet on my leg. I yelled and shoved them away. “Don’t do that.”
She giggled, and then said, “I can’t sleep. Do you think Santa will bring us a kitten?”
“No, Mom doesn’t want one,” I said.
“Santa doesn’t know that.”
“I’ll bet he does,” I said.
Vicki believed in Santa Claus. I maintained the deception in fear of my life. If I dared tell the truth, she’d run crying to Mom and tattle. Mom’s punishments could be evil. She once made my brother eat a complete package of cold hot dogs just because he took a bite out of one and hid it back in the package. The thought still makes me want to gag.
The doorbell rang. I hurried to our window, which looked onto the front porch. A large man stood in the shadows. I jerked back in fear letting the curtain fall into place.
“Who is it?” my sister asked, scrambling from the bed. I failed to stop her from throwing wide the curtain.
“He’ll see us,” I said.
The porch light came on, and we both gasped. It was Santa Claus! She grabbed my arm and stamped her feet repeatedly in excitement.
Dad was always doing stuff like marking sled tracks and reindeer prints in our front yard snow. “Girls,” he called, “come see who’s here.”
We dashed to the living room. There stood Santa Claus! After a short, awkward visit, our parents sent us back to bed.
Through the crack in our bedroom door, I heard Mom ask, “Who was that?”
Dad said, “I don’t know. I think he went to the wrong address.”
Word count: 288