Young Scrooge Read online

  “Josh! Hey—Josh!” I went running over to him. “Be careful!” I cried. “Did you hear? There’s an angry pit bull loose in the school.”

  “Huh?” He turned and his eyes went wide with fright behind his glasses. “A d-d-dog?”

  “I’ll protect you,” I said. I picked him up by his waist and lifted him into his locker. And then I closed the locker door with him inside.

  “Hey—let m-m-me out, Rick!” he shouted.

  “You’ll be safe now,” I said.

  Josh was still shouting and pounding on his locker door as I turned the corner and strode quickly down the hall. I knew someone would find him sooner or later.

  Sure, I knew that I shouldn’t have done it. But Christmas just puts me in such a bad mood. I can’t help myself.

  Besides, it was pretty funny.

  I forced the smile off my face as I stepped into Miss Dorrit’s room. She stood behind her desk with her arms crossed in front of her. I guessed she’d been waiting for me.

  She was wearing a green sweater that perfectly matched her green eyes. Her blond hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. She had a stern expression on her face. I could see she didn’t call me in to give me the Good Citizenship Award.

  She pointed to a wooden chair right in front of her desk. “Take a seat, Rick. You and I have to talk.” She sat down behind her desk and kept her cold, green-eyed stare on me.

  “I have to pick up my brother at the elementary school,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “I know. I know. Snowman lessons.”

  “No, really—” I said.

  “This won’t take too long,” she replied. She tapped a pencil on the desktop. “How old is your brother, Rick?”

  “Charlie is seven,” I said.

  “Does he look like you?”

  “A little,” I said. “He has kind of the same face. But he’s skinnier than me. He’s skinnier than everybody. Mom says he looks like a pencil. Totally thin with red hair on top. You know. Like an eraser. I look more like my dad. Dark hair, dark eyes.”

  “And how do you treat your brother?” she asked.

  The question surprised me. “Excuse me?”

  “How do you treat your brother?” she repeated. “Are you mean to him? Are you nice to him? Do you stomp really hard on his feet and try to hurt him a lot?”

  “No way,” I said. “He’s my little brother. I’m responsible for him.”

  She set down the pencil and leaned toward me over her desk. “Responsible for him?”

  I nodded. “You know my dad died last year. And Mom … well … One day she took me aside. And she said, ‘You’re the man now, Rick. I want you to take care of Charlie. From now on, I want you to look after Charlie and be responsible for him.’”

  Miss Dorrit didn’t say anything for a long moment. She just kept her eyes on me. She appeared to be thinking hard. “So you don’t play tricks on Charlie or push him around or give him a hard time?”

  “No,” I said. “Well … not too often.”

  That made her smile. But the smile didn’t last long. “Did you ever think of treating the other kids you know, the kids here in school, the way you treat Charlie?”

  “No,” I answered. “Never.”

  She blinked. “But wouldn’t it be better if you treated your friends the way you treat your little brother?”

  I shrugged. “I like to have fun,” I said. “I like to goof on people. You know. Joke around.”

  Miss Dorrit tugged at her ponytail. “Rick, what if your brother had a bad stuttering problem?” she said. “Would you make fun of him?”

  “My brother doesn’t have a stuttering problem,” I said.

  She sighed. “I know. But what if?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s pretty funny to imitate it. I probably couldn’t resist.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “You couldn’t resist making fun of a stuttering person because…?”

  “Because it’s funny. I like to be funny and make people laugh. My dad always said I had a good sense of humor.”

  “But what if your humor makes someone cry?” she said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t get it. Why would someone cry at a joke?”

  Miss Dorrit sat back in her seat. She started tapping the pencil on her desk again. “Rick, I don’t think I’m getting through to you.”

  “So can I go?” I started to stand up.

  “No. Sit down. We need to finish this. I need to make you understand.”

  I dropped back onto the chair with a groan. “You want me to apologize to Josh?” I said. “Okay. I’ll go get him. I locked him in his locker. I’ll go pull him out and apologize.”

  Miss Dorrit jumped to her feet. “You what? You locked him in his locker?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It just kind of happened.” I couldn’t keep a smile from creeping across my face.

  She ran out of the room. I could hear her out in the hall rescuing Josh. When she came back into the room, she was breathing hard.

  “This is just what I was talking about,” she said. “This is what I’m trying to get you to realize, Rick. A lot of kids don’t think you’re funny. They think you’re really mean.”

  That word mean echoed in my ear.

  “Huh, me?” I said. I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. “Me? Mean? Because I like to kid around?”

  Miss Dorrit settled back in her chair. “There are some things you need to learn, Rick. You tried out for a part in Mr. Pickwick’s Christmas play, remember?”

  “Yes, and I was the best actor there,” I said. “The others who tried out were total wimps who muttered onto their chins.”

  She locked her green eyes on me. “Well, don’t you wonder why you didn’t get a part? Don’t you wonder why Mr. Pickwick made you the stage manager instead of letting you act?”

  I returned her stare. “Because he’s a jerk?”

  She groaned. “Rick, it really isn’t a good idea to call your teachers names. Especially in front of another teacher.” She shifted in her chair. I don’t think she was enjoying our talk. I know I wasn’t enjoying it.

  “Rick, you didn’t get a part in the play because the other kids were afraid of you. They were afraid of what you would do to them onstage during rehearsals. They were afraid you would bully them.”

  “Bully?” I repeated the word.

  “We’ve talked a lot in class this year about bullies,” she said. “You remember, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know any bullies,” I said. “I think they’re probably only in books.”

  She gazed at the wall clock on the far wall. “I think we have to wrap this up,” she said. “But before you go, I just want to say a few more things to you.”

  She kept talking, but I stopped listening to her. I was thinking hard. My mind was spinning because of what she had told me. The other kids didn’t want me to be in the play. That’s why I was stage manager.

  They didn’t want me. They didn’t want Rick Scroogeman.

  Miss Dorrit was saying something about the Golden Rule. But I didn’t hear a word. I could feel the anger bubbling in my chest.

  They didn’t want me. They didn’t want me onstage with them.

  Suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

  I had to find a way to pay them all back.

  And guess what?

  I had a really fun idea.

  5

  After dinner, Mom, Charlie, and I were in the den. Mom sat on the edge of the soft couch, knitting a Christmas sweater for one of our cousins.

  She was always knitting sweaters for our cousins. She never did one for Charlie or me, and I was glad because her sweaters always weigh a ton and they’re totally itchy. They itch you right through your shirt. Right through your skin. Seriously.

  Mom had the Weather Channel on the TV. She’s obsessed with the Weather Channel in winter. She likes all those snowy scenes of cars stranded on the highway and roofs collapsing under six feet of snow. She loves snow disas
ters.

  Mom has a good sense of humor, like me.

  Charlie was down on the floor in front of the coffee table. He had a big bag of jelly beans in his lap. I dropped down beside him and swiped the jelly bean bag out of his hand.

  “Hey—!” He grabbed for it. Missed.

  “Where’d you get these?” I asked.

  “Left over from Halloween,” he said. “They’re mine. Give them back.”

  “Wow. Look at that car stranded on an icy river,” Mom said, pointing at the TV. “How horrible.”

  “Jelly beans aren’t good for you,” I told Charlie. “And these are stale.”

  “Jelly beans don’t get stale,” he argued. He’s very bright for seven. “Give them back.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Since I’m a nice guy, I’ll share them with you. It’s almost my birthday, right? So we can divide them up.” I tilted the bag and poured them all onto the rug.

  I started making piles. “Two for me, one for you. Three for me, one for you.”

  He made an ugly face and punched me in the shoulder. He’s so skinny and lightweight, I could hardly feel it. “Stop it, Rick. You’re cheating!” he whined.

  “What are you learning in school?” I asked him.

  He thought for a moment. “We’re learning about the different states,” he said.

  “Charlie, tell me what things you learned about the states,” I said.

  He likes to show off about school stuff. He started to talk about California and then Nevada. Then he moved on to Wyoming.

  While he talked, I gobbled up a handful of jelly beans. I figured if I could keep him talking, I could eat most of the candy before he finished.

  I ate about two dozen, and I saved him five jelly beans. He is my brother, after all.

  “Mom, Rick ate my jelly beans,” Charlie wailed.

  “I shared them with him,” I said.

  Mom had her eyes on the TV. “Rick, I think I’m going to buy you new snow boots for Christmas,” she said.

  I almost gagged. “Huh? Boots for Christmas? You’re joking, right?”

  “He only saved me five,” Charlie complained.

  I took one out of his hand and ate it.

  “You need new boots,” Mom said.

  “But not for Christmas,” I said. “I already gave you my wish list, Mom. Snow boots were not on the list. I need the presents I put on the list.”

  She set down her knitting and turned to me. “I’m a little worried about you, Rick. You had twenty gifts on your list. Why do you think you should get so many?”

  “You know why,” I snapped. “Because it’s my birthday, too. How unlucky is that?” I reached for another jelly bean, but that little pig Charlie had eaten all four of them.

  “Most kids have two days to get presents,” I said. “But because my birthday is December twenty-fifth, I only have one day. It’s totally not fair.”

  “If he gets twenty presents, I want twenty presents,” Charlie said, crossing his skinny arms over his skinny chest.

  “See what a bad influence you are on your brother?” Mom said, frowning at me. “I really think you are being selfish. And you are forgetting the whole meaning of Christmas.”

  “No, I’m not,” I insisted. “The meaning of Christmas is to buy me lots and lots of presents.”

  “That’s not funny,” Mom said.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “Could I have another bag of jelly beans for Christmas?” Charlie chimed in. “I want a ton of presents, just like Rick.”

  “Do you only think about getting presents? What about giving presents?” Mom asked me.

  “I’m just a kid,” I said. “I don’t give presents. I only get them.”

  Mom shook her head. “Rick, you’re making me very sad. I think you should go to your room now and think about what the real meaning of Christmas is.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. I climbed to my feet, pushing my hand down on Charlie’s head to help myself up. Then I strode quickly to my room at the end of the hall.

  I dropped down on the edge of the bed. But I didn’t think about the meaning of Christmas. I pictured those kids who didn’t want me to be in the Christmas play. And I thought about revenge.

  6

  I don’t get nervous when I have to speak or read in front of the whole class. I know I’m good at it.

  A few mornings later, I strode up to the front of Miss Dorrit’s class, swinging my essay at my side. Of course, I tromped really hard on Josh Cratchit’s foot as I passed by him.

  I couldn’t believe how loud he screamed. Who told him to sit with his big foot in the aisle?

  Miss Dorrit sat on the edge of her desk. Today she wore faded denim jeans and layers of red and green T-shirts. I stepped up next to her and raised my papers.

  “What is the title of your Christmas essay?” she asked.

  “My paper is called ‘Why I Hate Hate Hate Christmas,’” I answered.

  Some kids laughed. I saw Lucy Copperfield roll her eyes. Shamequa Allen, sitting right in front of me, flashed me a thumbs-down.

  Miss Dorrit squinted at me. “Is that really what your essay is about?”

  “I’m not joking,” I said. “I hate Christmas.”

  “Okay,” she replied. “I think we’re all a little surprised. But go ahead and read it.”

  I cleared my throat and started to read. I read about how much I hated the old Christmas movie about Ebenezer Scrooge. And how Christmas is also my birthday, so I get cheated out of a whole day of presents.

  The class was totally silent as I read the part about how stupid it is to decorate a Christmas tree. When I finished reading, no one made a sound.

  I lowered my paper to my side. Miss Dorrit let out a long whoosh of air. “Well … that was certainly different, Rick,” she said. “Has anyone else written a paper about how much they hate Christmas?”

  No hands went up. Of course.

  They all wrote sickening papers about waking up Christmas morning, opening their Christmas stockings, and going to visit Granny. I made my way back to my seat in the back row. Josh Cratchit pulled his foot in—but not fast enough. I gave it another good hard stomp as I passed.

  Ha-ha. He’ll never learn.

  “You’re totally sick,” Lucy Copperfield said as I took my seat next to her.

  “Your face is making me sick!” I shot back. We always kid each other like that. I took my thumbs and smeared her glasses.

  But I had more important things to think about.

  The first dress rehearsal of the Christmas play was after school. The first time the actors would be in their costumes. As stage manager, I was in charge of all the costumes and all the props.

  It was a big job. And I wanted to make sure I did it right. The Rick Scroogeman way.

  Mr. Pickwick, the school drama teacher, met me at the stage door to the auditorium. He’s a big guy, in his forties, I think, with a round pink face and long black hair streaked with gray, all curly on his head. I don’t think he ever brushes it.

  He always has a stubble of black beard on his cheeks, as if he hasn’t shaved for a few days. And he wears the same outfit to school every day—baggy khaki pants, a soft white shirt, very wrinkled, and a blue blazer that hangs down nearly to his knees and he never buttons.

  Mr. P always seems to have twelve things on his mind at once. He doesn’t walk—he darts. I mean, he kind of shoots from one place to another. It’s like he’s always excited. Like he has too much energy. He looks like someone put him on fast-forward.

  He wrote the Christmas play himself. All the songs, too.

  I don’t think he likes me. Sometimes during rehearsal, I see him watching me from the side of the stage. Like he expects me to do something bad or wrong.

  Ha-ha. He’s pretty smart.

  “Can you help me with these buttons?” Davey Pittman crossed the stage to Mr. Pickwick, holding up both sleeves of his ruffled elf shirt. Davey plays the leader of the elves.

  The whole
play takes place in Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. Santa was run over by a reindeer, and the elves have to take over. They all work day and night to make sure kids will have a wonderful Christmas, even without Santa.

  A family from Ohio with five kids arrives at the North Pole. They are looking for Santa Claus. But when they hear what happened to him, they pitch in and work, making toys beside the elves. They say it’s their best Christmas ever.

  Gag me with a spoon.

  How babyish is that?

  But … some of the jokes are funny, and the songs are pretty good. Especially “The Reindeer Rap,” performed by four kids with antlers sticking out of their heads.

  Mr. P helped Davey button the sleeves of his elf shirt. I passed out pointy elf shoes to some of the other elves. They were all practicing their tiny elf voices. I waved to Lucy Copperfield. She plays Davey’s elf wife. She pretended she didn’t see me.

  “Mr. P, should I wear the beard today?” the kid who plays Santa asked. He’s a fifth-grader named Billy O’Brian. But I call him Belly O’Beast because he’s the fattest kid in school. I mean, he totally is a beast.

  I like to grab his big belly with both hands, jiggle it up and down, and shout, “Earthquake!” Especially when there are girls watching. Belly’s fat face always turns bright red. It’s a riot.

  I held Belly’s red Santa jacket and helped him squeeze into it. Then I fixed the long white wig on top of his head. “You look awesome,” I said. “Like a mountain with snow on top.” I made sure Mr. P wasn’t looking. Then I gave Belly a hard punch in the belly for good luck.

  “Places, people! Places!” Mr. P was shouting. “You all look wonderful in your costumes.” He motioned with both hands. “Can I get the elves all lined up over here? Where is Mrs. Santa? I need Mrs. Santa stage right.”

  Debra Davis, who plays Mrs. Santa, was struggling to get her long apron tied behind her back. The strap kept getting caught in the red-and-green vest she wore over her long red dress.

  She hobbled toward Mr. P on her high-heeled red shoes. “Mr. P, there’s something wrong,” she said. She began scratching her side. Then she scratched her shoulder.

  The elves were all lined up, Davey Pittman at the front of the line. I saw that they were scratching, too. Davey squirmed as he slapped at the back of his neck. Lucy Copperfield was bending over to scratch her knees. Belly O’Beast pulled off his Santa beard and rubbed his chin and cheeks.