Don't Call Me Christina Kringle by Chris Grabenstein Read Free Book Online Page B

inhaling helium from birthday balloons.
    Christina stepped toward the curtains.
    â€œDon’t you hiss at me, sister!” screamed the angrier of the two voices.
    â€œActually, Nails, hissing is a feline’s instinctual defensive gesture. …”
    â€œI don’t care! She’s giving me a saliva shower here. …”
    Christina moved closer.
    â€œHello?” she called out.
    â€œCheese it,” said the tough guy. “It’s a human person!”
    Christina bravely grabbed hold of the curtain and yanked it to the side.
    â€œOh my!”
    She saw them.
    Two little men. One in a top hat and tails. The other in a carpenter’s smock. They were flinging shoe-polish lids and brass grommets at the cat.
    â€œDust ’em!” yelled the one in the smock.
    The one in the top hat scoffed at that. “Oh, I don’t think the situation calls for—”
    Christina grabbed a broom and started swinging.
    â€œDust ’em!” screamed the tiny carpenter. “Dust ’em both! Now!”
    The two trespassers (who had to be figments of Christina’s cocoa-powered imagination) pulled out striped straws, bit off the tips, stuck the straws into their mouths and blew.
    A cloud of sparkling purple powder surrounded Christina and the cat.
    The alley cat stopped hissing.
    Christina smiled and felt drowsy.
    The last thing she heard before drifting off to sleep was the tiny carpenter person saying, “Pixie dust. Works every time.”

Twenty
    Across town, over where people had so much money they sometimes used it for tissue when they blew their noses, Donald McCracken, the lanky Scotsman with the carrot-colored hair, was visiting a squat pastry chef named Pierre who was about to open a brand-new bakery.
    â€œ Sacré bleu! Mon grand opening is tomorrow morning!” sighed Pierre. Since he was French, it sounded very dramatic. “Monsieur McCracken, kindly allow me to tell zee truth: I do not know how to bake! I do not know how to whip zee butter! I do not even know how to crack zee eggs or turn on zee oven! I am, how you say, a fake! A fraud! A French phone-knee!”
    He brought his wrist to his forehead for extra drama.
    â€œDon’t you worry,” said McCracken as he set two small boxes on the stainless-steel kitchen countertop.
    â€œOh, why did I open a bakery when I cannot bake even a potato?” the chef bellowed. “I am so stupid!” When he said it, it sounded like “stew-peed.” He was, after all, French.
    â€œI told you not to worry, lad,” said McCracken, flicking open the little brass latches on the fronts of his crates. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be makin’ money hand over fist. Your tarts shall be so tasty, your cream puffs so puffy, you’ll have customers lined up around the block.”
    â€œHow can zees be?” asked the chef. “Did you not hear me? I cannot cook! Oui , I am French, but I cannot even make French toast! Soon, zey will come. Zey will come and take away my toque!”
    â€œYour what?”
    â€œMy poofy white chef hat! The French ambassador will come and he will say I am not worthy to wear zee poofy white hat!”
    â€œRelax, Pierre. Relax. Ye need worry no more.”
    â€œBut I love my poofy hat.”
    McCracken had more work to do in other shops around town, so he changed the subject.
    â€œDid you set out all the ingredients as I instructed?”
    â€œOui, oui.” The chef pointed to bags and tins and bottles lined up on the countertop. “Butter. Eggs. Flour. Sugar. Salt. More butter. Milk. Vanilla extract. Almond extract. Butter. Butter extract. We French? We like zee butter. The more butter zee better zee batter.”
    â€œAnd did ye start the job?”
    â€œ Oui. I pour the flour into zee bowl. Should I do more?”
    â€œNo. Go home. Come back in the morning when ye’ll be sellin’ the finest baked goods anyone has ever tasted. Better