*
I’m pouring myself another cup of raspberry-ginger punch when I hear Elinor say, “It’s sad that Natty didn’t have anyone to come to the ball with. I doubt she’s ever even met a human boy before.”
“Yes, she has,” Flynn says. “That guy Lars, remember?”
Their backs are to me. They don’t know I’m standing in earshot. I could still slip away without them knowing.
Then Elinor says, “Oh, Flynn. It’s so obvious she made that up to make you jealous. She’s always had a crush on you.”
My vision goes blurry, and I drop my cup of punch. Red liquid streams all over the refreshments table and some splashes on my dress. How could she say that? Never mind the fact that she’s right, I do have a crush on Flynn. Always have.
“She didn’t make it up,” he says, and his voice rings out loud and clear like a bell. “I checked it out. The databases haven’t been completely updated so I looked in Santa’s actual logs. There really was a boy named Lars.”
“You’re just saying that to be kind,” Elinor says. “We all know Natty tells stories.”
My cheeks burn hot. I used to tell stories. For attention. Like the time I told everyone I got lost in a blizzard and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer came and rescued me. But I don’t tell stories anymore. Aren’t people allowed to change?
I clear my throat before I can stop myself. They whirl around in one motion, as if it were choreographed. Elinor has the grace to look ashamed. She’s worried I’ll tell Santa. I won’t. I’m not a little baby tattletale anymore. I can handle myself. My heart pumps so hard in my chest, I worry that everyone can hear it. So I speak loudly. “I don’t ‘tell stories,’ Elinor. And I wasn’t lying about Lars.”
*
Two years ago, because I begged and pleaded, because it was my Christmas wish, Santa took me out with him on Christmas Eve.
Most things about the night are a blur, as most magical things are. But when I close my eyes and try hard to remember, I remember dogs that yapped and dogs that barked, the smells of other people’s houses, the thrill of being somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. Christmas trees and Christmas cookies and Christmas stockings. Christmas everything. Mostly I took pleasure in watching Papa work, because he took so much pleasure in it. The way he arranged the presents just so. He really does know the name of every girl and boy. He’d adopt all the lost little girls and boys if he could. I just got lucky. Sometimes I think about my mother, my real mother, and I wonder if she knew whom she was giving me to. I like to think so.
Papa and I visited a house—it was small and blue with white shutters—by the sea. I remember the smell of salt and the sound of the water. While Papa got to work, I set off looking for the cookies. So far my favorites were peanut M&M’s ones at an apartment in Charleston, South Carolina, and a close second were fancy raspberry macarons in Paris.
I found a blue-and-white china plate with cookies dusted in powdered sugar. I bit into one. It was hard nougaty pecan. I was licking sugar dust off my fingers when I heard him. It was a teenaged boy, thirteen or fourteen, standing at the foot of the stairs, staring right at me. He had hair the color of lemon candy, a translucent yellow. “J?vlar!” he whisper-shouted.
The way he said it, it definitely sounded like a curse word.
“My father says cussing is a terrible habit,” I told him, furtively wiping my hands on my coat.
The boy just stared at me, round-eyed.
“Oh, sorry. You probably don’t speak any English, huh? Where are we again? Sweden?” I cleared my throat. “God jul.” That means Merry Christmas. I can say Merry Christmas in every language. The elves can speak every language, but I’m only human.
“Are you and your dad robbers?” he asked me.
I gasped. So he did speak English! “Excuse me, but my father gives people gifts, he doesn’t steal them. He’s Santa.” The boy just kept staring at me, so I clarified. “Claus. Santa Claus. Saint Nick? Père No?l?” Oh, right, we were in Sweden. “Tomte? Nisse?”
He just looked more confused. “Santa Claus is Asian?”
“I’m adopted,” I explained. “He’s not my biological dad.”
The boy backed up on the staircase. “If you guys don’t get out of here right now I’m gonna call the polisen. Police, understand?”
The police? Eeks. Weakly I called out, “Papa…”
From the living room he called back, “Almost done in here, Natty! Pack a few cookies for me and we’ll hop back in the sleigh.”
“The sleigh,” the boy repeated.
“Oh, um, a sleigh is like a sled. Or … a wagon? It’s how Santa travels.”
He glared. “I know what a sleigh is.”
“It’s parked in the snow,” I said. “Go look if you don’t believe me.”
He ran over to the window and looked outside. He turned back around with saucer eyes and sank down onto the floor. He closed his eyes and whispered, “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming.”
I pinched his arm so hard he yelped. “See? You’re not dreaming.”
He rubbed his arm. “That’s not proof of anything.”
That’s when I noticed it—the bundle of mistletoe hanging above our heads. I thought, here’s my chance. And so I grabbed him and kissed him, and he tasted like Swedish Christmas candy.
Then I heard a throat clearing and a ho ho ho, and we sprang apart. The boy’s eyes just about fell out of his head when he saw Santa in all his cranberry-velvet glory. “Time to go, Natty,” Papa said.
“You really are real,” the boy whispered.
“That’s right, and I know when you’ve been naughty or nice,” Papa joked, but it was awkward, of course.
Papa whisked me away, and the boy ran to the window and called out, “My name is Lars! What’s yours?”
I screamed back, “Natalie!”
When I think back on it, I realize it was the first time I ever got to introduce myself. I’d known everyone at the North Pole since I was a baby, and they all called me Natty, because that was what Santa called me. It was my first time being Natalie.