A TUMBLEWEED CHRISTMAS
Today is Christmas Eve, but our house is dark and sad. We don’t have a Christmas tree. Mom says trees cost money. Since my dad is in the hospital, she doesn’t have any extra. But I saved fifty cents from my school lunch money, so I’m going to surprise her and buy us a tree.
I pull on my coat, plunk my baseball cap on my head, and tuck my baseball glove under my arm. My glove goes everywhere I go. Dad gave it to me. We used to play ball, before he got sick.
“Where you going, Jackie?” asks April, who is four.
“Where you going?” asks May, who is two.
“It’s a surprise,” I say.
April and May clap their hands.
“Don’t tell Mom.”
“We won’t,” says April.
“We won’t,” says May.
I hurry to the kitchen. “Mom, I’m going to Daniel’s house.”
Daniel is my best friend and teammate on the Sluggers baseball team. I can’t tell Mom where I’m really going. That would ruin the surprise.
She hands me a cookie, warm out of the oven. “Don’t wander far, Jackie. Mrs. Garden is going to stay with you this afternoon while I visit your dad.”
The Christmas tree lot is only two blocks away. That isn’t far, so I say, “Okay, Mom,” and rush outside, leaving a trail of cookie crumbs.
Next door, Daniel is sitting on his front porch, his face as droopy as a hound dog’s.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I lost my baseball glove. This is the third one. My dad told me I can’t play on the Sluggers unless I find it.”
“Come with me to buy a Christmas tree. We’ll look for a glove, too.”
“I only have five dollars,” says Daniel. “That won’t buy a new glove.”
“It might. Mom says Christmas is the season of miracles.”
Daniel scratches his head. “What’s a miracle?”
“Something good that happens to you, I think.”
“It’ll take a miracle to find me a new glove,” says Daniel, his lip drooping lower.
At the Christmas tree lot, I spot the perfect tree. Mom and my sisters will love it.
“Hey, mister,” I call to a tall man whose face is as puckered as a sour pickle. “Here’s fifty cents for this tree.”
The man snarls, “Get lost, kid.”
“What a grouch,” says Daniel.
“Yeah,” I say. “But Mom always tells me if you give a grouch a smile, he’ll smile back. So I smile. The man does not smile back. I guess Mom is wrong about miracles. No smile. No tree.
Daniel tugs on my arm. “Ask him about a glove.”
When I ask the man if he has a baseball glove for five dollars, the man’s face turns redder than the blinking tree lights. We get out of there in a hurry.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes me. “Maybe somebody threw a tree or glove away.”
“Good idea.”
We dig through the trashcans in the alley. We find boxes and cans and bottles, but not one tree or glove. “This proves there’s no such thing as a miracle,” I grumble.
We trudge down the sidewalk toward home. “What do I tell my sisters?” I ask. “I promised them a surprise.”
“What do I tell the Sluggers’ coach?” asks Daniel.
I clutch my glove tighter. I’d hate to lose it.
The wind whips scraps of paper and grass around us. A tumbleweed dances across the street, but I barely give it a glance. I’m looking at the Christmas trees in the windows of every house we pass.
We’re halfway home when Daniel howls, “Ow! Help! A tumbleweed attacked me.”
“Hold still.” I untangle the tumbleweed from Daniel’s pants and hurl it to the curb. “You’re free now.”
“Whee, thanks!” he says. “Tumbleweeds are dangerous.”
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