Hudson Graham drives a 1960 Cadillac that he’s named Jester. It’s obviously ancient because nobody makes cars with pointy taillights, whitewall tires, and huge steering wheels anymore, but Hudson keeps it sparkling so it looks brand-new, and there’s no missing it when he’s cruising the streets of Santa Martina because it’s lavender.
When Hudson drove it around front, Billy practically peed his pants. “Dude, that is awesome!” And before he can even finish bouncing up and down, he grabs Marissa’s hand and calls, “We got shotgun!”
Now, Marissa and Billy aren’t shy about being “together.” But when it’s the five of us, I don’t like to make Holly feel awkward, so Casey and I just act, you know, normal. Which is sometimes hard because he’s a freshman at Santa Martina High so I don’t see him during school, and because of his mom and demented sister I’m not allowed to see him after. So it’s not always easy to just be all hey-how’s-it-going when I do get to see him.
Anyway, Marissa and Billy slide in front while Casey, Holly, and I pile in back, and then off we go to Sisquane.
Sisquane used to seem like the boondocks, but it’s not that far outside of Santa Martina, and it’s been built up a lot recently, so people don’t think of it as being shacks in the woods anymore. It even has a golf course and gated communities.
The DeVrieses don’t live in any of the new developments, though. You pass right by those and keep on going until you find a bunch of mailboxes on a post and a dirt road that has a crooked sign that says MEADOW LANE.
“It’s down that way,” I tell Hudson when I spot the sign. “But we can walk from here.”
He turns onto Meadow Lane anyway, but stops. Besides the big potholes ahead of us, the road is kinda overgrown with weeds, and scraggly bushes on both sides are sort of choking it off. Plus, about thirty feet away there’s a big branch sticking out across the road like one of those safety gates at a railroad crossing.
Hudson looks over his shoulder at me. “Are you sure?”
“It’s not far,” I tell him, and we all scoot out.
“Wow! This is the boonies!” Billy cries like he’s just arrived at Disneyland.
Hudson rolls down his window. “You’re sure you have a ride home?”
I nod. “Dot’s dad. Don’t worry. We’re fine.”
“You want me to keep the lights shining?”
I look back at him and smile, ’cause usually he treats us like we’re mature and responsible and smart, but right now he looks like he’s setting loose a litter of kittens.
“We’re fine, Hudson. Really. It’s right around the bend.”
So we all wave and holler, “Thanks!” and he drives away.
And then it’s dark.
And as we move past the big branch sticking across Meadow Lane, we start hearing noises.
Like rustling.
And crunching.
And hooting, and whooshing, and croaking.
“I feel like I’m in the jungle,” Marissa whispers as she clings to Billy.
“I don’t remember it being this overgrown,” Holly says, pushing a sprig of a bush aside. And even in the dark I can see that her eyes are cranked wide and roaming around all over the place.
“I’m pretty sure it’s just a little ways around this bend,” I tell them, but right then there’s a huge crashing, crunching, mega-rustling sound in the undergrowth to our right.
“Ohmygod!” Marissa squeals, and actually jumps into Billy’s arms.
Holly jumps back, too, but before I can grab onto Casey, a flying haystack knocks me flat.
The haystack’s got paws.
Big furry ones.
And a big, hot, slobbery tongue.
One that’s soaking my face!
“Aaaah!” I cry, pushing back.
“Nibbles!” Dot shouts from somewhere in the dark.
“He’s right here!” I shout back.
“That’s a dog?” Billy asks, and then cries, “The Abominable Furball!”
Dot appears with a flashlight and yanks Nibbles off of me. “I’m so sorry!” she says. “He chewed through his rope. He’s had to be out all day because”—she glances over her shoulder and drops her voice—“we’ve been cleaning floors.” She drags Nibbles along and says, “I guess I’ll put him in the basement until after Sinterklaas comes.”
So she goes around the side of the house and locks the Abominable Furball away, and races back to the porch, where we’re waiting for her.
“Shoes off today,” she tells us as she kicks out of her clogs. So we all get down to stocking feet, and then we step inside.
Now, Casey had never actually been inside Dot’s house before, and since this was Billy’s first time anywhere near it, neither was prepared for the Land of Blue. At first their eyes just go a little buggy, but when we enter the kitchen, Billy cuts loose with, “Whoa!”
It was actually very polite, considering. I mean, knowing Billy, he might have said something like, Blind me with blue, why don’tcha! because the wallpaper, the counters, the linoleum floor, the dishes and pots and pans … everything is just bursting with blue.
“Dad says it’s a cross between the sky and the deep blue sea,” Dot explains, then laughs. “And who doesn’t like the sky and the deep blue sea?”
I almost say, Well, if you’re drowning …, but for once I keep my big mouth shut.
Mrs. DeVries’ head pops in through a doorway, and she whispers, “Are we ready?”
Dot hands us each a paper lunch sack. “Everyone’s here!”
Mrs. DeVries smiles at the rest of us. “If it gets too wild for you, just step aside, ja?”
We all nod, and I can tell Billy’s about to make some crack and ja back, so I jab him in the ribs with an elbow.
“What?” he says, pulling a stupid puppy dog face.
“Don’t even,” I tell him through my teeth.
“Don’t even what?”
“I know you, Billy.”
He gives me his impish grin. “Ja! You do!”
I elbow him again even though Mrs. DeVries is gone, and just as I do, a really loud cracking sound thunders through the house.
“Holy smokes!” I cry, and Dot squeals, “Anneke! Beppie! Sinterklaas is here!”
We look at each other all bug-eyed, then scramble out of the kitchen and into a wide hallway by the family room, where Anneke and Beppie are already scurrying around, snatching pepernoten off the floor.
Suddenly there’s another loud cracking sound, and this time I look up and actually see the cookies crash through the ceiling.
“Holy smokes!” I say again as they bounce all over the hardwood floor like some kind of weird cookie hailstorm.
Stan and Troy appear out of nowhere and slide toward us like they’re scoring a run in baseball, crying, “Out of the way!” and “They’re mine!”
“Troy! Stan! This is Billy and Casey!” Dot calls as her brothers snatch cookies off the floor and drop them in cloth bags strapped tight across their chests.
They stop for a second, look at Billy and Casey, and cry, “This is no place for sissies!” then get back to snatching cookies off the floor.
Well, I guess there’s no quicker way to lure boys into battle than to call them sissies, because just like that, Casey and Billy are down on the floor tumbling and tackling and diving for cookies.
CRACK! Another batch of cookies pelts us from above.
“Good grief!” Marissa squeals, covering her head with her arm. “They’re little rocks!”
Now, they weren’t exactly rocks, but they sure weren’t soft-batch cookies, either. They were little tan ovals, about half an inch across, and when I bit down on one, I discovered it was hard, but not in a crunchy way. More in a really solid way.
I also discovered that it was … good.
Like a dense little spice cookie.
“I can’t believe you just ate that!” Marissa hisses. “They look like reindeer plops!”
CRACK! A new batch bursts through the ceiling, and this time I dive after them. “Sinterklaas doesn’t use reindeer. He rides a horse! And if you don’t watch it, his helpers will stick you in the sack!”
Holly’s already on the move, and she and I start slip-sliding across the floor, grabbing at cookies like crazy. Then—CRACK—another batch pounds us from above.
Holly laughs, “This is wild!” and dives after the scattering cookies while—CRACK—another batch nails us.
“I love this!” I call over to Dot.
“Ja, me too!” Billy shouts.
Now, while they’re all scampering around, I take a minute to watch the ceiling. I mean, I know cookies can’t come through the ceiling.
It’s impossible!
Holly notices me watching and starts doing the same. “How do they do it?” she whispers.
We wait and wait and wait, but nothing happens.
And the instant we look away—CRACK—another batch bombards us.
So we give up trying to figure it out and just dart around collecting cookies. And after we’ve all had the chance to build up a bit of a stash, I notice Stan and Troy eyeing Casey’s and Billy’s paper sacks.
Dot sees it, too. “Billy! Casey! Watch out!” she calls, but her brothers are already all over them, trying to wrestle their sacks away.
“Bombs away! Pghhhh!” Anneke cries, piling on top of Stan.
“I’m king of the mountain!” Beppie squeals, climbing on top of Troy.
“You’re a girl!” Anneke yells at her sister. “You can’t be king!”
“Okay, I’m queen of the mountain!” Beppie shouts back, and starts bouncing on top of her brother.
“Uncle!” Billy chokes out from somewhere at the bottom of the pileup.
CRACK! The room thunders with more cookies, which makes everyone abandon the pileup and scurry after pepernoten.
CRACK! Another batch scatters all around us.
And that’s when the actual combat warfare begins.
Stan throws a handful of cookies at Billy.
Billy throws a handful back.
Pretty soon all four boys plus Holly and me are running and sliding around the house, hurling cookies at each other, trying to raid each other’s stashes, laughing our heads off while cookies keep crashing through the ceiling.
“You guys are crazy!” Marissa shouts from the sidelines, and, really, there’s no other way to describe it.
Well, this goes on for another fifteen minutes, and finally I’m just wiped out. So I sit down on the floor and try to catch my breath, and pretty soon everyone else is doing the same thing. “Truce?” Casey asks Stan.
“No way, dude. I’m getting your stash.”
But then, BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM, someone’s pounding on the front door.
“Sinterklaas!” Anneke squeals, and right away Stan and Troy jump up, then do a fakey stumble and fall, blocking Anneke and Beppie from reaching the door.
“Out of the way!” Anneke cries, and Beppie squeals, “I want to see him! I want to see him! Hurry! Before he flies away!”
“What’s he doing at the door?” I ask Dot. “Isn’t he on the roof?”
“He leaves gifts on the doorstep when he’s done with the cookies.” She looks around, and when she spots her mom giving her a thumbs-up from across the house, she grabs her sisters’ hands, steps over her brothers, and says, “Out of the way, boys! We want to see Sinterklaas!” She nods us over. “Come on!”
So we all gather by the door, but when Dot swings it open, I don’t see any presents.
All I see is a very strange-looking man.
And I may not be Dutch, but right away I know—
It’s definitely not Sinterklaas.