You know, you just don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
That’s what Cate said after Dad made her break up with her boyfriend Steve. I’m not really sure she ever HAD Steve. See, he was human and a miner.
And everyone knows that miners and mobs don’t mix. (Plus, I saw him hanging out with some redheaded girl in the village once, but that’s a whole other story.)
See, I THOUGHT I had a plan for Christmas. I had my Santa suit. I scoped out at least one chimney. And last night, I even talked Willow into brewing me a potion of fire resistance. I’m not crazy about drinking something with a bunch of slimy magma cream in it, believe me. But a Santa’s got to do what a Santa’s got to do.
But this whole time, there was one thing I kind of took for granted. (That means you don’t really appreciate it while you have it.)
Yup, the white stuff that hit me in the forehead eighteen days ago is starting to MELT. And what’s Santa without snow?
Boy, I did NOT see this coming. Someone really should have warned me.
It was almost IMPOSSIBLE to pull Chloe to school on the sled last night. At least, that’s what Sam said when he finally gave up and plopped down onto his butt on the grass.
Chloe got mad at first, but when she saw that he wasn’t getting up, she finally crept off in a hissy huff. She said she’d have to come up with something ELSE we could do for her.
But I can’t worry about that right now. Because without snow, I can’t use my sled on Christmas. And it’s only SIX days away!
What is this Santa supposed to do? WALK from house to house? Ride Eddy’s wolf? Bounce across the plains on Sam?
I actually thought about that last idea for a while. But then I thought of all the ways Sam could wreck my plan. He’d probably want to come down the chimney with me, and that slime would get stuck for sure.
He’d probably drink all the hot chocolate the kids left for Santa, and then he’d have a gas attack before we could make it back up the chimney.
Yeah, Sam would give Santa a bad name. Kids would be holding their noses and begging him NOT to come back next year.
And that would be the end of my new career.
So . . . I decided to go with a different approach.
Dad once told me that ancient humans used to do “rain dances” to make it rain here in the Overworld. When I asked if that actually worked, Dad said he wasn’t so sure.
Well, that was a good enough answer for me. I decided to try a SNOW dance. What does this creeper have to lose?
This morning after school, I crept outside while my family was sleeping. I stood under the rising sun and started moving and grooving. Let me tell you, I boogied my butt off. I did every single dance move I could think of, and that was A LOT:
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I tried out some of Mom’s Zombie Zumba.
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I pulled out my best hip-hop. (When a rabbit went by, I even squatted down and bunny-hopped.)
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I performed Dad’s Moonwalk (until I realized that the sun in the sky might not appreciate that).
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I did some breakdance moves across the porch. (Actually, the only thing I BROKE was one of Mom’s flowerpots, but my landing was pretty impressive.)
I was hurting after that crash landing—I’m not gonna lie. But I got up anyway and did the Stanky Legg with my one GOOD leg.
And the whole time I was dancing, I stared at the sky and hoped for another miracle.
But nothing came down. Nothing except a couple of crumbly dead leaves that I must have bumped loose from the roof with all that dancing. And the forecast called for sunny skies ahead.
Did I do the wrong dance? Who knows. It’s not like I can check out a book on “Snow Dancing” from the school library.
But if this dancing thing doesn’t pay off, I’m going to have to figure out something else. FAST.
