Happily Letter After(7)

I was so excited to have found my unicorn that I got a little carried away with myself. “I’ll give you fifty dollars for two tickets.”

The kid pointed to the sign stuck to the glass. “You know they’re still only three twenty-five a ticket, right?”

“I do. But I really need the tickets. Do they expire?”

He shook his head. “Don’t expire.”

I opened my purse and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. Flashing the cash always worked to close a street deal in New York. Well, either that, or they stole your wallet when you took it out, and then they bolted. But that had happened to me only once. I held up the fifty-dollar bill between two fingers.

“Fifty dollars. Won’t take you more than a few minutes to open the register back up, I’m sure. Change is yours.”

The kid plucked the bill out of my hand. “Be right back.”

I felt like I’d won the lottery . . . overpaying for two carousel tickets by forty-three dollars and fifty cents.

Yup, I’d lost it.

After seven hours of traveling through three boroughs, four bad dates, and being stood up, I was giddy as I left the park with the tickets securely in my purse. I felt like I’d won a battle. But really, it was only half a battle. Because how the hell was I even going to get little Birdie to Central Park?





CHAPTER 4

SADIE

I decided to leave the rest up to fate. I know, I know . . . after all that searching for the black horse and bribing a ticket taker at the park, something still felt wrong about writing to this little girl. So I placed the two carousel tickets into a box, wrapped them with the candy-cane-striped Christmas paper, and mailed them off to her. If she went, she went. And even if she did go, there was no guarantee that she’d figure out what I’d been trying to lead her to see. With no letter and almost two weeks having passed, I figured perhaps my days of playing Santa were over for the summer.

Until . . . I saw Devin walking down the hall. She’d become almost as invested in the crazy Santa-Birdie saga as I was. Every day when she brought me my mail, she checked for a letter before she left the mail room. Her long faces told me nothing had come before she stepped foot into my office. But today . . . she was literally skipping to my office wearing a full-tooth smile.

“It’s here!” She held up the envelope and waved it back and forth. “It’s here!”

What the hell is wrong with the two of us?

I wasn’t sure. But figuring it out was going to have to wait until I read the damn letter. I tore it open, and Devin came around my desk to read over my shoulder.

Dear Santa,

I love Central Park! I didn’t know there was a carousel! I asked my dad if he could take me last weekend, but we didn’t get to go because of the flood. Something happened to a rusty old pipe in the kitchen of his restaurant, and Magdalene had to come over. Magdalene’s my babysitter. She asked me if I wanted her to take me instead, but I really wanted to go with Daddy. Last week, my teacher for next year mailed all the kids in my class a welcome letter, so I told him the teacher included the tickets with her card. Anyway, I go to dance class at nine every Saturday morning, and Daddy said we could go right after. So I’ll get to go this weekend! Thank you for sending me the tickets for us.

Also, I wanted to tell you something. Remember Suzie Redmond? The girl you gave the guinea pig to? I told you how she is the worst in my first letter. Well, it was me who cut her hair. She sits in front of me in class . . . and, well, I had a pair of scissors. But I only cut some of it off from the back. It’s not even that much. She might not have noticed it if she hadn’t found some of the red pieces that fell on the floor. Anyway, she deserved it. On Tuesday, I wore these pretty pink Crocs that Dad bought me. Suzie was standing in a big circle with all her friends when I walked up and she said, “Are those Crocs? I can’t believe your mom let you out of the house like that. Oh, wait. No wonder. You don’t have a mom.”

You might be wondering why I’m telling you about Suzie. You see, Dad makes me go to these religion classes on Sunday mornings. Last week, we talked about confession. You go to church, and you tell the priest all the things you did wrong, and then he tells you to say a few prayers, and it makes everything okay again. I was hoping you sort of worked the same way. Because I don’t want you to find out and not bring Dad our special friend.

Thanks!

Love you lots!

Birdie

P.S. I also kept some of Suzie’s hair, and it’s in my jewelry box.

I started to crack up about three seconds before Devin.

“Oh my God. I freaking love this kid!” I said.

Devin laughed. “She thinks Santa works like the Catholic Church. Go murder someone, and Saint Pete still opens the pearly gates. Cut off a girl’s hair and still get gifts from Santa!”

I had to wipe tears from my eyes. “Maybe I should write back and tell her to sing three ‘Jingle Bells’ and two ‘Silent Nights.’”

We both had a good laugh, then Devin sighed. “God, that Suzie is a real piece of work, saying that to Birdie. I bet her mom is a real bitch, too.”

“I know, right? What a little evil brat. I wish I were really Santa. I’d fill her stocking with coal this year and bring her nothing.”

“And poor Birdie’s dad. That guy can’t catch a break. Dead wife, no taste in footwear, burst pipe.” Devin’s eyes went wide, and she held up her finger. The only thing missing from the picture standing before me was the bubble over her head with a light bulb. “I have an idea!”