Sleep will not come for Diana as she lies, tucked tightly in blankets, on the bottom bunk of the bed. Above her, Michael’s soft snores fill the delicate silence of the dark room. Shifting her gaze to the window across the room, Diana sees the glowing red and green lights her mom strung up the day after Thanksgiving. Snowflakes cling to the windowpane, reflecting the beautiful lights hanging above.
“Michael,” Diana calls out hoarsely. After a moment without response, she tries again. “Michael!”
“What is it?” replies a muffled voice. Diana ignores her twin’s irritation and continues.
“I need to get a glass of water.”
“So go and get a glass of water then!” Michael huffs, rolling over noisily up above.
“But it’s Christmas Eve. What if Santa is downstairs and he sees me and we don’t get presents?”
“You’re the only one who wouldn’t get presents. Now, leave me alone.”
Carefully untucking the blankets, Diana swings her short legs over the side of the bed and gets up. She walks blindly toward the bedroom door; the only things helping her see are the cheerful lights outside the window. When she reaches the doorknob she turns it carefully, not wanting to wake her parents in the next room. Opening the door a sliver, Diana inches through the small space. She pulls on the doorknob and hears the soft click that means it’s shut. She wishes there were a way to lock Michael inside.
Diana makes her way down the long, skinny hall like a ninja, coming to a stop at the far end where the spiral staircase leads downstairs to the living room. She crosses her fingers as she descends, hoping that Santa has yet to arrive. All she has to do is cross through the living room to the kitchen for her water and back. The daunting task seems easy enough—that is, until she enters the living room and finds Santa Claus passed out on the floor.
Diana gasps, her small brown eyes widening in horror. “Santa!”
She races toward him, dropping to her knees by his head. If she weren’t so scared that she just killed Saint Nick, Diana would be in awe of the magical man. His cherry red suit is a beautiful red velvet, decorated along the edges by a white trim of what looks like a cloud. The famous red hat sits slightly atilt atop his bald head, and his enormous, fluffy gray beard reaches down to his chest. Diana looks into his round face, which possesses the jolly quality of James Earl Jones, with glossy eyes. Santa’s glasses balance precariously on his nose, and his heavy eyelids are closed.
“Santa, Santa are you okay?” Diana whispers hysterically, shaking the old man’s shoulder. The jolly fellow does not stir, but instead stays completely still. Diana knows that she should get help, but the thought of waking her sleeping parents scares her even more than a dead Santa Claus. After a moment of critical thinking, Diana observes Santa’s great belly moving up and down as he breathes. Clearly, Saint Nick isn’t dead, but he looks close to it. He sure is taking an intense nap for someone who only works one day a year. The slow breathing seems peaceful but unhealthy at the same time. Santa’s eyelids shift slightly but don’t open, and his limbs stay put in an odd position as Diana ponders what to do next.
“What do I do, Santa?” Diana whimpers into the darkness. The only answer comes from the blinking of the Christmas tree lights paired with the ragged breaths of ole Saint Nick. Waking her parents isn’t a viable option, so Diana sighs, resigned to her only choice. She needs her brother.
~~~
“Michael. Hey, Michael, wake up.”
Michael groans and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow.
“Go to sleep.”
“No, Michael, I need your help.”
“I think you can manage getting a glass of water without me.”
“No, I need you to help me wake Santa up.”
His interest peaked, Michael sits up. He locks eyes with his sister, a stern expression on his face. “What do you mean wake Santa up?”
Diana twists one of her braids around her index finger nervously. “He may or may not be passed out on our living room floor right now.”
“What?” Michael throws off his blankets and scrambles to the end of the bed, shooing Diana away so he can climb down the ladder. Together, the twins race down the hallway and staircase to the living room, where Diana crouches beside Santa’s head.
“I just found him like this when I came to get water. I don’t know how–” She stops, looking back to find Michael frozen on the bottom step of the staircase.
“Come closer, stupid. Help me wake him up.”
Michael takes a few cautious steps toward the sleeping saint, then sits down next to his sister. Slowly, he reaches out to touch Santa’s velvet coat. Seeing his own small, milk chocolate-colored fingers against the stark red material proves that he’s not hallucinating. Diana watches her brother with interest; she can see his mind moving a mile a minute.
“We could wake him up,” Michael whispers, deep in thought. “Or, we could do something else.”
“What else could possibly be more important than waking him up?” Diana cries, her brow furrowed.
“Well, we could tie him up and hold him hostage until he takes us to the North Pole.”