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| "Here," said Brian, rolling the pen accross the table towards his brother. "I'm done anyway." Marcus wathched Brian carefully fold his letter and place it into an envelope, while trying to think of something to ask Santa for. After a moment, he realized the ridiculousness of thinking so hard, when Santa Claus didn't really exist anyway, so he just scrawled somthing onto his sheet of paper, and set his pen down. "You done?" asked Brian. "Yep." "Already?" "Yep. I only want one thing." "What?" "I'm not telling you. If I get it, you'll know." |
| "Whatever. Put it in the envelope." Marcus picked up an envelope from the table. "This thing just say 'North Pole'," he said. "Duh. That's where he live," said Brian. "And these things go in the mailbox?" asked Marcus, looking at his mother. "Apparently," she replied with a shrug. Marcus laughed. "Okay, whatever." He stuffed his letter into the envelope and tossed it back onto the table. "I sense you're not taking this seriously," said Brian, frowning. "Oh, do ya now?" chirped Marcus, grabbbing his bag and leaving the kitchen. "No, he's not taking this seriously, Brian," said Brian's mother, with an expression of mock pensiveness. "You should throw his letter in the garbage." "Yeah, I should. I'll give the kid a break, though. He's just ignorant. He'll learn." Early Christmas morning, at around six, Marcus was awakened by Brian shaking his shoulder violently. "Marcus, wake up!" "What?" "Get up." "I'll open my shit later, dude. Go away." "You might wanna come down and look at this you fucking bastard," Brian muttered into his ear. Marcus' eyes flitted open. He sat up just in time to see Brian dissapear through the doorway. Brian sounded angry. Why was he angry? It was Christmas morning. What the hell would he have to be angry about? Marcus shuffled down to the living room after throwing a robe on over his Lakers basketball shorts. The eyes of his mom, dad and brother were fixed on him, as he made his entrance. He looked at the tree, then looked under the tree. Curled up under the tree amongst the gifts was what appeared to be a sleeping girl. Marcus stared for a moment. "Who's that?" he asked. "We were hoping you could answer that question," said his mother, sliding out of one of her satin slippers and rubbing her toes up and down her shin. "She got a tag with your name on it around her neck." "It look like Halle Berry to me," said Brian, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. Marcus went over and crouched next to the girl, peering into her face. He smiled. "It do look like Halle Berry." He observed the tag around her neck, which said "From Santa, to Marcus". He laughed. "What did you ask Santa for?" Brian demanded. "Halle Berry," replied Marcus, matter-of-factly. "You gotta be fucking kidding me." "Brian!" exclaimed his mom. "What? That's not fair. How come he got what he wanted and I didn't?" "What did you ask for?" asked Marcus. Brian paused. "A bazooka--among other things." "Well . . ." "What do you mean, 'well'? You saying it's self-explanatory?" "Marcus, this is a joke, right?" said Marcus' father. "One of your friends set this up?" "Uh, I don't think none of my friends know Halle Berry." "Obviously, it's a look-alike. A very . . . impressive facimilie indeed, nonetheless." "Nick!" |
| �What?� �Why don�t we just find out who she really is,� said Marcus. �Wake up,� he whispered, gently pulling at one of the girl�s toes. She stirred and sat up. �Are you Marcus?� she asked, rubbing her eyes. �Yeah.� �Merry Christmas,� she smiled. �Yeah, Merry Christmas. What�s your name?� �Halle.� Marcus smiled. �Do you know where you are?� Halle glanced about the living room. �This is your house, right?� �Yeah, so what are you doing here?� �I�m your gift, silly.� �Okay, uhm, what is it that you do for a living?� �I do what you tell me to do.� Marcus couldn�t help but to grin at the comment. He looked down at Halle's wiggling toes. �Is that so?� �Fuck me,� muttered Brian, dragging his hands down the length of his face. Marcus took Halle by the hand and helped her to her feet. �So dad, can I keep her?� �Uh, I guess. Sure.� �What?� said Brian. �But you have to clothe her and feed her�and she sleeps in your room.� Marcus paused, as if these stipulations required serious thought. �Okay,� he said. �Come on, Halle.� He led his new toy by the hand out of the living room and up to his room, while Brian looked on with an envious stare. He could do nothing but growl in frustration as he turned back towards the tree, preparing to open gifts most likely inferior to Marcus�. |
| "Just sit on the bed there," said Marcus to Halle, as they entered his room. "Actually, lay down on the bed." "Okay," said Halle, obliging. "What are we gonna do?" "We uh, gonna play a game," Marcus replied, rifling through his dresser drawers. "What kind of game?" "We gonna play 'Tickle Halle's Feet'." "Tickle . . . my feet?" "Yep," said Marcus, coming away from the dresser with rope in his hand. "You got a problem with that?" "Nah, it's cool." |
| (Cheryl/mother) |