My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Here's how I got nicknamed Plague Nog. It happened on Christmas Eve, when I was babysitting Mister and Missus Norris's nine-year-old and six-year-old daughters. They were little rascals, those two - bouncy, hyper, always plotting, always mischievous. In a good way, of course. Together, we planned escape routes from the house in case of invading zombies or pirates. Sometimes they would dress up as royalty and expect me to do their bidding, until I of course told them I outranked them. "We're queens!" they'd protest. "You can't be above a queen!" "I can if I'm a supreme overlord," I'd reply, and that would be the end of the debate. Jenna and Tiffany, the oldest and youngest respectively, adored Christmas. And their parents allowed the holiday to be as much of a free-for-all as possible. The girls chose the tree, decorated it as they saw fit, and always came up with new ideas for ornaments and stringi...

It was almost Christmas, and the children were all gathered in the living room, dressed head to toe in reds and greens, their hands shivering beneath large books of carols and hymns. I, their well-dressed conductor, was ready to take them out into the chilly night, so that they could comfort their equally chilly neighbors with beautiful holiday songs and jingles. I pulled on my fur cap, cleared my throat, and beckoned the group toward the door.