Emily’s mother sat next to her, flinching as the manicurist clipped her cuticles. Emily suspected this was the first manicure she’d ever gotten—she’d puzzled for ages at the wall of Essie polishes before finally selecting an almost-clear pink. “So,” Mrs. Fields murmured. “Tell me all about the party last night.”

Emily had wondered when her mother was going to pump her for information about the elves.

“It was pretty good,” she answered as the manicurist buffed her nails. “The elves opened up to me a little. One of the girls, Sophie, is flunking out of Yale. She kind of reminds me of Spencer—under way too much pressure. Heather seems to be having family problems—I don’t think her parents get along. Lola’s going through some stuff as well—I think her brother is in rehab. I don’t know much about Cassie yet, only that the party was at her house and her parents definitely weren’t home. It seems like they all have to fend for themselves. Maybe they’re pulling pranks to get attention.”

“Yes, but what did you find out about the pranks themselves?” Mrs. Fields asked. “Are they planning anything big soon? Did they make any references to the baby Jesus?”

Emily chewed on her bottom lip. “They didn’t mention any firm plans,” she admitted. “And actually, when I pushed about hanging out again, they got sort of weird. I haven’t even gotten real confirmation that they are the pranksters. It’s not like they’ve talked about it.”

Mrs. Fields pressed her lips together until the skin around them wrinkled. “Of course they’re the pranksters—we know that. You’ve got to try harder. This is very important.”

“I know it’s important,” Emily said petulantly. “But I can only go as fast as I can. I don’t think they trust me yet.”

“Well, earn their trust.” Mrs. Fields wrenched her hands away from the manicurist, riffled in her purse, and plunked a small box on Emily’s lap. “All of us at the church pulled together to get you this so you could catch them in the act.”

Emily picked up the box. It was a brand-new iPhone.

“It has video capabilities,” Mrs. Fields explained.

“You want me to videotape them?” Emily asked, stunned.

“How else do you expect to document what they’re doing for the police?” Mrs. Fields spread out her fingers again, and the manicurist brushed them with polish. The chemical smell filled the air.

Jingle bells sounded as a group of women sauntered into the salon. Elvis continued to croon miserably about how his baby had left him for Christmas. Emily lowered her eyes to her lap. She thought about how Cassie had pulled up a lawn chair for her at the party. How they’d all cheered when she set off the firework.

“Look, I know you don’t want to do this,” Mrs. Fields murmured as if reading Emily’s mind. “But I’ll come clean with you. The baby Jesus they stole is worth a lot of money. I was thinking of selling it and using it for Christmas gifts since your dad’s bonus wasn’t what we expected.” She sniffed. “I just want the holiday to be special this year.”

“I understand,” Emily said quietly. “But what if I can’t get the baby Jesus back?”

“You can,” Mrs. Fields urged. “You have to earn their trust. Win them over. Do whatever it takes.”

She spread out her finished nails on the table. Emily shifted her feet, an uneasy pain growing in her stomach. But like the good girl she’d always been, she nodded and said she’d do as she was told. The problem was, Emily still had no idea how to infiltrate Cassie’s clique. If she didn’t come up with something fast, though, it would be a blue, blue Christmas for everyone.

Chapter 9

Ants in Her Pants

An hour later, her nails freshly painted a festive red, Emily rushed to Santa Land to begin her shift, passing a huge sale at Hermès, a mob of people at the diamond counter at Tiffany & Co., and a magician’s performance outside a toy drive. There was already a long line of kids waiting on the candy cane–striped walkway at Santa Land, many of whom looked tired and cranky. Mrs. Meriwether greeted her at the gingerbread house.

“Have you seen the elves?” she asked, her voice an octave higher than its normal pitch.

“Uh, I just got here,” Emily reminded her.

“They’re missing.” Mrs. Meriwether glanced around frantically. “They were supposed to come in an hour ago, and it’s mayhem around here!”

Then she scuttled off, muttering to herself. Emily pulled on her Santa gear, wondering if the elves were bagging work because of Cassie’s party last night.

In minutes, she was on the Santa throne. A familiar girl with brown pigtails strutted up first and plopped herself on Emily’s lap. Her father, a broad man with a crew cut and wearing a police uniform, appeared beside her. Emily stared at his shiny badge. O’NEAL. This was the girl who asked for every gift in the world.

“Tina liked you so much that she wanted to pay another visit, Santa.” Officer O’Neal gave Emily a wink. His badge gleamed under the hot photography lights.

“I wanted to add some things to my list,” Tina boasted.

She started listing off items on her fingers. Her new requests included the Barbie Townhouse, the Barbie Vacation Jet, and the Barbie Limited Edition Snow Princess. Emily wasn’t sure a girl Tina’s age should even know the term Limited Edition. “Don’t you think that’s enough?” Emily said after Tina had named about twenty items. “Santa has to make space in his bag for toys for everyone else in the world, too.”

Tina stuck out her bottom lip. “Daddy said Santa would bring me everything.”

Emily cast a wary glance at Officer O’Neal, but he just shrugged sheepishly. “She’s been a very good girl this year.”

Kids continued to move through the line. One spilled a strawberry smoothie in Emily’s lap and another burst into tears. Just as a girl presented Emily with a thick letter in an envelope that said To Santa in shaky writing on the front, Emily finally caught sight of Cassie, Lola, Heather, and Sophie trudging down the corridor. Their elf hats were askew. Their bodysuits sagged. Cassie and Sophie hadn’t bothered to put on their pointy shoes, wearing sneakers instead. Even from far away, it looked like they were nursing massive hangovers. Emily wondered how late they’d stayed up partying after she’d been shut out.

The performing magician handed Cassie a balloon flower. “You girls look like you could use a pick-me-up,” he said to the elves, pushing a balloon toward each of them.

“Fuck off,” Cassie deadpanned. Lola knocked the magician’s hat off his head. He slunk back to his stool.

Mrs. Meriwether hurried toward the elves. “Where have you girls been?” Her face was bright red, and her hands made tight fists. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

The elves just stared at her, seemingly too exhausted to retort.

Mrs. Meriwether raised a hand. “I want you four to clean up the inside of the gingerbread house.” She pointed toward it. “A child just vomited in there. And the bathroom toilet is filthy.”

The elves opened their mouths to protest, but Mrs. Meriwether stamped her foot. “Do it,” she said through her teeth. Even Heather cowered back.

Grumbling, the elves stomped toward the gingerbread house. “What I wouldn’t give to not be working today,” Cassie growled under her breath.

“Let’s hope an asteroid hits the mall,” Lola agreed.

“Or at least Santa Land,” Sophie said.

“Can you bring us that for Christmas, Santa?” Heather eyed Emily, acknowledging her for the first time all day.

Emily scratched absently at the red bumps on her arm, her head swirling. Win them over, she heard her mother’s voice say. Do whatever it takes. She stared at the rash on her arm, a thought congealing in her mind.

Placing the SANTA’S GONE TO FEED THE REINDEER sign on the throne, she padded down the candy cane carpet and tapped Mrs. Meriwether, who was puzzling over receipts by the register, on the shoulder. She whipped around and gave Emily a withering stare. “Don’t tell me you’re going to give me trouble now, too.”

“No trouble here,” Emily said. “But I did want to tell you that I just found a bug in my beard.”

Mrs. Meriwether’s eyebrows furrowed. “Let’s see.”

Emily pretended to parse through the silky hair on her chin. “I guess it crawled away.”

“What did it look like?”

Emily pretended to think, then described the ticklike creature she’d read about in the newspaper a few weeks ago. “It was kind of reddish-brown? Oval-shaped? It kind of looked like a beetle, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.”

The color drained from Mrs. Meriwether’s face. “Good Lord. That sounds like a bedbug.”

Bingo. Emily was glad she’d gotten the description right—a department store in Philly had to be fumigated for the creatures, and there was a huge news story about it. She feigned surprise. “You think? Aren’t they, like, impossible to get rid of?”

“Have you taken the Santa suit out of the mall?” Mrs. Meriwether looked furious. “Have you been anywhere that might contain bedbugs?”

“Of course not.” Emily crossed her arms over her chest. “I leave the Santa suit here every night. But now that you mention it, I did notice these.” She rolled up her sleeves to reveal the little red bumps on the insides of her arms. They looked exactly like the bedbug bites a department store worker had shown to a news reporter on TV.

A disgusted gurgle emerged from the back of Mrs. Meriwether’s throat. “Oh good heavens.” She gripped her head. “There are bedbugs at Santa Land! There are bedbugs in the mall!”

Heads perked up. Whispers started. The rumor spread like wildfire, and within minutes, all the families with kids waiting to sit on Emily’s lap had fled the candy cane–striped walkway. Salespeople and shoppers wandered out of Aéropostale and J. Crew and spoke in tight clusters. Everyone started scratching their arms, necks, and scalps. Parents peered carefully at their children’s skin.

A security guard pulled Mrs. Meriwether aside and started talking to her. Soon after, a bunch of men in business suits emerged from a back corridor and strutted over to Santa Land. “I’m Jeffrey Allen, head of operations,” one of them said, sticking out his hand for Mrs. Meriwether to shake. “Did you say you found a bedbug?”

“That’s right.” Mrs. Meriwether pointed to the bumps on the inside of Emily’s arms.

Mr. Allen inspected the bumps carefully, and then conferred with a few of the other executives. Emily caught the words massive fumigation and huge profit loss and maybe there’s some kind of mistake.

“Bedbugs!” a passing mother screeched.

More parents gathered around the execs, wailing that they were going to have to burn all of their clothes and that they were going to sue if their children had bites tomorrow.

“Calm down, calm down,” Mr. Allen said, making a settle down lowering motion with his hands. “I’m calling security right now. The mall will be shut down until tomorrow so we can clean out the problem.”