Why I Hate Anna Miller

              I can still recall the smell of coffee and eggnog mixing with the smoke from the fireplace, my parents on the couch, bleary-eyed but smiling as my brother and I tore the paper from our gifts, and of course, the anticipation of what Santa had left the night before. That these surprise gifts were from jolly old Saint Nick himself was beyond question. It was a well-accepted fact that every Christmas Eve he climbed into his sleigh and delivered presents to the good children of the world. The bad children, of course, received coal, though I had never actually met anyone who could vouch for the validity of that threat, so I assumed Santa was pretty lenient when it came to judging your character.
              My first year of school, December’s first twenty-four days seemed impossibly long. Kindergarten was not unpleasant by any standards, but I craved the rush of sugar and adrenaline I knew was coming.  The day before school was let out for Christmas break, I could think of nothing else besides the approaching holiday. I sat on the floor, helping my friend Anna to build a house from blocks and chattering excitedly about the presents I hoped Santa would bring. I was nearing the end of my list when Anna glanced up from the bedroom she was working on. “You know Santa’s not real, right?” Just like that. Completely matter-of-fact, like it was something everyone knew. I blinked at her, stunned. Of course I had heard it said before, but I had always just smiled sadly and shaken my head at those people, the nonbelievers who just didn’t understand. But there was something about the way Anna had said it, something in her tone that made it nearly impossible to shake off.
         “I…er…but…yes he is,” I finally stammered. It wasn’t much of an argument, but it was all I could muster.
         Anna raised her eyebrows. “Haven’t you ever noticed how your parents are really tired on Christmas morning?”
         “Well…I –”
         “It’s because they’re up all night wrapping presents and saying they’re from Santa.” I couldn’t believe the words that were tumbling out of her mouth. What right did she have to launch a personal attack on Santa? I took a breath and prepared to argue back, but some little switch had flipped in my head, and suddenly my reasoning didn’t sound so plausible – that every year a large bearded man in a suit slid down my chimney into my living room and left presents for me?  I couldn’t quite bring myself to challenge Anna with that. Instead I glared at her across the little house and wished that I could chuck the wooden block in my hand at her head. It’s because she’s Jewish, I told myself. She’s just jealous because she’s Jewish.
         Still, it was in a state of considerable distress that I arrived at my house that afternoon. I sobbingly related the story to my mother, who assured me that it wasn’t true – Santa just didn’t come to the Jewish children. That’s why Anna didn’t know. I tried to convince myself that I believed her, but there was still something about what Anna had said that had made it stick in my head. Perhaps it was the look of genuine surprise on her face when I insisted that Santa Claus was real. For whatever the reason, I felt an unfamiliar sense of uneasiness as I lay awake that night.
         That was when I made my decision: I would stay awake and listen for Santa on the roof. That would prove Anna wrong. I suppose it was a kind of last ditch effort to hold on to the mystery of Christmas. In any case, it didn’t work. I awoke to find that it was Christmas morning and the sunlight was already streaming through my blinds and falling in strips across my bedspread. I bolted downstairs and stood on the bottom landing, where I paused to take in the wonder of the scene before me. Our tree, branches heavy with brightly colored ornaments, glowed in the golden light that poured in through the living room windows. On the loveseat rested four stockings, each one overflowing with little candies and trinkets, and there, under the tree, sat the presents. I crept forward and then dropped to all fours to read the names on each package. “To James, Love Mummy & Daddy”, “To B, Love J”, and there, “To Margaret, From Santa”. There was a little note on the package, some kind of Christmas greeting scrawled out on a colorful sticky note. My stomach clenched; I recognized the sticky note. My mother used them for work all the time, mostly to mark pages in her medical books. Then I couldn’t help but notice that Santa’s handwriting was terribly similar to my mother’s. Anna’s voice came floating back to me, and I had nothing to say in return, because she had been right.
         Later that morning, the family finally gathered around the tree to open our presents. I chose the one with the sticky note. The paper ripped away to reveal a sew-your-own-dolls kit. I flashed a smile in my parents’ direction. “Thanks, Mum.”
         “Oh, no honey. That one’s from Santa.”
         “Right,” I mumbled. “Thanks…Santa.”