An 'X'mas Carol Part One

An 'X'mas Carol Part One
By Jaech Reiter
jaech_reiter@yahoo.co.uk

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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An 'X'Mas Carol Part One

Ben Scruggs was your typical 13 year old. Well typical for his type.

"Ben, for the last time, GET UP!!"

He was into the whole stereotypical adolescent thing, thankfully, though, without the pimples --- yet. But was moody, ornery, argumentative, voracious, and somewhat attention deficit (primarily selective). He would also stay up later than he was supposed to, spend more time on the TV and computer than he was supposed to . . . .

"BEN!! Honestly, you are NOT the only person in this house that has to get ready in the morning. It's not fair to the rest of us to have you slowing us down, taking away time from our busy morning to push you along, and have to start our day with your sourness."

He was also very difficult to get going in the morning, and would sleep all day if you let him.

"So quit trying," he mumbled and rolled over, pulling a pillow over his head. "Just leave me here."

"Oh, that is so not going to happen and you know it." Once again Charlotte Scruggs was going to be a little late because she had to spend extra time getting her oldest and least trustworthy child up and going. When did he become so damn self-centered??!! It's almost like he was channeling . . . . . No! She was NOT going to compare him to that deadbeat father of his.

Even after finally getting him up and somewhat ready for school, the boy was nothing but a nuisance to his 12 year old sister and 9 year old brother. He would cause all kinds of tension and discord and then turn around and demand others to do the basic things in life for him.

"Mom, my breakfast? You're all, 'get up and hurry up' and whatever, but I don't see my breakfast!"

"Get your own, Ben."

Fran rolled her eyes privately, wishing she didn't have an older brother, and just quietly finished the last of her breakfast while reviewing for a geography test.

"You're pouring Tim's milk for him?" Ben stated, in a dramatically injured expression. "I bet you even poured his cereal."

"Tim is nine, Ben. You are 13, and you should be setting a better example for your younger brother and sister."

"Right," Ben said sarcastically and held his hand up with his thumb and finger barely an inch apart. "I forgot he was 'Tiny' Tim."

"I am NOT!!"

"Ben!!"

Oh, she was at the end of her rope. She calmed 9 year old Tim down and got him to eat his cereal, and tried to restart the morning conversation on something less polarizing. "Has everyone decided on their favorite Christmas Dinner dish for me to prepare?"

"That's four weeks away," Ben complained. "Why are you asking us that already?"

"Ben don't be such a drain on everyone's Christmas."

"Bahh . . . ." Ben grunted with some show of adolescent disgust. "The Christmas dinner is so humdrum."

That was his word now – 'humdrum' - for all things formerly fun but somehow beneath him now that he was an official teenager. He seemed to have overstepped his way into adolescence, taking in the worst of a 15 year old, two years too early.

"Oh, Ben, don't spoil Christmas for the rest of us . . . ."

"Yeah," his sister jumped in, "You're so wrapped up in yourself, never thinking about anybody else . . ."

"That's enough, Fran," her mom said, almost with a sigh.

"Probably wouldn't even occur to you to even just think about considering getting anybody something for Christmas."

"I said, That's ENOUGH!"

The bickering stopped, but Ben still had a sneer for his sister. Their mom let the moment pass and then tried to bring up the school Christmas play.

"School Christmas play," Ben snorted. "That is so GAY. And totally humdrum."

Tim jumped up from his breakfast and ran out of the room crying.

"Thanks a lot, Ben," Charlotte Scruggs said with exasperation. "Tim had really been looking forward to being in HIS school's Christmas play."

"You're welcome," Ben said with an unconcerned shrug. "Keep him from being even more of a fag."

She wanted to pop him – on the face, on the butt, anywhere. But she didn't believe that it would honestly do any good, so Charlotte got up and went to comfort her youngest son.

Fran and Tim hurried out a bit before Ben, so they wouldn't have to walk with him to the bus stop. There were at least 10 other kids there waiting every morning, so they also knew they could avoid him easier in the crowd. Ben's next door neighbor wasn't so lucky.

"Hey Crotchy!" Ben called as he came down to the side walk and saw the 12 year old boy try to nonchalantly disappear into his jacket.

Bobby Koch, or Bobby Crotch as Ben had nicknamed him, was the Scruggs' next door neighbor. When he had moved in almost two years ago, he had been delighted that another boy near his age lived next door. Bobby was 10 at the time, and Ben was 11 turning 12. It was, unfortunately for Bobby, also the time when Ben was beginning his 'humdrum' view of the things around him, seeing many things as a waste of his time, and began turning inward as to what was truly important in his life. Himself.

In Ben's defense, though he had become so bad that he shouldn't be defended; he didn't have much in the way of male role models on how to act as he began the final step to manhood. Just the past Christmas, before Bobby moved in, Ben had, for the first time, not received a Christmas card from his absent dad. The money that used to come in those cards had already dwindled every year, until they had started just arriving empty the year before that. But at least he had still received a card.

But on his 11th Christmas, there was no card. He was put off, at that point, by the whole holiday. He took his newly surliness out on the new neighbor several months later, when the excited 10 year old came over to see if Ben wanted to play. Ben didn't just snub the kid. He ridiculed him; he displaced his anger and disappointment and abandoned childhood onto the new boy, going after the way the boy was dressed, his high voice (they both still had high voices at this point, though not much longer for Ben), the way he walked (an invective sadistically infused with Ben's tortured imagination).

The new neighbor ran away, upset that his mom and dad lied when they said he would make new friends, that he would meet nice kids. All he would tell them later, when they tried to comfort him, was that Ben was mean. He wouldn't go into details, and they didn't know if the other kid really was mean, was just startled/scared by a new neighbor, or if their son was just projecting his fears onto the kids he met. They decided, for a little while, to give it time.

A month or so later, in February, it was Ben's birthday, and Bobby (who still had not spoken with Ben) got an invitation. It was actually Ben's mom that mailed those out, though 10 year old Bobby never considered this. He brightened up with the hope that maybe, just maybe, he had caught his new, older neighbor on a bad day back in January, and that he really could be friends with him. Bobby bought Ben a nice gift and went to the party with high hopes and feeling truly happy. And the first part of the party was actually a lot of fun. He even met several more kids from his new school.

But then, later, the boys all went downstairs to play while the adults (Ben's mom and aunt and uncle) stayed upstairs to chat and get the cake and ice cream ready. The mail had come just 15 minutes earlier, and with it the last chance Ben had of receiving a birthday card from his dad. There was no card. There had been no phone call. No email. Nothing. Once all the boys were alone and unchaperoned, Ben turned on Bobby, singling him out and using him as a comedic dartboard to entertain his somewhat uncomfortable friends.

They did laugh, but Ben was vicious; and even they were shocked. Bobby tried to smile at first, surely there must be some joke he was missing. But the punch line never came, except for the fact that he was the punch line. His smile withered; he grew pale and strained at the effort not to break down and cry. He saw and felt the distance all the other kids set, moving away from him. Ben launched into the fact that Bobby was the charity case, the only one there because his mom felt sorry for him, the one who didn't belong, the one Ben didn't invite. The attack seemed relentless, and at least 10 times longer than it really was, until finally the adults came downstairs with the cake on fire with 12 candles.

Bobby wasn't hungry, to say the least, when Ben's mother sweetly asked if he wanted a piece. Then, without anyone noticing, he slipped away, back to his own house, and promptly threw up.

Bobby never told on Ben – not out of fear, but just as a general understanding that a boy just didn't rat out other boys. Except this wasn't something that would go away. He would eventually start to make some friends, but he was ever-dogged by Ben and the older and more popular kids at school, the kids that mistook Ben's increasing spite and sardonic bites for wit. It was about a month after that that Ben started calling him Bobby Crotch, instead of Bobby Koch. The nickname stuck.

Later it became Crotchy, which was worse, mainly because it was easier for so many kids to derisively throw at him. And still his parents didn't know just how miserable the boy was. One girl at school did challenge Ben out in the front of the school one morning, but it only made things worse.

"You think you're so witty, Ben, but you aren't. Why do you call Bobby that?" She demanded when Ben said something about 'Crotchy' as he walked past, trying to keep his head down.

"Because that's what he likes," Ben said with a smile, adding – untruely – "You should see him in the boy's locker room. He Bobs-for-Crotches."

Every kid around them, including those who didn't really like Ben, started laughing. The girl just slinked away, not wanting to attract any more attention from the bully herself. Ben was on a roll, and there were sharks in those waters. But, unfortunately for Bobby, the new nickname – Bobs-for-Crotches – stuck and became the new favorite for many boys. A lot of them started to grab their own crotches from time to time and ask him if he was hungry for lunch, or just wanted a big snack. It made Ben feel good that he could make someone else feel even more miserable and worthless than his own father made him feel.

Not that he consciously realized that.

That year, Christmas came and went, again without so much as a word from his father. The man hadn't moved; his family hadn't moved. He had just moved on, and subsequently let Ben, Fran, and Tim know just what they really meant to him. Ben, as the oldest and the only one with some happy memories of being with his dad, took it the hardest. And he spread his Christmas misery around to everyone else eschewing all things related to the Christmas spirit, pronouncing them 'humdrum' – his new favorite word – and in general sabotaging any attempts for family togetherness and happiness.

He didn't expect a birthday card when he turned 13, but he still hoped – hoped to suddenly hear from his father about how he had been abducted by terrorists and had spent the last two years trying to get away so he could just get to his beloved son and say 'Happy 13th Birthday'. It was a stupid hope, a stupid dream, and a last desperate need that was ultimately left unfulfilled, just as his better sense had told him it would be.

The 13th birthday came and went without so much as a word from his dad.

Now, nine months later, as Christmas approached again, he was even more miserly in what he would spare for the seasonal cheer and peace among men. If he could cancel Christmas he would, and if he could make others suffer in the process, so much the better.

But for now: There was Bobby Koch to use as his punching bag.

And as they walked along, with Bobby wishing he had moved a bit faster, or maybe slower, and not having to suffer the displeasure of the older boy's verbal harangue, Ben kept up a relentless taunting of Bobby, even delving into the boy's own Christmas hopes.

"I bet you even still write letters to Santa," Ben said with an accusing sneer.

"It's a tradition in my family . . . ." Bobby started to explain defensively, only realizing that he shouldn't have opened his mouth when Ben went off:

"Holy shit! You do!! You still write fucking letters to Santa!!!! No Way!! Like a little kid still! Hey guys! You'll never believe this . . . . ."

Ben walked up closer to the boys at the bus stop and told his garnished version of Bobby's accidental admission. It wasn't as though Bobby believed in Santa, but it was just another of the many fun ways that his family celebrated Christmas, and now everyone, at least it felt like EVERYONE, was laughing at him for it. Ben was joyously ruining a favorite tradition of his. And now he felt even more ridiculed and alone, after trying so hard over the last few months to start over at the beginning of seventh grade. At this moment he just felt like asking Santa to TURN Ben into a lump of coal, instead of just giving him one. And maybe if he did, Bobby would ask for a set of matches for Christmas.

Bobby slunk off to the sidelines, avoiding everyone's looks and laughs, and they eventually mostly forgot about him, though unfortunately it was another kid who took the brunt of their mob derision. Ben had regaled his best friend, 13 year old Jacob Marley, and anyone else who was listening, about catching his little brother Tim running naked from the bathroom to his bedroom the other day after his shower, having completely forgotten to take any clothes.

"Shut up, Ben!!"

"Dude, I swear, I'm telling you, it was almost impossible to see if he even had anything . . . ."

"SHUT UP!!" Tim gave an ineffectual shove at his brother, who went right on telling the story, again holding his right hand up, though this time with not even an inch of space between the thumb and forefinger.

"Seriously, that was as big as it got," Ben finished. His sister Fran walked up and hit him in the shoulder, again without seeming to cause him any significant distress.

"You bully!"

"Bah! You hit like a girl you know?" Ben asked her, smiling.

"I am a girl! Moron."

"Well, it's kinda hard to tell, sis. Does your body know you're a girl?"

"You asshole," She said softly, trying to keep from crying herself as the 8th grade boys and girls both started laughing. She was a little behind the development curve, taking after her mom's side of the family, who were all late-bloomers. He knew it was a major sore spot for her, just four months away from 13 and the only one of her friends with no breast development at all.

"So, Ben," one of the more daring seventh graders called out, "does that lack of development run throughout your whole family?"

"I'll show you six hard inches, Cole, if you're so damn interested." Ben retorted, grabbing what looked to be an ample package. "Just drop to your knees and start licking your lips. Everyone here knows you want it!"

Everybody laughed and Cole's face flushed in momentary embarrassment.

"Faggot," he said under his breath. Not that he meant the meaning of the word, just a timid attempt at showing his ire at having the tables turned on him. The thing was, not that Cole or anyone else would know this, but Ben really did have six inches of hard meat. And it wasn't just long for his age, but thick as well. Now, it wouldn't necessarily put a 17 year old to shame, but definitely most 15 and 14 year olds would be embarrassed to have themselves compared. And while he wasn't a hairy monster, he did have over an inch upward and almost three inches across of nicely thickened pubes.

Ben had been proudly and regularly shooting thick white ropes of cum for well over a year now, and enough to make a porn star notice. He may have only looked at the 75% level of height and weight for his age, but he was shooting at the 75% level of someone three grades up. He bragged at times, of course, but took great pains that no one should see, as he had an innate obsessive shyness about his body. He also did not have the least bit of interest in other boys, though quite a few had noticed he definitely filled out the front of his white briefs, whenever he very quickly changed for Gym class.

When they got on the middle school bus, Ben walked in behind Cole and grabbed him when there was a hold-up in the aisle and pretended to pump his ass, saying aloud, so that everyone two rows away could hear it, how he knew the boy wanted it (as well as a more vulgar description and sound effect of the boy being fucked). Cole angrily shoved the older boy off him and walked farther away than he normally sat from Ben and Jacob.

Once seated, Ben and Jacob fell into their own world of friendship, generally ignoring the few other 8th graders and mostly 7th graders around them.

"Aren't you worried about your little brother or sister telling your parents about what you said at the bus stop?"

"No, man, even they aren't that lame. They won't say anything; besides, what would it matter? I didn't say anything wrong. They're just too sensitive."

"Maybe . . ."

"What's gotten in to you? You don't cut Sam any slack."

Sam Marley was Jacob's 11 year old brother. Like Jacob had before him, he went to a private school until the end of sixth grade, which was the last year of instruction offered at the semi-religious school. So he didn't ride the bus with his older brother or his obnoxious, hateful friend, Ben. Sam did not like his brother's treatment of him, but he just plain didn't like Ben at all.

"Yeah, but I think Sam's been whining, or something. My dad had some kind of bullshit don't-bully-your-little-brother talk with me. A bit of a warning, I think."

"Yeah, well I don't have a dad who gives a shit. So I guess I don't have anything to worry about."

The bus arrived at school and discharged all the boys and girls, the gleeful and the glum, the reluctant and the retarded (Ben's term for anyone who actually enjoyed going to school). Poor Bobby was immediately greeted by some eighth graders who grabbed their crotches and asked Bobs-for-Crotches if he got enough to eat at breakfast. Bobby walked away from the laughter and headed over to an empty area to wait for the first bell by himself.

"Yo, Bobby, what's up?"

It was Oliver Coyle, another seventh grade boy, albeit older than Bobby by half a year or more. He was a confident, well-liked, but quite mischievous boy, always to be found with 'his gang', a set of boys who had hung about together since kindergarten. With him right now were the three he was closest to: Martin Witten, Davey Cooper, and Philip Havish, who everyone called 'Pip'.

"Go away, Oliver."

"Now that's not very nice, Bobs-for-Crotches," the other three smiled and Oliver leaned in with a lower voice, "So is it really true?"

"What??"

"That you like to bob for crotches."

"Or more specifically up and down on them." Martin added.

"Cause we got a few you can try out," Pip threw in, grabbing his crotch and smiling.

"Fuck off," Bobby said, though he never really cursed. This just seemed the right moment for it, except that, if anything, it only made the four boys even more curiously interested in him.

"Relax, Bobby, we're just asking. I mean, if it was true, it'd be a fuckin' waste not to try you out." Oliver explained.

"And how are we supposed to know if we don't ask?" Davey said.

"That's stupid!" Bobby said, clearly confounded by the explanation. They weren't mean boys, like he had thought, they were just opportunists. They had actually believed that there might be something to the rumor. "It's just a bunch of lies people say just to be mean to me."

Oliver just shrugged his shoulders. "Sometimes there's truth in rumors. Like Davey said, if it were true, it'd kinda suck if we missed out."

"Course now it sucks because you don't suck." Martin added.

"Well why don't you get Davey to do you," Bobby said, somewhat spitefully.

"Well," Oliver said, smiling and stroking his chin, "Davey is the youngest of us, that might work."

Davey flipped his friend off nonchalantly, but Bobby still flushed with guilt. It was because of the fact that Davey was the youngest appearing that he had singled the boy out. That right there was bullying. He was just as bad as the other boys. He hated that.

"Seriously, though, Bobby, not to make you more angry, but if you really did like giving head and was just afraid of someone finding out—" Oliver started.

"Wouldn't none of us ever tell a single soul. And only Martin shoots. Well, seriously shoots." Pip added.

"Well," Oliver corrected, "I can cum some, too, but only Martin's got any real hair. But if you did really like doing it, we would be real, real quiet about it."

Bobby started to get very angry with this outrageous supposition that he would ever do anything that disgusting; he wouldn't even want another boy touching his own dick. So he found both sides of that proposition just . . . . . weird. Still, the boys had actually been nice about it, all weirdness aside, and hadn't put Bobby in any position where there were any witnesses to their conversation. He guessed, in some sick way, that if that's what they wanted, well . . . . . they were only asking.

But instead of a retort and adamant denial, what came out was something else that had surprised him. "You don't have any hairs down there? For real?"

The incredulous question was directed to Oliver and was almost accusing in tone.

"Oh, like you do?"

"Yeah. Course I do. I thought most guys in seventh grade did."

"Most guys in seventh grade don't, fungus brain. Or at least half don't, yet. Well, mostly half. Something like." It was a bit of a sore spot for Oliver that Martin was younger, yet bigger in all aspects: height, muscles, dick size, nuts, hair patch. "Anyways, I don't believe you do."

"I don't care." Bobby said. "I do, whether you believe it or not."

"Let's see." Davey piped up, smiling because he knew the boy would probably just blush and walk away.

Well, Bobby did blush, a little, but he also had a set look that showed he was tired of being challenged for his place at that school; and he unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped, pulled his shirt up out of the way, and pushed the front of his pants and boxers down so that they showed a sparse but noticeable line of curled light brown hairs, and the root of his thickening penis.

"Wow." Oliver stated flatly, just barely resisting the urge to run his fingers through it. "Well . . . . all right . . . . so you do. I've almost got mine . . . . . will any day now, at least . . . . you know . . . . might not see them as much, at first . . . . given as I'm more blond and all . . . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Pip said pushing Oliver out of the way, "You're gonna get your dick hairs, one day. We got it. You and every other boy. Look, Bobby, you never answered our question, really. If you do like sucking dick, we promise, on our own nuts, never to tell on you or let anybody know, or---"

"I told you," Bobby said with a definitive tone, trying to keep the anger out, "that I DON'T do that. It's just a really, really mean lie that Ben Scruggs and his friends keep spreading around. I never have, I never will, and I don't even think about it!"

"Yeah, OK . . ."

"We believe you."

The four boys all looked honestly disappointed.

"Ben's a mean one, he is. Right unfriendly, especially this time of year." Davey commiserated.

Bobby nodded, but private disagreed slightly --- as if that were the only time of concern during the year. Ben Scruggs was right unfriendly all the time. He had even heard a few boys say to each other, 'Aw, don't be a Scruggs, lend me a dollar.' And once: 'Don't be such a Scruggs, Tom. The party will be fun.'

But what he didn't get was, if everyone was seeing this, why were they laughing at his stupid jokes and ganging up on him, poor Bobby?

"Look," Martin said as the bell rang, "We aren't going up against Ben or Jacob and that lot, but, if you want, you seem cool, and you can hang with us from time to time."

Pip and Oliver rolled their eyes at each other, and Davey gave a small smirk, all of which went unnoticed by Bobby. Instead, he was shocked, pleasantly so, by this offer of comradery with an established group of friends.

"Yeah! Sure, thanks. That'd be cool!"

And the five boys dispersed to their separate classes.

"Hey, Ben," Belle Dickens chimed as she slowed past Ben's lunch table. She was having a 'bad boy' surging of her hormonal desire, and Ben was developing a bad reputation for cross, nasty, blatant speech. But he was not yet so far gone that he was unapproachable, especially by Belle, on whom he had had a crush already for two years. It was only recently, however, that she really noticed him.

It helped that he was a really cute boy growing into an awesome young teen body – a body about half a year or more ahead of his classmates (stress on the 'more'), something he hadn't hesitated flaunting or mentioning or bragging at various junctures. [He had been loyal to his friends, and that kept him largely in the clear from anyone seriously hating him. Anyone that mattered, that is.]

"Hey, Belle." Ben smiled and leaned back, taking the girl in from her feet to her smile. "Damn. Sorry for cussing, but you really gotta quit looking so nice everyday. It's hard enough to concentrate in this place."

"Oh, you're so sweet." Belle blushed slightly and murmured. She never blushed for anyone! At least that's what Ben's friends at his table were thinking. Belle's best friend, Liz Burnett, also in the eighth grade, just rolled her eyes at such a lame line. She didn't think too highly of Ben Scruggs.

Ben caught that look she gave her friend, though, and turned to Liz and said, "Hey, Liz, good to see you, too. You know, you're fairly beautiful all on your own; but Belle," and he turned his attention back to the dark haired beauty. "I always look forward to seeing you every day."

The first part of what he said was just to flatter Belle's best friend – Liz wasn't falling for that [though she secretly did love having a popular boy call her beautiful right out in front of everyone in the lunch room.]; but the second part of what Ben said couldn't have come more truly from the heart. He really did look forward to seeing Belle every day. It was the one last refuge of bitter-free goodness left in his heart, especially as Christmas approached.

"Hey Belle, Hey Liz," Tom Chilting goofily barked out from the seat next to Ben. He along with Jack Dawkins and Noah Claypoole were the closest friends of Ben Scruggs and Jacob Marley. Belle slowly moved her eyes off the green sparkling irises of Ben to greet the other boy, although Liz just rolled her eyes again.

"Hi . . . uh . . . . ." Belle was clearly stuck.

"Tom!" The boy cheerfully helped her out.

"Tom. Of course. Nice to . . . um . . . see you . . . . . today . . . Tom."

"He's right, you know," Tom added, still with that slightly goofy smile of his, "You two dames really are lookers."

"OMG," Liz aid under her breath and tugged at Belle's arm for them to go.

"Uh . . OK, well . . . thanks, um . . . Tom." Belle tried to answer before being pulled away and out of the cafeteria by Liz. "Ben, uh, . . . . . maybe see you later?"

Ben watched the beautiful form flow out through the double doors leading to the outdoor area before turning on Tom and smacking the back of his friend's head.

"Dames?? Really Tom?"

Jack Dawkins was sitting across the table, about to fall under it from laughing, while Tom just gave a shrug of his shoulders. He had tried.

"Hey," Jack offered, once he was able to come down from his laughing fit, "You still want to talk to her? Run and catch up with them. Tell her Liz left this in the cafeteria."

Seemingly out of nowhere, Jack produced a cell phone. [They weren't actually allowed in school.]

"How did you---"

But Ben new better than finish that question. Jack had been physically close enough to Liz during the exchange of pleasantries, and you didn't want to get too close to Jack if you wanted everything on your person to stay on your person. Jack had sticky fingers and could deftly remove anything from anywhere. More than once he had lifted the answer score for tests that one or more of the five boys had to take. He was quite able a pickpocket, though he generally only limited himself to prying into personal affairs and taking small things like pencils, pens, and answer sheets. [He could also lift a person's homework, copy it, and slip it back in before anyone noticed.]

He never used his abilities to actually pickpocket for personal gain, or to shoplift --- until just before Thanksgiving. He had shoplifted at a store in the mall, at the persuasion of Ben, no less, who thought that stores that pushed the Christmas lie on consumers deserved to have things stolen. Jack didn't enjoy it, and hadn't really felt right about the whole thing. But he also didn't return the items in question.

Ben slipped the phone in his pocket and went off to find Belle – and Liz, of course – but he didn't make it two feet before he ran (literally) into Liz's twin brother, Fred. Her brother was reasonably popular, more so with the girls, and most people had a certain opinion about the boy, though no one said it out loud. Well, not publicly, at least. If you spent any time in Gym class with Fred, though, you couldn't help but notice, at some point, that his eyes were forever sliding down the bodies of all his boy classmates.

There was that, and, despite NOT being the least feminine, the fact that he liked chatting with girls, but never got or went anywhere, sociosexually speaking, with that; liked shopping and dressed stylishly; and liked to have parties at his house. They were, to his credit, generally well-enjoyed. It was one such party that he was throwing on Christmas Eve Eve, to which he wanted to invite Ben Scruggs, a boy on whom he had the biggest crush. His most favorite dreams often involved Ben – and sometimes Jack.

"Hey, Ben, I'm having a party on Christmas Eve Eve and was wondering if you wanted---"

"Bah! First of all, Fred, we aren't really friends. You're just the little brother, or whatever, of the girl who just happens to be the best friend of Belle, which doesn't mean a whole lot to me. And second of all, I'm sure it's going to be totally humdrum; and last, I'm afraid I don't have anything pink to wear. So, I can't make it."

With that, Ben walked off and his two friends burst out laughing at the table, while Fred limped away emotionally. He would shake it off later, but somewhere deep inside, he knew there was only so many more times that he would be able to shake this off.

Before the first bell on the last period of the day, Ben brought Jacob up-to-date on his good fortune with Belle, thanks to Jack and the purloined cell phone. Even Liz was very grateful, without the least clue that it had been lifted from her pocket. It bought Ben another 10 minutes to do nothing but hang out with the two of them. And though he didn't confess this with Jacob (and indeed may not have even realized it himself), when he was with the two girls Ben was more aware of what the old Ben could have become on a nicer track. That would be the Ben-who-would-have-been, had he not been shattered at such an impressionable time by the second abandonment of his father.

Then the class began, and the teacher made the mistake of some excited utterance about the coming Christmas season (FOUR weeks away, Ben, thought. What was wrong with these obsessed people? It was just another day on the calendar). Ben raised his hand and brought out his own thoughts, which brought a 'poo-pooed' rebuttal from the teacher as she might to a child who just didn't understand what he was talking about. But, unfortunately for her, Ben knew his stuff. He launched into the discrepancies of Christmas, the original pagan rites, the deliberate and crass commercial takeover, and the wholesale mental vacation of the drooling masses who bought into the lie. Then he ended it with a rebuke of the school system for trying to force a religious holiday geared to consumer consumption on impressionable kids.

At the end of it all, no one really knew exactly how they felt about Christmas as a whole anymore. But they all felt it was somewhat hollow and meaningless at that point. But they were teenagers and most would rebound, except a few who had their lingering hopes of something more meaningful shattered. When the last of the students left for the day, the young teacher felt drained and as though she had lost some forgotten exuberance. She put her head down on her arms and cried.

On the bus ride home, Ben and Jacob sang some bawdy song about Santa being a pervert, a song which upset a couple of kids, and caused a few others to laugh. Their bus driver was largely deaf, and if she didn't see any unusual activity in her mirror, then she didn't stop the bus. She also didn't care so much if the older kids got off at a stop that wasn't theirs. And Ben got off at Jacob's house. [The bus made more drop offs on the way home, even though it had restricted pick-up areas on the morning.]

While at Jacob's, the boys listened to music and razzed Sam when came home from 6th grade football practice. Ben further laughed when Jacob grabbed his little brother coming out of the shower, threw him over his shoulder, and tossed him outside onto the front deck, taking the towel back in, and locking the doors. Jacob, and Ben, were laughing even when a naked Sam started banging on the door demanding Jacob let him in. Unfortunately for Sam, the ruckus he was causing attracted all sorts of attention from neighboring kids who began to gather on the sidewalk and laugh at the boy's white, pert, naked rumps.

As soon as Sam realized what was going on, he spun around in disbelieving surprise, briefly flashing the neighbors, mostly girls, with his equally white, just-beginning-to-drop balls, and his 2 inch flaccid penis. He screamed and grabbed his crotch with his hand, awkwardly running toward the back of the house, though pursued by a number of the same kids, all of whom laughed and taunted the poor boy (all in good fun, as far as the other kids were concerned – what else do you deserve if you go outside your house totally naked?)

Meanwhile, four blocks away, Ben's little sister, Fran Scruggs, was fuming by the time she got home, and even more upset by the time their mom got home, as it seemed that Ben had eventually come home and brusquely told Tim that he was 'too damn old' to still believe in Santa Claus, and that he needed to grow up before he started becoming ridiculed by all of his friends.

"The only reason he gets picked on is because of things YOU say about him," Fran yelled at her brother.

"Mind your own business, little bitch. I'm just trying to make a man out of him."

"Aaargghh!! You are so . . . . . . mean!!"

Later, Fran relayed most of what happened to her mom, leaving out the name he had called her.

"He's going to complete RUIN Christmas!!"

"Fran, sweety . . . ."

"No, mom, he IS. It's four weeks away, and he's already started trying to destroy it, at school and here. He should get like a whole mountain of coal!"

Charlotte sighed. She knew Fran was right, but she also knew there was a whole lot more to it. She was tired and exhausted from work and just didn't have the energy to deal with Ben at the moment. She wondered where she went wrong in raising him – what critical moment she had missed. But she also knew a lot of the blame was that deadbeat biological father of his. But the major problem with laying blame on a deadbeat was that it wasn't very practical.

She needed to take things in hand. But she also needed a good night's sleep.

"Tomorrow, OK, Fran, honey, tomorrow we will deal with this as a family. I just can't tonight." She leaned in and kissed Fran on the forehead and smiled weakly as she suggested with some hopeful humour, "Maybe in your and Tim's letters to Santa, you can ask him to give your brother the shot in the arm he needs."

Charlotte went to bed early, and Fran went up to see if Tim wanted to write his letter to Santa. It had been a tradition that Fran, like her neighbor Bobby, had greatly enjoyed as a little kid. After Thanksgiving, she would get out her paper and crayons and write a looong letter (it was long to her) to Santa, and her mom would post it to the North Pole. As she grew older and no longer believed in Santa Claus, she continued the tradition for Timmy, as he took even greater delight in writing the letters. He often wanted to right a second one the next week.

"Hey, Timmy," Fran asked as she went up to his room, "You wanna come write the letters to Santa with me?"

"My name's Tim!! NOT TIMMY!" He barked back at her with an unfocused anger. "And I don't wanna write any STUPID letters to some FAT . . . . STUPID. . . . . LIE!!!"

Fran sadly retired to her room. She wasn't going to write a letter if it was just her. But then decided it might cheer her up; might save some of the Christmas spirit that was draining so rapidly so early from their household. Fight fire with fire, right? If Ben was going to rail against Christmas, she would take it to Santa. Bring in the big guns, as it were.

Fran laughed at the thought of that actually helping any; but nevertheless, she pulled out a pad and a pen (forgoing the crayon this time) and began to write:

Dear Santa,

I'm sure you know this already, since you know when we've been good or bad, but I feel like I should tell you anyway. My older brother, Ben, has gone worse than bad; he's trying to destroy Christmas. He's past the point where you should bring him coal. I think you should just turn him into coal; and if you do that, please bring me some matches for Christmas.

Her thoughts were almost identical to Bobby's, though the two of them had not gotten together and discussed setting fire to a Ben made of coal. But it would be awfully convenient. Fran went on to explain to Santa that she might have just asked for Santa to get Ben whatever help he needed, except now her little brother's belief in Christmas was being destroyed, as well as his belief in himself. For that, she genuinely believed that Ben had to be punished as well as changed.

It was about half an hour after Fran finished her long letter, stamped it, and put it next to her mom's purse to mail the next day, that Ben finally went to bed and fell asleep. It was a rough sleep. He tossed and turned all night; or at least, that's what it felt like. When he halfway awoke after such a long night, full of confusing and terrifying dreams, he found it to be no later than midnight.

Actually, it was the last three strokes of midnight, to be exact.

"Wha—hunh? Who's there??"

Ben looked over into the corner and saw a pale almost ghostly visage advance. It, whatever it was, looked solid enough, but it also looked like a wind would blow right threw it and put out any fire in your soul.

"Jacob . . . . ?" Ben asked warily, fairly certain that despite how weird this seemed, he was definitely awake now. "Jacob! It is you. Dude, what are you doing in my room at . . . . . shit . . . midnight. And dude, you look sick. And I don't mean good sick either. Like . . . . . creepy sick. Like, if you don't start talking or something, I'm about to scream for my mom, and I don't care how little kiddish that sounds."

"I am not Jacob Marley," came an eerie, but quite certain, voice.

"Uh, yeah, you are. I know you anywhere, Jacob."

"My name was Elias Marley. I am the great-grandfather of the one you call Jacob."

"Um, right. Your name WAS Elias Marley?"

"Yes. I am no more in your earthly plain. I am a spirit guide to other worlds, other times, other planes of thought and understanding."

"Spirit guide?"

"Yes, Ben Scruggs. I am, specifically, YOUR spirit guide."

"All right. I'm going crazy, but I'll go with this. It's either that or pass out in total fear and freak-outedness. OK. My spirit guide to where?"

"To when, young Scruggs."

"To . . .when?"

"Yes; 'to when?' is the question. . . . . . Ben Scruggs, I am the spirit of Christmas Past!"