My name is Jessica Lopez.  I’m 14 years old, and I’m probably the oldest person in the entire world who still believes in Santa.

My friends, their parents have all confessed to them the simple truth of the jolly, big-hearted fellow who had supposedly been bringing our gifts each year; it was really the parents themselves.  They came down around midnight and feasted on the cookies—the hooves that the children heard on their roofs were only their imaginations.

I can’t really say that there’s ever been a time when I didn’t believe in Santa, because I know that he’s real.  I’m not crazy, I’m faithful.  I’m doing what I can to keep the Christmas spirit alive in a world where it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

I’m only human, though, and when everyone is telling you that what you believe
isn’t real, eventually you’re bound to believe them.  When I was five, I was about ready to give up on Santa.

That year I was fostered by a man named Oscar.  Oscar yelled at me a lot, and often left me locked in the laundry room by myself for the whole entire day.  During the summer, it was hot and stuffy, and during the winter, it was freezing.  It became my home, though, and eventually I grew smart about it—I stashed away food and I hid a pillow and blanket in the cabinet next to the washing machine.

I was still young enough to believe in Santa Clause, but the way Oscar treated me was all the reason not to.  When the Christmas holidays rolled around, he would get drunk and tell me that Santa was a made up lazy-ass that inspired kids, when really kids shouldn’t be inspired, they should be disciplined.

He was the only person I had at that point, so I tried never to disagree with him.  But as Christmas grew closer and closer, the kids at my inner-city kindergarten class kept talking about him.

“What is Santa bringing you?” they’d ask each other, and then they’d list off names of toys they hoped for and talk about notes they left Santa.  I was usually silent during these conversations, not hoping for anything, but the focus almost always ended up on me in some way or another.

“What about you, Jessica?” a girl would ask.  “What do you want to ask Santa for?”

I usually spent a moment or two staring at my hands, debating whether or not to tell the truth about Santa to them or to make up a wish that I had.  It usually was the first one, though.

“Oscar says Santa doesn’t exist,” I’d say.  Someone might gasp, or another might cry, but usually they only told me that of course Santa existed, and Oscar just probably never got anything because he was a bad guy.

On one of the days that this conversation arose between my young peers and I, I went home to an empty house.  Instead of being afraid, though, and waiting for Oscar to put me where I belonged, I dared to break his rules.  I found paper and a pen and grabbed a couple of snacks for later before retreating to the laundry room and shutting the door.

I brought one of my shirts with me as I sat on the floor.  I listened carefully in case a door should slam, or a bottle should break, or maybe he’d shout, some kind of awareness that Oscar was home.  The last thing I wanted was for him to get angry.

When I was sure I at least had a few seconds, I grabbed the pen in a small fist and began to write.  I was only vaguely aware of my tongue poking out of my mouth in my deep focus to remember the spelling of the words I wanted.  
When I was finished writing, I set the pen down and held up the paper.  I struggled to read over the words I’d written moments before:


Santa, come find me.


I could swear that one of the letters was backwards, but I decided not to worry about it.  I worked hard to fold it as close to perfectly as a five year old could get before shoving it into the pillowcase that protected my pillow and locking it in the closet.  When Oscar came home later, he never suspected a thing.

Each night when I went to bed, and each morning when I woke up, I prayed that Santa would hear my plea.  I was content with Oscar and his anger, but I saw my friends and their families and I wanted it more than anything.  I wanted a reason to believe in Christmas spirit, and I wanted a reason to wish for something.

As Christmas Eve approached, Santa hadn’t come for me yet.  I knew he only left the North Pole on Christmas each year, but I’d thought he might make an exception for me.  I cursed at myself, wondering why I was foolish enough to believe it.

I knew I couldn’t remain with Oscar.  He was buying less food so I had less to stash away.  And he’d discovered my blanket, so he’d taken that.  All I had left was my clothes and pillow, which he’d let me keep, but he’d taken my note from it.
He wasn’t stupid.  He knew if he threw it away, I’d only dig it out or write a new one.  So he kept it with him.

On Christmas Eve, once he was passed out in his chair in the living room, I snuck out of the laundry room.  I was sure to tiptoe across the small strip of tile floor on the way to the carpet of the living room.  I tripped on a chair in the kitchen and I was sure he’d wake up and be angry, but he only stirred and went back to snoring.

I had to stifle a giggle once I reached him—he looked incredibly silly.  His head was lolled to one side, and he was drooling.  His repetitive snores were louder than the television.  In his left hand, he held a beer that was slowly tipping over, and in his right, my note was crumpled in a ball.

I had to think carefully if I wanted to do this without waking him up.  I reached out slowly for his right hand, ready to run if I had to.  I curled my left hand, hardly the size of the ball itself, around the crumpled paper, and my right hand over the top of his.

Instinctively in his sleep, he curled his hand tighter around my note, but it was loose enough for me to slide it out.  I pushed my hand over the top of the ball into his palm so that there was still a presence, and wiggled the ball out so that it landed with a crinkly thud on the ground.

He took a deep intake of air, then, his snore like a waterfall in the room for a long two seconds.  His hand curled tightly around mine, squeezing it almost too hard, and I was sure I was caught.  

I looked up at him shamefully to see him lift his head, only for it to slowly fall back to the side.  His snores erupted again, his hand still tight around mine, and I waited for his grip to loosen.  My whole body was shaking, and I only wanted him to let go.

His hand was surprisingly warm.  It was large, probably three times the size of mine, but it felt nice to be held.  I wondered if this is what kids did normally with their parents, and after a few minutes, I almost didn’t want him to let go.  

I stood there still, watching the lights of the television flicker.  I noted that his bottle was close to spilling or falling, and that I was getting sleepy.  As I waited for him to let go of my hand, I felt my eyelids begin to droop, and my head began to nod.

No, I told myself silently.  If I wanted to do this tonight, I needed to stay awake.

A long period of time passed before he finally loosened his grip.  I carefully slid my small hand from his, kneeling down to touch my crinkled note.  I smiled to myself once I was holding it and began to walk back towards the laundry room.  

I stopped half way though, and quickly turned around.  I hurried back to the living room, moving in front of his chair.  The light from the TV was blocked by my short figure, so I couldn’t see his face that well, but he was still asleep.  I reached carefully for his beer bottle just as it looked as if it might fall, and I set it on the table next to the chair.  I pulled the blanket that had fallen near his feet over his legs incase he was cold.

I hurried back to the laundry room, then, more awake now.  I left the door open, grabbing my pillow and the small jacket I wore to school each day.  The sleeves only reached just before my wrists, and there was a hole in one elbow, but I didn’t care.  I threw it on, shoving my note into the pillowcase and trying hard to remember how to tie my shoes.  I put my only jeans on, and headed towards the back door.

I put my hood up and gulped, looking outside.  The wind was blowing fiercely, and snow was falling.  I shivered just seeing it.  

I stopped myself—I could still stay.  I could wait for Christmas day to see if things got better, being warm on the floor of the laundry room and listening to the sound of Oscar’s snore.  I could wait for the social worker to move me again.  I could still stay.

But if I never went, I’d never know if I could have had a chance at something better.

I pushed open the door with a large force, letting the wind suddenly blow around me.  I shivered before stepping out into the snow, thigh deep, before closing the door.  I didn’t look as I passed Oscar’s window, and I didn’t look as I passed the house and headed down the street.

I don’t know how long I walked for.  I started out with no direction, and then suddenly, after a long period of time, there were lights at the end of my street.  I was fighting two different storms now, the storm around me and the exhaustion within me.  I fought to stay awake as I moved towards the blinking red and green lawn decorations of someone’s home.

I lost track of time and everything else, then.  I could only see the lights—I couldn’t feel my legs or arms, and I couldn’t hear the storm.  I couldn’t feel the wind whipping at my face, or the heavy burden my pillow had suddenly become after being dragged through the snow.  I could only focus on the beautiful colors of the radiating light.

When I reached them, I collapsed into the snow.  The right side of my face landed directly in it, the cold finally touching my cheek.  I closed my eyes and curled into a ball, pulling my pillow over me to protect me from the wind.  And soon, everything faded but the light touching my eyes from behind my eyelids.

I lay there for more time than I knew how to keep track of.  I slept on and off, urging myself to stand up and continue.  I needed to get away from Oscar—I needed to find Santa.

I couldn’t move, though.  I couldn’t feel my legs anymore, and I was sure my face had frozen by now.  I prayed, silently, hoping with all of my heart that Santa would find me.  But he didn’t.

After a while, I began to cry.  I could feel the warm streaks of tears running over my nose and falling into the snow next to my face.  Before I could stop myself, I was sobbing, my entire body shaking.  The shuffle of the waterproof material of my jacket against the pillow was the only noise I could hear, aside from my sobs.  

Santa wasn’t real after all.

But then, suddenly, there were big hands on my shoulders.  They pulled me upright before lifting me, so that the hands turned to arms and a chest that I was pressed against.  The snow melted off of my face as I cried into the shoulder of whoever had lifted me, and I felt movement as they lead me away from where I’d been lying.

Eventually the movement stopped and turned into a gentle swaying.  The cold that surrounded me had disappeared, but I was still crying.  I shivered as the heat entered my body, replacing the cold, and I coughed before my sobs subsided, leaving only gentle tears and sniffs.

“Why are you crying?” a voice asked.  I was surprised by the booming deepness of it, the repetitive echo that filled the night sky.  Naturally, I assumed it was a man.

“Because Santa isn’t real,” I said, bringing my hand up to wipe my nose.  A few more tears fell as I snuggled closer to whoever was holding me.

“What on earth gave you that idea?” he asked.  I felt the vibrations in their chest.

“He didn’t come find me,” I said simply, crying a little harder at the discouraging thought.

“Oh my child,” he said gently, “don’t you have any idea who you’re talking to?”

I shook my head before looking up.  This man had a long, white beard and a red hat on his head with a white ball at the end.  His entire suit was red, and his glasses were small in comparison to his large head.  His boots were black in the dark, and his hands held onto faded, leather reigns.  

“Santa?” I breathed.  He laughed, his hearty ho ho ho echoing throughout the atmosphere around us.  I blinked before throwing my arms around him, my sobs starting once more.

“Don’t cry, Jessica,” he said.  I shook my head—these weren’t sad tears anymore.  I was so relieved; he’d found me!

“Thank you,” I whispered in his ear, and he laughed again.  I wondered suddenly where we were and looked down; we were flying through the air!  In front of the large sled we sat on were 9 reindeer looking back at me with excited eyes.  The one at the very front had a big, red nose, and I smiled at the sight of him.

“Rudolph!” I squealed.  They made noises then, weird noises, as if they were laughing.  I giggled along with them, my heart ready to burst with the excitement.  I was on Santa’s sleigh!  He’d heard my prayer, and he was fully real and right here with me now.  

Santa told me everything, from living in the North Pole to being married to Mrs. Clause.  He told me about Rudolph, and how he guided the sleigh each Christmas.  He told me stories of gifts he gave to children, telling me that some years the sleigh on the back was almost too heavy and they sometimes thought they might have to make second trips.  He gave me a small, golden, sparkling snowflake decoration off of the side of the sleigh for me to hold on to.  

I found my eyelids drooping after a while, the entire night being too much for my five-year-old stamina.  I rested my head on his shoulder as we flew, and I found him telling me that I had to go back to Oscar.

“I can’t go back,” I slurred, the world below slowly fading.

“Sure you can,” he said.  “I can’t take you with me, Jessica.”

“Please?” I begged, trying to keep my eyes open.  “I’m still small enough to be an elf.”

He laughed once more, music to my ears.  I closed my eyes, still fighting sleep, and waited for a response.

“I promise,” He said, “I’ll make things better.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“You might,” he said.  “But no matter what, I’ll always be with you in your heart.”

With his final statement, I let myself fall into the dream world of sleep.  When I awoke, it was morning, and I was on the floor of the laundry room.  My pillow was under my head, the note still in it.  I still wore my coat, and everything was dry.

I began to cry, coming to the slow realization that the entire night had been a dream, but when I brought my hand up to my face, there was something in it.  I uncurled my fist to find the glittering snowflake, the one I’d gotten on Santa’s sleigh, sitting in my hand.

I began to laugh, so hard I cried.  Oscar came and banged on the door to ask me why I was making so much noise, and I had to hide the snowflake.  But it didn’t matter—nothing else did.  Because Santa had been real the whole time.

My social worker came and placed me in a new home a few days later.  It was there that I found a family willing to adopt me and keep me.  I still live with them to this day, and I’m not sure where Oscar is, but I hope he’s safe, no matter what.  Santa’s promise stayed with me, and I still truly believe in him.

So that’s my story, I guess.  I’m 14, and I’m the oldest girl to ever believe in Santa.  Everyone tries to tell me he’s fake, but I know that no matter what, no matter what anyone says, I’ll always believe in the jolly, big-hearted fellow who gave me a ride on his sleigh when I had nothing to believe in.