Maple & Coal: Episode 2 - Pinewick
Keeping Christmas on Schedule
The workshop came alive at exactly eight o’clock AM, which meant Pinewick was already in place.
He stood at the front of the main floor tapping a clipboard against his palm. The sound was small but steady, and all the elves straightened when they heard it. Pinewick never shouted. He didn’t need to. His calm tapping felt like the workshop’s heartbeat.
Pinewick had been at the workshop longer than almost anyone could remember. He was short, even for an elf, with a tidy white beard and round glasses that caught the lantern light. His green hat had a tiny stitched pinecone at the tip, and he wore a gentle, worried look, as if he was quietly thinking about the entire Christmas season at once.
“Elves,” Pinewick called. “A few reminders.”
The workshop settled. Ribbon loops froze midair. Gingerbread-building stopped. Even the cocoa steam drifted more quietly.
“One,” Pinewick said, holding up a finger, “toy wagons must pass inspection before painting. Not after. Before.”
Several elves in the paint section sighed.
“Two. Gumdrops are not to be eaten before noon.”
Coal froze.
He had four gumdrops in his mouth and several more in his pockets. One stuck to his sleeve. Another to his hat.
He swallowed too fast, squeaked, and slapped his chest until a gumdrop bounced off his boot.
“Everything all right, Coal?” Pinewick asked.
“Perfect!” Coal squeaked.
Pinewick gave him a very long look.
“And lastly,” he said, “the Department of Observation and Review should take extra care today.”
Maple straightened. She held her clipboard neatly in both hands. Coal tried to look official too, but hiccupped quietly.
Pinewick cleared his throat.
“The OR List exists for unusual cases,” he said. “Not everyday slips. Christmas needs clarity.”
He tapped his clipboard again. Maple listened. Coal tried, but another gumdrop crinkled in his pocket.
“Clarity comes from limits,” Pinewick said. “If every tiny flicker counts the same as a big action, the lists may wobble. Ok? That’s all Im saying.”
Maple lowered her eyes.
Coal whispered, “He is my hero.”
Maple whispered, “I’m sure he is.”
Then a bright sound cut through the air.
Every elf stopped.
The doOR ornament glowed brightly, its wooden door trembling as if something inside had stretched awake.
Blizzard and Snowflake rushed toward the tree. Blizzard zigzagged between elves like a tiny red spark. Snowflake bumped into a stool, a bucket, and a table.
“Santa!” Blizzard squeaked. “Case file incoming!”
The ornament glowed brighter.
The next case had arrived.
Blizzard climbed Snowflake’s arm like a furry staircase, reached the bear’s shoulder, straightened his vest, and unrolled a glittering scroll.
A puff of sparkles burst out. Snowflake sneezed so hard the scroll flapped. Blizzard grabbed it with both paws.
Snowflake sniffed. “I think that sneeze knocked my socks off… where’d they go?”
“You don’t wear socks,” Blizzard said.
“Oh. That explains the cold feet,” Snowflake said.
Blizzard read:
“Case File Number zero-zero-zero-two. Codename—”
“Half-Melted Snowman!” Snowflake announced.
“Half-Finished Helper,” Blizzard corrected.
Snowflake blinked. “Right, right… wait... do I even own socks?”
Blizzard continued:
“Case File 0002: The Half-Finished Helper
Incident One: Subject Emma forgot to bring paintbrushes inside. They froze.
Incident Two: Subject walked a classmate to the nurse.
Incident Three: Subject erased the whiteboard too early.
Incident Four: Subject reorganized a classmate’s desk because, quote, ‘it looked stressful.’
Status: Mixed moments. Observation and Review required.”
Coal grinned. “Sounds like a perfect mess.”
Maple tapped her pencil. “Or like someone trying very hard.”
The ornament door creaked open, revealing the peppermint-striped slide.
Coal rubbed his hands. “I’ll race ya?”
Maple sighed. “Just stay in your lane.”
They stepped onto the slide.
WHOOSH.
They shot downward through swirling stripes. Maple held the sides. Coal spun like a loose button.
Plop.
They landed in a custodian’s closet. Mops fell. Shelves rattled. Coal dropped straight into a dirty mop bucket.
He popped out dripping, then shook himself off, spraying drops everywhere.
Maple pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. A tiny chuckle escaped.
Coal groaned. “Yeah, yeah… I bet you’re loving this.”
“Come on,” Maple said. “We need to move.”
They flattened themselves and wormed under the door, sliding into a busy school hallway.
Children hung coats. Boots thumped. Teachers called greetings. The air smelled faintly of crayons.
“Lots of rules here,” Coal whispered. “Delicious rules.”
“Please behave,” Maple whispered.
They peeked into a classroom.
Paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling. A number line stretched across the wall. The teacher held a book about a fox learning patience.
Emma sat two rows back.
Her ponytail leaned sideways. A pencil smudge marked her cheek. Her backpack pocket was unzipped. Papers slid close to the edge.
A boy dropped his marker. Emma picked it up instantly and handed it back with a warm smile.
Coal nodded. “Helper.”
The class took out planners.
Emma wrote “Math” neatly. Erased it. Rewrote it. Added “Art.” Erased it again because the “t” leaned too far. The page smudged. Her planner slipped and hit the floor.
Emma flinched, cheeks pink.
Coal whispered, “She scares herself.”
“She tries to stay ahead of her mistakes,” Maple said.
Next came vocabulary cards.
“Act it out when it’s your turn,” the teacher said. “No talking. Let others guess.”
Emma sat up straighter. Maple noticed her shoulders tense.
Emma wanted to do well, but waiting made her fidgety.
Coal leaned close. “She looks like a volcano.”
“A quiet one,” Maple whispered.
As other students acted out their cards, Emma sat on her hands so she wouldn’t fiddle. Her foot bounced. She mouthed guesses under her breath but never loudly.
Then the teacher smiled at her.
“Emma, your turn.”
A small spark lit in her eyes.
Emma walked forward and pulled a card.
Snow angel.
Her eyes shimmered. She bent her knees to lower herself—
A voice across the room shouted, “SNOW ANGEL!”
Emma froze.
The teacher sighed. “Remember, we raise hands, not voices.”
Emma swallowed. “Yeah.”
She returned to her seat. The spark dimmed.
Coal frowned. “She didn’t get to show it.”
“She waited,” Maple said. “That was hard for her.”
Later in the day Emma folded paper for a snowflake.
Cut.
Adjusted.
Cut again.
Crooked.
She crumpled it and reached for another.
Cut.
Crooked again.
Another ball of paper.
Coal whispered, “These snowflakes have short lives.”
“She’s upset it doesn’t match the picture in her head,” Maple said.
Emma tried a third time—slower—and finally made one she liked.
During math, Emma wrote neatly at first, then erased harder and harder. Her eraser tore the corner of the sheet.
She whispered, “Why can’t I get this right?”
Coal whispered, “She fighting numbers.”
“She’s fighting the worry in her head,” Maple said.
At recess, Emma joined jump rope. She tripped almost immediately.
“Oh—I’m, I’m okay,” she said with a shaky laugh.
She stepped out, pretending she didn’t mind.
A younger child cried at the swings. His zipper was stuck.
Emma knelt, fixed it, adjusted his scarf, and patted his shoulder.
No one else saw.
Maple did.
Coal did too.
Coal whispered, “She fixes people better than paper.”
“She understands small hurts,” Maple said.
Emma bumped into a classmate.
“Sorry! Sorry—sorry, sorry” she said, though it was barely a tap.
Coal whispered, “She apologizes like it’s her job.”
“Apologizing feels safer than asking for space,” Maple said.
After the bell, Emma paused at the art room door.
Maple tugged Coal’s sleeve. “Here.”
Emma opened the door.
The paintbrushes she’d washed that morning had frozen stiff.
Her face fell. “Oh no… I forgot again…”
She rolled up her sleeves and thawed each brush under warm water.
Rinsed bowls.
Wiped tables.
Straightened chairs.
No one asked her to.
No one watched.
No one thanked her.
She did it because she felt she had to make things right.
Coal whispered, “She’s fixing the whole school.”
“She’s fixing what she thinks she broke,”
Emma’s room glowed with evening light.
Sticky notes covered the wall:
Remember brushes
Slow down
Try again
Don’t rush
Check zipper
Her sweater sleeves were still damp.
Her mom appeared. “How was school?”
“Fine,” Emma said quickly.
Her mom touched a wet sleeve. “Art brushes?”
Emma nodded. “I forgot. I cleaned everything.”
“You fixed it,” her mom said gently.
Emma shrugged. “I shouldn’t have forgotten.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
“If I don’t try hard,” Emma whispered, “everything falls apart.”
Her mom hugged her. “Trying is enough.”
Emma didn’t answer.
After her mom left, Emma dumped out her backpack.
Papers scattered.
She began sorting.
Stopped.
Erased something.
Ripped the edge.
Started again.
Coal whispered, “She’s running in circles but staying in the same spot.”
“She doesn’t know how to rest,” Maple said.
Emma lay back for a moment.
Then sat up fast. “I left my shoes by the door—”
She hurried out.
Her room fell quiet.
Emma’s mom stepped in and traced her finger across one of the sticky notes.
“She tries so hard,” she whispered.
Coal whispered, “Parents get glimmers?”
“Everyone gets glimmers,” Maple said. “Grown-ups just call them days.”
Coal nodded. “I don’t like days. They have too much in them.”
Maple took out her small silver bell and rang it.
Sprig swooped down in a swirl of snow, scarf flapping.
“Evening!” he called. “Everyone ready? Feelings accounted for?”
Coal flopped into the sled. “My feelings are tired.”
“Would gumdrops help?” Sprig asked.
Coal perked up. “Do you have any?”
“Only emergency ones.”
Coal held out his hand.
“No,” Sprig said. “Emergency means emergency.”
Maple settled beside them. The sled lifted into the sky.
They passed a glowing cloud shaped like a giant pillow.
Coal leaned over. “I want to jump in that.”
“Please don’t,” Sprig said. “Clouds look fluffy but feel like wet socks.”
Coal made a face. “Gross.”
“But still pretty,” Sprig said.
Coal sighed. “Pretty can be messy.”
“Messy can be good,” Maple said.
Coal huffed. “You always sound like you are writing a book.”
“Someone has to,” Maple said.
Sprig laughed. “The sky likes when you talk about feelings.”
Coal pointed at the stars. “I hope the stars are taking notes.”
They glided toward the North Star.
They landed in the workshop. Coal tripped on ribbon and popped up pretending he meant to. Sprig clapped politely.
Maple dusted her coat.
I waited at my desk.
“How did it go?” I asked.
Coal spoke first. “She forgot the brushes. She talked too fast. She bumped into people. She dropped papers.”
Maple added, “She helped many times. She fixed the zipper. She cleaned the art room without being asked. She tried again every time.”
Coal nodded. “She tries so much I got tired.”
“She tries because she’s scared of letting people down,” Maple said.
I stroked my beard.
“Emma belongs on the Nice List,” I said. “Not because she was perfect, but because she kept trying. And because her kindness stayed steady, even when she struggled.”
Coal breathed out. “Nice. With lots happening.”
Maple smiled.
The doOR ornament glowed quietly.
After Maple and Coal left for the day.
Pinewick made his way to my office.
“Santa,” he said softly.
“Yes, Pinewick?”
He folded his hands.
“Maple weighs everything,” he said. “Every small moment. Every mistake. Every kindness. If each flicker counts the same, the lists may lose shape.”
I nodded. “Sometimes seeing more helps us understand more.”
“Understanding can also confuse,” Pinewick said. “If the OR List keeps growing and every little thing counts, the simple rules that kept Christmas steady might stop working.”
He looked at the ornament.
“That little door opens easier each time,” he said. “And I worry what happens if it doesn’t close again.”
Pinewick had kept Christmas steady for a very long time.
I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Maple isn’t trying to undo the lists. She’s trying to understand children.”
Pinewick paused.
“She cares deeply,” he said. “If she cares about every tiny thing, we will never stay on schedule.”
He took a slow breath.
“I don’t want to lose what has worked.”
He returned to his ledgers.
I looked at the ornament glowing softly.
Between Naughty and Nice, a new kind of seeing was growing.
A space for effort.
A space for learning.
A space for trying again.
A space Maple stepped toward with quiet bravery.
And a space Pinewick feared might open too wide.
The tiny wooden door glowed on its branch.
Waiting for the next name.
Waiting for the next child.
And waiting for what came next.
Excellent insight on how good and bad are often too concrete standpoints that often overlook the need to look at the smaller details of the larger picture in order to determine the true meanings and intentions behind children’s actions.