He saw me coming and waited quietly, idly tossing a snowball from one hand to the other. For a moment I thought he might be going to heave it at me. But then he looked down at it, as if it were something he'd outgrown, and tossed it indifferently aside.
The expression on his face was not one of defiance, or arrogance—but neither was it that of a boy who was sorry he'd been naughty. I guess it was a sort of waiting look.
"Well, son," I said, surprised that my anger had suddenly evaporated, "you sure messed things up, didn't you?"
"I guess I did, all right."
"You're not sorry?"
"I had to find out."
I nodded. "And you figure you did find out, is that it?"
"Yes."
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you that Santa just couldn't get here—that he asked me to pretend to be him so the Kids wouldn't be disappointed?"
He shook his head. "No, I wouldn't believe it."