Naughty or Nice: Letters from Your Favorite Wattpad Characters

A Letter from Maude - A French Girl in New York

Maude Laurent
The basement in
29, rue du Général de Gaulle
Carvin
North of France
France

Dear Santa,

Over the years, I've sent you over a dozen letters, but you never bothered answering any of them even though you and I have lots in common.

I live in the north of France in a small town nobody ever visits by choice. You're in the North Pole, a place nobody ever visits at all. And though we both endure bad weather, we maintain a naturally cheerful disposition.

Living in Carvin with the Ruchets, my evil foster parents, is hell.

Scraping the remains of Madame Ruchet's dinner is the only way I feed myself before curling up to sleep on a dank mattress in the basement. I'm forced to clean the entire red-bricked house until it's spotless. I look after the Ruchets' eight-year-old twins who think making me the target of their spitting contest is the ultimate fun. I always wondered why they got presents while I never did.

The only thing that kept me sane was my love for music and the hope that I would find a family who loves me for who I am.

But everything changed last October when my teacher announced the annual tenth-grader trip to Paris.

Paris!

I could already picture myself in the City of Lights, roaming in its little quaint streets, climbing up the Eiffel Tower, and grinning back at the Mona Lisa.

There was one big obstacle.

Monsieur Ruchet said he would sign my permission slip only if I got a good grade at my next Math test.

Now if he'd chosen any other subject, I'd have been sure to succeed. But Math is my Achilles' heel. I never managed to do better than a measly 5 out of 20. I don't think my teacher, Monsieur Martin, even looks at my tests anymore.

However, I refused to let this temporary setback bring me down. If there was the slightest chance that I could go to Paris, I was going to do everything in my power to make it happen.

I studied and poured over my Math book every night for two weeks. Using my flickering flashlight, I tried to ignore the rats scurrying in the basement, knocking themselves senseless against broken TVs and every other piles of trash in the basement.

Test day finally arrived and I thought I did OK.

But no!

A week later, the teacher had corrected our tests and my grade was only a 5 out of 20. Again.

I didn't have time to argue with Monsieur Martin or to convince Monsieur Ruchet that my teacher had it in for me. The next day was the last to return the permission slip for the trip.

That evening, after careful consideration, a solution emerged from the heap of rotten ideas piling in my mind.

Easy, quick, effective.

Naughty.

I fished my test and a red pen out of my bag.

That red 5 stood out more than Rudolf's nose when he catches a cold. I closed my eyes and opened them once more.

It was still there, taunting me.

I took my pen and with one decisive stroke, I added a 1 in front of the 5. My bad 5 became a brilliant 15 out of 20!

Going up to Monsieur Ruchet's office, my palms were sweaty, as were my armpits and my heart raced as fast as a sprint runner pushing out of the starting block. Paris was my finish line and I would have jumped any hurdle to get there.

As I entered Monsieur Ruchet's office I knew this would not be easy. I tried to appear as calm as I could, but under scrutiny, I doubt my Poker face would have won me an Oscar.

All the awful things that could happen if my foster parents discovered the truth danced before my eyes. Madame Ruchet would probably lock me in the basement for three days straight with only water and bread until she grew tired of having to do everything on her own. Her kids would pull my hair and kick me gleefully with unchecked approval from their mother.

Monsieur Ruchet took one last hard look at my test. Screening it with laser eyes, I could tell he wanted more than anything to discover something amiss.

But my teacher hadn't been thorough. He'd just scribbled the grade, and hadn't bothered to add comments.

Monsieur Ruchet finally said 15 was pretty good and that I had permission to go to Paris.

My knees buckled. My breathing halted and my heart exploded in my chest like glorious Bastille Day fireworks.

I slid down the stair banister and danced in the hall. I attempted Swan Lake choreography, but I pulled a muscle so I must have been doing something wrong. I didn't care.

I was going to Paris!

Paris is no doubt the most beautiful city in the world, Santa.

I mean, you should know. I heard Mrs. Claus loves to shop there. I know you travel only on Christmas Eve, but you two should try a romantic getaway in Paris during the fall.

Strolling in Paris in November is like walking through an impressionist painting where each autumnal tinge is an expression of our world's endless capacity at astonishing us with its beauty. The falling leaves give us their last bright sparks of color, the wind is cool but inoffensive, and if we're lucky, the sun's waning smile lingers until winter settles in.

Climbing the Eiffel Tower was like climbing a stairway to heaven and when I looked down I felt like a conqueror. I could do everything and anything I wanted. I knew right then and there that I could never go back to my old life.

After visiting the Louvre with my class, we had some free time. Though our teacher said we weren't to go off alone and had to stay in groups of four, I slipped away from Rachel and her friends, first chance I got.

That is when my life took a definite turn for the better.

I roamed in the tiny streets of Paris on my own until, near the Place Georges Pompidou; I heard music coming from a café called Le Cavalier Bleu.

There was a piano and they allowed anybody to play it. In no time, I found myself in front of the piano and played. And sang.

Little did I know who was sitting at a table in the back of the room.

Mr. Baldwin, a music producer at Soulville Records in New York.

He heard me sing and since then my life has changed.

I'll be leaving in January for New York to record my very first album. Visions of success visit me at night, and during the day my imagination runs wild.

Times Square, Brooklyn Bridge and Lady Liberty all beckon. I hope with all my heart that everything will go well and maybe, maybe my album could be a hit.

I'm counting on your help for that one.

I've been nice my whole life, Santa. Though my foster parents are a nightmare, I take care of them, their kids, and their house without complaint.

But if I hadn't changed my grade, I'd be living in the basement until I was 80.

Which is why I was wondering if you would ever consider changing your rules and allow those who are a little naughty, just like me, to be showered with Christmas gifts.

After all, isn't naughty the new nice?

XOXO,

Maude Laurent

***

Coca-Cola has asked me to write this letter to promote the #ShareACoke advertising campaign.

Check out the @Coca-Cola Wattpad page for more letters to Santa from your other favorite Wattpad characters!

Happy holidays!