Finding my elf, p.13
Finding My Elf, page 13
“It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Victor begins, and the crowd cheers like he’s right. It’s kind of amazing what people will get invested in. In November, nobody was thinking about mall elves, and yet here they are now, casting votes for us and following our elf pages and cheering us on. “Today, Top Elf comes down to just two. Who will we say goodbye to? Will it be Jingle? Raven? Or Oopsy?” Every name gets cheers and a few boos, though it’s a little hard to tell whether people are booing us or the idea of us being eliminated.
Making a big show of reading his tablet, even though he knows the answer, Victor announces the results. “The elf who will not continue in the competition is . . .”
He’s going to say Oopsy. I can feel it. My whole body tenses for the blow.
“RAVEN.”
Raven’s fans vocalize their love, and Raven comes forward, sporting an epic eye roll. I shoot Marco a look to say, We did it, but he shoots back a look that says, It’s their moment, so I join the loud applause for them. Marco nods at me and heads toward Raven, and I do too. We go to embrace them from either side, but they flat-palm both of us to keep us away. The mic picks up them saying, “Not a hugger.” The audience eats it up like it was a planned bit.
“I present to you our last two Top Elf finalists: Oopsy and Jingle!” Victor signals for the audience to applaud, but he needn’t have bothered. They’re noisy in their appreciation, and a singsong battle begins, some chanting “OOP-sy” and others replying “JIN-gle,” like fans in an arena.
“OOP-sy!”
“JIN-gle!”
“OOP-sy!”
“JIN-gle!”
We pose for photos together, our arms around each other. Marco is waving to the crowd with one hand, while the other rests on the small of my back, a warm presence that feels so right. Someday, will we look at these pictures and think, This was just the beginning?
Victor quiets the crowd. “On Sunday the twenty-fourth, celebrate Christmas Eve right here in Santaland. You know Santa will have to fly back to the North Pole that night to get his sleigh ready, so we’ll send him off with a song!”
Wait. Is he saying—
“The final competition will be Elf Idol. Oopsy and Jingle will be performing live on this stage—”
The crowd whoops at this idea, and I kind of do too: I have this in the bag. I may be majoring in experimental theater, but the musical-theater boy is always just below the surface. Plus, I mean, I’ve heard Marco sing. Enthusiastic and good are two different things, right? I don’t dare look at him. Is he as disappointed as I am excited?
Victor sweetens the pot even more. “The rules are simple: both contestants will have to sing the same song. Any arrangement they like. But it has to be the same song, same tune, same words.”
I steal a glance at Marco: to my surprise he’s into it, nodding happily, unfazed by my obvious advantage.
“Everyone who votes gets ten percent off all sale items at participating retailers in the mall starting December twenty-sixth. Which is also the last day of Elfmas, the day when we name one of these guys Top Elf and he takes home the five-thousand-dollar cash prize.”
He pauses. “Now I’m sure you’re all wondering which song.”
Um, yes. Will it be a classic, like “White Christmas”? Or something newer, maybe one of the Sia holiday songs? I’d kill for it to be “Wrapped in Red,” but I don’t think the universe favors me that much.
None of the above. “Well, it just so happens that we have a composer right here at Santaland!” We do?
Fiona joins him at the mic as he continues. “Our own Mrs. Claus, Fiona Shirleen O’Hara, has written an original number just for 12 Days of Elfmas—” Oh my god. No.
Taking the mic from Victor, Fiona addresses the crowd. “I just love the oldies but goodies—you know: ‘Santa Baby’ . . . ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’ Classics like these inspired me to write ‘The Yule Log Song.’”
“The Yule Log Song”? Really?
She’s in her glory. “I wanted something a little jazzy, a little swingy, even a little sexy.” She winks on that line, seemingly forgetting she’s still dressed in character. You can see the disconnect on parents’ faces: Did Mrs. Claus really just say “a little sexy” and wink? Ew. Seeing their reactions, she hurries on. “I hope it becomes at least a mall classic! And it’ll get its start right here on this stage in its world premiere Sunday—twice! So come see who sings it best!”
As the crowd applauds her exit, I’m still kind of reeling. I can only imagine what she has come up with. And I wouldn’t say the visions are good.
I decide to use my half hour today to window-shop. I’m looking at a male mannequin in the window of Hugo Boss, working out how I can replicate the look cheaply, when I hear a familiar voice call my name. It’s Ms. Kropp.
She’s wearing a poncho, and her hair is pulled up today in a Ms. Frizzle pile, serving up nice auntie vibes. “I heard that Cookie Party is canceled. I hope everything’s all right.”
“Dad invited you? I didn’t know.” In all my life, he’s never asked a teacher to come.
“Based on the guest list I saw, I think he invited a lot of people who are important to you.”
Of course. It was supposed to be my triumphant return. I bite my lip, dying to just tell her the truth. The shame has not gone anywhere, but it would help to share it. “Um . . . I guess there’s less to celebrate than there was. . . .”
When I have poured out my tale, Ms. Kropp leads me to a bench in the galleries and sits me down. “A lot of kids get to college and discover some things just aren’t for them. If they’re lucky, we’re talking about nothing more than their major. But sometimes it’s the whole school. And sometimes it’s school, period. You’re eighteen, Cameron—you have the time to mess up.”
“Do I, though?” I explain that the scholarship was all that made it possible for me to be there. If I go back, there has to be some way to pay for it. “That’s why I’m doing the whole Elf thing.”
She waves that away. “You say that, but you’re really doing this because you can’t help yourself. You love to perform. Tell me you’re not eating up the applause and the interview! One of my students even told me she got your autograph. Your autograph!” She pokes me in the arm, and I laugh. She’s not wrong about me liking the attention.
“May I give you a piece of advice?” She doesn’t bother pretending to wait for an answer. “Whatever this song is, find the humor in it. You have a knack for comedy; people are still talking about the wrapping paper.”
“Except it’s a singing contest—”
“And you’ll dominate that piece of it. I know how good your voice is. But this is a show—give people what they want!”
Hmm. This seems worth considering, but I have to get back to Santaland before Victor fires me. I stand up and tell her how much I needed this visit. She hugs me in a way that feels like what people mean when they say “motherly.” As she lets go, she makes a surprise offer.
“If you really don’t go back to school, come work with me. I’m supposed to have a teacher’s aide, but since COVID, nobody’s applying. I’ve been doing it all myself all fall, so it would be nice.”
This is so unexpected that I hug her again. Having another job lined up would be great, period, and working with her in theater, well, that would be amazing. But I’m confused. “So are you saying stay in school or drop out?”
“I’m saying breathe out.” She chuckles. “This is a dilemma, not an apocalypse.”
Even with the extra helpers, Santaland is a zoo today. There is just no keeping up with the volume. There are more criers, more kids needing quick escape routes to the bathroom, more vomit incidents—and stopping for photos and autographs doesn’t keep the line moving. I’m paired with Kandy at Smooch Hollow, and I’m relieved to discover that she brings the same wacky intensity of her superfandom to being a helper. But every now and then I get the feeling she’s shooting me, like, looks of love and adoration; I just make sure never to be beneath the mistletoe so that she does not seize her moment.
When it’s time for my fifteen, I open “The Yule Log Song” sheet music Victor has sent to my email. I hate to admit it: it’s not bad. I still don’t know why they didn’t go with a pop song—I mean, it’s a mall—but I can work with this. Fiona has described it exactly right: it is a little jazzy, a little swingy, and a little sexy. The lyrics border on straight up suggestive, and I’m not sure it’s super elf-appropriate.
Put another Yule log on the fire, baby
Rustle up some mistletoe
I’ve got a present you could unwrap, baby
Come on, Santa, let me elf you, ho ho ho . . .
Like, if Ariana Grande did it, it would be totally winky and amazing, but I’m singing to children. That’s weird, right? The chorus doesn’t let me off the hook.
Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But we find it so delightful
I think I’d like another night full
Of reindeer games with you know who
Merry Christmas to you!
Victor has sent an MP4 of Fiona singing the tune, and it’s a trip. Her voice is nice, but she sings all husky like she’s Eartha Kitt, and I feel awkward listening to my fifty-something boss crooning lines like:
Rudolph couldn’t hold a candle to ya, baby
You could turn three kings to queens
Frosty woulda melted if he’d known ya, baby
Jingle bells, baby . . . you know what I mean
Wow. Beyond its heavy dependence on rhyming the word “baby” with itself, it makes me think Fiona isn’t quite the wet blanket I’d imagined.
And then she’s back on the chorus, riffing like she’s Ella. Damn, though, it’s catchy. I kinda wish I was singing it in a cabaret somewhere, but right now, trying it out in the break room, I’m not sure how it’ll fly.
Marco shows up as I’m doing the chorus. He claps. “Well, at least one of us can make it sound good.”
“You’ll be great,” I say, not sure he will. “We just have to hope nobody stones us.”
We practice in the car on the ride home I promised, and it’s nice. He’s almost got the melody down, but he needs a lot of help doing the rhythm. Mostly, I lead—we don’t listen to Fiona’s recording more than we have to, because it’s just too creepy to hear her singing “let me elf you.” Honestly, we laugh as much as we sing. You could almost forget we’re rivals.
As we roll into his neighborhood, he gets quiet. I don’t know what’s up. Is he thinking about the show or our fight last night?
He looks at me, serious. “I’m not trying to sabotage you, I swear, but . . . did you ask Victor about tomorrow?”
I keep my eyes on the road. We pass a house with a fully lit nativity scene, and the happy family seems to mock me. “My dad canceled the party.”
“What? Oh no. It sounded great.”
“It is great. I have to talk him out of it. My best friend is coming over tonight to try to help.”
“How?”
“We’ll just tell him how much it means to us both. To everyone. Maybe we’ll start baking—he hates to waste food, so if we’re making more, maybe he’ll just cave out of guilt?”
“And if you succeed . . .” He trails off. Good point. Then we’re back to me getting out of work somehow. This week, every solution is a problem.
He reaches over and squeezes my leg comfortingly. And then he leaves his hand there. We’re not embracing for a photo op; this touch is just for me, for us. It’s quiet for a moment, and I turn to look at him; he’s staring out the window, humming Fiona’s tune to himself, and his face gets dappled, sometimes with Christmas lights as we pass houses, sometimes with only the moon. With his face at rest, the dimple almost, but not quite, goes away; you can still see how he’s primed to smile. God, he’s beautiful.
When we pull up to his house, his mom appears in the door. She’s short and round-faced; the only commonality with Marco is the same beautiful skin and a pair of dimples that won’t quit. I so want to kiss him right now, but I don’t think I’m up for “Hi, I’m Cam and I’m going to suck face with your son for a minute.”
Yet I don’t want our time to be over.
He’s lifting his bike out of the back and time is running out, when I blurt, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Practicing, I guess. I hear my competition’s a good singer.”
“Do you want to come over?”
The look in his eyes says yes yes yes, but he hesitates. “Won’t that make it hard to talk to your dad?”
I laugh. “God no. It might even help. He’ll be so happy I brought a boy home! That alone might be enough to get the party back on.”
Marco looks at the door, where his mom gives a little wave. It’s a moment before he looks back at me. “I want to . . . but I’m all Mom has. Knowing her, dinner’s all cooked, so . . .”
“I get it,” I say, disappointed, but understanding that he’s right. “See you tomorrow.”
“Call me tonight. I have to know how it goes.” With his back to his mom, he blows me a kiss. It’s corny-looking and stupidly sexy all at once. What has kept me from understanding before this that nice and hot are not mutually exclusive?
His mom opens the door, and he disappears into the realm of warm gold light beyond. When the door closes, taking the light with it, I just sit in the car a moment, looking at his house. It’s simple, unspectacular, and yet it’s magic, because I know that somewhere inside is the boy I’m falling in love with.
When I get to my place, Jazz is already there, and she and my dad are in the kitchen. I can smell something buttery baking, and my heart lifts. Has she done it already?
Dad gives me a hug the moment he sees me. “I’m so sorry. Jazz told me how sad you are about Cookie Party—she said you almost couldn’t work you were so upset. And I felt terrible!” Behind him, Jazz is motioning for me to just go with it.
I play along. “You know, it’s just . . . there are just so many memories and—”
He wraps me in a tighter hug, like an uncomfortable, you’re-wrinkling-my-clothes hug. “I always thought the party was more my thing, but now I know what it means to you . . . Well, I’m calling everyone to say that it’s back on!”
I untangle myself from my teary parent and hug Jazz instead. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“No prob,” she says, but I know she’s proud of her skills, and that she will add this to her running mental list of things I owe her for. (The list is not small.)
Dad leaves us alone to work on a batch of the halva cookies that we always dye blue as a nod to Hanukkah. Jazz hands me the butter and sugar to cream, while my mind swirls. I’m psyched to see Dad so happy, but all I’ve really done is swap one problem for another. Party’s on—yay! Too bad I won’t be there.
I wait until Dad is talking to my tía Ely, a conversation that I know will be long, and whisper to Jazz. “I have a problem. . . .”
When I tell her that I don’t actually have the day off work, she examines me like she is seeing a rare and bizarre species—Ignoramus homosexualis—for the first time. “Boy, you are a fool. You’re letting him call everyone back to reinvite them to a party you won’t be at!”
“I know!” I crack an egg into a bowl so viciously that shell pieces get in the yolk and I have to fish them out. “I know.” Mixing in the vanilla, I sigh. “On the way home, Marco said the same thing. He thinks I just need to tell Victor that I’m going to leave early for the party, but I can’t.”
Adding dye carefully to the mixed batter—too many drops would say blueberry not Hanukkah—she says, “Marco? What happened to Leroy?”
“No, Leroy is . . . Leroy is done. This is the other elf: Jingle.”
Her eyes widen. “Damn, Cam! You and Jingle are going for rides now? Why did I not know this?”
“I . . .” I shrug. Even six months ago, I’d have texted her a blow-by-blow of this whole week, including the twists and turns of Marco and Leroy both. “I guess we got out of the habit. Like . . . once college started, you know, we haven’t talked anywhere near as much.”
She stops mixing the dough. “I tried,” she says quietly. “But you took longer and longer to respond, so I just figured you were moving on.” The hurt in her voice kills me. “I knew how badly you wanted to leave this town behind, and I thought maybe that included me.”
I slump. I mean, I sort of knew that I wasn’t being a great friend, and she’s not wrong—I was focused on City Cam and his imaginary life. I fess up. “By the time I realized I was blowing it with you, I couldn’t work up my nerve to call. I was worried you’d be mad at me. . . .”
“I was,” she says. “You still should’ve called.”
“I wanted to tell you how much I had messed things up, but I couldn’t just be like, ‘Sorry, I ignored you, and here are all my problems.’”
She shakes her head gently. “That is exactly what you should have done.” She leans against me and gives me a nudge. “Note for next time.”
“Note taken.”
Dad comes back looking happy but a little glazed. “I lost a whole day of cookie prep. Why did I do that to myself? I’ll be up all night!”
“We got you, Dad,” Jazz says. “And I can come back early tomorrow, bring my girlfriend to help you set up, since this clown’ll be at work.”
“I forgot that!” Dad looks at me. “You won’t be my prep boy this year! You’ll just have to make it up to me by coming straight home in your costume. Think how fun it would be to have an elf here!”
“About that,” I start, but Jazz glares at me. With best-friend telepathy, she makes it clear that I am not allowed to ask Dad if I can skip the party.
“Yes?” He’s waiting for me to finish my thought.
“I might be a little late. . . .”
“Holiday traffic, I know. You just get here as fast as you can. We’ll hold the carol till you make it.”
