Finding my elf, p.16
Finding My Elf, page 16
And no matter which choice I make, the five thousand dollars looms over my head. If I win, I can afford to go back to NYU with less guilt about Dad. But I’ll always know what that money could have meant for Marco. Here I am wanting to make it easier to pay for college, when he can barely afford even one class at a time. If I win, he loses more than just a competition. That settles it.
I sit up, suddenly sure of my plan.
It’s so clear to me: I need to throw the competition. I can’t cost Marco such a big opportunity. It can’t look too obvious, because he’s got his pride. I’ll just have an Oopsy fail and pretend to be a good sport when he takes home the prize.
Visions of NYU start to fade, and I tell myself it’s fine. I’m not dropping out because I like Marco but because I can be a good guy too. I’ll stay home, work hard, and have a great semester with my new boyfriend. His life will be easier, so will Dad’s, and I’ll never again have to worry about City Cam. Maybe Lindell Cam is where it’s at after all.
Feeling lighter, I put the near-empty bag of peanut butter cups away. I don’t need them anymore.
Turns out that Victor has hired a swing band to back us up. They’re all my dad’s age, and they’re super enthusiastic, maybe more than the song deserves. Marco is nowhere in sight, so I can practice alone. Well, not quite alone; Fiona is on the floor below the bandstand, watching me with a look akin to horror. I’m not taking the first line of the chorus at the tempo she wants, and it obviously pains her.
She models how she envisioned it, and I try it again, which gets a nod of approval. But then I let her down on the next line. She wants me to warble like I’m riffing on a saxophone. Fine, I do it her way.
It’s like this all the way through until the song sounds like she imagined. I can’t find a way to make it bad enough to lose with her so close, so I give up and do it right. The band starts to get into it, and Fiona’s eyes gleam. “Perfect!” she calls out. “Perfect!” I’m pretty sure it’s the first time all week she has praised me for anything.
When I come down off the stage, I return the favor. “You should be a music teacher—you’re good at it.”
A shadow crosses her face. “I was. For twenty-five years. Until they cut my program and expanded football. But thanks.” She heads up onstage to confer with the band, and I am chastened. Everyone has a story.
I wait by the bandstand till it is almost noon, and Marco has not taken the stage. Maybe he practiced at home? Or maybe I missed something and he got here before me. Either way, I have to get dressed for the show.
In the changing room, I have my elf tights on but not my tunic, when Marco, in full Jingle attire, pulls back the curtain, steps in to join me, and slides the curtain shut again. He motions for me to be quiet.
Don’t get me wrong: it’s heaven to be so close to him, but it’s also weird. “What are we doing?” I whisper.
“I’m going to throw the song,” he whispers back.
“What? You can’t do that—I’m going to!”
He looks surprised. “But you need it for school!”
“Me? You need it for everything!”
He shakes his head. “This money won’t get me into college this year. At least one of us should be on track. Let me do this.”
“No,” I say, “I’m not letting you. No chance.”
Marco pouts (which is, no surprise, a cute look on him). “What if I go first? I’ll just blow it before you can stop me.”
“The power of going last means no matter how bad you do, I’ll do it worse. I’ll make your fail look like a win.”
“What if I don’t sing at all?”
“Then I won’t either, but I’ll also flip off the crowd and swear at Victor from the stage!”
He groans. “You’re killing me!”
“No,” I say, “I’m kissing you.” And I plant a big fat one on his lips. He kisses me back and then folds me into his arms. I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh, content, despite the ridiculous context.
We hear Fiona and Victor enter the command center. We both freeze and hold our breath. We know exactly what it would look like if they discovered us all tangled up in this dressing room. Victor speaks, but I catch only the end of what he’s saying. “. . . and that little solidarity stunt they pulled yesterday.”
Fiona agrees. “It’s like they don’t know they’re competitors!”
“You wouldn’t think I’d have to write ‘no office romance’ into the contract.”
“Raven was right?” She sounds genuinely surprised.
Victor snorts. “Isn’t it obvious? Marco’s been mooning over Cam all week, and Cam finally caught up. Anyone with eyes can see it!”
Fiona harrumphs. “Well, I didn’t, and I have eyes!” She says this like it’s a point of pride. Marco starts to giggle at this, and I clamp my hand over his mouth as she goes on. “If they had any sense, they’d channel that into the contest. It’s a love song, after all.”
“How do I get it through to you: I don’t want lovebirds—it’s a battle! I want fighters going head-to-head. Nicki and Cardi, not Romeo and Romeo!”
We hear footsteps and there’s a third voice, which I recognize as Kandy. “Prancer won’t turn on. He’s stuck in the head-down position.”
“It never ends!” Victor cries, and we hear all three leave the room.
We burst out of the booth, laughing with nervous relief. “Can you imagine if they caught us?” I ask, breathless.
“They still could.” He grins. “Put your clothes on, Romeo!”
I’m buttoning up my tunic, thinking about what Victor said. “We’re that obvious, huh?”
Marco does a spot-on imitation. “Anyone with eyes can see it. . . .”
Boom. Inspiration strikes. “You know who has eyes?” I ask. “The audience.”
“Okay . . .” Marco waits for more.
“I know just what they need to see.”
Combine the last shopping day before Christmas with all the social media hype around 12 Days of Elfmas and the crowd is huge. Not only is Santaland full, but the galleries are lined with shoppers who have paused to watch.
Victor isn’t letting go of this battle royale idea. He’s having us enter to the theme song from Rocky, some boxing movie I’ve never seen, and he wants us to jog in like prizefighters. Marco is a good sport, pumping his fists in the air as he pads toward the bandstand, voices calling his elf name and whistling.
There is not even the slightest part of me that wants to fake being a boxer, so when it’s my turn, I go full Oopsy instead, pretending to be lost and letting the crowd steer me toward the stage. People are laughing (Ms. Kropp would be proud), and chants of “Oopsy” echo across the atrium. I dig it.
“It’s the moment of truth, 12 Days of Elfmas fans. The final battle. The showdown. The rumble in the jungle. The thrilla in Manila.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m onstage, so I nod and smile, nod and smile. “It all comes down to this: after both elves sing the new holiday classic ‘The Yule Log Song,’ then Yule decide who did it best!” Oh my god, he’s so proud of that pun he’s actually glowing.
“Jingle will perform first, followed by Oopsy. You can vote online and on the app through midnight on Christmas, and we’ll see you back here on the twenty-sixth as we crown a winner and the Shops at Vision Landing kick off their Great Final Sale, up to fifty percent off mall-wide—on top of your ten percent off for voting!” (It’s the wrong moment to think of this, but 60 percent sounds really good. . . .) “For now, settle in for the main event. Call it Pioneer Valley Idol. Call it Vision’s Got Talent. Call it the Elf Factor—it’s time for the Top Elf Sing-Off!”
Victor leads me off the bandstand so that Marco has the stage alone. The drummer starts a rhythm on the snare, and then the piano joins, sounding the melody of the chorus. Marco’s smile has a bit of a nervous edge, and he grabs the microphone stand as if holding on for dear life.
He’s only sung the first line—Put another Yule log on the fire, baby—when I bolt for the stage and swagger up to the mic, grabbing it out of his hands. “Imma let you finish,” I say. “But I have one of the best versions of this song of all time!”
The crowd roars, some getting that I’m spoofing the famous Kanye West–Taylor Swift meme, and some just loving the obviously fake drama. Marco grabs the mic back. “Oh yeah? Mine is way better.” (Okay, he isn’t a super-convincing actor, but I’m the one in theater school and he’s not, so . . .)
Victor is motioning for me to leave the stage, his face bulbous with fury. “GET DOWN!” he whisper-shouts, but I stay put. Marco motions for the band to take it from the top.
I start, hamming up the cheesy romance of the lines.
Put another Yule log on the fire, baby
Rustle up some mistletoe
Marco undoes the top button of his tunic, eliciting whistles and screams as he takes the next two lines:
I’ve got a present you could unwrap, baby
Come on, Santa, let me elf you, ho ho ho . . .
And then we’re singing together.
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!
He leads the next round:
Rudolph couldn’t hold a candle to ya, baby
You could turn three kings to queens
Naturally, I sashay and shantay like I’m on RuPaul’s Drag Race.
When I sing, Frosty woulda melted if he’d known ya, baby, he goes floppy like he did in the car.
Jingle bells, baby . . . you know what I mean
I check out how Victor is doing. He is pretending to be into it, bouncing, nodding, like he’s just any other fan, but his face is an absolute stone.
From the bandstand, I see a lot of familiar faces in the crowd. The red-haired biscuit girl is taking pictures from the galleries. Jazz and Annika have somehow managed to get into the Santaland line without kids and are bopping to the song. Leroy stands by the corral, arms crossed, face stony. A few feet away, Kandy is filming with an earnestness that suggests this will go into her permanent archive. Safety Mom is listening with her eyes closed, and she almost seems at peace.
I’m already thinking ahead to the big finish. Before we came on, I taught Marco a quick spin-and-return move for the last bit. He basically has to stand in place and let me do the work. Hopefully I won’t Oopsy.
Oh, the weather outside is frightful . . .
He spins me away.
But we find it so delightful . . .
He spins me back, so we are side by side.
I think I’d like another night full
He turns me to face him.
Of reindeer games with you know who . . .
He lifts me up like it’s Dirty Dancing, the crowd losing its collective mind.
And just like that we’re at the final Merry Christmas . . . to you. It’s over, not a single flub. We’ve done it.
The once-quiet farm fields upon which this mall was built have never in millennia heard noise like that which fills the atrium now. You’d think it couldn’t possibly get louder, but trust me, when Marco surprises me with a kiss, right there in front of everyone, it does. In Florida, they can’t even say gay to kids, but here in Massachusetts, we act it out.
This should be where the story ends, right? Total triumph. Gay icons and local heroes, we split the prize money. Literal win-win.
But Victor isn’t having it. Returning to the stage, he pretends to be pleased. “What a show, right?” The crowds whoop it up. “I’ve never seen opponents play quite that nice before . . . which will make it all the harder when you vote!” He pretends to read from his tablet; from behind him, only Marco and I can see the screen is dark. What is he up to?
“I’d sure love to reward both these guys, wouldn’t you?” Applause confirms this. “But the rules clearly stipulate that only one winner can take home the prize. By law, I’m not allowed to split it.” By law? Come on. “I feel as bad as you do, but my hands are tied.” A few boos filter down from the galleries. Murmuring takes over. The crowd does not love this turn.
From the side, I can see that Victor is enjoying this power. “The good news is that they’re each other’s biggest fans. I take great personal comfort in knowing that the loser will cheer on the winner just as much as you and I. So don’t forget to vote. Let’s make one of these elves FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS richer!” Saying that number is enough for him to win the crowd back over, and he stokes their enthusiasm. “Who will it be: Jingle?” This merits rowdy cheers. “Or Oopsy?” My fans make themselves heard just as lustily. “Come back Tuesday to find out!”
As the people in the crowd turn back to their days, Marco and I are left standing onstage, dumbfounded that Victor has outfoxed us. He enjoys our dismay.
“You thought you pulled a fast one, didn’t you? I’m thirty-six, boys. I’ve lived twice as long as you. And I did not get to be chief seasonal events officer for the Shops at Vision Landing by letting anyone else run my show.” He pauses, adopting his version of a gangster glare. “Never mess with a millennial.”
He’s so satisfied right now that it hurts. “Now go do your jobs.”
Apparently, I look how I feel, because he adds, “And smile. You don’t want to ruin anyone’s Christmas.”
Christmas Day / Eleventh Day of Elfmas
Christmas morning starts slower than any other day of the year. Dad is a morning person by nature, but even he needs time to sleep off Noche Buena, which involves as much drinking as eating (and both in large amounts). This is a tradition, but not a good idea, and last night he ended up standing on Mari’s counter singing “Chandelier,” while she swatted at his legs with a kitchen towel, begging him to come down.
As a result of nights like that, it’s pretty typical of us to not start presents till almost noon. I was never one of those kids jumping on their parent’s bed to wake them early, because presents aren’t the focus in our house. Whether Dad realizes it or not, I’m with him in this: Cookie Party is peak Christmas for me, followed by Noche Buena. Presents come third, in part because there’s only two of us, so it’s not like a ritual that takes very long. My tías always give us gifts, but the pile isn’t ever huge. And my dad is a wacky gift giver: sometimes, the presents are just what I dreamed of (AirPods my sophomore year), and some years they leave me scratching my head (case in point: the giant fur-and-suede Yukon trapper hat he gave me last year that I knew cost too much and still would never leave the house in).
This morning, Dad wears the pajamas I got him last year from J. Crew and I’m in a fire-engine-red fleece onesie I like to sleep in on Christmas. “Whose year is it?” he asks, still sounding punished by last night, even though he’s been up long enough to bake a tray of apple slippers, their scent perfuming the whole house.
“Mine,” I say, donning the felt Santa hat that designates the gift-passer. I hand him the first package, from Ely. He cannot be surprised to find that it’s a pair of snowman socks, but he gushes over them as much as if she were here to listen. Holding them up next to his face, he takes a selfie, which is pretty much how we do thank-you cards. I open my present from her, and it’s a Zara gift card for a lot more than those socks cost, because she knows me well, and because I am still young enough that grown-ups like to spoil me.
Next are Mari’s gifts. For him, a set of dish towels covered in, you guessed it, snowmen. My dad’s life is a warning to me to never tell anyone you collect a thing because that is all you will get for eternity. Naturally, he loves the towels and takes a happy selfie to prove it. Because mine is in an envelope, I’m pretty sure it’s a gift card too. But it’s not for Zara—it’s for the campus shop at NYU. I forgot that my tías don’t know I might not go back. Dad sees my face and squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll get a chance to use it; I know you will.”
Forging ahead, I hand him my present. I was going to get him a Dorie Greenspan cookbook, but I couldn’t remember which ones he has and it would have been too naked to just ask. So I had to wing it. Within the horribly-wrapped gift box, he finds an old plastic snowman that I pulled off the tree; I have written “I.O.U.” on its belly with a Sharpie. He’s trying to figure this out, and I explain that I got him a gift card to Snowmanshoppe.com. (I know, I know: if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.) I bring up the site on my phone to distract him from the lack of a physical card. “They have a million kinds, and then you can personalize whatever you pick, so no two snowmen in the world are the same!” I’m selling it, and he’s buying it, happily scrolling through his options on-screen. No need to mention that I forgot to order it till, um, 1 a.m. My only defense is that I’m eighteen and my semester sucked.
He hugs me, and I hug him back, relieved that he’s so happy. “Open mine,” he says eagerly.
His is a modest square wrapped in purple-and-gold paper. I don’t comment on the colors, just tear the wrapping and lift the lid off the box inside. Nestled within is one of those View-Master slideshow toys. I hold it up to my eyes, and the first slide is of the actress who plays Catherine of Aragon in Six, my favorite musical. The second slide is Lizzo. These must be clues of some kind, but I don’t know for what. The third slide is the actress who plays Anne Boleyn from the same show. The fourth is Olivia Rodrigo—
Oh my god. I get it. Dad got me a ticket to the hottest event of the year: Six: The Arena Show.
It’s a genius concept; in the original musical, the six wives of Henry VIII tell their story as if it’s a pop concert. For one night only, it really will be, with Lizzo and Rodrigo, plus Megan Thee Stallion, Rina Sawayama, H.E.R., and Billie Eilish playing the queens. It famously sold out in minutes. It’s an impossible get.
“How did you do this?” I ask.
“It’s easy,” he says. “You upload the pictures you want to this place that specializes in personalizing View-Masters—”
