Finding my elf, p.18
Finding My Elf, page 18
His words betray no sarcasm, no hint of exaggeration. He means it. I honestly had never believed this could be true. “But . . . but . . .”
“But what? You were my first boyfriend, you know.” His eyes burrow into mine, trying to imagine how I could be so clueless.
“I didn’t think you were that into me, I guess. And you dated the twink from summer camp, like, seconds later.”
He palms his forehead. “That’s what you call a rebound. I liked dating. I liked knowing you were there and then suddenly you were all ‘I need to move on’ and I was alone. At first, Shay just filled the place I wanted you to be.”
I hear him, but how is he making me the bad guy? It’s not like I doomed him to a life of celibacy. He didn’t have to break up with Shay when I came back. “Okay, but you weren’t alone. And you don’t have to be now. Not for me.”
“Who says I am?” Leroy eyes me coolly.
“Wait—did you not break up?”
The line inches forward again, and Leroy is next. But he’s focused on this conversation. “Why would I? I’m sure you scorn him like you do everything else in this town, but he’s a decent guy. I’m starting to be happy again.”
“So the pond . . . the kiss . . . Why do all this?”
He thinks about this. “I wanted to take you down a peg. Let you know what it feels like to not get what you want.” It’s quiet. And then a rueful sigh. “Guess that didn’t work.”
“Trust me,” I say, “the universe covered that for you.”
His expression softens. “What do you mean?”
“I blew it at school and can only afford to go back if I win this.”
“Huh,” he murmurs. “That’s news.”
“Leroy? LEROY?” Mrs. Li calls his name and he steps forward to pay.
When he’s finished, he turns to me, almost shy, and at the same time, we both say, “I’m sorry.” And we laugh.
“Think you have any chance tomorrow?” he asks.
“Hard to say. But it’s not too late for you to vote for me, unless you really do want all the money to go to my boyfriend.” I swear the word just slips out, and it’s too late to take it back.
“Boyfriend?” He groans and then mutters, “Is there any way you can both lose?”
“Probably,” I joke. “And at this point it wouldn’t even surprise me.”
Jazz and I video chat after I’ve crawled into bed. My room is dark, the glow of my phone a campfire to warm myself by. She says Annika is asleep and snoring, which Jazz is still not used to, so she is calling me from the big club chair in the living room, her favorite place in the house. I can see the tree lights twinkling behind her. It’s just us now, in our quiet homes, carrying on a conversation that’s been rolling along for years but may be winding down, even if we can’t admit it.
“I’m thinking about spending the summer in Rødøya,” she tells me, and I know from the set of her voice that this is not a thought but a plan.
“That sounds Norwegian,” I say, trying to stifle my disappointment. Whether or not I spend the spring at NYU, I already had plans for Jazz and me this summer. I’ve already started looking at cabins on lakes for a weekend, and I’d printed out the whole lineup at the concert pavilion on Boston Harbor that we like.
“Yeah, Rødøya’s the island Annika’s from. . . .” As she extolls the isle’s virtues (mountains, beaches, and, I guess, cod), I process the loss of the day trips that will never materialize now. I know I need to be happy for her. And that she needs to hear it.
“I’m glad you found someone,” I finally say.
“Awww. You too.”
We don’t say anything else for a minute or two. I think we both understand that our lives are rolling ahead on paths that will converge less and less. It’s almost unimaginable to think of a world in which I’m not close to Jazz, not a big part of her life, but isn’t that what this first semester has been practice for? Isn’t that what this time in life is all about?
I stare at her beautiful face on the glowing screen. It’s too soon, way too soon, to say “Goodbye, old friend.” Too soon to close the door on this time in our lives for good. But we’re on the threshold.
Twelfth—and Last—Day of Elfmas
I’ve been enjoying my shower so long that the bathroom looks like a rain forest: billowing foggy clouds fill it from floor to ceiling. As long as I stay in here, I don’t have to face the music.
Before I got out of bed, I made a decision: I’ll let the universe, in the form of my fellow citizens of the Pioneer Valley, determine whether I go back to NYU. If I win the money, replacing the lost scholarship, I need to see things through and return to school. If I’m lucky, the school will let me switch majors and I can see if Musical Theatre is a better fit. But, if I lose, I won’t force more of a financial burden on my dad; I’ll stay here and be grateful for the time I have with Marco.
“Are you ever getting out?” Dad raps at the door, something he almost never does, even though we only have one bathroom and I’m a lingerer. “You’re not the only one who needs to shower!”
“Coming,” I call, drying off and wrapping myself in a towel. I wipe a spot on the fogged-up mirror to see myself. I look into my own eyes and wonder what Marco sees in them. Thinking of him makes me smile, and I use my fingertip on a still-foggy section of the mirror to write his name inside a heart, with an arrow. God, he’s upended me.
When I open the door, Dad is standing there, impatient, clothes in hand. Instead of a holiday sweater (a look he typically milks till at least New Year’s), he has a sleek checked shirt and a complimentary crew-neck sweater, both of which I bought him. This is as dressed-up as Dad ever gets.
“Are you making us go to Mass or something?”
“No, today we all just worship you.” He chuckles. “No chance I’m missing the finale. You knew I’d come, right?”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll need you.”
“Did you just say that out loud?” He pretends to faint.
I roll my eyes. “Just shower. You kinda stink.”
Dad honks, and I hurry outside.
A box sits on the front steps, and it makes my heart smile to see it. Jazz and I have been doing our Boxing Day tradition even longer than our Wright Brothers thing. When we were in elementary school, we thought it had something to do with boxers, not boxes, but then our teacher told us it was a day the poor were given presents by those with money. The day after Christmas that year, Jazz showed up at my house with a satiny hatbox full of stocking stuffers she had decided to pass on to me.
I still remember my shock: Jazz thought I was poor.
I had stood there, jaw on the floor. Dad didn’t have a second job then, so things were a little tight, but I had no idea she, in all her middle-class glory, thought of me like that. I was so mad that I slammed the door in her face. Jazz being Jazz, she pestered me until I let her inside and we talked it out. What did we know about real poverty or real wealth? We were nine-year-olds in farm country. We agreed that if she kept half and I kept half, then we were equal, instead of her being somehow above me. I didn’t admit it, but I was really psyched to get a light-up toothbrush in the deal, and I kept the hatbox, which I thought was cool.
The next year, I left the hatbox on her doorstop. It was empty except for a note: “Nothing for you, rich girl! Happy Boxing Day.” And because we’re us, a tradition was born: we pass the box back and forth year after year. Sometimes there are presents inside, sometimes just a funny note. One year, it was full of printouts of texts revealing my mortifying crush on an exchange student from Thailand who was painfully straight.
When I lift the top today, I find inside a Polaroid of me and Jazz at age nine, dressed in costume as the lead characters of our favorite show, Shake It Up: her sequined to death as Rocky and me in a fedora and red wig as CeCe. I haven’t seen this picture in years, but knowing it’s from the same year as we started Boxing Day feels both like a way to close the loop and a reminder that we’re timeless. I love Jazz.
Dad honks again. I tuck the photo into my pocket, leave the hatbox in my house, and head for the car. My chariot, like my future, awaits.
When Dad drops me off by the main mall entrance, he tells me he loves me. “Look for us. We’ll be cheering from the galleries on the J. Crew side!” I know Mari and Ely will probably make the cousins show up, so if I lose, I’ll at least have my own fan club to cry foul.
I stop by the food court to fortify myself with the largest iced coffee possible before facing the music. I’m expecting Victor to be pretty snarky today, seeing as I haven’t seen him since his cat-ate-the-canary power move on Christmas Eve.
But when I walk into the command center, he greets me with his tablet, acting like we’re besties. “You two are geniuses. This whole #SaveJingle/#IHeartOopsy drama is selling big. More votes, more visits, more impressions than the rest of the week combined. And the bosses notice this sort of thing.” He lets out a dreamy sigh. “Forget seasonal events—this whole mall is gonna be mine.”
He thinks we set this up? Fine, let him. If it keeps him happy, that’s one less thing to worry about.
Fiona comes in, ready for one last round as Mrs. Claus, and hugs me. It is a massive understatement to say I never imagined being on hugging terms with her, and I’m thrown. Do I hug back? I end up patting her awkwardly, like I’m soothing a giant Irish baby.
When she pulls away, she tells me that the performance went viral on YouTube and she’s gotten a bunch of licensing requests for the song. Most important, “I heard from someone who works with Pentatonix. Pentatonix!” She’s breathless with excitement. “Next year,” she says, “someone else can play Mrs. Claus!”
I congratulate her, ducking just out of hug range in case she wants a refill, while looking for Marco. There’s only fifteen minutes before we go on, and we still have some secret business to take care of before we do. Where is he?
I see motion in one of the changing booths and make a beeline for it. “Marco?”
Leroy pulls back the curtain. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, hi . . .”
He looks away briefly, biting his lip, and then looks back. “Good luck today.”
I have the distinct feeling that he wants to say more, but he doesn’t—maybe he can’t. Or maybe he said more than he wanted to last night. He wasn’t raised by my dad; communicating his feelings might be as foreign to him as, like, home repairs are to me. It feels like it’s on me to break the spell. “Did I get your vote?”
“Sure,” he says in his one-syllable deadpan, but his eyes won’t meet mine.
Now it’s only ten minutes till showtime. You can hear the crowd from inside the command center and still no Marco. I don’t care if it makes me late: I’m going to look for him soon. Where exactly, I don’t know. We’re not at the Find My Friends app stage of our relationship yet, so I can’t even ping his location.
When he finally rushes in—already dressed, thank god—I feel about a thousand times better. “Where were you?”
“Picking this up!” He waves a Santaland photo sleeve and flashes that smile I love so much.
Yesterday, while snuggled together on his bed, he told me how he’d kept an eye all week on Safety Mom, whose real name is Maya, which (Marco being typically Marco) he had learned days ago. He could tell how bad she felt about coming day after day without buying anything. It was me trying to be better than typical me who had the idea of surprising her and the kids with a two-elf visit today and a present.
As we head for the door to find them, Victor’s eyes widen. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“We’ll be right back!” I promise, pretty much pushing Marco out of the room.
“If you are not here in eight minutes—” We let the door close on his threat and don’t wait to hear the rest. What can he really do? We’re the stars of the show!
We find the family by the reindeer, Kumar and Anjali trying to replicate the deer’s movements. Maya is staring at her phone, brow creased with worry.
“Maya?” Marco calls, and she looks up, face softening on sight. I wonder just how many people in the world he has had that effect on.
He passes the folder to me, I guess since it was my idea. She looks puzzled, even more so, when I say, “We found this. You, uh, left it behind by accident.”
She reaches for the folder, and I can see a slow dawning on her face even before she opens it to see the photos. We’d talked the photographer into looking through his trash files to find the best ones of Anjali and Kumar. Marco and I chipped in to print up a full set to give her, assuming she and the kids came back today.
Her lips part, but she says nothing at first, perhaps worried that there has been some mistake. Marco gives her a wink and says, “Winning the free photo giveaway but then forgetting them at the booth would have been a shame, right?”
The kids are practically climbing her to see the pictures as she answers, “You have no idea . . .” She kneels down so they can see better, and mouths, “Thank you,” eyes wet, and that seems like our cue to go.
Outside the door to the command center, Marco stops me. “Who’s the nice one now?”
“That was pretty great, right?”
“The question is, are you gonna roll your eyes at yourself?”
“All day long,” I say, feeling impossibly lucky to have met him. And I kiss him, so glad to know that this is real. It’s a great kiss that I hate to end. Seriously, I’d love to attempt a Guinness World Record for kissing with him, but I know people are waiting for us, and I reluctantly pull away.
Good thing I do, as Victor flings the door open, clapping. “Can you not read a clock? You’re on!”
Working our way through the throng, I bump into Kandy leading a phalanx of girls and boys wearing my face on T-shirts. They’ve taken Marco’s IHeartOopsy hashtag and made it their own. They swarm me for a group shot, Victor hissing, “Not now! Not now!” as if Kandy has ever been dissuaded from anything.
When Kandy clicks the last photo, I have to ask. “Why me? Why all this?”
Her smile is immense. “What can I say? I’m an enthusiast. If you think this is a lot, you should see what I do for BLACKPINK.”
Marco seems similarly ensconced in a throng, and Victor is losing his mind. He physically extricates both of us and steers us toward the stage, muttering about how next year he’s hiring professionals.
The crowd is vast and all keyed up; I try to just soak the moment in.
A mere two weeks ago, I thought I had actually failed my classes. I thought Sarah Xu saw me as a talentless bumpkin. I didn’t know that the Shops at Vision Landing were open or that I would work there in any capacity, much less as an elf. More than that, I didn’t have a boyfriend I adore. But here I am. Life is a trip: you just can’t see what you can’t see until it materializes in front of your eyes.
Call me shallow, but I’m loving this. For a moment, I pretend it’s a Broadway audience before me, full of people who came to the show because I am in it. There’s a boy at the stage door waiting for me to sign the Playbill he will hang up in his room. And a critic is already running for their train so they can get home and write the rave review I deserve.
I’m going to win. I know this in my body all at once, and it’s a jolt. I’m going to win and go back to NYU and try again. City Cam isn’t gone yet; he’s just getting started.
Scanning the crowd, I see Miranda and Raven with all their younger siblings and their parents too. I can’t imagine the Book of Mormon encourages cheering on homosexuals, but what do I know? Nothing. I know nothing. They’re definitely scoring in the raising-decent-humans department, so when they look my way, I make sure to wave and mouth, “Thank you for coming.”
Larry and his wife are right up front, chatting with Marco’s mom like old friends. She’s having a good time as far as I can tell, but I wish I’d arranged for her to meet Dad here. I make a promise to myself that I will set them up. You never know: after a little your-elf-likes-my-elf bonding, maybe they’ll get some ideas of their own.
I finally see Jazz and Annika, up in the second gallery with my tías, assorted younger cousins, Dad, and Ms. Kropp. I guess she’s a regular now.
Victor takes the mic. “I don’t know about you, but I think this has been the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER!” The crowd applauds the claim—well, not the whole crowd. Because my Dad isn’t looking at Victor: he’s giving Ms. Kropp a kiss.
Thank god I don’t have to sing today, because I am speechless. Mr. “Boo Hoo, You Didn’t Confide in Me” is seeing my favorite teacher? Why couldn’t he have done this when I was home to appreciate it? And why not tell me?
Ignoring whatever Victor is droning on about, I tug Marco’s hand and whisper, “My dad is with Ms. Kropp!” I point at the sneaky liars accusingly.
“Yeah. I know. She was at the party.”
Wait—he’s known since Saturday? Does everyone know but me? How clueless am I? Suddenly I remember the Snowmamas.
Victor’s voice pierces my fog. “It all comes down to this. . . .”
Someone in the galleries starts a drumroll, and others pick it up, adding tension to a moment that didn’t need more.
Marco takes my hand in his. “I hope you win,” he says softly.
“I hope you do,” I say back.
And then he grins. “I might be lying.”
I just laugh. “I might be too.”
“The winner of Top Elf is . . .”
Universe, listen, can you slow down time? Hold the answer at bay as long as you can. Let me enjoy not knowing how the money will divide us into before and after. Please—
“JINGLE!”
The cheering and applause are deafening. My heart falls, as NYU recedes like a fading memory. Broadway is gone, taking with it the boy holding a Playbill and the critic who will never know my name. The universe has other plans for me.
