It’s been two hours this time and there’s still no sign of her.
Dad’s already in his reviewing outfit. He tries to go incognito, but he still stands out. Apart from the fact that no one wears corduroy jackets and paisley cravats anymore, he seems to forget that his photo appears every week at the top of his column, only slightly disguised by a fedora.
Mom’s dinner is ruined, and she’s gone through the three stages of motherly anxiety in no particular order: worry, more worry, and frantic cleaning. Normally I take advantage of Elizabeth’s absences. I relax, I play my favorite music without fear of retaliation, or Bob and I do some boy-dog bonding without her predictable teasing. But this time even I’m beginning to get a little nervous.
“She knew I was making goat cheese soufflé she even said she couldn’t wait to try it. And now look at it.”
We all look at Mom’s dish. Instead of light and airy, it looks flat and soggy, like a cake that’s been left out in the rain.
“I’m sure it will be delicious, honey. It’s just a little … deflated,” says Dad.
The window in the kitchen flies open, and for a moment we think it’s her.
“Honey?” says Mom.
No answer.
“Look, these hinges are broken,” says Dad. “They’re totally rusted. Elizabeth didn’t have anything to do with your invitations blowing all over the place.”
“I feel just terrible,” says Mom. “I was too quick to blame her.”
“But she took the tape,” says Dad. “I know she took the tape.”
I feel compelled to come clean.
“Dad, I took your tape,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He gives me a look. I feel about six inches tall.
“Something could have happened to her,” Mom says, sitting down at the table and clutching a dish towel. “She could be lying in some gutter, and no one would ever know she was there.”
“Until a car drives over her,” I point out.
“Frank!” shout Mom and Dad in unison.
Suddenly the house feels really empty with just the three of us in it.
“Okay,” says Mom. “We have to go out and look for her.”
“What about Dad’s restaurant review?”
“I’ll deal with that later,” he says.
“I’m going to ask the neighbors to give us a hand,” says Mom.
“Do we have to?” I ask. Mom and Dad glare at me. “I mean, do you think it’s really necessary to involve the whole neighborhood?”
“Don’t be silly, Frank, this is an emergency,” says Mom.
We go our separate ways. Charlie and I do the immediate vicinity, and Mom and Harassed Mother take the kids downtown. Dad and Mr. Hedge hit the football field where the teenagers like to hang out, and Gnome Lady stays home to hold down the fort and answer the phone.
“Let’s try the tree house,” says Charlie.
“She would never go up there,” I answer. “She hates that tree.”
Charlie and I run around the neighborhood calling Elizabeth’s name, trailing our hands along benches, kicking at bushes, and groping at corners. I know we look like weirdos, but tonight I don’t care. What if she has really run away, or what if she’s hurt? What if she’s lying right in front of me and I don’t even know it?
I start to tell Charlie what a great sister she can be sometimes: about the day she held me up and stopped me from falling over when we went ice-skating, and how nobody knew. Or the time she tripped a kid who always had it in for me and made him go flying into a puddle. And the way she used to read me stories when I was little and Mom was working late. The more I talk about it, the more I think I might miss her after all.
“Yeah, she seems all right,” says Charlie, “for a girl.”
“Elizabeth!” I shout. “Where are you?”
Nowhere, it seems. She’s totally vanished.
We all meet back at the house an hour later, as planned.
“Nothing?” asks Mom.
“Not a sign,” I reply.
“I made hot chocolate,” says Gnome Lady. “Anyone want a cup?”
Nobody answers.
“Before we call the police,” says Hedge Man, “are we all sure we’ve looked everywhere?”
“We didn’t check the tree house,” says Charlie.
“There’s no way she’s in the tree house,” I say.
Everyone files outside and stands underneath the tree. There’s a small light inside.
“Well,” says Dad. “Are you going to go up and take a look?”
I climb up into the tree house, and there she is. A flashlight floating in midair shines on an open book. An empty bag of potato chips lies on the floor. She’s probably been here the whole time. I don’t know whether to punch her or hug her.
“What?” she asks, annoyed.
“We’ve been looking for you for over two hours,” I say.
“You have?” she says.
“Elizabeth, are you up there?” Mom shouts from below.
“Yeah, Mom, what’s the big deal?”
“She never came up here before,” I say weakly. “She despises this tree.”
“Since when?” she asks. “I would have thought this would be the first place that any normal person would look.”
Everyone stares in her general direction. And then they glare at me.
“False alarm, everybody!” says Dad cheerfully. “Thanks again for your hard work.”
The neighbors all say they were happy to help, but as everyone leaves, they don’t look too happy to me.
“Oh my goodness, my deadline,” whispers Dad as we all head into our house. “I have to turn in this review by midnight.”
“But Dad,” I remind him, “she made you miss your reservation.”
“In life, son,” he says, “you have to keep your priorities straight.”
“As long as she’s safe,” says Mom as she brings a mug of steaming hot chocolate to Elizabeth. “That’s all that matters.”
I think I’m going to vomit.
“But Dad, the review? What about your career?”
“Oh, it’s no big deal, I’ve been there before,” says Dad. “I’ll just make it up.”
I can’t believe my ears. My sister has gotten away with it again.
“Miss me, Frank?” my sister asks.
“You hid up there on purpose,” I say, “to make all the neighbors hate us.”
“They don’t hate us, Frank. But right now, I don’t think they’re too fond of you.”
Chapter Eight
It’s only November, but Elizabeth has been playing Christmas songs on her school radio show for a week and a half. It’s just as bad on Morningvale Circle. Smelly Vincent’s front window is plastered with giant paper snowflakes. Hedge Man has started to rig up his festive lights—a high-class technical spectacle, he’s been telling everyone—which will illuminate his entire house, yard, and garage. Gnome Lady has already set up her annual Christmas scene. All the main players are there: the three wise men, Mary and Joseph, and the shepherds, all set inside a miniature plastic stable. But despite the biblical costumes, they’re all gnomes. With hats. And beards. Even baby Jesus lying in his cradle is just a gnome wrapped up—you can still see the beard. It would be hilarious if it weren’t quite so disturbing.
Only Charlie’s house and our house haven’t succumbed to Christmas madness. Although, according to Charlie, it’s just a matter of time before his mother produces the half-price inflatable reindeer that she bought on sale in June.
Every year Dad gives his lecture about the commercialization of the festive season, but the truth is, even if we wanted to join in, we just don’t have any of the right stuff. Our Christmas lights haven’t worked in years, the ornaments are mostly smashed, and all we have left from last year are the gingerbread cookies Mom baked to decorate the tree.
“Oooh, you’re not going to eat that, are you?” Elizabeth shouts at me. “That’s not green frosting—it’s mold, you moron.”
The reason for the premature decorating frenzy is the annual Jingle Bell Jamboree, a competition that celebrates all that is wrong with Christmas. First prize is a cheesy trophy and a gift certificate to the local gardening store. But, according to Charlie, the prize is incidental. It’s really about the pride factor. Morningvale Circle has received an “Honorable Mention” every year since the competition began. Hedge Man has been telling anyone who will listen that this year will be different. This year—cue grouchy old man voice—it’s ours for the taking.
“He doesn’t sound like that,” my sister says.
Now that old Doctor Powers from the next street over has been moved to a nursing home, Hedge Man is convinced that victory is within our grasp. Doc Powers’s pyrotechnic Santa (with soundtrack) and holographic sleigh were more than legendary. They won his street first prize for four years in a row.
To make sure we win outright, Hedge Man has a plan.
“My young friend, I have one word for you….” He looks at me expectantly.
“Y-y-yes?” I stutter.
“Topiary.”
“You mean … like … hedges?” I ask.
Hedge Man stares into the distance but doesn’t reply. You’d think he was Leonardo da Vinci contemplating the Mona Lisa, rather than a zealous trimmer of foliage.
“I invite you to assist,” he says.
I hesitate. I’ve had three lessons from Mr. Hedge and every single moment was so boring I thought I was going to die. But since Elizabeth’s disappearing act, I’ve noticed that the neighbors have been a touch distant. Maybe this could be a way to change all that.
“Sure,” I reply. “Can I bring a friend?”
And so Charlie and I are instructed to assemble at HQ (Mr. H’s garden shed) at 0900 hours on a rainy Saturday morning. We’re sitting on overturned flowerpots in front of a giant whiteboard that looks as if it were last used for some business conference. Such is the secrecy of this project (Operation Tinsel—his idea) that Mr. H insists we all have code names. Although Charlie and I came up with loads of really cool ones, Mr. H vetoed them all. While he’s called General Xmas, we’ve been assigned the names Elf One and Elf Two. We’re not happy.
“Before we partake of some refreshment”—he gestures toward a table where three graham crackers sit marooned on a plate—“let’s take a quick look at our timetable.”
He hands Charlie and me bound booklets about half an inch thick. Inside he has mapped out a day-by-day plan that leads up to the eve of the competition, which he then goes into. In great detail. An hour later, our heads are swimming with dates, times, and what seem like a thousand complicated and contradictory tasks.
“You keep mentioning our secret weapon,” says Charlie. “What exactly is it?”
“Be patient, Elf Two,” says Mr. H. “All will be revealed shortly. Come outside; I want to show you something.”
Charlie and I stand in the center of a perfectly manicured backyard.
“What do you think, boys?” he asks proudly.
I scan the place, not sure what I’m looking for. Apart from the hedges, there are a couple of bushes, a birdbath, and several small trees.
“Of what?” asks Elf Two.
General X looks at him as if he’s half-witted.
“Run into the shed and get my notepad,” he tells Charlie. “Well, Elf One, surely you can appreciate our material in its raw and majestic state.”
He motions his hand toward a large and not particularly majestic bush in a pot. I hear a snicker. I wouldn’t be surprised if my sister were listening in. I suddenly want to laugh too, and I have to bite my lip to hold it in. Charlie comes back with the notepad.
“The secret weapon, Elf Two, is this.”
He opens his book to reveal a detailed drawing.
“That’s impossible,” I say.
“ ‘Impossible’ isn’t a word we use in Operation Tinsel. With our grit and determination, my skill, and your youthful enthusiasm, we can make something awesome!”
We stare at him blankly.
“I’d say,” he goes on, “we all deserve a treat.”
We troop back inside the hut. The plate is there, but the graham crackers are gone.
“What?” asks Charlie. “Why are you looking at me? I didn’t take them. I don’t even like that kind of crummy cookie.”
Mr. H shakes his head.
“Elf Two, if I can’t trust you with graham crackers, then I can’t trust you with our secret. I’m sorry, son. You’re off the project.”
Charlie has stopped talking to me. But since he got fired, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to work it out. I’ve been fertilizing, watering, feeding, and even singing to Mr. H’s prized bush.
“Hey, bushy babe,” I whisper. “Any new shoots today?”
Sometimes I think I’m going crazy. This bush has become my new best friend. But the more the bush grows, the more I see myself as an indispensable and possibly prizewinning member of this neighborhood.
“Elf One!” shouts General X from his porch. “She’s looking a little parched today. Try two parts green tea to one part H2O. And remember, be very careful down there. Her trunk is slender and you don’t want to snap her.”
“Hello, honey bush,” I whisper. “Who’s a good little girl?”
“It’s a plant,” says Elizabeth in my ear. “I worry about you, Frank.”
It’s the evening before the Jingle Bell Jamboree judges arrive. The street is so brightly lit you can probably see it from the moon: flashing bulbs in every color, spotlighted mangers, and Christmas trees sparkling with twinkling lights in every living room. Everyone is out burnishing their holly with furniture polish and spraying their windows with fake snow. Even my parents caught the festivity virus a week ago and have spent the last five nights making paper chains and candy-cane angels.
“Ho, ho, ho!” cries Mr. H as he hands out formal invitations to the unveiling of our secret weapon. “See you all at six thirty. Be prompt.”
And then he spots Charlie pumping up his mother’s inflatable reindeer. My former friend does it with such a lack of enthusiasm, it’s obvious it will take him all night.
“Put your back into it, boy!” yells Mr. H. “The judges are coming in the morning!”
Charlie’s house is the only one that hasn’t been decorated to death. I feel a little sorry for him. Plus, his mom has taken on a second shift at the hospital.
That night, after playing waiter and handing out paper cups filled with Mr. H’s mulled wine (nonalcoholic), I get out my camera. Everyone is here—everyone except Charlie. Harassed Mother’s kids are still wearing their Sunday school nativity play costumes: old dish towels, grubby wings, and badly fitting crowns. Smelly Vincent’s baby Jesus costume is covered in a cocktail of boogers and orange juice. Gnome Lady is modeling a tacky red sweatshirt with an embossed Christmas tree that lights up and flashes at two-second intervals. My mom and dad have put on brightly colored paper birthday hats found in one of the junk drawers. Charlie’s mom arrives late, out of breath, still in her nurse’s uniform. She guzzles down a large mouthful of “wine” and asks for another.
Mr. H has covered his prized bush with a couple of large white sheets and has hauled it into the middle of the cul-de-sac. After a Cape Canaveral–style countdown, he whips them off. My camera captures the looks on everyone’s faces. Disbelief, awe, and poorly masked horror.
Out of his prized bush, Hedge Man has sculpted a larger-than-life topiary Santa Claus. In the stunned silence that follows, Charlie’s voice can be heard clearly from his bedroom window.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Okay, it’s not really my thing either, but you have to admire the effort General Xmas has put into it.
“Elf One, illuminate!”
I hit the switch. Smelly Vincent bursts into tears.
If it were just a bush carved into the shape of Santa, it wouldn’t be so bad. But Mr. H, in his blind ambition to win first place, has taken topiary to the fourth dim
ension. A network of LED lights outlines a giant grinning face. A white flashing beard cascades over a twinkling red suit. Santa’s belt is a running message in lights that reads “MERRY XMAS FROM MORNINGVALE CIRCLE.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. H announces, “I give you our secret weapon. Unfortunately the judges won’t be seeing it in its full glory, since their schedule’s tight and we got a morning slot. But I think you’ll all agree, they’re going to be impressed.”
It’s grotesque, it’s horrendous, it’s way beyond tacky. It’s fantastic.
“Wow,” says my mom.
“Ingenious,” says Gnome Lady.
“Is there any more wine?” asks Charlie’s mom.
But Mr. H is oblivious. His glasses reflect a million tiny lights as he stands, spellbound by the genius of his own creation.
It’s past eleven when I hear strange noises coming from outside. I can see from my window that Charlie is still out there trying to inflate his mother’s plastic reindeer. I put on my bathrobe over my pj’s and go out.
“Looks like you have an inner trig problem….” I smile at him. He doesn’t smile back. “Look, I’m really sorry about the way things turned out, but it was kinda dumb to eat the cookies.”
“I didn’t take the cookies, you idiot. It must have been your crazy sister. You know, you’ve really changed. ‘Elf One! Bring me the fertilizer, Elf One. Sweep up those leaves. Elf One … act like a dog. Woof, woof.’ When you first moved here, I thought you were cool, but I was wrong. You’re just sad.”
“Just make sure you get your stupid reindeer blown up,” I say. “We think we can win this thing, and you don’t want to ruin it for everyone, do you?”
Charlie looks over; drops the limp, half-inflated reindeer; stomps up to me; and sticks his face right into mine. “I … don’t … care.” With each word, he punches me in the shoulder.
“You asked for it!” I say, and without a second’s hesitation, my fist slams into his stomach. The blow is harder than I meant it to be, but I’m tired, I’m angry, and he is being a real jerk.
My Invisible Sister Page 5