Selfish Elf Wish

by Heather Swain

  “This would be fifty times easier if Bella from Hella were still off at rehab,” Mercedes adds.

  Rumor has it that after she made an ass out of herself at the last BAPAHS audition (thanks to me, but that’s another story), her parents shipped her off to detox, her talent agent dropped her, and she lost a speaking part in an upcoming ABC Family TV movie. Somehow, though, she miraculously recovered and came back to school just in time for the winter musical auditions.

  “Can you believe how she’s been strutting around school?” Mercedes asks. “Like she’d been off at the spa instead of out in the woods getting sober.”

  I nod in agreement. Just a month ago, Bella was bad-mouthing everyone on her secret blog, until one of her best friends burned her by making the blog public. But, and this is what I can’t understand about erdlers, even though most of the school cheered when Bella got sent away, the minute she stepped foot in the building this past Monday, everyone scurried out of her way and watched her with awe, like she was some lone wolf on the prowl. In Alverland, someone that evil would be shunned forever!

  Mercedes continues, “I heard she sent out a tweet saying she feels rested and relaxed.” She exaggerates the words, making them breathy and ridiculous. “And better than ever and she couldn’t be happier to back at BAPAHS, surrounded by her closest friends, preparing for the winter musical.” Then she clutches her stomach. “Pardon me while I barf.” She pretends to puke all over the floor.

  I press one hand over my mouth and wrap the other around my stomach to keep from laughing too loud.

  “But you better watch your back, girly,” Mercedes says, poking me hard on the shoulder.

  “Me?” I ask, swallowing the last of my giggles. “Why?”

  “That tweet can only mean thing,” Mercedes says seriously. I blink at her because I have no idea what it could mean. “Bella from Hella’s back to prove she’s still the top dog around BAPAHS. And you know she’s already vowed to get even with her number one enemy: you.” She pokes me hard again.

  I stumble to the side. “But, but, but . . . ” I sputter.

  “I know, I know,” Mercedes says. “But in her mind, what you did is worse than her BFF dissing her. In her mind, you’re the reason Timber dumped her, and for that, she hates you the most.”

  “Oh,” I groan. “Will this ever stop?”

  Mercedes smacks my arm and points back at Chelsea on the stage. “Just look at that girl shaking her booty. My grandmother would lock me in a convent if I acted that way.”

  “Yeah, but she’s good,” I say. “Definitely better than everyone else who’s gone so far.” We’ve already seen half the performers, and other than Ari (who had to go first, poor guy, and hit a clam at the end of his Elton John song), Chelsea is the best.

  “You’re right,” says Mercedes. “And everyone would vote for her legs even if she couldn’t sing.” We stand there for a moment, both miserable, then Mercedes turns to me and grabs my tunic. “Give me your pants,” she says as she hikes up my shirt.

  “What are you doing?” I squeal, batting her hand away.

  “Give me your pants,” she demands. “At least you’ve got long legs. I’m stuck with these piernas rechonchas. So if you can’t beat ’em ...” She gets my tunic up to my hips and takes hold of the sides of my leggings. “Join ’em and make them sorry they ever put on a mini.” She yanks and my leggings fall.

  “Great horned owl, Mercy!” I push my tunic down over my exposed thighs.

  “Get your boots off,” she hisses. “Hurry. She’s almost done.”

  “I can’t do this!” I say, but I am doing it. While I kick my boots off and strip my leggings away, Mercedes unbuckles her wide, brown leather belt.

  “Here.” She shoves the belt at me. I loop it around my waist and fumble with the metal buckle, trying not to think about what my mother would say if she saw me in a tunic with no leggings. “Loose!” Mercedes says. “Like this.” Her fingers work quickly to buckle the belt and push it down around my hips. I tug on my boots again.

  Mercedes steps back. “One more thing.” She reaches up and undoes two clasps at the top of my tunic then she plunges her hand inside my shirt.

  “Hey!” I try to squirm away, but she’s got ahold of the amulets around my neck—interlocking Petoskey stones for harmony that my father gave me for my last birthday and the crane’s feather for good luck that my mom gave me this morning at breakfast.

  “Stoop down and turn around,” she commands. I do what she says. “Lift up your hair.” She tightens the leather thong of my necklaces until the stones and the feather hang in the hollow where my collarbones meet. “Let me see.”

  I spin around and face Mercedes as the last notes of Chelsea’s song reverberate through the hall. Applause erupts, people shout and whistle.

  “Yeah,” Mercedes says, grinning, then she chants, “Oh yeah. You’re a hottie!”

  Ari pops out from behind the backstage curtain. “Just came to say—Hey, whoa!” He takes a step back when he sees me. “Who’s this?”

  “Good, huh?” Mercy asks.

  “Oh honey, superhot,” he says, sounding half surprised. “If you’re into that kind of thing. And according to Zephyr,” he says, pretending to announce to everyone in the wing, “I’m not into that kind of thing.” Nobody else pays attention to him, but I toss my arms around his neck and give him a peck on the cheek. Ever since I accidentally outed him as gay, he likes to rub it in. “What song are you going to sing?” Ari asks.

  “One of Dad’s,” I say, but my voice creeps up like it’s a question.

  “Awesome,” says Ari, who was a fan of my dad’s gothic folk band since before we met.

  “Enough girlfriends!” Mercedes grabs my shoulders and spins me around toward the stage again. Chelsea finishes her last bow, comes up smiling, waves above her head, and struts toward us. As she stomps past, Chelsea shakes her head to cool down, spraying us with sweat.

  “Great job,” I mumble.

  “Thanks!” She smiles, her eyes wild. “That was fun.” She pauses for a moment. Her eyes scan my body. “New look?” she asks, and I want to shrink then scurry away to a hidey-hole like a tiny mouse. “It works,” she says, then mutters, “Good luck,” before she’s past us and down the stairs.

  Mercedes gives me a push. “Go!” she shouts in my ear.

  I stumble into the back curtain then grab it to get my balance. When I look across the stage, I see Timber in the opposite side wing. He stares at me with his mouth and eyes wide open, but I can’t tell whether that’s a good thing or bad. I look onstage in front of me. Mr. Padgett’s in the spotlight, mic in one hand, introducing me, but I can’t hear him because my head buzzes and my ears ring like I’m under water. I stare out into the crowd, terrified of what’s about to happen, but then my eyes land on Briar. She’s on her feet, both arms overhead, cheering. When she blows me a kiss, my ears pop open and my mind clears. People clap, cheer, and chant my name as I get my balance and I walk forward.

  As soon as I step into the light, my heart slows, my breathing calms, my body relaxes as if I’m floating on top of a placid lake. Applause ruffles past my ears like I’m in the midst of a flock of mallards rising off the water. My right hand raises, almost with a mind of its own, and I’m waving as I reach for the mic from Mr. Padgett. I take my mark center stage, breathe in, and let the energy from the crowd wash over me. Since I don’t know much popular music, I chose one of my dad’s songs that charted for a week on the Billboard Top 100 last spring. It’s my favorite one about sandhill cranes. They migrate south in the winter, then come back to Michigan in the spring where they find their life mate by doing a song and dance duet. Still, I’m worried that not enough people will know it.

  When the intro music to “Flying Dancer” rains down on me, though, all my fear drains away. My dad might not be a hugely famous singer, but his music gets enough play that I see people clapping along in the crowd. I lift the mic to my lips and begin to sing.

  Flying dance
r, cold air flows

  you’re leaving again

  when the north wind blows

  But you’ll be back

  in early spring

  for the one you love,

  you’ll return to sing

  Despite my nerves, once the first notes leave my throat, I soar with the music. I keep my feet planted for the biggest notes, then let my body move with the dancing melody. I feel the words and as I sing, I hold Timber in my mind. Really I chose this song for him. Is he watching? I forget about the crowd, the contest, Bella, and Mr. Padgett, and I sing only for Timber.

  A passionate dancing duet

  a song you haven’t sung yet

  you’ll find the one, don’t fret

  to sing your song in spring

  Fly, dancer, fly

  Don’t let life pass you by

  Spread your wings and soar

  To find the one you adore

  I’m having so much fun that I don’t want my song to end. I could sing all day, all night, stopping only now and again for a breath to keep me going. But, like every other song in the world, my song has to end. The fiddle and mandolin fade. I lower the mic and bow my head, pausing for just a moment before I lift up and let the last notes echo through the speakers like the song of a sandhill crane ringing across reedy marshes.

  Then the applause hits me like a forceful wave. I take a step back and laugh as I lift my arms above my head and smile. I can hear Briar’s voice ringing out above everyone else, and I blow her a kiss. Then, I turn slightly to the left and see Timber clapping with his arms raised. I’d like to run into the wings, tackle him, and disappear into the folds of that curtain. But Mr. Padgett was very clear on the rules. Girls on one side. Boys on the other. I wink at Timber, then nearly skip off the stage back to Mercedes.

  She grabs me. “Girl! You rocked that song like nobody’s business.”

  “Was it okay?” I ask, my breath fluttery. “It felt good. Was it as good as it felt?”

  “It was better,” she tells me, and I hug her. “Here, take your belt.” I unbuckle it as quickly as I can and hand it over.

  While Mercedes rearranges her long white shirt, I see Bella lurking in the shadow. She looks at me and lifts her hand, even with the floor, then tilts it back and forth as if to say, So-so. “You got a little pitchy near the end,” she says.

  “What’s that, Bella?” Mercedes asks. “You’re a little bitchy and you have no friends?”

  Bella cocks an eyebrow. “Who are you again?”

  I feel Mercedes shrink beside me, so I sling my arm over her shoulders. Everyone else might tiptoe around this girl, but I won’t. “You know exactly who she is,” I say. Bella shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. I stand up tall and step closer so that I look down into Bella’s fierce green eyes. I was meek like a scared little bunny when I first came to this school, but I won’t let her intimidate me anymore. “You better watch out, Bella,” I say. “Mercedes and I are on fire.”

  “Yeah, you might get burned,” Mercedes adds.

  Bella rolls her eyes and turns away. “Dream your little dreams,” she says, and flips her long dark hair. Then she casts one more evil glance our way. “I’m back and everybody already knows this audition is mine.”

  Two guys sing before it’s Mercedes’s turn. When Mr. Padgett calls her name, she bounds out from behind the curtains, grabs the mic, and starts clapping while high stepping across the stage to the rhythm of “We Ride” by Mary J. Blige. “Come on, let me hear y’all,” she shouts into the mic, then she starts to sing. Mercedes’s energy ricochets off the walls and gets inside the crowd, making people hop out of their seats and dance. And she works the crowd, getting close to the edge of the stage, bending down, singing to the front row, then standing up and reaching toward the back of the house. She’s told me that that comes from years in her grandmother’s church, where people dance in the aisles while the choir stomps and sings. When she’s done, the crowd goes nuts and Mercedes looks a little bit shocked. She stands center stage for just a beat as if she can’t imagine who they’re clapping, hooting, and hollering for. Then she smiles big, bows low, and runs off the stage, bouncing like an unbridled colt running free.

  In the wings, she jumps into my arms. “You were smoking!” I tell her.

  “They like me,” she says, laughing. “They really like me!”

  Only Timber and Bella are left to sing. Mr. Padgett claims that was the luck of the draw, but nobody believes him for a nanosecond. Ari and Mercedes think he made up the order according to who he wants to see win because as any dodo knows, the last performer has the momentum of everyone who came before. Mercedes and I wrap our arms around each other and huddle in the wings with all the other girls, including Chelsea and even Bella, as Timber takes the stage. The crowd is stoked, stomping, clapping, and chanting, “At the playground!” because this was Timber’s signature song when he was famous.

  Timber was the lead singer of a boy band called TLC Boyz from the time he was eight until he was twelve years old. He toured all over the world and sold tons of records. Until his voice changed. And his parents divorced. And his manager stole most of his money. And the band broke up. Same old story, he likes to say when I ask him about it, but it’s new to me.

  I think the problems his fame caused are the reason he’s never tried for a comeback. Like the old pro that he is, he takes the chanting and clapping all in stride, pressing his hands together in front of his heart and bowing a little as if to thank the people who might adore him or might be making fun of him. Before I got to know Timber, I would have thought his actions were fake, but now I know he’s sincere. He knows what it’s like to have a million fans and then how it feels to watch what you thought you had crumble into little bitty pieces at your feet. So whenever people applaud, he’s grateful.

  Unlike anyone else who’s sung today, Timber owns this stage like he built it and lives on it. While the rest of us jumped around, desperate to pound our songs into people’s minds, Timber is smooth. He hangs back and never rushes through a note, a move, a moment. Time slows down when he sings this song about the rain. I’ve never heard it before, but he told me it’s by an old New Orleans R&B singer named Irma Thompson.

  I look out at the crowd. No one yells or screams because everyone is mesmerized. I see why he was a star and how easily he could be again if he ever tried. There’s something about him. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s the thing that makes my stomach flutter and my heart race when I catch a glimpse of him in the hallway or when I hear his voice on the phone. Despite that, watching all these people fall in love with Timber makes me wonder if he and I will ever be more than friends.

  I look over my shoulder at Bella. She stands off to the side, alone, one arm crossed over her belly, propping the other one up so her fist covers her mouth. I see real sadness in her eyes, but she’s not crying, and this sends a chill down my back. I don’t know if she was ever really in love with Timber or just liked having him around, but to me, it looks like she’s calculating how she’s going to win this audition and then get Timber back. Life is all casting to her, and in her mind, she and Timber should always get the lead.

  She catches me staring, but I don’t look away. It’s like my father taught me when we hunt. If you’re in the middle of the forest, facing down a mountain lion who wants the same buck you’ve got in your arrow sights, look them in the eye and let them know you’re in charge.

  Timber’s voice, climbing up and up now, ends our staring contest. He’s center stage, head back, eyes closed, arm up, microphone cocked to his mouth. The golden light bathes him as if the sun has broken through the night sky to illuminate only one thing on this earth. “I wish the rain would hurry up and stop,” he sings, letting the very last note quake before he snaps up, smiles big, and drops down for a bow.

  There’s a half-second pause, and then the crowd goes berserk. Kids are on their feet stomping and clapping. Anybody else would either fall down from the power of this reception o
r let themselves swell up until they floated, but Timber only shakes his head and presses his hands over his heart, mouthing Thank you over and over again as he makes his way offstage.

  But Mr. Padgett pulls him back to the center of the stage. “Give it up for Timber,” Mr. Padgett says into the mic. Timber bows again, then motions to Mr. Padgett, as if he should get all the credit. Mr. Padgett laughs and slaps Timber on his back. Then he slings an arm around Timber’s shoulders and Timber does the same to him.

  “Vomit,” someone says behind me. “Why don’t they just make out.”

  I wrench around to see who’s talking, but everyone is whispering together so I have no idea who said it.

  “If you liked that, BAPAHS, wait till you see what’s next.” Keeping one arm around Timber, Mr. Padgett points toward our side of the stage. “Let me hear you make some noise for Bella D’Artagnan!” Mr. Padgett shouts.

  Bella straightens up, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and rearranges her face from cold and calculating to the picture of warmth and beauty.

  “How’s she change her face like that?” I ask Mercedes as we watch Bella glide onto the stage.

  Mercy just shakes her head. “Dang, she is a hell of an actress.”

  Mr. Padgett keeps Timber in his grip, so that he has to reach across his body to hand Bella the mic. For the smallest moment, Timber and Bella are side by side onstage and I see Mr. Padgett grin over his shoulder.

  “This is bull,” Chelsea says from beside us. And for once I have to agree with her. “If Mr. Padgett wanted to cast the show, he should have just cast it and not make us go through this.”

  We all turn back to the stage as the first few notes of Bella’s song come over the PA system.