Me, My Elf & I

by Heather Swain

  Okay, I think, maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe Ari and Mercedes were being honest. Plus, there are no clothes in the world that I’m more comfortable in than my tunic and boots. This is me. If Ari is goth, then this is who I am. I take a big breath and begin walking down the hall. But . . .

  The fairies again. They’ve spread out, three in a row, and are heading toward me, wings shimmering on their backs. Maybe that couple was being sarcastic, which I’ve noticed is very popular around here. Every other sentence out of Ari’s and Mercedes’s mouths is like someone cast an opposite spell on them. So when that couple said “cool dress” and “nice” did they really mean “dorky dress” and “bad”? Are they huddled in a corner, laughing at me, fingers flying over the keys on their blueberries or blackberries or whatever they’re called as they post comments about my stupid clothes on their glogs or bogs?

  “Hey,” says the fairy leader. That must be Jilly. The three of them stand in front of me now. The queen fairy is shorter than I am and as slender as a sapling. “Can we ask you a question?” The other two girls (in pink wings and yellow) stand slightly behind their fearless leader, peering out as if they’re hiding behind a tree.

  “Sure.” I brace myself for something totally embarrassing.

  “Where’d you get that awesome dress?” the fairy queen asks me.

  “It’s hot,” adds Pink Wings.

  “Smoking,” says Miss Yellow.

  “Really?” I ask. “Does that mean you like it?”

  “Duh,” says Pink.

  “Can I touch it?” The queen reaches out and strokes the fabric. “So soft,” she tells the others. They reach out, too, and I blush at their attention.

  “So pretty,” says Pink.

  “And you look amazing in it,” adds Yellow.

  “Very Guinevere,” says the queen.

  “Totally Guinevere,” the others agree.

  “Who’s Guinevere?” I ask.

  “You know, King Arthur’s wife,” the queen says.

  “Lancelot’s lover,” Pink adds, wiggling her eyebrows.

  “We’re kind of obsessed with the whole Camelot thing,” Yellow Wings explains and all three nod.

  “I could never pull off a dress like that, though,” the queen says to her friends. “You have to be tall and willowy, like her.”

  “Oh no,” I tell her. “Everyone looks great in these. And they’re so comfortable! You can do anything in them. Climb trees. Hike up a mountain. Sleep.” The fairies look at one another and twitter. “I mean,” I stammer and blush, “if you like to do those sorts of things. Or you can just, you know, wear them to school and hang out or whatever.”

  “So where’d you get it?” the queen asks me again.

  I’m not sure how to answer. If I tell them that my grandmother made it will they think I’m a weirdo who can’t afford to buy real clothes? But I can’t lie. “Michigan,” I say.

  “Michigan?” The queen blinks and frowns. “Where’s that? Lower East Side? Williamsburg? Is it a boutique or a chain?”

  “The real Michigan,” I say. “The state. That’s where I’m from. I just moved here.” Before they can ask me anything else about my clothes I quickly add, “My name is Zephyr. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Jilly,” says the queen. “This is Rienna and Darby.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” I say. “I noticed you yesterday in the cafeteria with your wings and everything and I wondered who you were and . . .” I stop because I realize that I’m gushing.

  The doors behind me open again. A rush of warm air circulates through the hall, ruffling papers attached to the bulletin boards on the walls. The fairies watch whoever is coming, then they bite their lips and elbow one another. I glance over my shoulder and squint into the streaming sunlight. I can just make out the silhouette of a guy taking off his sunglasses and running his fingers through his hair as he steps into the hallway. My stomach clenches and buzzes as if I swallowed a beehive.

  It’s the wolf-boy, Timber. He sees me and flashes that gorgeous smile full of teeth. Bees burst from their hive in my belly. They buzz through my tingling arms and legs then I turn to honey, sweet and gooey, as he walks toward me. I hear the fairies suck in air and giggle behind their hands.

  “Hey, Zephyr,” says Timber, slow and easy.

  “Erp,” I squeak like a mutant mouse and before I can make something intelligible come out of my stupid mouth, Bella, the queen bee, floats through the open doors. She is followed by her three drones. They walk in step, as if music follows them everywhere.

  “Timb,” Bella says without even so much as a glance at me. Her eyes are obscured behind giant white sunglasses and her hair falls softly in waves over her shoulders. She is looking down at her phone, busy punching numbers. “I need a frappucino,” she commands, and he falls in step with her, down the hall and away.

  I’m left facing the fairies, who stare at me with eyebrows raised. “What?” I cringe.

  “You know him?” Jilly asks.

  “We met the other day,” I half explain with an apologetic shrug. “That’s all.”

  Rienna rolls her eyes and snorts. “I’ve known Timber since preschool. He came to my tenth birthday party and we held hands at the seventh-grade spring fling dance.” Then a bell rings, making me jump. The fairies gather their bags. “And still,” Rienna says over her shoulder, “he never says hello to me.” The three scurry off into the rush of people flooding through the hallway.

  “Bye,” I call hopefully after them. “See you later?” But they don’t turn around.

  I find my first class, New Music Ensemble, and pick a seat in the back. Two girls and one guy look up briefly from their conversation. I offer them a weak smile, but they ignore me and go back to talking. I’m not looking forward to this class. I wanted to join one of the chamber music quartets, but none of them needed a lute player. The only ensemble that had space in it was this one, where we’ll “explore contemporary vocalization,” whatever that means. I’m already embarrassed by how bad I’m going to be. They’ll probably make me rap and I’ll look like the biggest moron that ever walked the face of the planet! Rapping in an elfin tunic—what would Mercedes say? “Off the hinges!”—sarcastically, of course.

  Someone slips into the seat beside me. I feel the person leaning in close, “Ready to vocalize?” he asks. I peer out of the corner of my eye, then do a big dorky double take when I realize that Timber is sitting right next to me.

  “Oh hi!” I say, my voice as high and chirpy as a nuthatch. I can just imagine Mercedes shaking her head and telling me to tone it down, girl, tone it down. “You’re in here, too?” I ask stupidly.

  “Nope,” he says. “I’m out there.” He points to the hallway. “This is my clone.” He points to himself.

  “Right. Duh.” I snort, which is even more embarrassing. “Obviously you’re in here.”

  Timber leans back in his chair and stretches his legs from under the small desk. He rests his hands across his belly. “Yeah, I’m kind of a musical loser,” he says. “All I can do is sing and pick out a few songs on the piano, so there’s not much choice for me at this school outside of voice ensembles. It’s not like I’m some kind of viola virtuoso who takes private master classes all day.”

  “But I heard you were in a band when you were a kid, so you must be really talented,” I say, then stop abruptly, because again with the gushing. What’s wrong with me? “Not like I’d know,” I add quickly. “I mean, I’d never even heard of your band until someone else told me about it.”

  The people around us snicker and Timber’s face goes through several contortions as I blather. First he’s smiling, then he scrunches up his mouth as if he’s in pain, then he squints at me as if he’s puzzled, finally he laughs in disbelief. “I have no idea what to make of you,” he says, shaking his head.

  “What do you mean?” My cheeks begin to warm. “I’m just talking. You can ignore me.”

  “Not easy to do,” he says, then le
ans in close to me again. “Especially in that dress.”

  Now my face really burns. I stare down at my clothes, mortified by how ludicrous I must seem—the bizarre new girl nattering away in her strange clothes.

  “What do you call this?” He reaches out and plucks my sleeve between his forefinger and thumb. I can feel his skin graze mine and I get goose bumps up and down my arms.

  “A muumuu,” someone says as she walks past us. I look up to see Bella’s red-haired drone drop into the seat on the other side of Timber.

  “Hey, Chelsea,” Timber says, quickly leaning far away from me.

  She stares icily at me for a moment before turning her attention to Timber. “They were popular in the seventies. Our grandmas wore them.”

  Before I even realize what my body is doing, my hand curls into a fist, raises to my lips, and the words “f lotsam, jetsam, tantrum” are on the tip of my tongue. But I stop myself. Instead of unleashing a temporary babbling spell that would make her ramble about any thought that entered her head for the next five minutes, I press my fist against my lips and swallow my words. Back in Alverland, if one of my friends were teasing me (although elves are rarely that unkind), I would smack her with this little spell just for kicks. And she’d retaliate, casting a counterspell as quickly as she could. It’s a game, a harmless one that’s tolerated by our parents because it sharpens our skills. But here, I have to be careful not to expose myself. The only weapons I have now are words, without the magic.

  “It’s a tunic,” I tell her sharply. “And my grandmother wove it for me from flax that she grows.”

  “Oh, really?” Chelsea feigns disbelief. “And I thought it was Prada.”

  “It’s cooler than Prada,” Timber says. “I hate that crap. So boring.”

  “You like it fine when Bella’s in it,” Chelsea says.

  Timber shrugs with a little smirk on his face. The people around us mutter and laugh, but then our instructor walks in, singing a major scale in his booming alto voice, and everyone snaps to attention. I do the same, happy to lose myself in music, when who I am and what I’m wearing fades as I become a part of a song.

  “She called it a muumuu,” I tell Ari and Mercedes. We’re out in the courtyard behind the school instead of in the cafeteria because it’s such a gorgeous day. Ari and Mercedes spent the first fifteen minutes of lunch explaining to me where each group sits, what tables are safe, and when I should come out here. Before school and during lunch is fine. During or after school means you’re a druggie. Except for Bella, of course, because no rules apply to her. And when she’s out here, she always sits at the table in the middle.

  “Which one was it?” Ari asks. We sneak a peek at Bella’s foursome in their usual spot center stage. I immediately notice that Timber isn’t with them and my stomach sinks. I haven’t mentioned to Ari and Mercedes that he liked my tunic or made a point to sit next to me during ensemble.

  “The redhead with the nose ring and that tiny little skirt,” I tell them.

  “Chelsea. Such a skank,” Mercedes says. “They’re all like Bella’s freakin’ lap dogs.” Mercedes holds her hands like paws in front of her chest and starts sniffing around, wagging her head, and whimpering. “Anything I can do, Bella? What do you need, Bella? Want me to sniff your butt, Bella?”

  As Mercedes is doing her doggy impression, Jilly, the queen fairy, walks by. “Oh hey, Zephyr,” she says. “How’s it going?”

  “Great,” I tell her. “But I’m worried that I made Rienna mad this morning.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jilly says with a wave of her hand. “Poor Rienna has been crushing on that guy since she was in preschool. She’ll get over it.”

  “What guy?” Mercedes asks, but I ignore her question.

  “Where are Rienna and Darby?” I ask Jilly.

  “I don’t know,” she says, craning her neck. “I was just looking for them.”

  “You want to sit with us?” I scoot over to make room between Ari and me.

  Jilly looks blankly at Mercedes and Ari, who look blankly back at her. “No thanks,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll find my girls.”

  “See you later,” I call after her.

  Ari and Mercedes stare at each other, then they look at me. “You and Tinkerbell best friends now?” Mercedes asks. “Because the fairies sit over there with the other drama turds.”

  Before I can answer or point out that Mercedes does drama, a guy named Zack who was my lab partner in biology this morning waves to me from a table full of boys on the other side of the courtyard. “Hey Zephyr, come here,” he calls out. “These guys don’t believe that you know how to skin a deer.”

  “What are you doing talking to Zack Wheeler? He’s a total skoner.” Ari says.

  “A what?” I ask.

  “Skater and a stoner,” Mercedes explains.

  “Do you really hunt?” one of the guys with Zack yells.

  “My grandfather taught all of us,” I call back.

  “Seriously?” Ari guffaws. “I thought you were a veggie.”

  “A what?” I ask for the second time in ten seconds.

  He points to my plate of salad, fruit, and cheese. “A vegetarian. That you don’t eat meat.”

  “Oh no,” I clarify. “We eat meat, but usually on special occasions and then only meat that we kill and dress ourselves.”

  “Holy crap!” Mercedes yells. “We best be locking up the cats and dogs when Zephyr comes to visit.” She pretends to load and cock a shotgun. “Happy Easter, everybody!” Then she fires and makes a strangled dog howl.

  Neither Ari nor I laugh. “Actually,” I tell her coolly, “we use bows and arrows that we make ourselves. It’s a tradition that goes back a long, long time.”

  “Dang,” Mercedes mutters, shaking her head. “I knew you were from the sticks, but I didn’t realize you were some kind of NRA redneck.”

  “Jesus, Mercy,” Ari says with disgust. “You need to learn when to shut it.”

  “What?” Mercedes demands.

  “Obviously Zephyr’s not some NRA redneck, as you so delicately put it,” he says. “They don’t even use guns. And her family’s hunted for generations. Big deal. It’s a cultural thing. Why are you being so judgmental?”

  “Maybe you should step off, Ari,” Mercedes says angrily. “And go sit with Zephyr and all her new best buddies before you go getting up in my face for making a joke.”

  Ari puts his hands on his hips and stares Mercedes down. “Is that what this is about, Mercy?”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Are we jealous that Zephyr made some new friends today?” he asks in a baby voice.

  “No, I’m not jealous,” Mercedes mocks him.

  “You guys,” I plead. My stomach clenches into a small hard knot. “Stop. Okay? I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day. I don’t want to sit with anyone else. I want to sit with you.”

  As quickly as Mercedes went dark and cloudy, her face brightens into a big silly grin. “Dang, this girl is so ‘We Are the World’ ! ” She grabs my hand and Ari’s and lifts them above our heads, swaying back and forth, singing, “We are the world. We are the children.”

  “All right, all right, Jacko,” Ari says with a forgiving laugh. “Put the eighties back in their coffin.”

  Mercedes drops our hands. “Oh hey, I almost forgot.” She pulls a flyer out of her backpack. “Check it out.” She lays the paper in the center of our small circle. “After school everyone who’s interested in the ELPH audition has to go to this info meeting with Mr. O’Donnell, the casting agent. Can you do that, Zeph?”

  I pick up the paper with the details and nod. “Sure,” I say. “Are you going to be there?” A bell rings, and as usual, I jump like a startled bunny. I cannot get used to my day being controlled by some invisible buzzer.

  Mercedes gathers her things and stands up. “Yeah, I’ll be there, but a little late. I have a costume fitting.”

  “What is it this time?” Ari asks.

 
“Witch number three in Macbeth,” Mercedes says with a quick roll of her eyes. Then she hunches her back, rubs her hands together, and croaks, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.” She points to the table where Bella and her posse still sit as if they have no place important to go. Mercedes continues her witchy recitation. “‘Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf; Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf, of the ravin’d salt-sea shark; Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark; Liver of blaspheming Jew . . . ’ Hey, that’s you, Ari!” she says, becoming Mercedes again. “Come here and give me your liver, boy!” Ari scrambles to his feet as Mercedes chases him around a table and through the courtyard. “I’m casting me a spell. Gonna turn those girls into dogs for real!”

  Oh right, I think to myself while I watch their silly erdler interpretation of the dark arts. I tend to forget that here witches are old scary women on broomsticks who stir big black cauldrons while elves are three feet tall and live in some little wizard twerp’s closet under the stairs. If only casting spells were so easy, I think as I shove the flyer in my bag.

  After school, I’m the first one in the room for the ELPH audition meeting. I think I must be in the wrong place until a man comes in carrying a briefcase. “Great look,” he says, then studies me for a moment before he exclaims, “See, this is why I love running auditions at this school. You kids totally embrace the characters. Although . . .”—and here he drops his voice and leans in closer to me as he opens his briefcase—“I have to say that this is probably a bit fancy for an elf, don’t you think?” He points to the intricate embroidery covering the neckline and cuffs of my tunic. “I mean, elves are simple creatures. Mischievous little wood sprites.”

  “Oh really?” I ask, trying to keep from laughing. Before he can start in on the Keebler Elves and Snap, Crackle, and Pop, girls stream through the open door. I see Rienna (the pink fairy) and lift my hand to wave to her, but she turns away quickly so I find a seat off to the side by myself. I put my bag on an empty chair beside me for Mercedes.