Me, My Elf & I

by Heather Swain

  I follow him, still smarting from how casual he’s being. “Why don’t you start another band then?”

  He drops to a couch and shrugs. “Lazy, I guess.”

  I sit one cushion away because I’m not sure what’s going on here. Did I misinterpret everything? Did something happen while I was gone? I try my best to keep the conversation going. “My friend Ari has a band,” I say, but then stop when I remember that Ari’s not my friend anymore.

  “Oh hey, that reminds me. He asked me about you the other day in our improv class.”

  “Really!” I sit up straight and lean toward Timber. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing much. Just asked if I knew where you were, stuff like that.”

  “Is he all right?” I ask, quietly.

  “I guess so. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrink and slump against a soft white pillow. “I guess, I mean, is he still mad at me?”

  Timber stretches his arms over the back of the couch so that his hand is near my shoulder but not touching me. “You did out him, Zeph.”

  “I what?”

  “You outed him.”

  “What’s outed mean?”

  “You know,” Timber says, and raises his eyebrows. “You brought him out of the closet.” I look at him blankly because the only closet I’ve ever seen Ari in is my own when he found my tunics. “You told everyone he’s gay.”

  “I did not!” I protest. “Bella did!”

  And there it is. Her name hangs in the air between us like a skunk just sprayed a cloud of stink. Neither of us looks at the other for a moment until Timber says, “You can blame whoever you want, but your girl Mercedes is the one who got busted.”

  “She got beat up?”

  “No, ‘busted’ means in trouble. She got suspended for sending that e-mail.”

  “Oh no,” I say, holding my head in my hands.

  “I think she’s coming back to school tomorrow, but she’s not allowed to do the ELPH audition.”

  “That’s awful,” I mutter.

  “Yep, sucks to be her,” says Timber, but he doesn’t really sound so broken up. I feel terrible, though, about how much trouble poor Mercedes got into because of me. Timber breaks the silence by saying, “Anyway, Ari was sorry to hear that your grandmother’s sick.”

  “He was?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Ari’s all right. He’s a cool guy.”

  “I thought you didn’t like him,” I say.

  “I never said I didn’t like him.”

  “He said you never talked to him in improv.”

  “Whatever.” Timber pulls his arm away from me. “I didn’t know him. I mean, there are like thirty people in that class. What? I’m supposed to be friends with everyone?”

  I scoot a little bit farther away from him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  “You sound like her,” I say quietly.

  “Like who?”

  “Bella,” I say. And there it is again! Why do I keep bringing her up? Am I an idiot? Do I want this to go badly?

  Timber sets his jaw and looks up at the ceiling. “You know,” he says, then stops.

  I pull one knee up close to my chest, feeling stupid for ruining the moment.

  “The thing about Bella . . .”

  My stomach drops because I’m sure he’s going to say that they’re getting back together. And then what? I’ll have to sit here beside him for the rest of the night pretending to be happy for him because we’re friends?

  “Everyone assumes I must be a jerk if I went out with her,” Timber says. “But really . . .” He turns his body toward mine and leans in. “I’m not a bad guy.”

  I look up at him. He seems so sincere. No wolf grin. Just honest eyes, waiting for me to say something. “I think you’re a good guy,” I tell him.

  “Honestly, I’m kind of a dork, you know?”

  “No you’re not!” Now I smack his leg. “You’re like Mr. Playa,” I say, trying to sound like Mercedes.

  Timber throws his head back and laughs. “Do you even know what a player is?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “I’m not a player, Zeph. Trust me. I never fit in with Bella and her scene. We looked good together, but we’re totally different. She likes to be the center of attention all the time. I’d rather hang back and watch people. She wants to go out and be seen. I like to stick close to home and be with a few good friends. She thinks you have to spend money to have a good time. I’d rather hang in the park. Plus, she likes to party.”

  “We have a lot of parties in Alverland,” I tell him.

  “Not this kind,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No, probably not. We go out in the woods, build a big fire, and stay up until the sun rises, playing music and dancing.”

  He laughs. “That sounds better than the kind of partying I’m talking about. Bella wanted me to try all this crazy stuff with her, but I wasn’t into it, and she’d get all furious with me. Especially when I’d tell her to stop. That’s what I like about hanging out with you. I don’t have to try to be someone else.” He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “I can make a dumb joke and you’ll think it’s funny and not roll your eyes like I’m an idiot. Plus, I like your family and you have cool friends. I hated Bella’s friends. Except for Chelsea. She’s okay.”

  “Chelsea!” I nearly yell. “She’s the meanest one.”

  “Not when you get to know her. She’s different than they are but she’s caught up in trying to be like them. Actually, she and I were always the sober ones, trying to make sure that Bella, Zoe, and the others didn’t get themselves into more trouble. She’s really okay.”

  I shake my head. “I refuse to believe that.”

  Before we can get into a stupid argument about Chelsea, my dad and his band come noisily into the room. Timber and I pop up from the couch.

  “There you are!” Dad booms and comes over to shake Timber’s hand.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” Timber says.

  “It’s nice for Zephyr to have a friend backstage. I know how boring it is waiting. And waiting some more,” Dad says with a laugh. “You guys hungry? They’ve got a spread for us in the other room.”

  As we’re heading for the food tables, another man rushes in. He’s younger than my dad and wears a suit jacket over jeans with his brown hair slicked back off his forehead. He’s talking loudly and quickly into one of those little cell phones attached to one ear while he’s texting on the PDA in his hands. “Drake!” he shouts, then goes back to his boisterous conversation on the earpiece.

  Dad shakes his head but grins. “That’s Martin,” he tells us. “My manager.”

  “You’re not going to believe this.” Martin clasps my dad’s hand, then pulls him in and bumps him against his chest. “You’re all over the Web today.” He holds up his PDA. Then he notices Timber and me. “These more of your kids? How many do you have? Like twelve or something. I’m Martin. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Zephyr,” I say, shaking his hand. “And this is my friend Timber. Timber Lewis Cahill,” I add.

  Martin drops my hand and slaps Timber on the shoulder. “Hey my man, I know you. You’re that kid. Fronted TLC Boyz. You guys did all right back in the day. Who you with now? What label? Who’s your manager?”

  Timber shoves his hands down in his pockets and looks uncomfortable. “Well, I’m, you know, kind of between . . .”

  “Right, right. Let me give you my card.” Martin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little case. He takes out a card and hands it to Timber. “Keep me in mind.” Then he turns back to my dad. “Good stuff going on. They treating you okay? These good people? Got what you need? Wait, I’ve got a call.” He turns away and starts shouting into the earpiece again.

  I snicker behind my hand. “He’s like a giant squirrel running around looking for nuts.”

  “Nuts is right,” Timber says, and we laugh, but I can tell he’s happy that Martin knew who he was and gave
him a card, which he tucks carefully inside his wallet.

  Martin whips back around toward us. “Yeah so, you’re all over the place today.” I’m not sure if he’s still talking on the phone or talking to my dad. “Did you know that you’re in a cult? Maybe even the leader. And you live in the middle of the woods, totally off the grid, by the way. Remind me not to come visit you. I like my electricity and plumbing. And let’s see what else?” He glances back down at the PDA. Now I know he’s talking about Dad. “Oh right, you’re married to your cousin, you have six kids, and you’re a Wiccan. Which I don’t know, can men be Wiccans? I thought that was only women. I think that would make you a warlock. Maybe I should correct that.” He starts pushing buttons on the PDA.

  “What’s he talking about?” I ask Dad with my heart racing because some of those rumors sound like ones Bella started on her blog.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Dad says with a shrug.

  Martin looks up from the PDA. “It’s all good, all good. This kind of crazy speculation only works in your favor. Creates more mystery. More of a persona. People eat that crap up. You’ll see. The more people talk, the more that song’ll climb. Is there any Pellegrino here? Or Red Bull?” Martin and my dad head off toward the food.

  I grab Timber’s arm. “What’s going on? Why are people saying those things about my dad?”

  “It’s no big deal,” Timber assures me. “You should’ve heard the stuff people said about me and my band when we were on the charts. I was like twelve years old and there were rumors that I was dating women who were twenty. That I was dying of leukemia. That I was on drugs. That my dad forced me to perform and I hated it. That my mom was having an affair with my manager. None of it was true, of course.”

  “But didn’t it upset you?” I ask.

  “At first, then you learn to ignore it, then you learn to use it. Martin’s right. This kind of chatter only makes people more interested in the music. Heck, if I had rumors like this about me, I’d love it! I could stage a huge comeback.”

  I shake my head. The whole thing makes me nervous because some of those rumors are a little too close to the truth. But of course I can’t tell Timber that. “I’ll be right back,” I say to him. I find my dad piling fruit and cheese on a paper plate. “Can I please use your Treo?” I ask him quietly.

  He frowns at me. “No, Zeph. Come on. You’ve got your friend here. Don’t start with that again, please.”

  “But Dad,” I insist. “I want to check out those rumors for myself.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t pay attention, Zephyr. It’ll only make you crazy. You have to ignore it. It’s nothing new.”

  “But Dad!” I say.

  “Stop,” he tells me. “The Treo’s down in the van anyway, which is in the parking garage, so I couldn’t give it to you if I wanted to. Just drop it.”

  I walk away, but I’m not ready to give up. I stand off to the side with my arms crossed against my chest.

  Timber finds me. “What’s the matter, Zeph? You look p.o.’ed.”

  “I can’t get Dad’s Treo and I really want to see who’s spreading those rumors.”

  “I don’t know what good it’ll do, but if you really want to . . .” Timber pulls a sleek white phone out of his back pocket. “I got you covered. Use my iPhone.”

  We go back to the couches and start Googling my dad. We find all kinds of crazy rumors, most of which are just ridiculous but I want to find out who started the ones about him being in a cult and being married to his cousin. We keep going through chat rooms and blogs until we find a post in a folk music chat room from six days ago—the day after Bella and Timber broke up.

  —I know Drake Addler’s daughter. We go to high school together. She told me that her father is the leader of a cult of pagan atheists who worship trees and marry their cousins. They just moved to Brooklyn so he could brainwash new members through his music. He plans to take his recruits back to the cult in the U.P. of Michigan, to a place called Alverland. Posted by: Nightshade

  I gasp when I see the name of the poster then I nearly yell, “It’s her!”

  “Who?” Timber asks.

  “Bella.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You’re getting a little paranoid, aren’t you?”

  “Nightshade,” I tell him. “Deadly nightshade. Devil’s cherries.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like the kooks who go to these chat rooms and spread weird rumors about witches and magic and cults.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s her. The password to her secret blog is belladonna, which is another name for the plant deadly nightshade, also called devil’s cherries. And this stuff she posted is the same stuff she put on her own blog. Bella is the one who started these rumors.”

  Timber takes the iPhone from me and puts his hand on my leg. “Look, even if she did write this one, it’s not the only one. People get a little nutty over rock stars, which is what your dad is now. So they post all kinds of weird stuff. Whoever this Nightshade person is, is just fueling the fire and like Martin said, it’s not such a bad thing.”

  “But she knows where we’re from,” I tell him as my stomach ties itself into knots. “Nobody else does.”

  Timber blows it off. “So what? People can find that stuff out if they really want to. Plus, most people aren’t interested if your dad’s in a cult, or where he’s from. And anyway, you don’t even live there anymore, so what’s there to worry about?”

  Obviously, I can’t answer his question, but I’m still not convinced there’s nothing to be concerned about. “Search Alverland,” I tell him.

  He types it in and we wait. Several links come up for weird things like some Swedish guy’s blog and something in what looks to be Arabic, but then at the bottom I see a link to a blog called Drake-o-phile. We click it and find an entry from some nut job who went looking for Alverland so he could join my dad’s supposed cult. At the bottom are blurry photos. I jump up from my seat. The first photo is of Main Street in Ironweed. I see the grocery store, the stoplight, the houses, and the library. The second photo is of a path behind a barn outside of Ironweed where we exit and enter the woods. The third photo is grainy and hard to make out, but it looks like whoever took it zoomed in from far away on a group of elf kids in tunics playing hide-and-seek on the rocks of Barnaby Bluff.

  “I have to tell my dad right now!” I exclaim.

  Timber shakes his head and points to the TV screen. “Can’t. They just got called onstage.”

  I drop back down to the couch. “This is bad, Timber,” I say, shaking my head. But he’s not paying attention because he’s too busy reading whatever that freak Drake-o-phile wrote.

  “Hey check it out,” he says. “Isn’t gothboi your man Ari?”

  “How’d you know that?” I ask.

  “He IM’ed the other day about a gig he’s doing next week. But look at this.” He hands me the iPhone and I scan through the comments below Drake-o-phile’s photos.

  —Give the poor man and his family some privacy! They are extremely nice, decent people who don’t deserve to be stalked by weirdoes like you. All of these rumors are so stupid and entirely false! Leave them alone and let Drake’s music speak for itself.

  Posted by: gothboi

  “Oh my goodness.” I feel close to tears. “That’s so nice of him.”

  Timber takes the iPhone back. “You want to IM him and say thanks?” He hands me the phone. I start typing.

  Even tho u r mad at me, I want 2 tell u how much it means 2 me that u defended my dad against those stupid rumors online. I really meant it when I posted on YouTube that u r wonderful and that u have heart. I’m so sorry I ruined r friendship b/c I think the world of u. -Z

  “Check it out.” Martin turns up the volume on the TV in front of us, then he plunks down on the couch beside me. “They’re on. This is going to be hot. Super hot. Your dad is a star, baby, a star! I’m going to take this song all the way to number one!”

  Timber elbows me and snickers, but
I can’t laugh at Martin. I’m so furious that I can barely pay attention to my dad singing or to the fact that Timber is right beside me. Nothing feels more important to me right now than getting back at Bella. No matter what my grandmother Fawna says, sometimes revenge is the only thing you have left.

  That night when we get home to Brooklyn, I grab a flashlight and I head straight for my mother’s special pantry with all her herbs, tinctures, tonics, and books of remedies. I close the pantry door behind me so my dad and brother won’t know what I’m doing. My piddly magic with its silly wart hexes isn’t enough for what I want to do to Bella. I know that somewhere in this pantry is a special book. One that is handed down from healer to healer in the family. It was my great-grandfather’s. Then it was Fawna’s. Now it’s my mother’s. Some day it will likely go to Bramble, since he seems to be the one with the best magic of all us kids. But for now, I want this book for myself because it holds the secrets of casting powerful spells, both good and bad, and I’m going to need all the help I can get.

  As I’m searching, I hear Dad in the kitchen listening to the messages on the answering machine. I try to tune out the noise, but it’s hard because the phone is right next to the pantry. Most of the messages are from potential clients for my mom, but then there’s one that catches my attention.

  “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Addler. My name is Maria Arellano Sanchez. I’m Mercedes Sanchez’s mother. I’d like to speak with you about my daughter’s actions at school. I’m sure your daughter is very upset, and my husband and I feel that Mercedes must apologize to you and your daughter in person.”

  I hear my dad muttering, “What? Huh?” Then he calls out, “Zephyr!” I stay quiet. Before he can call my name again, my mom’s voice comes through the speaker. “Drake, we have a problem,” she says in a quivery voice, and I know something must really be wrong because she’d have to go all the way to Ironweed to use the phone, which no one does unless something awful has happened. I grasp the flashlight tightly, bracing myself to hear that Grandma has taken a turn for the worst, but that’s not what it is.