For E. M. Baker School,
12 years. 3 Kormans. A million memories.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
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About the Author
Also Available
Copyright
Dear Elf,
Thank you for volunteering to participate in Cedarville’s annual Santa’s Workshop Holiday Spectacular. As always, the festivities will be held at the Colchester mansion from December 18 through January 2.
Please report to the Mansion this weekend to be fitted for your elf costume. Don’t forget to let us know of any special requirements, such as orthotic inserts for your pointed slippers.
Yuletide greetings!
The Colchester family
Griffin Bing reread the letter his best friend, Ben Slovak, held out to him. “‘Dear Elf’? Why would the Colchesters make you an elf? Aren’t you Jewish?”
“Half,” Ben explained. “On my dad’s side. We celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas. The point is, we don’t celebrate either one by being an elf!”
Griffin shrugged. “It’s obviously some kind of mistake. I mean, how did your name get on the elf list? Just write back and tell them thanks but no thanks.”
“My mother won’t let me,” Ben lamented. “She grew up here. She’s been going to the Holiday Spectacular since she was a little girl, just like you and me and everyone else we know.”
“Bummer,” Griffin offered.
“Tell me about it. Where am I going to fit Ferret Face in that tight little green vest? He’s not a pet, you know. He’s a medical service animal.”
Hearing his name, the small weasel-like creature poked his head out from Ben’s collar and looked around.
“Live it up now, Ferret Face,” Ben advised darkly. “In a couple of weeks you’ll be squeezed flat in an elf suit.”
The creature withdrew back inside Ben’s shirt.
“I feel sorry for you, Ben. When I’m at Santa’s Workshop, I always pity those poor elves—dressed up like idiots with those pointy ears and bells on their shoes. But if your mom’s forcing you, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Ben’s eyes had found a stack of mail on the Bings’ kitchen counter. “Hey, that envelope’s just like mine. Isn’t that the Colchester family crest?”
In alarm, Griffin tore open the letter and stared at the contents.
Dear Elf …
“Mom!!” Griffin bellowed in a voice loud enough to bring Ferret Face to the surface again.
“I thought you said there’s nothing we can do about it,” put in Ben.
“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Griffin amended. “There’s no way I’m going to dress up like a Brussels sprout and make a fool of myself in front of the whole town! Mom!”
No answer.
“I don’t think she’s here, Griffin.”
“That’s right—she’s got jury duty. No problem, I’ll take this to Dad. He’s always got my back.”
Mr. Bing’s “office” was actually a workshop in the garage. He was a professional inventor, with several successful patents to his credit. Griffin punched in the code and the automatic door rose on an astounding sight.
A large orange globe hung suspended from the ceiling. Before it danced Griffin’s father, armed with a golf club. He hacked at the metal surface, making loud clanging noises and yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Take that! And that! And that!”
“Why’s he freaking out?” Ben asked in horror, patting the cowering Ferret Face inside the fabric of his T-shirt.
“It’s his latest invention!” Griffin called back over the noise.
“What is it—an iron piñata?”
“Dad! Dad!” Griffin rushed up to his father, narrowly avoiding the swinging seven iron. “You don’t have to wreck it! If it’s no good, you can start over!”
Panting, Mr. Bing backed off and lowered the club. “Oh, hi, guys.” Sweat poured down his face. “You’re just in time.”
“Why are you destroying all your hard work?” Griffin demanded.
“I’m not destroying it,” his father replied, “I’m testing it. This is Fruit Armor. Every year, thousands of tons of pieces of fruit arrive at their destinations bruised and ruined during transportation. But with Fruit Armor, every delicate peach, apricot, or grape arrives in perfect condition. See?”
He opened the globe, which separated into two hemispheres. This revealed a slightly smaller inner globe made of rubberized plastic, protected by a system of springs and ball bearings. This he removed and placed on his worktable. It was full of apples—shiny, red, unmarked, and beautiful.
“These should be applesauce after what I’ve put them through,” he announced proudly. “And look at them. They’re perfect.”
“Great, Dad.” Griffin’s mind was elsewhere. “Look at what came in the mail today. You’ve got to get me out of it.”
His father read the elf letter. “You’re so lucky! When I was your age, I’d have given my right arm to be an elf at Santa’s Workshop!”
“I guess things were pretty different back when you were a kid,” Ben offered.
“I’ll never forget the thrill of walking into the Colchester mansion the first time,” Mr. Bing reminisced. “I was four years old, and I thought I was in heaven! The size of the place … the decorations … the tree with that special star! Even today, when I think of the holidays, the first thing that comes to mind is Santa’s Workshop.”
Griffin watched his father’s face grow more and more animated. This was not the reaction he’d been hoping for. “Come on, Dad, I kind of like it, too. What’s not to like? But as a guest, not stuffed in green tights, wiping kids’ noses while putting them on Santa’s lap. They cry; they spill their juice. And if they barf, you have to clean it up!”
“Are you kidding?” crowed Mr. Bing. “Those elves were like rock stars to me. I used to look at them and think they had it made. Your mom was an elf back in high school. The first time I asked her out on a date she said no because she had elf duty.”
Griffin’s heart was sinking. Not Mom, too! How was he ever going to get out of this? “Well, congrats, Dad, on the, uh, Fruit Armor.”
“I hope it’s a big success,” Ben added.
“Thanks,” Mr. Bing acknowledged, looking pleased with himself. “I’ve got to get this prototype over to Daria Vader’s. It’s time to start the legal paperwork for the patent office.”
As they stepped out behind the closing garage door, the grinding gears of a big motor caught their attention. A transport truck roared past the Bing home. On its flatbed trailer lay a thick, dark green fir tree at least twenty-five feet long.
“That has to be going to the Colchesters’,” Ben observed sourly. “Who else would order a Christmas tree that big?”
As the truck swept by, they both saw a smaller figure behind it, moving just as fast. Antonia “Pitch” Benson rollerbladed up the street and swooped onto the driveway, stopping on a dime in front of them. She was the best Rollerblader in town, and also the best at everything else athletic—including climbing. She was better at that than at all other sports combined.
Clutched in her gloved hand was an all-too-familiar envelope.
Pitch’s face was a thundercloud. “Oh, it gets way better than that. My parents have already rescheduled our rock-climbing trip to Sedona so I won’t miss this fabulous honor!”
Ben was bewildered. “That’s three of us already.”
“Four,” Pitch amended. “Savannah got one yesterday. Her parents volunteered to take care of her animals so she can elf it up with us.”
At that moment, Griffin’s phone pinged. It was a text from their friend Melissa Dukakis: If you get invited to be an elf, do you have to do it?
Ben’s eyes widened. “Melissa, too? That’s all of us except Logan!”
Griffin dialed Logan’s number. There was no answer.
“Let’s go over there,” Griffin decided. “How did our whole team get on the elf list?”
“It’s a mystery,” Pitch said grimly. “And I don’t like mysteries.”
“Logan’s not going to like this, either,” Ben commented as they started in the direction of the Kellerman house. “It’ll take time away from his acting. Didn’t he just join that theater company?”
Griffin shook his head. “He tried but he didn’t get in. Poor guy was pretty broken up about it. You know how he is about his acting career.”
“He’s probably devastated,” Ben agreed.
“He doesn’t seem so devastated to me.” Pitch pointed down the block toward the Kellerman home. There was their friend Logan.
Griffin squinted. “What’s he doing? Is that dancing?”
Logan was in the front yard, hopping and skipping around the base of a small blue spruce, his arms alternately at his hips and up over his head.
“What gives, Kellerman?” called Pitch. “Why the Riverdance?”
“Oh, hey, guys,” Logan greeted them. “I’m practicing my Christmas jig. How am I doing?”
“That depends,” Ben told him. “If you’re trying to be arrested, you’ve nailed it. What Christmas jig?”
“At the Holiday Spectacular,” Logan explained, “all the elves perform a jig around the tree. You guys better start practicing, too, if we’re going to have a polished performance.”
Pitch’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that the rest of us are elves, too?”
“I’m the one who signed us up!”
“You what?” Griffin turned crimson. “Where would you get a crazy idea like that?”
“From you!”
“From me?” Griffin echoed. “I think I’d remember saying, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if Logan volunteered us all to be elves!’”
“When I got rejected by the North Shore Players, you said that instead of complaining, I should come up with a plan to get myself in. This is my plan. Yvette Boucle, the director of the Players, lives in Green Hollow, just one town away. Her daughter, Tiffany, is an elf every year. If I’m an elf, too, and really knock it out of the park, her mother will see what a great actor I am and change her mind about rejecting me.”
“That’s why you have to be an elf,” Pitch said through clenched teeth. “Why do we have to do it?”
“Well, every star needs a supporting cast.” Logan gave Griffin a dazzling smile. “I guess you’re not the only Man With The Plan around here anymore.”
Enraged, Pitch lunged at Logan. Only the frantic efforts of Griffin and Ben held her back from going for his throat.
“Kellerman, I’m missing Red Rocks because of you!”
Ferret Face poked his head out of Ben’s sleeve, hissing vigorously, a sign of agitation.
“Calm down, everybody,” Ben soothed, his shoulders slumped in resignation. “There’s no point in getting all bent out of shape about this. However we ended up on elf duty, our parents are going to make us do it. They love the Holiday Spectacular. It’s a tradition that we’ve been part of since before we could walk.”
“Fine.” Pitch looked daggers at Logan. “But you owe us, Kellerman. You owe us huge.”
“And from now on,” Griffin added, “all the plans around here come from me! Understood?”
Griffin Bing had always believed that nothing was impossible if you had the right plan. Now he saw how wrong that could be.
No plan could save a person from elf-hood.
The Colchester mansion was a magnificent stone home on a sprawling, hilly property overlooking the sparkling waters of Long Island Sound.
Melissa Dukakis agitated her head, causing her curtain of long, stringy hair to part, revealing beady black eyes. “Wow,” she whispered. “I’d forgotten how awesome this place is.”
Griffin nodded, taking in the sweeping balconies and elegant landscaping. “Maybe being an elf won’t be so bad if we get to come here every day.”
“They said we’ll be done in an hour,” Logan said into the open window of the Kellermans’ van. “This is just a meet and greet, and to get us fitted for costumes.” He took a deep breath. “I can smell the challenge of a new role.”
“You’re not going to smell anything with a broken nose,” Pitch warned as Mr. Kellerman continued around the circular drive and roared off. “I haven’t forgotten that this is all your fault.”
“Chill out,” Logan told her. “It’s is going to be great. Everybody loves Santa’s Workshop.”
“I see one person who doesn’t look like such a big fan,” Ben commented with a motion of his head toward the property next door.
At the boundary fence, a sour-faced older woman stood at her mailbox, scowling in their direction.
Griffin snapped his fingers. “That must be Miss Grier. My folks told me about her. She’s hated Santa’s Workshop ever since they were kids—always complaining about the noise and the traffic and people parking all over the place. They called her Miss Grinch.”
Miss Grier grabbed a handful of mail, tossed one more contemptuous look in the direction of the Colchester property, and stormed back to her home.
“Real neighborly, these rich people,” put in Pitch.
A cardboard sign reading ELF REGISTRATION directed them toward a side entrance. They were almost at the door when a large SUV pulled up. Out stepped Savannah Drysdale, leading a Doberman pinscher the size of a small pony.
At the sight of the big dog, Ferret Face crawled up Ben’s sleeve and cowered there. Luthor made the little creature nervous. Truth be told, Luthor made all of them nervous except Savannah. While she thought her “sweetie” was the gentlest, most harmless creature in the world, Griffin and the others remembered very well Luthor’s old life as a guard dog. They knew how little it took for him to revert back to his ferocious former self.
“Why’d you bring the dog, Savannah?” Logan complained.
“We always do everything together on the weekend,” Savannah explained.
“Why didn’t you just tell him it’s Wednesday?” asked Ben.
“Because he knows. He counts the school days. Besides, I would never lie to Luthor.”
“He better not cause trouble,” Logan warned. “Remember, Tiffany Boucle is an elf, too. If my friend’s dog trashes Santa’s Workshop, I’ll never get into the North Shore Players.”
Savannah’s expression hardened. “Luthor is as gentle as a kitten.” To emphasize that the subject was closed, she led the big Doberman down the cobblestone path to the side of the stately home. The others followed.
They arrived at a door that was less grandiose than the mansion’s main portal, but still impressive—a heavy oak panel studded in brass. It was the service entrance, and beneath that sign was a hand-lettered cardboard one that read, WELCOME ELVES.
It drew a low moan from Ben. “I know that’s what we are, but do they have to keep rubbing it in?”
“There are no small roles,” Logan lectured him. “Only small actors.”
The door opened before Griffin could knock, and a tall, haughty gentleman appeared on the stoop. “The elves, I presume?” His accent was British, his suit black and impeccably tailored, his long nose turned up as if he smelled somethin
g bad.
“My name is Priddle. I am Mr. Colchester’s personal secretary.” The eyes looking down that nose were cold as ice, and they fell next on Luthor. “The animal must remain outside, of course.”
“Luthor is as much a part of this group as I am,” pleaded Savannah, shocked.
“Then you will remain outside as well,” said Priddle without hesitation.
A protest died on Savannah’s lips. The Colchesters were the most beloved family in the history of Cedarville. If she threw a fit and refused to participate, her parents would only send her back again, this time without her loving companion.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she murmured to the big dog, wrapping the leash around a downspout. “I won’t be long. Be a good boy.”
Priddle matched their names to a master list and then led them down a long corridor into an area of changing rooms off the indoor pool. “Girls to the left, boys to the right. Choose a costume of your size and put it on.”
The elf costumes included a leather jerkin over a green tunic, tights, long-toed shoes with bells on the end, pointy ear attachments, and a beanie with red pom-poms. The six friends stepped from behind the curtains at the same time. The embarrassment was balanced by the fact that everybody else was in the same absurd outfit. There were a few nervous giggles, but no teasing or belly laughs.
Logan had the only criticism. “You look great, but you’re too serious. You have to smile. Elves are happy.”
“Not the ones who got cheated out of climbing at Red Rocks,” Pitch put in sourly.
Priddle looked them over. “Quite acceptable. This way, please.”
The next stop was the Great Hall, the largest space in the mansion, with its soaring ceiling. Workmen were already constructing the indoor castle that would house Santa’s throne, and the Workshop, where the little kids could string popcorn and decorate gingerbread men. The sight of it brought back happy memories of visits here as younger children.
Between the twin staircases rose the Christmas tree, stretching a full twenty-five feet in the air. At its peak gleamed the Star of Prague, a priceless heirloom that was considered to be the most valuable item anywhere in Cedarville. It was a large crystal orb that housed a magnificent five-pointed star made of multicolored stained glass. The translucent outer globe was newer, but the original Star dated back to the tenth century, when it had been owned by Saint Wenceslaus himself.
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