Selfish Elf Wish (2 page)

The lights dim and Briar grabs my hand as two spotlights swirl across the curtains and an electric guitar swells over the loudspeakers. It’s a song I’ve never heard, but the crowd around Briar and me recognizes it. They clap and whistle or sing the melody. I squeeze Briar’s hand just as the curtains sweep open to reveal a backlit staircase. The spotlights focus on Mr. Padgett standing at the top, but instead of his usual jeans and sweater, he’s in a gray suit. His brownish-blond hair’s slicked back off his face and he struts down the steps with a mic in one hand, the other hand in his pants pocket. He stops at the bottom and booms over the music, “You’ve watched it on TV. You’ve followed the winners—Kelly, Carrie, Jordin, David, and Kris. You’ve dreamed it was you.”

People scream. Girls jump up and down, waving their arms. Mercedes is on her feet, her dark curls bouncing as she yells, “Is this for real? Are we auditioning for
Idol?
” Even Timber, usually so calm and cool, has moved to the edge of his seat and grips the chair in front of him, ready to stand up at any moment.

“Now it’s your turn, BAPAHS,” Mr. Padgett says into the mic.

“Did he get us an exclusive?” Chelsea asks, but Timber shrugs, his eyebrows flexed in confusion.

“Is Simon here?” Ari yells.

Briar buries her head into my shoulder. I know she’s scared, but so am I. As usual, I’m lost and have no idea why everyone is freaking out like this.

“This is ...” Mr. Padgett raises one arm above his head and points to the back of the stage. A bright yellow neon light pops on just as he says, “
Idle America!
”

A loud whoop goes up from the crowd, but then, just as suddenly, the screaming, clapping, and stomping dies, replaced by murmuring and discontented grumbles. “What’d he say?” Mercedes asks Ari.

The lights come up and Mr. Padgett stands center stage, pleased as a cat that just dropped a dead mouse on your toes.

“
Idle?
” Timber asks, reading the sign. “As in not moving?”

“He got the name wrong?” Ari pushes his hands through his mess of dark hair. “What a loser.”

All around us people drop into their seats, confused, but not as confused as Briar and I. We’re pop culture morons because we grew up under a rock in the woods. Literally. My family got our first television a few weeks ago, and we never had a phone until we moved to New York.

“This year, BAPAHS,” Mr. Padgett continues, “instead of staging an existing musical production that’s been done hundreds of times, we’ll put on an original show.” He pauses and struts to the other end of the stage. “One written just for you and one that reflects the times.” Mr. Padgett holds the mic loosely in his hand and begins to pace. “As most of you know, I have both a music degree from the prestigious Berklee College of Music in Boston and an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University.”

Ari groans and rolls his eyes at Mercedes, who pretends to strangle herself because Mr. Padgett never tires of reminding us about his pedigree.

“So, I have put those degrees to good use and penned the script, songs, and score to the first original BAPAHS production of
Idle America
!”

“What is this man talking about?” Ari asks, but everyone in our row just shrugs and looks bewildered.

“Are we not auditioning for
American Idol
?” Mercedes says. “Because I just about peed myself and now I want to kill him.”

“That guy’s got some nerve,” Timber mutters, slumping back into his seat.

Briar and I look at each other, more confused than anyone else in the room, because whatever they think Mr. Padgett is talking about and whatever he’s really talking about are lost on us.

“But that’s not all, BAPAHS,” Mr. Padgett says.

“This
pendejo
better redeem himself now,” Mercedes says loudly, “or I’m gonna whoop his ass into Tuesday.”

“Auditions for
Idle America
will be held
American Idol
style.” Mr. Padgett pauses for effect and is met only by silence. “Right here. Right now.”

“What the . . . ” Mercedes says as my heart rolls up into my mouth.

“Did he say ‘right now’?” I grab Timber’s arm.

He half laughs and pats my leg. “You have to be ready for anything in this business.”

Onstage, Mr. Padgett keeps right on talking. “Students will vote for their favorite performers today. The top vote getters will be cast in the lead roles. Second best get supporting roles, and so on. So get ready, BAPAHS, because ...” He points to the back of the auditorium, cuing the lights, which go down, and the music, which comes up. A spotlight hits him once more, and he says, “This is
Idle America
!” Then everything goes dark.

AFTER MR. PADGETT’S
little performance, everyone who’s auditioning hustles backstage, clutching our CDs and MP3 players with our background music that we were told to bring. We quickly draw numbers, then boys go to one side of backstage and girls go to the other to start the excruciating process of waiting for our turn to sing in front of the entire school.

From behind the green velvet curtains, I peek onto the stage and nearly hyperventilate when I see Chelsea under the spotlights belting out a song called “Rock Star” by some band called Hole. Her hair is cardinal red today to match her slinky red halter top. The diamond in the side of her nose twinkles then flares under the lights, and her short black skirt inches up her fishnet stockings as she shimmies from one end of the stage to the other, stomping her black boots to the downbeat of the song. I scan upturned faces in the audience. They smile, sing along, hoot, and holler as if they don’t want her song to end.

I turn to Mercedes, my eyes as round as moons. “I don’t think I can do this,” I tell her, because I’m next and my heart’s thumping so fast I think it will flop out of my chest like a suicidal fish. “I can’t follow
that
.”

“Yes, you can,” Mercedes says, reaching up to rub my shoulders. “You’re better than she is.”

“But she’s so, so, so ...” I watch Chelsea, knees bent, arms stretched, hips swaying side to side as she hits a deep resounding note. “Sexy,” I whisper.

“You mean slutty,” Mercedes says.

“There’s no way I can compete.” I scan my body sheathed in my Alverland uniform: a long green tunic, golden-brown leggings, and soft leather boots up to my knees. “Compared to her, I look . . . I look ...”

Mercedes looks me up and down. “Amish,” she says. “You know I love your style and everything, but ...”

“What am I going to do?” I plead, wishing that Briar were backstage with me, but she’s in the audience with Kenji because they’re not auditioning. “I’ll be such a letdown when I walk out there,” I whisper. “No one will know my song and I’ll bore everyone into a coma.” I feel my throat begin to close because the worst part is, Chelsea isn’t even my biggest competition today. “And now that Bella’s back ...” I groan.

“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.