Selfish Elf Wish (10 page)

Then the doorbell rings again. Briar scurries out of the room before anyone else can move. “I’ll get it!” she yells, then swings open the front door to reveal Kenji standing on our stoop. Tonight the tips of his black hair are orange and he wears a bright green ski parka, skinny jeans, and heavy winter boots. He tugs his earbuds and lets them dangle around his neck before coming in the house, only to be mobbed by the same gang of crazy elf children who attack anyone who enters our home. Briar grabs their arms and legs and pulls them off Kenji, who stands stiff, as if he’s being licked by a bear.

“Everyone’s here!” Poppy shouts with glee.

“Just in time,” my mother calls from the kitchen doorway, where she emerges into the dining room carrying a giant platter with a beautiful, crisp brown turkey. We all ooh and aah at the bird, its scent drawing us to the table.

 

After the serving dishes have been passed around, my dad taps his fork against his glass and stands.

“Please, for the love of the north wind, don’t let him embarrass us,” I whisper to Briar as I scrunch into my seat.

“I’d like to thank you all for joining us today,” Dad says while lifting his glass of cold elderberry tea. “Brooklyn was a lonely place for my family when we first moved here.”

Briar and I look at each other. My cheeks begin to burn. “Does he have to admit that we’re such freaks?” I whisper.

“But the longer we live here, the more we realize that there isn’t much difference between life where we come from and life here.”

Briar screws up her face and shakes her head. “Has he lost his mind?” she whispers back to me.

“In the end,” my father says, “what’s important to us is the same that’s important to anyone else. A good meal, good conversation, and good people to share it with. And so, today I’d like to propose a special toast to my daughter Zephyr.”

At the mention of my name I sit up straight. Briar and I stare at each other. I have no idea why he’s toasting me.

My dad looks at me with his glass in the air. “Zephyr was the first one to go out in Brooklyn and make friends, then bring the world back to us. So, sweetie, thank you for bringing these fine people to our table today.”

I smile at my dad, both relieved and proud. Then I look around the table at Ari and Kenji, Mercedes and Timber. I’m not exactly sure what Thanksgiving is all about for the erdlers, but I do know that I’m grateful for my friends and for my family (even if they are hanging on to normalcy by the tips of their elfin fingers).

“Now,” says Dad, “I hope you all enjoy this wonderful meal and maybe even some good conversation, too. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” everyone shouts, glasses clinking.

I lift my glass and mouth the words
Thank you
to my dad. He winks and then we all dig in.

Just as I’m cutting into a big juicy slab of turkey breast on my plate, Timber turns to me and says, “I’ve never seen you eat meat. I thought you were a vegetarian.”

I stop, fork halfway to my mouth, which gives Poppy, who’s sitting across the table from us, enough time to butt in.

“Usually we only eat the meat from animals that we kill ourselves,” she explains with her mouth full of sweet potatoes.

I glance at Timber’s mom, who’s on Poppy’s left. She leans forward and cocks her eyebrow. “Really?” Laura asks. I glare at Poppy. I should have never seated her so close to me. In fact, I should have made her sit in the pantry.

“When you think about it,” Bramble says from the other side of Poppy, “if you hunt your own wild turkey, you know it’s probably had a pretty good life out there in the woods, doing happy turkey things like eating acorns and roosting in the trees, so then you don’t feel so bad eating it.”

“I never thought of that,” Laura says.

“They all know how to hunt,” Timber tells his mom. “With bows and arrows.”

Laura raises both eyebrows. “In Michigan?”

“It’s very rural,” I say quietly, as if that can explain why my seven-year-old brother knows how to take down a wild turkey.

“She texted me from a tree the last time she went back,” says Timber. Even though this is true, I slap him on the thigh under the table to let him know he’s embarrassing me. He flashes me a playful smile and keeps right on going. “They don’t even drive where they’re from.”

If he were my brother or cousin, I’d slap him with a short mute hex to shut him up. Instead, I shake my head and say, “We drive sometimes. We just walk more.”

“Like New Yorkers,” says Laura, and Poppy bursts out laughing.

“Alverlanders are nothing like New Yorkers,” she says. I kick her foot and she squirms in her chair, but it shuts her up.

“What other Thanksgiving traditions does your family have, Zephyr?” Laura asks.

I hesitate. So far Laura has heard that we kill wild turkeys with bows and arrows, and we don’t drive but we do sit in trees to text. We sound like Neanderthals with BlackBerries. What will she think if I tell her that we don’t actually celebrate Thanksgiving? That we don’t celebrate any of the same holidays as most other Americans? Not Christmas, or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa. No Easter or Passover or Fourth of July. We don’t shop for presents or buy singing cards or send e-mails on someone’s birthday. And, no matter what my dad said in his toast, that barely scratches the surface of how my family is different from Timber’s family. I can’t say all that, but I also can’t lie.

“We eat a lot at this time of year,” I say, which makes Laura laugh.

“That’s what Thanksgiving is all about,” she says.

I nod, but technically I’m not talking about Thanksgiving because our pilgrims came from Scandinavia by way of Greenland then Canada, and they showed up long before the Plymouth Rock crowd.

“And we have a festival,” Poppy tells her.

Bramble catches wind of this and leans over again. “That’s when we reenact the first feast. The boys act out the Big Hunt, when Grandfather Tjern and the other men shot a twelve-point buck.”

“And the girls act out Aster, our first mother, and her sisters harvesting the original crop of corn, beans, pumpkins, and squash,” Poppy says. “And the little kids pretend to be the first children, who found berries, nuts, and wild onions in the forest.”

“Then we all feast to celebrate the good fortune of our ancestors finding Alverland and—”

Before they can say any more, I clear my throat and quickly flick my fingers toward Poppy and Bramble, saying, “Ribbit” under my breath. Then I lift up the platter of turkey and ask, “Would anyone like some more?”

Timber hands me his plate. “I’ll take more,” he says. “This is delicious.”

“Sure, I’ll have some, too,” says Laura.

Poppy and Bramble’s mouths move but only raspy noises come out as they try to clear their throats.

“You okay?” Laura asks them.

“Frog in my throat,” Poppy croaks while glaring at me.

“Here, have some water.” Laura picks up a crystal pitcher and refills their glasses.

“What’s Thanksgiving like at your house?” I ask Timber.

He shrugs. “Since it’s just Mom and me, we usually go somewhere else.”

I feel it then. Like a quick electric shock through my brain that sizzles down into my mouth. I look across the table, horrified. Poppy and Bramble smirk at me. I don’t know which one hexed me or if it was a group effort, but no matter how hard I try to control myself, I can’t stop the words beginning to spill out of me. “Like to your grandparents? A lot of people do that around here, don’t they? That’s what we’d do in Alverland. Everybody gets together at the grandparents. So many people. I have, like, a hundred cousins. And everybody has to be together for every little holiday. And believe me, we celebrate a lot of hmfrdls,” I shove a roll in my mouth to stop the words.

“Um, no,” Timber says, eyebrows flexed. Across the table Poppy and Bramble huddle together, their shoulders quaking as they try holding in their laughter. “My grandparents aren’t around.”

I swallow the bread and press my lips together as hard as I can, but the words, “Maybe you go to a restaurant then?” pop out. “I always wanted to go to a restaurant for a holiday. Just once, you know? It’d be so fun.” I scramble for the bread basket, knocking over the salt shaker as the words keep blobbing out. “Ordering food off a menu instead of cooking it all and having someone else do all the dishes would be great. And you wouldn’t have to eat turkey if you didn’t want to and ...” Quickly, I butter another roll. “Of course, there are no restaurants where we’re from so we’d have to mmmfrld.” I shove the bread in my mouth.

Now Timber is looking at me like I’m crazy. “We just go to a friend’s house.”

“What kind of friends?” I ask and I start to sweat. “Family friends or school friends?” More bread. I’m starting to feel sick from all the rolls in my stomach.

“School friends.” He looks at me, puzzled. I’m sure he wants me to stop grilling him, but I can’t. Even when I stuff my mouth full of mashed potatoes, I can’t stop myself from talking. “Which friends? Anyone I know?” I ask, potatoes spilling from my lips. Bramble falls out of his chair because he’s laughing so hard.

Timber looks at me. “The last couple of years we spent it with Bella’s family, okay?”

Now I’m really sweating and my stomach hurts. I try biting my tongue, but that doesn’t work either. “It’s always good to have someplace to go,” I chirp. “Does Bella’s mother make turkey? Do they have a cook? Are they rich? I bet it’s really nice there. They probably have candles and music and stuff while they eat.” My brain races through all the ways her house is probably better than my house and I can’t stop talking. “And pumpkin pie. They probably always have that. But we don’t because my mom didn’t know how to make it even though I printed out a recipe. And Bella doesn’t have any brothers and sisters, right, so there probably aren’t like a million little kids running around and ...”

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Behind me Mercedes and Ari stand on either side of my chair, staring daggers at me while I keep right on yammering about Bella’s family. “Could you show us where the bathroom is?” Mercy says. They both yank my chair away from the table. “Right now.” They lift me up by the armpits and usher me through the dining room, my lips flapping all the way.

Ari shoves me in the little bathroom behind the kitchen. They squish in with me and lock the door behind us.

“Okay, intervention,” Ari says to me.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mercedes asks.

“I know! It’s terrible. I can’t stop talking. It’s just blurting out and blurting out and blurting out ...” I bury my face in my hands.

“You’ve got to pull it together, girl,” Mercedes says. “Or I’m going to slap you.”

I grab her sweater. “Please do,” I beg, wondering if that would reverse the hex. “I can’t stop myself. What am I going to do? I sound like such an idiot.” But as soon as I say this, I feel the hex start to fade. These things don’t last long. Especially when someone as little as Poppy or Bramble casts them.

“For God’s sake,” Mercedes says. “Get ahold of yourself.”

I take a few deep breaths. The tingling feeling on my tongue has almost disappeared. “Okay. All right. I’m better.”

“At the very least,” Ari says. “If you’re going to talk a thousand miles an hour, stop talking about his old girlfriend.”

I groan and flop down on the toilet. “Oh stars! What am I going to do? Now he thinks I’m a complete freak.”

“You can recover,” Ari assures me. “Make the boy laugh. Ask him questions. Sing a song. Tap dance. You know, work your magic!”

“What?” I ask, staring up at him in a panic. “Why would you say that? What makes you think—”

“Not literally,” Ari says. “We know you’re not really going to sing and dance, but stop acting like such a frickin’ spaz.”

Mercedes turns to the small mirror over the sink and fluffs out her curls. Then she turns back to me. “This is your chance,” she says. “Don’t screw it up.”

 

By the time we get back to the table, the buzzing feeling in my tongue is gone, but so are Poppy and Bramble, who’ve finished dinner and disappeared upstairs with the twins. Good thing, too, because I’m as mad as a hornet. But I don’t have time to think about getting them back, because my grandmother has moved into the seat next to Timber’s mom and appears to be grilling her.

“And where are your ancestors from?” Fawna asks.

“Poland and Germany,” Laura says. “And one grandmother was Italian. I’m a regular American mutt.”

“Hmmm,” says Fawna, biting her lip. “And his father?” She nods toward Timber.

“They’re French,” says Laura.

Fawna’s eyes become little slits. “From the coast or the mountains?” I can tell by the look on her face she’s not just making polite conversation. Fawna is fishing for some piece of information, but I don’t know what it is.

“The Alsace-Lorraine area,” Timber says. “We still have cousins there. I used to go back with my grandfather.”

“A dangerous area,” Grandma mutters.

“Actually, it’s really nice there.” Timber looks at me, confused.

I have no idea what’s going on, so I do what I always do when I’m uncertain; I change the subject. “Did you get a Christmas tree yesterday?” I ask.

“We did,” Laura says. “You should come decorate it with us this weekend.”

“Oh, wow, um ...” I say, looking to Timber.

His face betrays nothing. Does he want me to come to his house or not? Instead of answering, he looks at his mom. “By the way,” he says, “Dad asked me to go skiing with him for Christmas.”

“Okay,” she says, but I think she looks disappointed. “What will your family do, Zephyr?”

“Um, uh,” I stutter, wondering if Christmas coincides with the winter solstice this year. “The usual, I guess.”

“See the tree at Rockefeller? Visit Santa at Macy’s? Check out the lights in Dyker Heights?” she says.

“Er ...” I look at her dumbly. Crikey, I wish I had the talking hex back. Now I sound like a monosyllabic moron.