Selfish Elf Wish (3 page)

When the intro music to “Flying Dancer” rains down on me, though, all my fear drains away. My dad might not be a hugely famous singer, but his music gets enough play that I see people clapping along in the crowd. I lift the mic to my lips and begin to sing.

Despite my nerves, once the first notes leave my throat, I soar with the music. I keep my feet planted for the biggest notes, then let my body move with the dancing melody. I feel the words and as I sing, I hold Timber in my mind. Really I chose this song for him. Is he watching? I forget about the crowd, the contest, Bella, and Mr. Padgett, and I sing only for Timber.

I’m having so much fun that I don’t want my song to end. I could sing all day, all night, stopping only now and again for a breath to keep me going. But, like every other song in the world, my song has to end. The fiddle and mandolin fade. I lower the mic and bow my head, pausing for just a moment before I lift up and let the last notes echo through the speakers like the song of a sandhill crane ringing across reedy marshes.

Then the applause hits me like a forceful wave. I take a step back and laugh as I lift my arms above my head and smile. I can hear Briar’s voice ringing out above everyone else, and I blow her a kiss. Then, I turn slightly to the left and see Timber clapping with his arms raised. I’d like to run into the wings, tackle him, and disappear into the folds of that curtain. But Mr. Padgett was very clear on the rules. Girls on one side. Boys on the other. I wink at Timber, then nearly skip off the stage back to Mercedes.

She grabs me. “Girl! You rocked that song like nobody’s business.”

“Was it okay?” I ask, my breath fluttery. “It felt good. Was it as good as it felt?”

“It was better,” she tells me, and I hug her. “Here, take your belt.” I unbuckle it as quickly as I can and hand it over.

While Mercedes rearranges her long white shirt, I see Bella lurking in the shadow. She looks at me and lifts her hand, even with the floor, then tilts it back and forth as if to say,
So-so
. “You got a little pitchy near the end,” she says.

“What’s that, Bella?” Mercedes asks. “You’re a little bitchy and you have no friends?”

Bella cocks an eyebrow. “Who are you again?”

I feel Mercedes shrink beside me, so I sling my arm over her shoulders. Everyone else might tiptoe around this girl, but I won’t. “You know exactly who she is,” I say. Bella shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. I stand up tall and step closer so that I look down into Bella’s fierce green eyes. I was meek like a scared little bunny when I first came to this school, but I won’t let her intimidate me anymore. “You better watch out, Bella,” I say. “Mercedes and I are on fire.”

“Yeah, you might get burned,” Mercedes adds.

Bella rolls her eyes and turns away. “Dream your little dreams,” she says, and flips her long dark hair. Then she casts one more evil glance our way. “I’m back and everybody already knows this audition is mine.”

Two guys sing before it’s Mercedes’s turn. When Mr. Padgett calls her name, she bounds out from behind the curtains, grabs the mic, and starts clapping while high stepping across the stage to the rhythm of “We Ride” by Mary J. Blige. “Come on, let me hear y’all,” she shouts into the mic, then she starts to sing. Mercedes’s energy ricochets off the walls and gets inside the crowd, making people hop out of their seats and dance. And she works the crowd, getting close to the edge of the stage, bending down, singing to the front row, then standing up and reaching toward the back of the house. She’s told me that that comes from years in her grandmother’s church, where people dance in the aisles while the choir stomps and sings. When she’s done, the crowd goes nuts and Mercedes looks a little bit shocked. She stands center stage for just a beat as if she can’t imagine who they’re clapping, hooting, and hollering for. Then she smiles big, bows low, and runs off the stage, bouncing like an unbridled colt running free.

In the wings, she jumps into my arms. “You were smoking!” I tell her.

“They like me,” she says, laughing. “They really like me!”

 

Only Timber and Bella are left to sing. Mr. Padgett claims that was the luck of the draw, but nobody believes him for a nanosecond. Ari and Mercedes think he made up the order according to who he wants to see win because as any dodo knows, the last performer has the momentum of everyone who came before. Mercedes and I wrap our arms around each other and huddle in the wings with all the other girls, including Chelsea and even Bella, as Timber takes the stage. The crowd is stoked, stomping, clapping, and chanting, “At the playground!” because this was Timber’s signature song when he was famous.

Timber was the lead singer of a boy band called TLC Boyz from the time he was eight until he was twelve years old. He toured all over the world and sold tons of records. Until his voice changed. And his parents divorced. And his manager stole most of his money. And the band broke up. Same old story, he likes to say when I ask him about it, but it’s new to me.

I think the problems his fame caused are the reason he’s never tried for a comeback. Like the old pro that he is, he takes the chanting and clapping all in stride, pressing his hands together in front of his heart and bowing a little as if to thank the people who might adore him or might be making fun of him. Before I got to know Timber, I would have thought his actions were fake, but now I know he’s sincere. He knows what it’s like to have a million fans and then how it feels to watch what you thought you had crumble into little bitty pieces at your feet. So whenever people applaud, he’s grateful.

Unlike anyone else who’s sung today, Timber owns this stage like he built it and lives on it. While the rest of us jumped around, desperate to pound our songs into people’s minds, Timber is smooth. He hangs back and never rushes through a note, a move, a moment. Time slows down when he sings this song about the rain. I’ve never heard it before, but he told me it’s by an old New Orleans R&B singer named Irma Thompson.

I look out at the crowd. No one yells or screams because everyone is mesmerized. I see why he was a star and how easily he could be again if he ever tried. There’s something about him. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s the thing that makes my stomach flutter and my heart race when I catch a glimpse of him in the hallway or when I hear his voice on the phone. Despite that, watching all these people fall in love with Timber makes me wonder if he and I will ever be more than friends.

I look over my shoulder at Bella. She stands off to the side, alone, one arm crossed over her belly, propping the other one up so her fist covers her mouth. I see real sadness in her eyes, but she’s not crying, and this sends a chill down my back. I don’t know if she was ever really in love with Timber or just liked having him around, but to me, it looks like she’s calculating how she’s going to win this audition and then get Timber back. Life is all casting to her, and in her mind, she and Timber should always get the lead.

She catches me staring, but I don’t look away. It’s like my father taught me when we hunt. If you’re in the middle of the forest, facing down a mountain lion who wants the same buck you’ve got in your arrow sights, look them in the eye and let them know you’re in charge.

Timber’s voice, climbing up and up now, ends our staring contest. He’s center stage, head back, eyes closed, arm up, microphone cocked to his mouth. The golden light bathes him as if the sun has broken through the night sky to illuminate only one thing on this earth. “I wish the rain would hurry up and stop,” he sings, letting the very last note quake before he snaps up, smiles big, and drops down for a bow.

There’s a half-second pause, and then the crowd goes berserk. Kids are on their feet stomping and clapping. Anybody else would either fall down from the power of this reception or let themselves swell up until they floated, but Timber only shakes his head and presses his hands over his heart, mouthing
Thank you
over and over again as he makes his way offstage.

But Mr. Padgett pulls him back to the center of the stage. “Give it up for Timber,” Mr. Padgett says into the mic. Timber bows again, then motions to Mr. Padgett, as if he should get all the credit. Mr. Padgett laughs and slaps Timber on his back. Then he slings an arm around Timber’s shoulders and Timber does the same to him.

“Vomit,” someone says behind me. “Why don’t they just make out.”

I wrench around to see who’s talking, but everyone is whispering together so I have no idea who said it.

“If you liked that, BAPAHS, wait till you see what’s next.” Keeping one arm around Timber, Mr. Padgett points toward our side of the stage. “Let me hear you make some noise for Bella D’Artagnan!” Mr. Padgett shouts.

Bella straightens up, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and rearranges her face from cold and calculating to the picture of warmth and beauty.

“How’s she change her face like that?” I ask Mercedes as we watch Bella glide onto the stage.

Mercy just shakes her head. “Dang, she is a hell of an actress.”

Mr. Padgett keeps Timber in his grip, so that he has to reach across his body to hand Bella the mic. For the smallest moment, Timber and Bella are side by side onstage and I see Mr. Padgett grin over his shoulder.

“This is bull,” Chelsea says from beside us. And for once I have to agree with her. “If Mr. Padgett wanted to cast the show, he should have just cast it and not make us go through this.”

We all turn back to the stage as the first few notes of Bella’s song come over the PA system.

“No she didn’t,” Mercedes says, shaking her head.

“Of course she did,” Chelsea says with a snort.

“What is it?” I ask Mercedes.

“‘Girlfriend’ by Avril Lavigne,” says Mercy. “Get a load of the lyrics.”

Bella’s alone now, standing in the spotlight, reaching toward the crowd. The thing I realize as I watch her is that Bella isn’t the best singer today. Chelsea and Mercedes could sing her into a ditch, but Bella is the best performer. It’s as if she means every word as she struts around singing, “I don’t like your girlfriend.” I’m sure she’s singing it to Timber, which makes me boil. But what’s weird is even though I can’t stand her right now, she still has some quality that makes me want to watch her. Like how you can’t look away when a fox catches a squirrel.

When her song ends, applause rings through the auditorium and Mr. Padgett comes back onstage. He holds Bella around the waist. “Brilliant,” he says as if he’s speaking only to her, but since he says it through the mic, everyone hears. “Now, BAPAHS,” he says, quieting the crowd. “It’s time to vote. The computer lab is open until the end of the day. Log on and cast your vote. Only one vote per student. If you want to know the results, be back here at 3:05 sharp for the announcement of who will be ...” The lights lower, a spot circles the stage, and a guitar wails. Then the light hits Mr. Padgett and Bella. “The first BAPAHS idol!”

FOR THE REST
of the day everyone who auditioned walks the halls like a zombie, staring slack-jaw at each person passing by, wondering,
Did he vote for me? Did she? Was I good enough? Or was I so bad that I should never show my face at BAPAHS again?
At least I changed into jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt after the audition so no one can point at me and say, “Hey, there’s the girl with no pants who sings like a Canada goose.”

Timber finds me in the hallway on the way to lunch. He puts his arm around my shoulders and smiles, which makes my hair and skin prickle with excitement. “You were amazing!” he says, giving me a quick hug, then just as quickly letting go to give some guy a high five.