Selfish Elf Wish (4 page)

“So were you!” I say, but he’s distracted by the forty-five other people telling him the same thing as we make our way down the steps.

When we get to the lunchroom, we find Ari, Mercedes, Briar, and Kenji already in our new corner of the cafeteria. We had been sitting at a table in the center of the room, because that was Timber’s table before he broke up with Bella and she was shipped off to detox. But on Monday, Bella’s minions, Tara and Zoe, staked out that table and held it for Bella before anyone else could get to it. Mercedes wanted to put up a fight to get the table back, but Timber said it wasn’t worth it.

I like the new table better, anyway, because from here I can look out and see the packs in the cafeteria. On the right, skoners (that’s what Ari calls the skateboarding stoners), and jazzers on the left. Drama kids in the front, symphony dorks in the back. Ballerinas to one side, nibbling on lettuce, opera singers hunkered down on the other, chowing on pasta. And now, front and center once again, Queen Bee Bella, still surrounded by her buzzing drones, Zoe and Tara, sipping Diet Cokes and sharing a bag of unsalted pretzels.

Erdlers have stronger packs than wolves, Briar said to me after her first day at school, and I have to agree. Except for our misfit group: a drama girl, a gay goth boy, an emo punk, two dorky blond elves forever trying to hide our magic, and superpopular Timber. Sometimes I wonder why we all get along so well.

Mercedes bumps me with her elbow. “See that home slice?” she asks, nodding to a tall, lanky guy loping across the cafeteria. He’s in black, head to toe, wild black hair gelled into a sloppy, half-curly Mohawk, black T-shirt with a silver hollow-eyed alien’s face across the chest, super-skinny black jeans, black studded belt hanging low on his narrow hips, clunky black boots. “That’s Bella’s new conquest.”

I look to my left at Timber, who shovels in his lunch like he’s been trapped in a cabin for a week with no supplies. He glances across the room where everyone else stares. We all watch the guy slide onto the bench beside Bella. She turns to him, her eyes fluttering like two emerald green butterf lies alighting off a milkweed plant. A smile slowly spreads across her face. The guy leans forward and they kiss, longer than a peck hello. I can almost feel every girl in the room sigh and every guy bristle with envy.

Timber rolls his eyes at me. “That’s Gunther,” he whispers. “I’m pretty sure Bella was screwing around with him behind my back for most of last year.”

“No way,” I say.

“Yes way,” he says, and laughs. Then he turns back to a burrito the size of his head.

“Who cares about them,” Ari says. “Let’s talk about how much I hate Mr. Padgett.”

“Let’s castrate him.” Mercedes sits back in her seat, arms folded over her chest. “Turn him into a eunuch.”

“You could tell he was so proud of himself. Like this audition was the greatest idea in the world,” Ari complains. “I’ve never known a person who can get his own knickers in a twist more than that guy.”

“What are knickers?” Briar asks as she crunches into a bright orange carrot.

“Underwear,” Ari tells her, pointing toward his lap.

“Under here?” Briar asks, looking under the table.

“Huh?” says Ari.

“The knickers,” Briar says.

“Is she joking?” Mercedes asks me.

“Skivvies,” I say to Briar, using our word for underwear.

“
Knickers
means skivvies?” Briar asks.

“Yes,” I say, laughing. “But usually they call it underwear.” Ari still looks confused.

“But why are his skivvies twisted?” Briar asks.

“You can tell they’re related,” Mercedes says, pointing from me to Briar, because before Briar came I was always asking these kinds of questions.

“I just mean he gets really wound up about his own ideas,” says Ari.

“When he’s not mentioning his music degree from Berklee and his MFA from Columbia,” Mercedes adds.

“You’d think the guy has been asked to direct the newest Sondheim revival at the Met,” Ari says.

Briar looks at me puzzled. I shrug because like her, I have no idea what they’re talking about. The difference is that I’ve learned to keep the questions to myself and figure things out as I go along so I don’t seem entirely clueless.

“I don’t think Mr. Padgett’s that bad,” Timber says between bites.

Mercedes snorts. “You wouldn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Timber.

“It means you already got your fifteen minutes,” Mercedes says. “But the rest of us are still waiting in line.”

“Fifteen minutes for what?” I ask, because even I have to ask sometimes.

“Fame,” Kenji tells us. “It’s an old Andy Warhol quote.”

“Huh?” Briar says, but I shrug and let it pass.

“It was longer than fifteen minutes,” Timber says, which is true. “And it’s a lot less glamorous than most people think. Sometimes fame can suck,” says Timber.

“Then why does everyone want it?” Briar asks.

Timber shrugs. “At this point, I just want to play music, and if people like it and want to listen, that’s fine. Fame is beside the point. And anyway, TLC Boyz probably put me at a disadvantage today.”

“How’s that?” Mercedes asks, one eyebrow up and a hand on her hip.

“Backlash,” says Timber.

“What are you talking about?” Chelsea asks as she puts her tray down beside Timber. For once Darby and Riena aren’t tailing her.

“I’m just saying,” Timber goes on. “People might not vote for me because I already had my moment in the sun.”

“Hell to the no,” Mercedes says. “They’ll vote for you. And they’ll vote for Bella from Hella. And all the other popular people in the school.” She gives Chelsea a withering look. “Whether they can sing worth a damn or not. This won’t be about singing. It’ll be about who everybody wants to see strutting their pretty little asses across that stage. And it ain’t. Gonna. Be. Me.” She shakes her head, and I worry that she might cry. “It’s always the golden ones.”

“Who’s golden?” Briar whispers to me.

“I’m not a golden boy, Mercedes,” Timber says. His spork clatters against his tray. “I work just as hard as anyone else.”

“Oh yeah.” Mercedes looks down and pokes at a lump of mashed potatoes on her tray. “You and Bella both deserve Oscars for your performances today, and I’m not talking about your singing.”

Briar and I look up from the goat cheese sandwiches we brought from home. “Who’s Oscar?” we ask at the same time.

Only Kenji laughs. Even our ignorance doesn’t amuse our friends right now. “It’s an award,” Kenji explains. “For great actors.”

“You think he was acting?” I ask Mercedes.

Mercedes looks up from the design she’s making in her potatoes and stares at Timber, who stares back at her.

Briar’s hand inches across the table to find my arm. She clings to me. “Why are they mad at each other?” she whispers.

“Good question,” I say. “Why are you mad at each other?” I ask, trying to break the tension between two of my best friends, but they’re caught, like snakes facing off.

Finally, Mercedes drops her spork and ends the staring contest. “Chelsea already called it backstage. This is crazy.” She stands up and snatches her tray from the table. “Was that all rehearsed? Did he already give you and Bella the script?” she asks Timber.

Timber rears back in his seat and blinks. “What are you talking about?”

Kenji, Briar, and I look at each other bewildered, but Ari avoids our eyes. He slumps down on the table with his head on folded arms.

“Or is Padgie in love with you, like everybody else?” Mercedes asks, motioning all around the cafeteria. “Because you’re the Golden Boy.” She jabs her finger toward Bella’s table. “And she’s the Golden Girl. And the rest of us don’t get crap!” Then she slams her tray back down on the table and careens as close to Timber as she can get. “So I need to know,” she says more quietly, but anger makes her voice quiver. “Was that audition for real? Or am I just another jerk who thought I actually had a shot for ten minutes.”

Timber lifts his hands. “Mercedes, I ...” He shakes his head and his voice trails off.

I look at Mercedes and see that beneath the hard line of her eyebrows, tears brim around her lower lashes. She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “I’m sick of this,” she says, and stomps off between the tables.

We all sit in stunned silence for a moment.

“What just happened?” Briar asks.

I shake my head. “If this is what an audition does to all of us,” I say, “it isn’t worth it.”

Ari lifts his head and peeks through his floppy bangs. “You have to understand, she never gets the part.”

“But she was really good,” Briar says. “Didn’t she see all those people dancing while she was onstage? Didn’t she hear us clapping for her? I screamed my head off.”

“Will it matter in the end?” Ari asks, then he shrugs. “Probably not.”

“You guys don’t know—” Timber says, but Ari cuts him off.

“Look, man, nothing against you, but you didn’t see how Mr. Padgett treated you and Bella up there.”

Timber looks to Chelsea. “Really?”

Chelsea hesitates, but then she sighs and says, “It was pretty clear what Mr. Padgett wants to happen. I mean, he put his arms around you guys. He held you onstage longer than anyone else. It was kind of jive.”

“But that doesn’t mean everybody will vote that way,” Timber says. “That’s the beauty of something like
American Idol
or
Idle America
or whatever stupid title Mr. P gives it. It’s the power of the people.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the people are just dumb sheep,” Ari says. “Just ask Adam Lambert.”

“Time will tell,” says Kenji, pointing to the large round clock above the exit. “In two and half hours we’ll know.”

 

Two and half hours feel like twenty years. By the time we drag ourselves into the auditorium for the second time today, I could swear I’m an old woman. It’s not as packed as it was this morning, but the room is still crowded with kids jostling for the seats down front. I stop in the center aisle and stand on tiptoe, looking for Mercedes, who I haven’t seen since she stormed out of the cafeteria.

“I can’t find her,” I say to Briar, who’s climbed up on a chair to look.

“She’s nowhere,” Briar says.

“I texted her and called, but she won’t pick up.” Ari flips his phone closed.

“You don’t think she went home, do you?” I ask.

Timber tugs on my arm. “We should get a seat.”

As soon as we sit down the lights dim and the same routine starts with the spotlights circling, the guitar wailing, the backlit staircase with Mr. P at the top. A collective groan ripples through the crowd.

“Jeez,” Ari leans over and says. “Enough with the
American Idol
parody already.”

This is when I really miss Mercedes, because she’d say something funny right now and we’d all sink into our seats snickering while Mr. Padgett struts down the stairs announcing, “This is
Idle America
!”

“I really do hate this man,” Ari says.

“Well,” says Mr. Padgett, a cheesy grin plastered across his face. “You all voted and we tallied the results. For the first time in BAPAHS history you, the audience, have cast the winter musical. To begin let’s bring up all the guys who auditioned today. Come on, guys, come up onstage.”

Timber and Ari rise along with eight other guys who make their way down the aisles and up the steps onto the stage. They line up in the center, a mishmash of tall and short, dark and light, smiling and nervously swaying.

Mr. Padgett walks down the line. “Jonah, Ben, Henry, Kwan, Levi, Timber, Ari, Cuyler, Graham, and Omar. These were your competitors and you decided which five guys will have parts.” He stops at the other end of the line. “The guy with the most votes will have the lead. Second most votes get the supporting role, and on down until all five parts are cast. So, only half of these guys will make it. Who will they be?” He sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “In here are your results.” He turns back to the guys. “Are you ready?” he asks.

They all nod and Timber says, “Yes.”

“Okay then.” Mr. Padgett opens the envelope and takes out a card. He reads it for a moment, then nods. “Jonah, Henry, Cuyler, Graham, and Ari please step to the right. And Timber, Levi, Ben, Omar, and Kwan step to the left.” The guys make two lines on either side of Padgie.

I watch Timber onstage, a pleasant grin on his face. He’s taller than the other guys in his group, and he seems to stand in front of them by an inch or so.

“One of these groups will be your cast. The other will not,” says Mr. Padgett. Briar and I grab hands and squeeze together because no matter what, one of our friends is going down. “Who will it be?” Mr. Padgett asks, then stops again.

People in the crowd get restless. Someone whistles and someone else shouts, “Get on with it.”

“The group to my right,” Mr. Padgett says, motioning to Ari’s group, then hesitating. “Are ...” He pauses again, and I think my head is going to explode. Which way will it go? Timber said there could be backlash. Mr. Padgett takes a breath. “NOT in the show.”

I watch Ari’s face fall and his shoulders slump while the crowd mutters and murmurs. Mr. Padgett ushers them toward the steps down from the stage. People yell their names and clap as the guys exit. Briar stands up. “Hup ba! Ari rocks!” she screams. Kenji and I clap. We welcome Ari back into our fold, pulling him down into a seat beside me.

“You okay?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “You win some, you lose some,” he says, but I hear weariness in his voice.

“That leaves one question,” Mr. Padgett says. “Who gets what part?” Despite the fact that I now officially hate Mr. Padgett, too, I turn my attention back to the stage to see what part Timber will get. “Supporting roles go to ...” He stops again and I wish I had something to throw at him. “Kwan, Ben, and Omar.” They step forward, slap each other on the back, and smile. “You guys step over here,” he says and moves the three-some to the side. “Will Levi and Timber step forward?” Timber slings his arm across Levi’s shoulders. They step forward together and wait. A low rumble starts in the crowd.