Patrick was right. All I needed to do was reserve a percentage of my energy for myself, so I wasn’t depleting myself for the sake of others. For the last month, I have been dusting off more books in the library for pleasure, learning to drive the town trolley, and exploring curiosities beyond my wildest imaginings.
Today, however, I’m tied up in preparations for the Elf Extravaganza. It’s a North Pole tradition where many of the elves turn out to showcase their talents in a cabaret unlike anything Broadway could compete with.
Like Colleen and Yvonne had said, learning how to relax afterbeing hyperactive for so long has been a blessing. I approach today with open eyes and ample excitement.
In front of me, there is a glorious marquee circumvented by unlit bulbs. Its signage reads:AUDITIONS TODAY.
I push into the theater. The lobby is a lush, gilded oasis dropped in from another time. To my right is a bar. To my left is a coatroom. Just ahead are multiple sets of doors leading into the theater. Around me, hopeful elves warm up their voices and stretch out their limbs.
As the Merriest Mister, I’m charged with vetting and selecting the acts for the upcoming bill.
Inside, I find Christa, who is heading up costuming and tech, and Ashley, who is billed as my co-director. In the months we’ve been here, Ashley’s been the most spacey and distant, not warming to me and Patrick. I’m unsure why.
I take my seat at the table in the center of the house. A massive chandelier presides over the auditorium. Above that, a classical mural of the North Pole is painted in immaculate detail. If I squint, there are outlines of figures that look like Patrick and me. A year-long legacy prematurely preserved in paint.
“Nice fit,” says Christa, eyeing me up. I’ve got on one of her designs—a red sherpa sweater with white trim and tapered black joggers tucked into bulky boots.
Ashley skips all pleasantries. “Let’s get started.”
The elves and acts range in age, size, and skill. Some of them, like the Voices of Hope children’s choir and the Great Squallini magician, are well-rehearsed. Others like the dog trainer act—which makes my heart jump into my throat at the memory of the near rottweiler attack last Christmas—could use some work.
After hours of taking notes and making yes, no, and maybe piles, we’ve seen everyone there is to see. Before we make any final deliberations, Christa suggests a break to stretch our legs, grab snacks, and reconvene.
In the hallway near the restrooms, I almost stumble over a childsitting on the floor with a crumpled-up piece of paper in their fist. Underneath a full face of makeup, they appear upset. My teacher instincts swim up to the surface.
“Hey there,” I say, keeping my distance but crouching down to the elf child’s level. “Is everything all right?” The elf looks up. Their shoulders are rounded forward in protection. “It’s okay. I’m Quinn.” I reach out a hand.
“I know. The Merriest Mister. Hi.” The elf shakes my hand with such little enthusiasm.
“You are…?”
“Mick,” they say. “Mick Flurry.”
I doubt this elf has ever heard of McDonald’s and its staple ice cream concoction, so I don’t make the obvious joke. I swallow my laugh and give them a friendly smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mick. Were you here for the auditions? I didn’t see you inside.”
They continue toying with the crumpled-up piece of paper. “I was but I changed my mind.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not good enough.”
“Not good enough. Who says?” They shrug. “What’s that you have there?”
They unravel the ball a bit. “Just—nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Can I see?” I ask, holding out a hand.
I keep my gaze as warm as possible. Their color-changing eyes go from ice blue to soft pink, almost as if they’re a mood ring. “Sure. I guess.”
Careful not to rip the page, I undo the ball. It has a thick quality, and the words are dashed out on it using an inky quill. Blotches of black make it hard to decipher all the words, but the heading is unmistakable:North Pole North Starby Blizzard.
“Who’s Blizzard?” I ask knowingly.
“Uh, me,” they say. “It’s my numb-de-plum.”
This laugh I can’t choke back. “I think you mean nom de plume. Your pen name.”
“Sure. That.” They wilt like a flower as they angle away from me. I shouldn’t have laughed.
