I sit back on my haunches and read the entire poem. “This is really good. Can I ask how old you are?”
“Eight.” The same age as my former students. I must be out of practice, only now remembering how kids this age possess an easily offended seriousness. This poem is Mick’s inner world.
“I’m sorry I chuckled before. It wasn’t you or your work. Rhymes always get a laugh out of me,” I say to defuse the awkwardness. “This is a really impressive poem, Mick. Were you going to read it for us?”
They nod. “I thought about it, but then I heard all those great singers and saw all those amazing tricks and I decided to forget about it.” Of course, their presence in this hallway belies that.
“How come?”
“Because a poem can’t compete.” Their words splat like saggy water balloons. Unwarranted defeat spills between us.
“It’s not a competition, Mick. Besides, comparison is the killer of good art, and this”—I shake their paper in the air—“is good art. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s authentic. I think you should share it.”
They let out a deep breath. “I’ve never shared one of my poems before.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Look at me, I’m the first ever Merriest Mister.”
“I don’t think I can,” they say, accepting the paper back from me, riffling through a bag to their left.
I don’t want to press too hard and scare them off, so I say, “I like your outfit.” They wear rainbow boots, sparkly tights, a tulle tutu, and a top hat.
“Thanks. I picked it out myself. Whenever I draw Blizzard, this is what they look like.”
“Dressing as Blizzard makes you feel confident?”
Their eyes widen, clearly happy somebody understands them. “Yeah.”
“I have an idea. What if Mick doesn’t audition, but Blizzard does?”
Their eyebrows, which have a line of jewels stuck above them, crinkle. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this is Blizzard’s poem, right? Blizzard should be the one to share it. It probably wouldn’t be as scary if Blizzard got up on that stage,” I say.
Comprehension ripples through their features. “That’s true.”
“What do you say? Does Blizzard want to give it a try?” I ask.
“Blizzard hasn’t practiced,” they protest.
“We’ll do it quick. Read it out loud. Right now. You and me. How about that?” I ask, getting excited by the prospect of helping this child find their confidence.
They nod, slowly standing. I mirror them. “Okay. But can you—” They keep their gaze cast down. “Can you turn around?”
“Of course.”
Mick reads the poem once with me facing the far wall, which is signed by hundreds of elves who’ve performed here in the past. Mick’s voice is shaky but they make it to the end. When they finish, I ask if I can turn halfway. They agree, and read it again. Finally, on the third try, I’m facing them. They don’t look up much, and they don’t meet my gaze, but their words are clear and their stance is strong.
“Quinn, are you out—” It’s Ashley come looking for me. She stands in her oversized sweater inspecting the scene with evident confusion. “We’re ready to start casting.”
“We can’t yet,” I say. “We have one more audition to see.”
Ashley must understand. “Oh, okay. I didn’t see Mic—”
“This isn’t Mick,” I’m quick to say. “This is Blizzard. And Blizzard is going to read us an original poem. Isn’t that right?”
