Blitzen bumps my side with his nose.
“I know!”
Bump again.
“I’m making a note.”
Blitzen bumps me a third time and my paper and pencil land facedown in the snow. “Now look what you’ve done.” Then, Irealize he’s after the burlap satchel slung around my torso. “Oh, you just want a third apple, don’t you? Fine. I’ve whined enough at you. Here’s a Granny Smith for your troubles.”
Blitzen lets out an overzealous noise before racing off with his treat.
“Gosh, is this what I’m going to be like when I have kids?” I ask myself before shaking my head and clomping off the field.
41PHONE HOMEQUINN
133 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
There are no seasons in the North Pole, so I’m surprised I even realize that the calendar in the kitchen has flipped itself magically to a fresh page.
August. It arrived so quickly.
I pour myself a cup of cocoa while looking out the window at the unchanged landscape. Everything is always glistening with snow—from the mountaintops to the thatched roofs. I’m startled to find that, for the first time, I’m more indifferent to than amazed by it.
Back in New Jersey, I’d be tactfully sidestepping prep for September while lapping up the last delicious drops of summer. The weather would be warm and somewhat humid, but I don’t think I’d mind the stickiness. Trudging through soupy air while working up a sweat is a sensation I didn’t know I could miss, yet here I am, missing it.
I sip my cocoa and find that even this I wish I could swap out for a sweet, refreshing Aperol spritz.
Veronica and I would usually be, right about now, packing for a quick, last-minute trip to Seaside, where we’d stay at the cheapest motel with the highest rating and work on our tans before the madness of another school year inched back into our lives after Labor Day.
Interestingly, I’m missing the seasons and New Jersey, but I’mnot missing teaching. This experience has been a crash course in balance. Oakwood Elementary left me wrung out. As the calendar becomes a ticker toward our inevitable departure from the North Pole, I contemplate what a career looks like beyond the snow and the magic.
I do something I haven’t done in months. I text Veronica.
I’ve avoided contacting anyone from home out of pure how-do-I-explain-this panic. I left the state, dropped out of their lives. Hobart and the council assured us they’ve tied up any loose ends that might lead to inquiry, but with four and a half months left in our yearlong sabbatical, I’m needing this connection back to the real world, a reminder of my roots. I imagine this is what celebrities must feel like after getting used to fame and fortune and access.
It’s only after I send the message that I realize she could be sleeping or working or the service could be spotty. I don’t have a handle on the time difference. Antsy, I slip on my coat and boots and trek into town for a distraction.
When I get tired of walking, I hop aboard the trolley that clangs and dings. Stuck inside my head, I barely notice as the trolley car ventures toward the outskirts of town in the opposite direction from the Tundra Dome.
“Last stop,” the conductor announces and I get out in front of what looks like a school building. Through the sizable front windows, a masculine-presenting instructor is framed at the front of the classroom giving a lesson, using a pointer. A bunch of elf children sit at desks nodding, as comically large pencilsscritch-scratchback and forth.
A pang goes through my chest. It starts small but grows unignorable.
Out here, pulling my coat tighter against me to keep out the cold, looking in on a skewed version of my old life, I meditate on whether I’d be okay never stepping back into that role again. Is there anothercallingout there for me?
Behind me, there’s a café. I make my way inside the small cabin-like building, where the chairs have swirly backs and the coffees have fancy names. The music playing creates a gentle ambience in dissonance with the hiss of the espresso machine.
I plant myself near the window to eat a muffin, sip a matcha, and elf watch. I used to do this a lot back home. Though it was much easier when I was a teacher among humans and not a human among elves. I stick out too much. Everyone tips their hats at me as they pass. The baristas make sure my mug is never empty.
I’m starting to miss doing tasks for myself. The enchanted chalet is wonderful and the elves are superstars, but leisure comes at a price, too.
I’m the only person who could find trouble with paradise.
My attention is captured by a gaggle of elves in hard hats bursting through the door, a mishmash of booming voices. I didn’t know there were any construction projects happening in the village. I wonder where they’re working. I’m tucked into a corner far enough away to eavesdrop.
“I don’t think we’re on track to finish in time,” says one elf, jostling for a position to see the menu board better.
Another helps himself to the black coffee in the self-serve canister. “It’s for Santa Patrick. Let’s take a shorter break and get back to it.”
