Me, My Elf & I (5 page)

“Let’s cut through the park,” Ari says, pointing to the stone wall surrounding acres of grass and trees.

I’m so happy when we get inside the park that I want to run down the grassy hill into the big open meadow, kick dandelion fluff, or dance on the clover. I want to shimmy up the big maple tree in front of us to sit where a red-tailed hawk has perched high in the swaying branches, surrounded by slowly fading fall leaves. The only thing that would make this better is to have my imaginary date boy to share it with. We could roll down hills, jump in ponds, and chase squirrels through the open fields. But of course that’s the kind of thing we’d do in Alverland, not in Brooklyn, where nature isn’t something you’re a part of, but something set aside for picnics and kite flying. Still, I feel so rejuvenated by the green space around me that I start to hum.

Ari joins in, singing the words so familiar to me, “Cast a spell of beauty, cast a spell of love, join me in the meadow, fly with me like the dove.” He has a lovely mellow voice with just enough gravel to give it a satisfying edge.

I harmonize with him on the chorus, “Through the sky, through the sky, fly with me through the sky.”

He smiles broadly after the last note. “You like that song?”

“Of course,” I say with a laugh.

“What do you mean, ‘of course’?” Ari asks. “Most people don’t know Drake Addler’s music. I thought it was only goths like me.”

“What’s a goth?” I ask.

“Me,” Ari says, opening his arms for me to take a good look at him, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see.

“Is goth your religion?” I ask, because my dad has told us that erdlers take their belief systems very seriously and sometimes have wars over who’s right.

Ari laughs. “No, I’m a Jew through and through.”

“I’ve read about Jewish people and the horrible things that happened to them,” I say. “Are you really religious?”

“Nah,” Ari tells me. “Just a regular New York Jew. No pork—”

“Except bacon at a diner,” Mercedes says and Ari laughs.

“Synagogue during Passover. Cheesy bar mitzvah with a god-awful DJ when I was thirteen. Stuff like that,” he adds.

“So a goth Jew is one who does only some of the religious stuff?” I ask.

Mercedes rolls her eyes at me for the umpteenth time today. “Girl, you really are out there, aren’t you?”

“Out where?”

She snorts, then laughs fully. “But it’s impossible not to like you.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I think.”

“Don’t mention it,” she adds dryly.

“Goth is how I dress, Zephyr. This style,” Ari says as he motions up and down to his entirely black wardrobe. “Because I don’t want to be just another jerk in Gap jeans and an Abercrombie shirt. Really, though. How can you not know what goth is but you do know Drake Addler’s music?”

“Ari,” I say, laughing hard, happy to be the one who knows something this time. “Drake Addler is my dad.”

Ari freezes in the middle of the path. He shakes his head from side to side slowly and pushes his hair back to expose his broad forehead. I see that beneath all his unruly hair, he has brown eyes with long lashes like a deer. “Drake Addler is your father?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I say. “Remember? Zephyr Addler, that’s me.”

Mercedes doubles over laughing so hard I think that she’ll fall down. “Look at him!” She points to Ari. “Boy’s going to dookey in his pants.”

“Are you for real?” Ari demands. “You’re not just yanking my chain?”

“Yes, I’m for real, Ari. Drake’s my dad. We just moved here a couple of weeks ago so he could play with his new band and record another album and go on tour. He couldn’t do all those things in Michigan and he didn’t want to be away from us so much anymore.”

Ari walks in little circles, hands still in his hair. “Drake Addler is your dad,” he repeats over and over again and I continue to say “yes” each time he does. Suddenly he drops to a park bench. “I can’t go to your house.” Then he pops up. “I so badly want to go to your house!” he exclaims. He plops down on the bench again. “But I can’t meet your dad.” He’s up again, pacing. “Oh my God, do you know how long I’ve wanted to meet him? I’ve been to his concerts. Snuck in when he played Irving Plaza last year. Made my mom drive me all the way to the Berkshires for an outdoor festival last summer. I have a bunch of links to his music on my Facebook page.”

“Ari,” I say gently and put my hands on his shoulders. “Relax. Stop. He’s just my dad. He’s nothing all that special. Believe me.”

“Nothing special?” Mercedes says, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. “This boy would follow your daddy around like a sick little puppy if he could.”

Ari nods his head rather pathetically.

“Look,” I say. “He’s not even home. He’s on the road right now. I think he’s up in Vermont or New Hampshire or something until the weekend.”

Ari takes a deep breath.

“Son, you best start kissing booty,” Mercedes says to Ari.

“What’s that mean?” I ask.

“Sucking up, you know, getting on your good side,” Mercedes explains. “So he can meet your daddy.”

“You can meet him anytime you want,” I tell Ari. “And you don’t have to kiss my boots.”

“Honey,” Mercedes says to me with a snort. “We gotta teach you how to talk.”

 

When we come out of the park, I spot the tall pine tree obscuring the front of our house. I think the tree is the reason my parents moved us to this place. Passing beneath its branches and seeing birds, like the hawk circling high above me now, reminds everyone of our real house in the woods of Alverland. But, as soon as I open the front door, I realize bringing Ari and Mercedes here was a mistake.

My sister Poppy has built a nest of blankets and pillows on top of the bookshelves in the living room. She loves birds and doesn’t understand why she’s not allowed to climb trees in the park to sing with her feathered friends. From her perch, she’s reading aloud from a big, leather-bound Audubon guide, practicing different bird calls. Below her on the floor, my brother Bramble is working on some healing incantations for a bunny with a broken leg, a one-eyed cat, and the three lame sparrows that he brought home in the first few days that we lived here. My mom had to put a limit on the number of ailing animals he can bring in the house because she realized we’d be living in a petting zoo if he was left to his own devices. Both Poppy and Bramble are wearing tunics and leggings with several amulets around their necks, but my youngest sister, Persimmon, who is only two years old, is running buck naked from room to room with a half-eaten apple in her grubby hands, while singing at the top of her lungs. My older brother Grove is on the road with my dad, but my older sister Willow is nowhere to be seen and I don’t blame her. After being around erdlers all day, I see how weird my family really is.

Just as I’m about to push Ari and Mercedes back out the door, my mom races down the stairs in an old brown tunic and a soft green hat, phone pressed to her ear, in the middle of a conversation. She carries Persimmon’s tunic and shouts, “Yes, yes!” into the phone. “I certainly have experience with warts and other skin ailments.”

Behind me, Mercedes says, “Warts?” and Ari shushes her.

“There are some amazing herbs that can clear that right up,” Mom says.

“My mom’s a naturopath,” I quickly explain to Ari and Mercedes, leaving out the part about elves being great healers and my mom being one of the best.

“That’s so cool,” Ari says.

I realize I can’t turn back now. “Come on,” I say as I pull them through the chaos of the living room toward the kitchen. “I’m hungry, aren’t you?”

We carefully step over the cardboard boxes holding Bramble’s animals as Persimmon dodges between Ari’s legs. Poppy catches sight of us and leans over the edge of her nest, sticking the giant book in my path and letting out the ear-piercing shriek of an angry blue jay. “Who are you?” she shouts at Mercedes and Ari, making them both jump.

I push the book out of my face. “Cut it out, Poppy!”

“Shhhhh! ” my mother hisses with her hand pressed over the mouthpiece of the phone. She wrestles Persimmon to the ground and stuffs her into her clothes while Persimmon flops like a fish just plucked from a stream. Percy accidentally kicks the side of the sparrows’ box, which sends the birds into a flightless frenzy, desperately flapping their little bandaged wings. They chirp fiercely as Poppy tries to soothe them with an imitation of a mother sparrow cooing to her young.

“Persimmon!” Bramble wails, but our little sister has squirmed away and dodged beneath the dining room table, where her stash of handmade baby dolls are arranged for a tea party.

My mother retreats to a semiquiet corner to finish her conversation while I quickly cross my pinky over my ring finger and my pointer over my middle finger, then loop them in front of my mouth and point at Poppy before she has a chance to bug us again. I’ve just done the ol’ five-second silence hex—perfect for nosy little sisters. With Poppy momentarily on mute, I pull Ari and Mercedes into the relative calm of the kitchen.

“Sorry,” I say. “Things are hectic around here sometimes.”

Ari’s eyes are wide and blinking with disbelief. “My God. I thought Mercedes’s house was crazy.”

I grab the first thing I find on the counter. “Dried boysenberries,” I offer, and shove a bowl of shriveled fruit at them.

“Poison berries!” Mercedes nearly shouts, waving the snack away.

“No,
boysen
berries,” I say.

“What the heck is a
boy
senberry?” Mercedes asks.

“It’s just a berry. A fruit,” I say, staring at the little wrinkly orbs in the bowl and wondering if even our food is strange.

“Like a raisin.” Ari pops one in his mouth. “Only gross.” He spits it into his hand. Mercedes laughs as I give Ari a napkin.

“How many people live here?” Mercedes asks.

“Six kids, plus my mom and dad, and the animals. How many people are in your family?”

“I have two younger sisters,” Mercedes tells me. “Plus my grandparents live in the apartment next to ours so they’re always at our place.”

“That’s how it is where we’re from. I miss my grandmother so much.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes. “Just more people to get up in your business,” she says, but somehow I don’t believe she means it.

“How about you?” I ask Ari. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“None,” he says.

“None?” I’m as incredulous about his family as he is about mine. “What do you mean none?”

“I’m an only child.”

Such a thing is unheard of in Alverland. “That’s so sad,” I say. “Aren’t you lonely?”

“Heck no,” says Ari. “It’s great. No competition. I get whatever I want.”

“Wow,” I say, considering the possibility of life without all my brothers and sisters.

“Do you have anything normal to eat, that doesn’t taste like that?” Mercedes asks, pointing to the boysenberries.

I grab three pears and a bowl of almonds from the counter. “Do you like goat’s milk?” Ari visibly blanches and Mercedes twists her face into a look of disgust.

“What are you guys? Health nuts?” Mercedes asks.

“Do you have any coffee?” asks Ari.

“Iced tea?” I offer, and thankfully they both accept. I don’t mention that it’s made from slippery elm bark and hawthorne leaves. “Come on,” I say, pouring each of them a glass. “There’s a back staircase. We can go up to my room where it’s quiet.”

Just then my mom pushes through the kitchen door, calling, “Zephyr!” She nearly bumps into us. “Oh, there you are.” She wraps her arms around me and starts mauling me as if I’m some little kid who’s been lost in the woods for three days. “How was your day? Did you get lost this time? Were people nicer to you? Did you have any trouble? Do you still want to go back? Aunt Flora called today, Briar misses you. And who’s this?”

I peel myself away from her, embarrassed by all the elfin affection. My mom’s going to have to tone it down now that we’re not in Alverland anymore. I introduce Ari and Mercedes and my mother exclaims, “You made friends!” as if I’m a total idiot who would never manage to hold a conversation, let alone befriend another person.

Ari holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Addler. I’m a huge fan of your husband’s work.”

Instead of shaking his hand like a normal person, my mom pulls Ari into a hug. “Oh, that’s so very kind of you. Drake will be so delighted to hear that. You’ll have to come back and spend some time with us when he’s home.” Ari blushes crimson. Mercedes giggles behind her hand. “And please call me Aurora.”

“Mom,” I say. “Come on. Let him go. Not everybody hugs everybody else around here.”

She releases him. “Oh, right. Sorry. I get carried away.” At that moment a yowl erupts from the living room and my mom bolts back out the kitchen door. I catch a glimpse of Poppy sprawled on the floor in the middle of Bramble’s empty boxes. The bunny is limping across the room and the cat is clawing its way up the side of the bookshelf to Poppy’s abandoned nest, where one of the sparrows has managed to reach.

“Is everybody where you’re from like this?” Ari asks.

“Like what?” I ask, panic-stricken because I knew this was a mistake. Now my new friends will run screaming for the door or, worse, they’ll get suspicious about who we really are.

“Let’s just put it this way,” Mercedes says. “I don’t know anybody else who has bunnies, birds, and naked babies running around, who all dress alike and drink goat’s milk. It’s like you’re in some kind of weird cult or something.”

“Shut up, Mercy,” Ari says. “That’s just rude. I could say the same about your house.”

“We don’t drink goat’s milk,” Mercedes says with a snort.

“No, but you eat tamales wrapped in banana leaves and sausage made out of blood and drink coconut water.”

“Are you insulting my Puerto Rican heritage?” Mercedes asks, sticking her hip out to one side and cocking her head toward her shoulder.