Top Elf

by Caleb Huett

  “I would just like to say, Mr. Brutalizer, that I’m a very big fan. I paint my face and dress up for all your games.”

  “I know! You gave me that cool helmet after last year’s Games.”

  “You remember that?!” I had hand-bedazzled a special helmet that probably wouldn’t have protected him very well, but it looked great.

  “Of course I do. I keep it on the wall in my room.”

  “Wow! Oh, wow. That’s so—and now I get to train with you, and—”

  “Let’s get going, huh?”

  I nodded … and then realized he couldn’t tell because I was sitting on his back. “Yeah! Yes. Let’s go.”

  He trotted over to the edge of the stadium, looked up into the sky, and launched. We were flying faster than I had ever flown, even during the sleigh race. The first section of the course seemed to be some kind of sprinting challenge—he was bouncing back and forth between two balls floating in the air so quickly I was struggling to not get whiplash.

  “The trick when flying,” he yelled over the wind, “is to lean into the movements of your reindeer. We’ve been flying since we were born, basically, so we know what we’re doing. Even if you’re steering, you have to trust our instincts.”

  “That won’t be a problem!” I yelled back. “I mostly let Crasher do the work!”

  “Not a bad choice. Crasher’s good. I bet she’ll make it in the Games when she gets a little older.” He looped through a flaming ring, and I had to push my hat against the saddle to smother a little flame. “Don’t tell her I said that, though. She’s already pretty cocky.”

  I took his advice and leaned with his turns. With every bob and weave, I got a little better at predicting where he was going to go.

  “You’re doing great!” he yelled as he dove toward the ground really fast to tag a checkpoint flag. “Remember: Being in charge isn’t just about being in control. You have to know when to just trust your team.” He rolled around onto his back and flew straight ahead, but I held on with my legs and didn’t fall. “It seems like you’ve already got that down, though. We’ll see how the others do.”

  The final stretch of the course was a series of spiked balls flying through the air. Brutalizer dove straight into the middle of them without stopping, and I had to duck my head to avoid getting hit by a spike. I started guessing his movements and following his shifts around the spikes before they hit—maybe even helping him dodge better, if I wasn’t imagining things. We grabbed a flag at the end of the spikes and then dove back through them, putting the flag in a holster on the other side.

  And then the flying course was over. Brutalizer’s hooves landed on the ground with a whumph and I made a similar whumph when I rolled off his back and fell on the ground.

  “Thank you,” I said, panting. “That was awesome.”

  “Celia Pixie, you’re up next.”

  “How are you not already worn out?” Celia asked, amazed. “That course was crazy.”

  “I do it ten times a day. Since you guys are added weight, though, I’ll probably only do the seven.”

  Celia climbed on his back, and they took off. Watching her was even scarier than actually doing it; when I was up there, I was mostly distracted with trying to hold on. From the ground, you could see how high up they were and how fast they were moving.

  After Celia was Buzz, and then Andrea, and then Ramp; I was nervous about him, but his Big Red Suit had some kind of feature where it locked in place and seemed to do most of the holding-on work for him. After Ramp was Klaus, and then finally Gadzooks.

  Poor, poor Gadzooks. For someone who spent so much time with birds, you would’ve thought she’d handle flying better.

  Almost immediately after they took off, her coat flapped in a weird way, and a flock of doves flew out.

  “Pay them no mind!” she yelled. “Nothing to see here!”

  But the birds were spooked, and they whirled around to try to land back on Gadzooks. She tried to push them away, but they tugged at her sleeves and a whole deck of cards came flying out of the sleeve. The force blew her to one side of Brutalizer’s back, where she did her best to hold on. Her top hat slipped off of her head, and a rabbit fell out. She tried to catch the rabbit with her hands and the hat with her foot, but she must have hit a secret compartment, because a huge cloud of glitter flew out and enveloped them.

  Coughing, Gadzooks tried not to lose her grip, but in the scramble, she ripped her collar on the back of Brutalizer’s antler, and a long rope of multicolored handkerchiefs flew out. The rabbit grabbed onto the handkerchiefs and swung along beside them.

  “MY SECRETS!” she yelled as a magic wand sprung out of her sleeve and hit one of the squawking birds. “I SWORE NEVER TO REVEAL THESE!” She was falling, but she whistled and all her birds flew down and grabbed her clothes, gently gliding her to the ground. Brutalizer finished up the course, then landed as well.

  “I’m sorry, Gadzooks.” I went over and gave her a hug.

  She shrugged. “I bamboozled myself on this one, good pal. You didn’t spy too many of my secrets, did you?”

  I shook my head. “We barely even understood what happened. Your secrets are safe.”

  “Splendid.” Gadzooks bowed and tipped her hat. “Good luck with the rest of the competition. I’ll be rooting for you.”

  She reached out to shake my hand, but when I extended mine, there was a pigeon on it.

  When I looked up, Gadzooks was gone. The pigeon cooed.

  “Five, six, seven, eight!” Frosty clapped his squishy hands and demonstrated the choreography for us. I tripped on my own feet during a grapevine step and had to slow down to get my bearings.

  “Ollie! Did you hear me holler ‘stop’?” Frosty stopped dancing and frowned down at me. The way his snow face rearranged to frown was actually kind of unsettling. His dark coal-eyes pierced right through me.

  “I only paused a moment, sir!”

  “Let’s try it again. Look alive, people! Alive as you can be!”

  I watched him closely as he repeated the choreography for the sugar plum fairies. Our challenge today was to each do a one-person abridged performance of The Nutcracker, playing all the roles and dancing all the parts. Everyone was so tired, though, on the sixth day. And it was so early. But Frosty didn’t slow down.

  Frosty wasn’t good at taking direction (from traffic cops, choreographers, or whoever), so he became a director. He was there to teach us some of the dances and also to judge. I had never met him in person before, and I guess I expected him to be less … creepy to look at. He wasn’t a snowman like you’d make for fun in your yard—the nanobots or whatever that were making him animate gave him the shape of a regular human person, just pure white and snowy. As soon as that hat was on his head, he started dancing around, and he hadn’t stopped dancing since.

  He dismissed us to practice on our own, and Andrea sleepily stumbled toward me. I had to muster up a lot of positive vibes not to ignore her.

  “I’m sorry we haven’t gotten along.” She started practicing one of the Mouse King’s clap-dances while she was talking, so I did as well. “Klaus over there convinced me to try to knock you out of the competition. He’s very convincing. Did you know he’s very smart?” She started to tilt over, so I helped her stand back up.

  “Yeah, I know. But your tricks in the race still weren’t okay.”

  She wiggled her shoulders and sighed. “I know it wasn’t. You promise not to hate me if you become Santa?”

  She sounds so sincere, I thought.

  She always sounds like she’s telling the truth, I thought back. And then she fools you into messing yourself up.

  I don’t think that’s what she’s doing this time.

  Whatever. It’s your funeral.

  It’s your funeral, too.

  Pecan brittle! I mentally swore. You’re right!

  “Of course I don’t hate you. I just don’t think I can trust you anymore, you know?”

  She nodded while yawning and also
doing the running man. “I get that. Can we at least hug?”

  “Uh, sure?” I was very confused. She gave me a hug and squeezed.

  “Friends forever,” she said.

  I am very uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, uh, friends … uh, I guess—”

  “HEL-LO, EVERYONE!” Maria Duende beamed her bright smile and posed at the entrance to the field. A few cameras swarmed around her to capture the moment, and then our expressions. She had shown up with a surprise: everybody’s parents. Apparently she thought it would be a good idea to get some footage of them coming to support us when we were at our most exhausted, so she had a team of camerawomen flood the stadium alongside all the moms and dads.

  “Can I get on your shoulders, Ollie?” Polly asked.

  Mom shook her head. “He’s busy, baby.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I hefted her up and set her on my shoulders. “Seeing you guys is making me feel better about this long week.” I poked Polly’s side, and she giggled. “You have to dance, though.”

  “Okay!” She pumped her arms in the air and made a very serious kissy face.

  “I meant to bring you some ice cream, Ollie Pop, but I left with the scoop instead.” My dad held up an ice-cream scoop; he was always doing things like that. Once he left his laptop in the fridge. “You know my scattery brain!”

  “You’d serve your head on a cone if it wasn’t attached, Raleigh.” Mom wiped a smudge off of his overalls.

  “Daddy’s name is Raleigh?” Polly asked. “Does Mommy have a name like ours, too?”

  “No, honey. Your dad’s family does that because they’re very, very silly. My name’s Elizabeth.”

  Polly looked disappointed. “Oh.”

  Maria rushed up with Seyi, her camerawoman, in tow. “Smile for the cameras!”

  We all turned, smiled, and waved. Maria moved on.

  “We’re very proud of you, but it is very early in the morning and Mommy hasn’t had her coffee. You should go visit Celia’s parents, too. They wanted to talk to you.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I will.” I passed a struggling Polly back over to her.

  Dad handed me the ice-cream scoop. “Just in case it was meant to be.” He winked. “It’s made out of an unbreakable alloy! And it’s sharp. I use it to cut even the most frozen chunks of ice cream.” Unsure what to do, I winked back and tucked it into one of my suit pockets.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I waved while they walked away. Celia’s parents were fussing over her a few feet away.

  “My suit’s fine.” Celia was trying to slip away from her mother, who was poking at her Big Red Suit. “Ollie made it for me.”

  “You’re wearing it sloppily,” Mrs. Pixie said. “It should be tucked in.”

  “Actually, my suit is at an optimal, scientifically proven tucked-ness precisely where functionality, beauty, and comfort intersect.”

  “Always with the science. It’s too loose.” Her tone made it clear there was no more room for argument.

  “What are you doing, Dad?”

  Mr. Pixie was writing with a pencil on a notepad. “I want to remember everything about this moment.”

  Mrs. Pixie was an accountant who liked everything a certain way, and Mr. Pixie was a poet who liked to throw parties. Celia said that science was a natural balance of the two.

  “Ollie, save me!” Celia noticed me watching and waved me over. Her parents both turned around to give me hugs.

  “There’s our sweet little boy!” Mrs. Pixie gave me a kiss on the forehead.

  Mr. Pixie shook me by the shoulders lightly. “A fantastic job, really. You’ve done a great job.”

  “They like you more than me, Ollie.” Celia smiled at me to show she was joking, but Mrs. Pixie apparently didn’t realize and clicked her tongue.

  “You know that’s not true. We just never see him! It’s always right out of the house with you two, off to do your ‘science.’ I feel like you’ve been on TV more than you’ve been at home!”

  “You don’t have to do air quotes when you say science, Mom. I’m a serious scientist.”

  “Well, how would I know? You never invent anything to help around the house!”

  They had this fight a lot. My attention started wandering while they argued. I saw Klaus talking to Mrs. Claus—I guess Santa hadn’t come—and I saw Maria Duende toward the back of the dance floor, interviewing Andrea, who was practicing the Charleston by herself.

  I started to back away from the Pixies. “I’ll be right back, you guys.”

  “Science is about way more important stuff than vacuuming, Mom!”

  “Who cares about robots if your house is a wreck?”

  They didn’t seem like they’d be slowing down any time soon, and Mr. Pixie was still just watching them and taking notes, so I headed over to Andrea, who was holding an opened envelope and reading a letter to the camera.

  “ ‘… so happy and proud of you. Your cousin even set up a wifi’—she spelled it like ‘wife-eye’—‘so we could watch you compete on the news.’ Hi, Mom!” Andrea waved at the camera and laughed in the way people laugh when they’re trying not to cry.

  I waited off to the side until Maria moved on, then awkwardly sidestepped over to Andrea.

  “Your parents couldn’t come?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Plane tickets are expensive. They had to use most of our savings to send me here. Farming is hard.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” I gestured to Ramp, who was flopping around, struggling with the fast choreography. “He could be your dad, if you want.”

  She laughed. “More like my grandpa.”

  “Your great-great-great-grandpa.” I laughed, too, and because we were both so exhausted, it felt like it was way funnier than it actually was. We kept looking at each other and starting up again every time we thought it was over.

  Finally, when we were down to just hiccups, she nudged me. “Doesn’t he look kind of familiar, though?”

  “Who? Ramp?”

  “Yeah. With the Santa suit and everything.”

  I squinted and cocked my head to the side, watching Ramp’s head toss forward and back. I just saw the toupee, the too-big pants. His red face, his long beard. I thought about that time he jumped crazy high in the mailroom.

  “I don’t think I recognize him from anywhere before the competition.”

  “Okay, imagine him with, like, little spectacles. And a little fatter. And then imagine him saying, ‘HO, HO, HO!’ ” She boomed it out.

  I did. “I get what you mean. He kinda looks like Kris Kringle. Like in the old paintings.”

  “Yeah, totally. Weird, huh?”

  “Pretty weird.” I looked at her. “You really want to win, huh? For your family?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Andrea tied her red hair back in a bun while she talked. “When I left, my dad said, ‘You’re going to go out there and you’re going to do anything it takes to win. You’re a Claus, and you’re going to prove it. We deserve to be in that castle just as much as any of them.’ And so I got here and couldn’t stop thinking about that. ‘Do anything it takes.’ So I have been. Speaking of which—” She reached behind my back and popped something off of my suit.

  “A smiley-face button!” My mouth fell open. “You tricked me again!”

  She nodded. “When we hugged earlier. But that’s what I mean: I don’t want to be Santa. Not if it means I have to act like this forever.” She fixed the smiley face to her shirt and handed me a remote control with only one button.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t look like I quit, but I have to. Use this on me, during the competition. My suit’s got loads of electronics in it—the pulse will freeze it up so bad that I won’t even be able to move, let alone dance. It’ll look like a malfunction, and I’ll be disqualified.”

  “But your family—and what your dad said—”

  “Please. This is what I want. Remember Sally?”

  I did remember. Finally I n
odded, and put the remote control in my jacket.

  If this is what she wants.

  Frosty explained that Santa needed to have physical endurance and “effortless grace,” both of which were best tested with dancing for hours straight. For act 1, we had to be Clara, the main character, but then also Clara’s dad, and Drosselmeyer (who gives her the Nutcracker), and the Nutcracker. Then we had to fight ourselves as the Mouse King!

  Klaus, Celia, and I stuck pretty closely to Frosty’s traditional choreography. We didn’t change anyone’s lives or anything, but I think we put on pretty good shows. Ramp’s Big Red Suit did all the work for him. He told us that his tailor had put a full skeleton in the suit: Once it had learned the choreography, it led Ramp’s body around for a perfect performance. Buzz put his own spin on the choreography and blew everyone out of the water by mixing his ballet in with more modern influences, like hip-hop and also some twisty-flowy-artsy moves I didn’t know the name of. Andrea actually rewrote the story some; in her version, Clara didn’t save the Nutcracker after he was injured.

  “In my version, Clara marries the Mouse King,” she explained at intermission. “And then she becomes Mouse Queen, kills the king, and takes control of the entire rodent empire. In act 2, she leads an army through the Land of Sweets and steals the magic of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Clara lives the rest of her life ruling both kingdoms with an iron pointe shoe. Unless”—Andrea winked at me—“something were to happen”—she winked at me again—“to”—wink—“her …” Wink, wink, wink, wink, wink.

  Celia looked at me for explanation. I stared at the ground.

  Act 2 was even more exhausting. We had to play the sweet-bearers from all over the world giving presents to ourselves, then be the Sugar Plum Fairy, Clara, and the Nutcracker all at once during the last scene. I built an outfit with pieces of all their looks (Clara’s dress, the Sugar Plum Fairy’s wings, and the Nutcracker’s silly hat) so that I could convincingly play all three roles.

  Klaus hated every second he had to dance in front of the crowd. Maybe inspired by Andrea’s act 1, he changed his script so the Mouse King came back and ruined the party, cutting the act short with one intense fight-dance where he dueled himself with two different swords.