Willow runs for a ladder leaning against the house. We prop it against the fence and each clamber to the top. I go last. Ahead of me, Willow and Poppy hop over a row of our neighbor’s peony bushes, then run up a stone walk after my mother and Bramble. They swing open the cellar doors against the back of a stranger’s house.
“Stay there, Zephyr,” my mother commands over her shoulder and I plant myself on top of the fence, ready to pull everyone back home to safety. Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay, I say over and over again in my mind.
Persimmon’s wails are louder now and the owner of the house comes out her back door, frightened by the sudden intrusion of five tunicked strangers tumbling out of her cellar. My mother emerges from the dark steps with Persimmon tucked up against her body.
“What on earth . . . ?” the neighbor woman says.
“My baby,” says Mom, then buries her face into Percy’s soft hair. “She must have wandered into your yard and . . .”
“But how? Why?” the woman sputters and looks from my mother and my siblings to me on the fence.
“There’s a hole under the fence,” Bramble says, and points to the back of her yard.
“We live over there. My name is Poppy!” my sister adds brightly. “And she’s Persimmon.”
“Is she okay?” the woman asks, softened by Poppy’s and Bramble’s sweetness.
My mother lifts Persimmon up and gazes at her tearstained face. “Yes,” she says softly. “She’s okay. Just frightened.”
“Oh dear,” says the woman. “Poor little thing. How could she have gotten down in my cellar . . . ?”
Mom hands Percy to Willow. Poppy and Bramble follow them back toward the fence.
“I’m so very very sorry,” Mom says to the woman. “She doesn’t normally do this kind of thing. We just moved here and . . .”
I don’t hear the rest of the explanation my mother is concocting, surely leaving out the part where my entire family was hexing one another like a bunch of uncivilized trolls running rampant in the woods. Willow hands the little ones to me and I carry them down the ladder, one by one, into our garden.
Soon, my mother and Willow are back over the fence and we are all inside, huddled together on the floor of the kitchen. Persimmon is asleep against my mother’s chest with the rest of us draped over her. No one talks. We are all shaky and exhausted from casting spells and losing Percy. Plus, I’m absolutely sick to my stomach. This whole thing is my fault and everything in Brooklyn—at school and at home—is going wrong. Nothing is how it should be and no amount of new experience—performing, making friends, or getting a boyfriend—is worth this. For the first time since we moved here I want to be back in Alverland where things make sense, where my family is normal and together and everyone is nice again. Where I don’t have to worry about who my friends are, whether my sister will ever be happy again, how long my dad and brother will be gone, or when my mom will freak out next and turn us all into stone.
I’m the first to sniffle then sneeze. My head feels buzzy and my eyes are tired. I’ve only ever exhausted my magic once before, when I was eight years old, trying to make a mischievous raven tell me where it hid my favorite silver amulet. Bramble coughs next, then Poppy sniffles, too.
“See, this is what happens,” my mother says quietly. “Your magic is a powerful force and you have to use it for good.” But then Mom sneezes. We all look up into her face. Her eyes are as wide with surprise as ours are.
“You, too, Mommy,” Poppy says. “You hexed us.”
“Oh dear,” says Mom. “That’s right. I did, didn’t I?”
“You did?” Willow asks, her eyes wide and worried.
“Yes and she yelled, too,” Bramble says. “So now she has a cold.”
Willow and I exchange slight smiles. We know that our mother couldn’t possibly have exhausted her magic from one little hex on us. She’s far too powerful for that. But it’s cute that Bramble and Poppy think so.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says, wrapping her arms around us and squeezing. “I lost my temper with you guys. Just like an erdler mother.”
“But why?” Poppy asks.
“It’s hard here, Pop, with your dad and Grove gone. I have to take care of you guys and I also have to work so we’ll have enough money to pay for this house and food and lights and water.”
“We have to pay for water?” Bramble asks, amazed.
Mom nods. “We have to pay for everything here,” she explains.
“Even air?” Poppy asks, looking around suspiciously as if it’s costing her something to breathe.
Mom laughs. “No, not air, but just about everything else it seems like.”
“I don’t like it here,” Bramble is the first to say, burrowing deep into my mother’s side.
“Me either,” says Poppy. “When can we go back to Alverland?”
Willow searches my mother’s face hopefully. I also watch my mother’s expression carefully, trying to detect her true feelings. Does she hate it here as much as Poppy, Bramble, and Willow? Could it really be that we’ll leave? Even though I’m miserable today, I feel my heart sinking at the prospect of leaving Brooklyn. I would never see Ari and Mercedes again. Never know if I could beat Bella at the audition. Never again see Timber grinning at me. And worst of all, I’d never know if I could truly be a performer beyond the pageants and festivals in Alverland. If I have what it takes to make it in the erdler world. I don’t want to be just an ordinary elf like everyone else except my dad.
My mom’s face gives nothing away. I have no idea what she’s thinking until she says, “I got a letter from Aunt Flora today. Would you like me to read it to you?”
We all say yes and I scramble up to get it from the windowsill.
“There’s one for you, too, from Briar,” Mom says when I hand it to her. She slips a sheet of folded yellow paper from the envelope. My name is written in Briar’s bubbly script. I settle back down next to my mom, with Briar’s letter folded in my lap. We all listen to Mom read.
Dearest ones,
It’s a quarter moon and the woods are quiet. The end-of-summer storms have passed without much damage. Now the geese are migrating down from the Great Lakes to warmer shores. They carry crisp, cool fall air on their wings that’s already painting the tips of maple leaves orange.
We’re getting ready for the Acorn Festival, which won’t be the same without Willow and Zephyr in the lute band or Poppy and Bramble in the chorus. And of course we’ll all miss Aunt Aurora’s acorn mush fritters.
“I love that festival,” Poppy says.
“I learned how to make an acorn whistle last year,” says Bramble.
My mom reaches out to stroke his hair, then she continues:
All is well here. Cedar, Cliff, and Jay brought home an eight-point buck last week and the younger boys have been setting rabbit traps. We should have plenty of smoked meat for the winter. Plus the gardens are producing lots of corn, beans, squash, tomatoes, pumpkins, and potatoes.
Grandma has gone off on one of her mushroom hunts again. You know how she is, there’s no telling when she’ll return. The last time she came home empty-handed and tired. Hopefully she’ll do better this time.
Nothing much else to report except that we’re missing you all something fierce. Love, Flora
“I miss Aunt Flora,” Poppy says.
“I miss Grandma Fawna,” Bramble adds.
“I miss everyone,” says Willow.
As my brother and sisters reminisce about everyone in Alverland, I silently read Briar’s letter.
Dear Zephyr,
How are you? Is Brooklyn amazing? Do you have an erdler boyfriend yet? Have you seen a movie in a movie theater? I bet you’ve made hundreds of new friends.
I’m so jealous I wish I was there with you. Alverland is Boring Boring Boring! I miss you.
Love, Briar
“Do you want to read Briar’s letter to us?” Mom asks.
“No.” I fold the letter.
“Wh
at’d she say?” Willow asks.
I don’t want my family to hear all the silly hopes and dreams that Briar and I had for Brooklyn. None of which are coming true. Boyfriends, movies, one hundred friends. Ha! “She just said she misses us,” I say.
“Well, we miss her, too,” says Mom, then she sighs. She hugs each of us and rubs circles on Percy’s sleeping back. “Just wait until your father gets home.” She’s softened back into our elfin mom again. “Things will get better when he comes back tomorrow.”
chapter 7
THE NEXT MORNING is Saturday. When I wake up and walk sleepily downstairs, I hear my father singing. At first, I assume my mom is playing one of his CDs, but then I realize that there are no drums, bass, or guitars so I hurry through the house, following his voice to the kitchen. I find him, sitting at the table with a mug of steaming tea in his hands. When he sees me, his green eyes open wide and he belts out the words to my song: “The west wind carried you in, tiny flower, you floated on the breeze, growing up tall and sturdy, among the alder trees . . . ” He opens his arms and I run to him.
Hugging my dad is like hugging a tall and sturdy tree. Immediately, I feel relieved, as if I’ve found a nice cozy patch of the forest where no rain can fall on me. But also, I feel kind of goofy for acting like I’m seven years old. I pull back to look at Dad. His hair is neatly tucked into its usual long blond braid down his back and, like me, he’s wearing a soft white sleeping tunic. “When did you get home?” I ask.
“Late,” he says. “Or early. Depending on how you look at it.”
“You don’t look tired.”
“That’s the magic of your mother’s bugbane and lady slipper tea.” He brings his cup to his lips.
I stick my tongue out because I hate that stinky herbal brew they swear by. “Why don’t you guys just drink coffee, like the erdlers?”
“I do sometimes when I’m on the road,” he tells me, then he peers closely at me and asks warily, “Have you been drinking coffee?”
“No,” I say with a shrug. “I could. My friends all drink it, but I haven’t tried it. Yet.”
“Yet?” Dad repeats and shakes his head. “Well, all I can tell you is that your mother’s tea is far superior to anything out of Starbucks. In fact, any Starbucks worth its salt would pay top dollar for what your mother brews.”
“Salt?” I ask. “Don’t you mean any Starbucks worth its sugar?”
“Or maybe worth its beans, Miss Wise Acre,” he says, and we both laugh. I like that my dad is not afraid to make fun of himself.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, surprised that she’s not down here with him.
“Sleeping in.” He holds his finger to his lips.
I nod and say quietly, “Yeah, I think we exhaust her.”
Dad’s eyes crinkle happily. “You’d exhaust me, that’s for sure.” He pushes out a chair for me with his foot. “So Zeph, how are things? How’s school going? Do you like it? I want to hear everything.”
“Oh, Dad! ” I say and fall into the chair. “You would not believe these erdlers! ”
He throws his head back and laughs long and loud. “Try me, Zeph. Grove and I have been riding around in a van with a bunch of them for the past two weeks.”
“They’re so complicated!” I complain. “One minute they’re happy. Then they’re sad. First they’re nice. Then they’re mean.”
“You catch on quick,” says Dad. “But that doesn’t surprise me.” He leans forward and winks. “Because you’re just like me.”
I grin at him, so happy that someone finally understands me. Then, right as I’m about to launch into the whole story of Bella and the audition, I hear squeals of “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” and the pounding of feet coming down the hall. In an instant, the little ones are charging into the kitchen. This is when being an only child like Ari doesn’t sound half bad. Lucky Ari never has to share his dad with annoying little brothers and sisters, I think, as my dad scoops Poppy, Bramble, and Persimmon into his enormous hug, and my chance to vent goes straight out the window.
Later, when everyone is awake and assembled in the kitchen, my dad puts his arm around my mother’s waist and says, “Hey, you guys, we have some good news.”
“Are we going home?” Poppy asks.
“Back to Alverland?” Bramble adds, smiling big.
My stomach clenches. My mom smiles up at my dad. I wonder if she told him about how badly we behaved yesterday, then how homesick everyone was when she read Flora’s letter. Maybe they’ve decided it would be better to take us back to Alverland. No matter what I thought yesterday, I realize now that I don’t want to leave Brooklyn.
“No, no, nothing like that,” says Mom.
“Actually, the good news is one of our songs charted,” says Dad.
I open my eyes. No one says anything. Probably because none of us knows what that means.
“On Billboard,” Grove adds from the countertop beside the sink, where he sits munching on a green apple.
“Which means it’s being played on radio stations all over the country,” says Dad.
“I like the radio,” Bramble says, looking up from his bowl of Mom’s homemade blueberry granola.
Grove hops down from the counter to stand beside Dad. “Plus, it’s going to be on a TV show on a channel called Fox.”
“I like foxes,” says Bramble.
Poppy stops braiding Persimmon’s hair to ask, “Does this mean we can get a TV?”
“What’s a TV?” asks Bramble.
“We’re not getting a television,” Mom says.
“This is exactly what we wanted to happen,” says Dad. “It means that coming here and getting more exposure and going out on the road with a band is paying off.”
“That’s great!” I nearly yell. “So we’re staying in Brooklyn?”
“Of course we’re staying in Brooklyn,” Dad says, confused.
“Hurray!” I jump up and down. Persimmon and Poppy look at me and laugh, then they start jumping, too.
“Where else would we go?” asks Dad.
“Home!” Willow shouts. Persimmon, Poppy, and I stop jumping and everyone stares at Willow. She grips the edge of the table. Her knuckles are white and her cheeks are flushed. “To Alverland. Where we belong.”
“Honey,” Dad says. “This is just temporary. For a year. Until we get more exposure.”
“We?” Willow shouts. “You mean you, Dad. Not us. You’re not here. You don’t know.”
“I do know,” Dad says, taking a step toward her with his arms out. But Willow turns and runs out of the kitchen, her long hair whipping behind her. She charges up the stairs, then slams a door.
Dad turns to Mom. “Do you see now?” she asks him.
“What’s going on?” Grove asks me quietly.
“She hasn’t been very happy,” I whisper to him.
“Obviously,” he says with a little snort. “She’s acting like an erdler.” I can’t help but snicker at the thought of Willow, the most elfy elf I know, being human.
“You know what we need? ” my dad booms. We all look up at him. “We need to get out of this house! We need fresh air in our lungs, open skies above our heads, and grass beneath our feet. Let’s explore this park across the street that I’ve heard so much about.”
When he says this, it makes perfect sense because we’re hardly ever in our house in Alverland. Only to eat and sleep, and then sometimes we just stay outside for those things anyway. “That’s probably what we needed the last couple of days,” I tell him, “when we were all stuffed in here together getting on one another’s nerves.”
“Were you really on one another’s nerves? ” Dad asks.
“It’s hard to get out with them all,” Mom snaps.
Everyone is quiet and watchful of our mother, who rarely talks like that. Even my dad looks a little taken aback by her tone, but then he reaches out and massages her shoulders.
“Yes, it would be hard to take all you little weasels to a strange new place,” he says.
Dad reaches down to tickle Bramble’s belly until Bramble is a wiggly, giggly mess on the floor. “But now that we’re all together . . .” Dad lifts Bramble onto his shoulders.
“I’m going to climb a tree!” Poppy yells, hanging on my dad’s arm.
“I want to build a fort,” Bramble says from on top of Dad.
“Pick berries!” Persimmon adds, tugging at the hem of Dad’s tunic.
“Well.” Dad chuckles. “I don’t know that we can do all that, but we can have a nice long walk, then find a good place to lie down under the open sky and enjoy some of your mother’s cooking.”
“Even Willow? ” Poppy asks.
“Yes,” says Dad. “Even Willow.”
While Grove and I help Mom and Dad pack a picnic, the phone rings. We all assume it’s a business call for Mom or maybe Dad’s manager, Martin, because those are the only reasons our phone rings. So when Mom says, “Flora? Is everything okay?” we all look up. “I thought she was mushroom hunting again.”
“Who?” Poppy asks, tugging on Mom’s tunic.
“Shhh,” Mom hisses.
“Grandma Fawna?” I ask Willow, who shrugs.
Mom listens with her eyebrows furrowed. “When did she leave?”
“Who?” Poppy asks Dad.
“Probably one of the dogs,” he says while slicing bread for sandwiches.
“My dog?” Bramble asks.
“Do dogs mushroom hunt?” Poppy asks.
“Hush,” Willow tells them as we strain to listen to the conversation.
“What do you mean when you say tired?” Mom asks. “Run down? How bad?” She listens. “Sick or just sleepy?” Then she says “Uh-huh” a lot and hangs up.
We all stare at her. “Well?” asks Willow.
“Flora’s worried because Grandma came back very tired from mushroom hunting earlier this week and now she’s gone again.” Mom busies herself washing apples. “She’s been gone only a few days. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Me, My Elf & I Page 10
