Jingle by Gordon Korman
At the base of the tree was another elf. She could almost have been the real thing as she tilted her head to gaze up at the Star.
“Is it just me,” Ben whispered to Griffin, “or does an elf getup actually suit her?”
She was petite, with honey-colored hair cascading from her slouchy cap. Even the plastic points on her ears somehow completed her heart-shaped face.
Melissa moved her curtain of hair aside for a better view. “So that’s how it’s supposed to look.”
“It’s her!” hissed Logan. “It’s Tiffany Boucle!”
“The girl whose mom kicked you out of the North Shore Players?” asked Savannah.
Logan squared his shoulders and adjusted his jerkin. “Are my ears on straight?”
“Perfectly,” Pitch assured him. “It’s the rest of your head you should be worried about.”
“Hilarious,” Logan said sarcastically. “My whole acting career is riding on this, and you’re cracking jokes.”
Even Ferret Face watched with interest as Logan crossed the Great Hall to the base of the huge tree. The bells on his shoes jingled as he tripped over a thick black cable. If the electrician hadn’t grabbed his arm to steady him, it would have been a total wipeout.
“What are all these wires doing on the floor?” Logan demanded.
The middle-aged man shrugged. “It takes a lot of power to run the Workshop, son. We’ve got animatronic reindeer, toy soldiers and drummer boys, a miniature train, not to mention floodlights, spotlights, and Christmas lights. The tree alone has over twenty thousand bulbs. A two-hundred-year-old mansion wasn’t built to handle this kind of juice.”
At last, Logan made his way over to the girl who wore the green-and-tan costume so naturally and with such grace. She was gazing up at the Star of Prague, which sparkled in the sun streaming in through the windows. That might have explained why she didn’t notice him—not even when he cleared his throat loudly.
This didn’t bother Logan. He was an actor, trained in ad lib—the ability to improvise when a performance wasn’t going as planned.
“Great star, huh?” he said to her. “Pretty tight.”
Okay, it wasn’t as creative as he was hoping for, but it got the job done. At least she realized he was there.
“I know,” she told him. “My mom’s an art history professor. She’s fascinated with it.”
“I thought your mom was the director of the North Shore Players,” Logan blurted in surprise.
“That’s just part-time,” Tiffany explained. “Her day job is teaching at the community college. She’s dying to finish her book about the Star, but the Colchesters won’t give her access to it. They don’t want it to get too famous. They’d rather keep it a Cedarville holiday tradition, not some world-renowned treasure that draws visitors from all over.”
“That’s really interesting,” said Logan, stifling a yawn. He needed a way to steer the conversation back to the North Shore Players. “Traditions are important. That’s why I wanted to be an elf. A lot of people think all you have to do is put on a costume. But it takes a lot of acting ability to bring depth to the role.”
She frowned. “Depth?”
“Of course,” Logan enthused. “For example, what’s my character’s motivation? How’s my relationship with Santa? How do I feel about my place in the toy-making supply chain? Am I resentful because other elves were promoted ahead of me …?”
Logan was just warming up to the subject when a booming laugh interrupted him.
“Where’d you get the costumes, you guys?” came the obnoxious voice of Darren Vader. “Did Tinker Bell have a garage sale?”
It drew a giggle from Tiffany, and she craned her neck to find the source of the comment.
Into the Great Hall strutted big Darren, a leering grin on his broad face. His eyes panned the group, coming to rest on Griffin, his archenemy. “Nice tights, Bing.”
“What are you doing here, Vader?” Griffin growled.
“Same as you,” Darren shot back. “Getting my elf on.”
Tiffany laughed again. In alarm, Logan noted that she was regarding Darren with admiration.
“No way, Darren!” Logan exclaimed. “You’ve never volunteered for anything in your life!”
“That’s mean!” Tiffany accused.
“I take that personally, Kellerman,” Darren announced. “I’m so community-minded that ‘Cedarville’ comes up in my alphabet soup.”
“Real smart making fun of our costumes when you’re going to be wearing the same thing,” Pitch said.
“Assuming they can find tights in size a thousand,” added Griffin with relish.
“Ha!” Darren snorted a laugh. “Nice one, Bing.”
Tiffany rushed over to shake hands with Darren. “I’m Tiffany Boucle. I think it’s great that we’re going to be elves together.”
Logan was crushed. Tiffany hadn’t bothered to introduce herself to him.
“Darren Vader,” the big boy told her grandly. “Welcome to Cedarville.”
Logan sidled up to Griffin. “Like he’s the mayor or something,” he muttered under his breath.
“I wonder what Vader’s really doing here,” Griffin mused as Darren and Tiffany got acquainted. “There’s no way that money-grubber would volunteer for elf duty if there wasn’t something in it for him.”
At that moment, all activity ceased in the Great Hall. Even the workmen dropped what they were doing and stood up in respect. Charles Colchester, Cedarville’s most illustrious citizen, surveyed what would soon be the sixty-sixth annual Santa’s Workshop. He was a very tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with military stature and iron-gray hair and mustache. His hand was on the shoulder of a middle-school boy with tousled blond locks and the kind of deep suntan that no Long Islander had this time of year.
Priddle rushed across the Great Hall to greet his employer. “Mr. Colchester, may I present this year’s elves.”
Mr. Colchester grinned broadly, which instantly made him appear twenty years younger, kind and friendly. “Thanks for coming, kids. It means a lot to my family that we can continue to do this year after year. And I’ve brought you one more elf—all the way from California. This is my grandson, Russell.”
Russell shared zero of his grandfather’s charm. “Hi,” he announced in a voice that lacked any interest or enthusiasm.
“Well, I’ll leave you all to get acquainted. Russell, I’ll see you at dinner. Have fun.”
Cedarville’s most renowned host left the Great Hall.
Tiffany was in the middle of a sentence, but Darren turned his back on her and walked over to Russell Colchester. “Great to meet you, Russ. I’m Darren. Let me guess—you’re not too thrilled about flying three thousand miles to squeeze your buns into green elf tights.”
Russell smiled at Darren in spite of himself. “Am I that obvious?”
“I can already tell the two of us think alike,” Darren said confidentially. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to rock the leprechaun suit. You just have to look better than Slovak over there. He’s the shrimpy one with the toothpick legs and the weasel sticking out of his collar.”
Russell did a double take. “Is that a rat?”
Ben drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very tall. “He’s a ferret, and he’s a trained service animal. I have narcolepsy, and it’s his job to bite me if I start to fall asleep.”
Russell turned back to Darren. “Is he serious?”
“I don’t get it, either,” Darren admitted. “Kids are weird around here, Russ. Lucky you found me.”
“Follow me, you two,” Priddle instructed Russell and Darren. “We’ll see about your costumes.” He led them off in the direction of the changing rooms.
“Well, now we know why Vader signed up for elf duty,” Pitch concluded. “He’s here to suck up to the rich kid.”
“The Vaders are pretty rich, too,” commented Melissa from behind her hair.
“Not Colchester rich,” Griffin countered.
&n
Savannah was always ready to stick up for animals. “There’s nothing wrong with rats.”
“I know we’re all supposed to love the Colchesters,” Pitch observed, “but this kid Russell seems like kind of a jerk. And if he starts palling around with Vader, that would be jerk squared.”
Tiffany spoke up. “I don’t get what everybody has against Darren. He’s so funny. Maybe you’re just misunderstanding his sense of humor.”
Griffin was serious. “Listen, Tiffany. You didn’t grow up in Cedarville. We’ve all got plenty of history with Darren, and none of it’s funny.”
She was about to give him an argument, but she was cut off by the roar of a backfiring engine so loud that it penetrated deep inside the huge mansion.
“Is that a motorcycle?” Ben shouted over the noise.
The engine died abruptly to be replaced by thunderous barking that could only be coming from one source.
“Luthor!” breathed Savannah.
This was followed by the sound of heavy leather boots on the polished oak floors. Nervous glances passed between the elves, and all eyes turned to the door leading from the service entrance.
The footsteps grew closer—like a gunfighter striding into a saloon in the Old West.
The door was thrown open so violently that it swung around and bashed the paneled wall. In walked a bear of a man wrapped in a nail-studded black leather jacket and ripped jeans. He was so large that Luthor looked normal size alongside him. The barking had stopped, and the big dog rubbed submissively up against the newcomer’s denim-clad legs. A broken section of drainpipe dangled from the looped end of his leash.
Who was this monster who had conquered Luthor and obviously had no business being anywhere near the gracious Colchester mansion? The elves cowered before him, and even the workmen paused in their tasks to look on in concern. Everybody was struck dumb—all except the last person anyone expected to sound the alarm.
“Mr. Priddle!” shrilled Melissa, way beyond her top volume. “Mr. Priddle, come quick!”
The secretary rushed into the Great Hall. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
The elves stared at him. Couldn’t he see that a giant biker had stormed the mansion?
“Oh, I see now,” Priddle exclaimed in consternation. “The dog got in. And he’s broken the drainpipe!”
“Not the dog!” Ben shouted. “The guy!”
“Oh,” the secretary said in sudden understanding. “May I present Mr. Dirk Crenshaw. He’ll be our Santa Claus at the Holiday Spectacular.”
Dead silence. No one in the history of the world had ever looked less like Jolly Old Saint Nick than this wild-eyed hulk four times the size of any of them. He would have fit in better in a gang war than in a Christmas party.
“Santa,” Priddle went on, “these are your elves.”
In greeting, Crenshaw opened his mouth wide enough to drive a truck through and emitted a long, rolling belch that smelled of garlic and stale cigars.
“We’d better watch out,” Pitch mumbled under her breath.
Griffin understood her meaning instantly. Santa Claus had come to town.
Quit scratching, Ferret Face.”
Ben pulled on the green fabric in an attempt to make space inside the tight shirt. It was no use. Elf suits were not made with ferrets in mind.
In the bedroom mirror, Ben could see the bump under his shirt wriggling like mad as the little creature struggled to find a comfortable position. “You’ll just have to get used to it,” Ben said sternly. “I don’t like it any more than you do. It’s only for a couple of weeks. Let’s go get some pepperoni.”
Hearing the name of his favorite breakfast, Ferret Face decided to settle down. The little animal was the lucky one, Ben decided. He only had to deal with the squeezy shirt. The squeezy pants were the real problem. Ben was pretty sure he was walking like a stick insect all the way down the stairs. Or maybe that was just his cautious gait to keep his ear points from falling off.
On the way to the kitchen, he paused at the foot of the stairs, taking in the small display that stood there—a tabletop Christmas tree beside a Hanukkah menorah. It looked pretty dinky in comparison with the giant fir tree at Santa’s Workshop, capped by the magnificent Star of Prague. Then again, the Slovak house wasn’t exactly the Colchester mansion, either. Besides, Ben’s family always had to split their celebration between the two holidays.
“Oh, Benjamin, you look adorable!” Mrs. Slovak exclaimed as her son came into the kitchen.
“I look like a garden gnome with bony knees.”
His father laughed. “Suck it up, kid. You’re part of a Cedarville tradition.”
“I should sue Logan Kellerman for getting me into this,” Ben muttered, pushing a slice of pepperoni through the tight shirt down to Ferret Face’s eager mouth. It served Logan right that the girl he was trying to impress seemed to be developing a crush on Darren Vader, of all people. Yuck.
After breakfast, Mr. Slovak drove Ben to the mansion, steering carefully around the orange traffic cones set out by Miss Grier.
“Same old Miss Grinch, I see,” Dad commented. “Still determined that no one should be allowed to trespass on her property.”
“If you think she’s bad, wait till you get a load of Santa. Little kids are going to run a mile before climbing on his lap.” Ben stepped carefully out of the car, jingling all the way. “I’ll be late today. We’ve got our first full rehearsal.”
In spite of himself, Ben had to admit that Santa’s Workshop looked amazing. The indoor castle was complete, and the activity booths were set up and decorated with sprayed-on snow. Large light-up flakes dangled everywhere, and Mr. O’Bannon, the electrician, bustled from station to station, repairing loose wires with a soldering gun.
“Not so fast! Not so fast!” he exclaimed in agitation. “Don’t power them all up at the same time! The wiring in this old building can’t handle it!”
“You say the same thing every year,” Priddle reminded him. “And every year this old building manages just fine.”
The Holiday Spectacular’s elves were nowhere near ready for opening night, which was only four days away. The Christmas jig was a disaster. The costumes were too tight to allow for easy movement. Griffin had two left feet, and Darren had no feet at all—none that he was willing to move, anyway. Pitch, who was the best athlete in town, had the ability but not the grace. And Russell refused to dance, period.
“Grandpa can drag me here and force me to put on the costume. But that’s where it ends.”
“I’m with you, Russ,” Darren told him supportively. “Fight the power.”
Ferret Face, who suffered from motion sickness, spit up inside Ben’s elf suit. It made the merely uncomfortable now unbearable.
“Where do you think you’re going?” demanded Priddle as Ben tried to slink off to the bathroom.
“I just need to—wash up a little.” Ben decided not to go into the details of the ferret barf trickling down his chest.
“Not now,” the secretary ordered. “We’re just about to practice our caroling.”
Singing carols was another responsibility that came with the elf gig. Never mind that Ben had to kneel in the front row, trying not to yelp while Darren delivered kick after kick from behind. The organist was Yvette Boucle, Tiffany’s mother. Logan was so determined to capture her attention that he sang too loud and stood too far forward, staring at her.
“If he wants to make a good impression,” Griffin whispered to Ben, “why does he look like he’s trying to inhale the sheet music?”
Ben didn’t answer. Ferret barf took all the zest out of a guy.
Tiffany sang a solo, and she was really good, her clear soprano soaring up to the Star of Prague. Everyone applauded except sour-faced Russell. Determined to score points with her mother, Logan ran up to high-five Tiffany. But she was looking for Darren’s a
“Sorry,” Logan said as he helped her up off the floor. “I hope this doesn’t affect my chances of getting into the North Shore Players.”
“It won’t,” she assured him, trying to straighten her skirt. “You had a zero percent chance before, and that hasn’t changed at all.”
But the worst part of being an elf was Santa himself. Nobody expected a hired Santa Claus to be the real thing, but Crenshaw was remarkably unfriendly and spoke only when he had to, in single-syllable grunts. He smelled of cigars and oil and gas fumes from his ancient motorcycle. He took constant smoke breaks outside on the grounds, where he was visited by friends who looked exactly like he did—black-jacketed bikers. The roar of Harley-Davidson engines regularly interrupted rehearsals.
“Where did they find this guy—Mount Doom?” Pitch wondered aloud.
Melissa parted her curtain of hair to reveal eyes that were even more haunted than usual. “Isn’t Santa supposed to be jolly? He’s not jolly; he’s mean.”
“And his friends,” Griffin added. “They’re as bad as he is! You know what they all call him? Fingers! That’s a nickname for a crook, not a Santa Claus!”
“I overheard them talking about losing money betting on horses,” Ben put in. “That’s why he took this job—to pay off his gambling debts!”
“Job!” Logan was bitter for a different reason. “Dirk Crenshaw has an acting job, and I can’t even get into the North Shore Players. Where’s the justice in that?”
“Maybe it wasn’t such a smooth move to punch the director,” Pitch suggested drily.
“I refuse to listen to any of this,” Savannah said stubbornly. “Sure, Dirk is a little rough around the edges. But he must be a good person inside.”
The others stared at her.
“Why?” Melissa ventured.
“Isn’t it obvious? Luthor loves him. Animals are always better judges of character than people.”