33. There’s Snow Business Like Show Business

33

THERE'S SNOW BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS

QUINN

256 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

On my way to the theater in town, I pass the elves working hard on the workshop redesign. My satchel bounces at my side as I wave to the friendly faces. They whistle while they work, a happy tune that underscores the click of my boots on the cobblestone pathways that has become synonymous with freedom.

Up ahead, Patrick is decked out in red, holding a clipboard and pointing authoritatively into the distance. Even from far away, even without hearing him, I know he's giving an impassioned speech, his hands moving frenetically. They paint the picture in his mind for the others. From the way the elves and council members around him nod and smile, donning hard hats and tool belts, it's obvious his vision is well received.

Patrick was right. All I needed to do was reserve a percentage of my energy for myself, so I wasn't depleting myself for the sake of others. For the last month, I have been dusting off more books in the library for pleasure, learning to drive the town trolley, and exploring curiosities beyond my wildest imaginings.

Today, however, I'm tied up in preparations for the Elf Extravaganza. It's a North Pole tradition where many of the elves turn out to showcase their talents in a cabaret unlike anything Broadway could compete with.

Like Colleen and Yvonne had said, learning how to relax after being hyperactive for so long has been a blessing. I approach today with open eyes and ample excitement.

In front of me, there is a glorious marquee circumvented by unlit bulbs. Its signage reads: AUDITIONS TODAY .

I push into the theater. The lobby is a lush, gilded oasis dropped in from another time. To my right is a bar. To my left is a coatroom. Just ahead are multiple sets of doors leading into the theater. Around me, hopeful elves warm up their voices and stretch out their limbs.

As the Merriest Mister, I'm charged with vetting and selecting the acts for the upcoming bill.

Inside, I find Christa, who is heading up costuming and tech, and Ashley, who is billed as my co-director. In the months we've been here, Ashley's been the most spacey and distant, not warming to me and Patrick. I'm unsure why.

I take my seat at the table in the center of the house. A massive chandelier presides over the auditorium. Above that, a classical mural of the North Pole is painted in immaculate detail. If I squint, there are outlines of figures that look like Patrick and me. A year-long legacy prematurely preserved in paint.

"Nice fit," says Christa, eyeing me up. I've got on one of her designs—a red sherpa sweater with white trim and tapered black joggers tucked into bulky boots.

Ashley skips all pleasantries. "Let's get started."

The elves and acts range in age, size, and skill. Some of them, like the Voices of Hope children's choir and the Great Squallini magician, are well-rehearsed. Others like the dog trainer act—which makes my heart jump into my throat at the memory of the near rottweiler attack last Christmas—could use some work.

After hours of taking notes and making yes, no, and maybe piles, we've seen everyone there is to see. Before we make any final deliberations, Christa suggests a break to stretch our legs, grab snacks, and reconvene.

In the hallway near the restrooms, I almost stumble over a child sitting on the floor with a crumpled-up piece of paper in their fist. Underneath a full face of makeup, they appear upset. My teacher instincts swim up to the surface.

"Hey there," I say, keeping my distance but crouching down to the elf child's level. "Is everything all right?" The elf looks up. Their shoulders are rounded forward in protection. "It's okay. I'm Quinn." I reach out a hand.

"I know. The Merriest Mister. Hi." The elf shakes my hand with such little enthusiasm.

"You are…?"

"Mick," they say. "Mick Flurry."

I doubt this elf has ever heard of McDonald's and its staple ice cream concoction, so I don't make the obvious joke. I swallow my laugh and give them a friendly smile. "It's nice to meet you, Mick. Were you here for the auditions? I didn't see you inside."

They continue toying with the crumpled-up piece of paper. "I was but I changed my mind."

"Why's that?"

"I'm not good enough."

"Not good enough. Who says?" They shrug. "What's that you have there?"

They unravel the ball a bit. "Just—nothing. It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing. Can I see?" I ask, holding out a hand.

I keep my gaze as warm as possible. Their color-changing eyes go from ice blue to soft pink, almost as if they're a mood ring. "Sure. I guess."

Careful not to rip the page, I undo the ball. It has a thick quality, and the words are dashed out on it using an inky quill. Blotches of black make it hard to decipher all the words, but the heading is unmistakable: North Pole North Star by Blizzard.

"Who's Blizzard?" I ask knowingly.

"Uh, me," they say. "It's my numb-de-plum."

This laugh I can't choke back. "I think you mean nom de plume. Your pen name."

"Sure. That." They wilt like a flower as they angle away from me. I shouldn't have laughed.

I sit back on my haunches and read the entire poem. "This is really good. Can I ask how old you are?"

"Eight." The same age as my former students. I must be out of practice, only now remembering how kids this age possess an easily offended seriousness. This poem is Mick's inner world.

"I'm sorry I chuckled before. It wasn't you or your work. Rhymes always get a laugh out of me," I say to defuse the awkwardness. "This is a really impressive poem, Mick. Were you going to read it for us?"

They nod. "I thought about it, but then I heard all those great singers and saw all those amazing tricks and I decided to forget about it." Of course, their presence in this hallway belies that.

"How come?"

"Because a poem can't compete." Their words splat like saggy water balloons. Unwarranted defeat spills between us.

"It's not a competition, Mick. Besides, comparison is the killer of good art, and this"—I shake their paper in the air—"is good art. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because it's authentic. I think you should share it."

They let out a deep breath. "I've never shared one of my poems before."

"There's a first time for everything. Look at me, I'm the first ever Merriest Mister."

"I don't think I can," they say, accepting the paper back from me, riffling through a bag to their left.

I don't want to press too hard and scare them off, so I say, "I like your outfit." They wear rainbow boots, sparkly tights, a tulle tutu, and a top hat.

"Thanks. I picked it out myself. Whenever I draw Blizzard, this is what they look like."

"Dressing as Blizzard makes you feel confident?"

Their eyes widen, clearly happy somebody understands them. "Yeah."

"I have an idea. What if Mick doesn't audition, but Blizzard does?"

Their eyebrows, which have a line of jewels stuck above them, crinkle. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this is Blizzard's poem, right? Blizzard should be the one to share it. It probably wouldn't be as scary if Blizzard got up on that stage," I say.

Comprehension ripples through their features. "That's true."

"What do you say? Does Blizzard want to give it a try?" I ask.

"Blizzard hasn't practiced," they protest.

"We'll do it quick. Read it out loud. Right now. You and me. How about that?" I ask, getting excited by the prospect of helping this child find their confidence.

They nod, slowly standing. I mirror them. "Okay. But can you—" They keep their gaze cast down. "Can you turn around?"

"Of course."

Mick reads the poem once with me facing the far wall, which is signed by hundreds of elves who've performed here in the past. Mick's voice is shaky but they make it to the end. When they finish, I ask if I can turn halfway. They agree, and read it again. Finally, on the third try, I'm facing them. They don't look up much, and they don't meet my gaze, but their words are clear and their stance is strong.

"Quinn, are you out—" It's Ashley come looking for me. She stands in her oversized sweater inspecting the scene with evident confusion. "We're ready to start casting."

"We can't yet," I say. "We have one more audition to see."

Ashley must understand. "Oh, okay. I didn't see Mic—"

"This isn't Mick," I'm quick to say. "This is Blizzard. And Blizzard is going to read us an original poem. Isn't that right?"

Mick beams, adjusts their top hat, and says in full voice, "Right," before following us inside the theater.