41. Phone Home

41

PHONE HOME

QUINN

133 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

There are no seasons in the North Pole, so I'm surprised I even realize that the calendar in the kitchen has flipped itself magically to a fresh page.

August. It arrived so quickly.

I pour myself a cup of cocoa while looking out the window at the unchanged landscape. Everything is always glistening with snow—from the mountaintops to the thatched roofs. I'm startled to find that, for the first time, I'm more indifferent to than amazed by it.

Back in New Jersey, I'd be tactfully sidestepping prep for September while lapping up the last delicious drops of summer. The weather would be warm and somewhat humid, but I don't think I'd mind the stickiness. Trudging through soupy air while working up a sweat is a sensation I didn't know I could miss, yet here I am, missing it.

I sip my cocoa and find that even this I wish I could swap out for a sweet, refreshing Aperol spritz.

Veronica and I would usually be, right about now, packing for a quick, last-minute trip to Seaside, where we'd stay at the cheapest motel with the highest rating and work on our tans before the madness of another school year inched back into our lives after Labor Day.

Interestingly, I'm missing the seasons and New Jersey, but I'm not missing teaching. This experience has been a crash course in balance. Oakwood Elementary left me wrung out. As the calendar becomes a ticker toward our inevitable departure from the North Pole, I contemplate what a career looks like beyond the snow and the magic.

I do something I haven't done in months. I text Veronica.

I've avoided contacting anyone from home out of pure how-do-I-explain-this panic. I left the state, dropped out of their lives. Hobart and the council assured us they've tied up any loose ends that might lead to inquiry, but with four and a half months left in our yearlong sabbatical, I'm needing this connection back to the real world, a reminder of my roots. I imagine this is what celebrities must feel like after getting used to fame and fortune and access.

It's only after I send the message that I realize she could be sleeping or working or the service could be spotty. I don't have a handle on the time difference. Antsy, I slip on my coat and boots and trek into town for a distraction.

When I get tired of walking, I hop aboard the trolley that clangs and dings. Stuck inside my head, I barely notice as the trolley car ventures toward the outskirts of town in the opposite direction from the Tundra Dome.

"Last stop," the conductor announces and I get out in front of what looks like a school building. Through the sizable front windows, a masculine-presenting instructor is framed at the front of the classroom giving a lesson, using a pointer. A bunch of elf children sit at desks nodding, as comically large pencils scritch-scratch back and forth.

A pang goes through my chest. It starts small but grows unignorable.

Out here, pulling my coat tighter against me to keep out the cold, looking in on a skewed version of my old life, I meditate on whether I'd be okay never stepping back into that role again. Is there another calling out there for me?

Behind me, there's a café. I make my way inside the small cabin-like building, where the chairs have swirly backs and the coffees have fancy names. The music playing creates a gentle ambience in dissonance with the hiss of the espresso machine.

I plant myself near the window to eat a muffin, sip a matcha, and elf watch. I used to do this a lot back home. Though it was much easier when I was a teacher among humans and not a human among elves. I stick out too much. Everyone tips their hats at me as they pass. The baristas make sure my mug is never empty.

I'm starting to miss doing tasks for myself. The enchanted chalet is wonderful and the elves are superstars, but leisure comes at a price, too.

I'm the only person who could find trouble with paradise.

My attention is captured by a gaggle of elves in hard hats bursting through the door, a mishmash of booming voices. I didn't know there were any construction projects happening in the village. I wonder where they're working. I'm tucked into a corner far enough away to eavesdrop.

"I don't think we're on track to finish in time," says one elf, jostling for a position to see the menu board better.

Another helps himself to the black coffee in the self-serve canister. "It's for Santa Patrick. Let's take a shorter break and get back to it."

A brunette elf toys with the safety goggles hanging around her neck. "I agree. Santa Patrick is the best so we need to try our best. No excuses."

I glow hearing this. But it only stokes my wonder about what they're working on. My hands grow clammy with intrigue.

The first elf lets out a big sigh. "You're right. Let's get our coffees to go, huh, folks?"

I'm about to stop them and ask for clarification when my phone lights up on the table with a booming ring. All the elves turn around. Red-faced, I avert my eyes and answer the call without thinking.

Veronica's face takes up the screen. With her hair pulled back, her eyes are unobstructed, full-up with incredulity. In the distance, a seagull squawks. She must be at the beach, on the trip I'm not there for. My stomach plunks with FOMO.

"Where the hell have you been?!" Veronica shouts. Her words bounce around the café, making me even more embarrassed. I slip in tiny, wireless earbuds, thank the baristas for their service, and step outside.

My eyes scan the streets, searching for the gaggle of elf laborers, but they've already disappeared.

"Hello?" Veronica's voice chimes bright and frantic in my ears. "Earth to Quinn. You ghost me, you text me, I call you, and now you're frozen? Literally? Wait, what are those snowcapped mountains in the background? Why are you all bundled up? Where the hell are you?"

This barrage of questions is exactly the reason I was avoiding everyone back home. I can tell the truth, but she probably won't believe me. However, I started this conversation, so I guess I have to try to make her.

"Remember when I told you I dropped my phone in the toilet and that's why your Find My Friends app pinged me in the Arctic?"

"Yes," she says, squinting at me with apparent confusion.

"That was a lie. That's where I've been for the last eight months. At the North Pole."

"On some sort of expedition?"

My eyeline is fixed ahead at where I'm walking, not down at the phone. She's probably getting a whole lot of double-chin and giving me a whole lot of scrunched-face confusion. "Not exactly. We are sort of, kind of working here…"

"You mean on a ship?" she asks.

"No."

She clears her throat, practically demanding my undivided attention. I stop to sit on a cleared-off bench. "There's no civilization there, Quinn. It's moving ice! The only way that would be possible is if magic existed."

Summoning all my conviction into a single stare, I look right into the lens of my iPhone camera.

"Quinn, we spend half our days as second-grade teachers telling our students that unicorns and fairies and ogres aren't real. Don't tell me that magic is real because if magic is real and you were living and working in the North Pole, then that means—"

I continue to stare.

She shakes her head vehemently. "No, nuh-uh. I would sooner believe you were out there as geologists, oceanographers, meteorologists, cartographers, or atmospheric physicists than I would believe you were"—her voice drops to a whisper—" Santa ."

"Well, I'm not Santa," I say. I'm far enough on the outskirts of town that only a few elves pass by. None of them slow down or stop. They all smile or wave and then carry on their way. Thank God. I've got a frazzled friend screaming at me through the phone, "Quinn Muller, what do you mean?"

I have no words with which to answer that question, so I flip to the rear-facing camera and show her the North Pole.

She cycles whip-fast through the many stages of disbelief, including denial and bartering and fragmented logic. She half convinces herself I've converted to acting and I'm on the set of a movie in Canada somewhere. "Are you the gay Lacey Chabert?"

Eventually, I've had enough of her nonsensical babbling, so I head straight for the reindeer stables. A bunch of her questions garble together in my ears, intermingled with sporadic static.

Once I reach the fence, I turn the camera to face me. "I'm going to show you something incredible, but for the sake of my very sensitive eardrums, please keep your reaction to a minimum. Remember, you're in a public place."

"Whatever. As you wish. Show me."

Timing it perfectly, I flip back to the rear-facing camera right as Vixen shoots off into the sky, does a few laps with golden orbs trailing behind her, and then lands gracefully back on her hooves. On the screen, Veronica's jaw hangs open. At least she's quie—

"Holy shit!" I'm shaking from the sheer volume such a short woman has produced. Shock rattles every one of my nerve endings awake. "Okay. I'm sorry. That was a lot. I'm packing up my stuff. I'm going back to the motel. I'm going to call you again, and so help me, if you don't pick up, I will find a way there. Boat, plane, I don't care. You're going to tell me how the hell this happened and why you didn't tell me sooner."

After I promise to pick up, she ends the call.

I'm about to start back to the chalet when, across the field, Patrick appears. The fading sun dips behind him, turning him into a silhouette outlined by slashes of sherbet light. Beside him, one of the reindeer nuzzles in, tilting its head up as if they're conversing.

I call out to Patrick, but he doesn't hear me, so I hop the fence and crunch my way across the field. Bits of his conversation float on the air. "Almost ready," he says. "The finishing touches are—" A reindeer sneezes beside me. I'm about to say "bless you" when I hear, "I just really hope Quinn likes it."

"Likes what?" I ask.

Patrick Hargrave turns with the speed and precision of a professional figure skater. "What? Oh, hi. Quinn. Hi."

"Hi to you, too," I say. "Hope I like what?"

"Yeah." He fishes into his satchel for an apple for Blitzen. Patrick loves these reindeer so much that he spoils them. I bet Chris wouldn't approve of Patrick messing with their diet so much. They're an elite sleigh-guiding team that needs athletic discipline. Last thing we want is any of them becoming too lethargic to sustain the all-night flight. "The, um, new bells and whistles Jorge has implemented on the sleigh."

"Oh, cool. What sort of features?"

"Bells… and whistles."

"Oh, you meant literally."

Patrick nods. "They're to deter flocks of nocturnal birds from crossing our flight path."

"Got it."

"What are you doing out here?" he asks, as if he wishes I were anywhere else.

"I was just taking a stroll. I'm on my way back to the chalet to talk with Veronica."

"Veronica?" Patrick wears a new shade of surprise. "I didn't realize you'd talked to anyone back home since we got here."

"I haven't," I say, uncertainly. "This was the first time. Honestly, this is the longest Veronica and I have gone without talking since we met, and since all the Merriest Mister duties have slowed down as Christmas preparation ramps up, I've really started to miss her. A video call is the least I can offer after eight months of silence. Is that a problem?"

"No, of course not." Though, he sounds as uncertain as I feel about his downward-sliding expression.

I decide not to push it because maybe he's thinking about how he wouldn't have someone like Veronica to call if he wanted to. I wouldn't peg Patrick as antisocial, but when he started at Carver & Associates, he fell out of touch with all our college friends. He tends to stick to himself.

"Will you be home for dinner?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says with a smile. I nod, moving closer to give him a kiss before heading back. "Wait, no. I won't. I have a few urgent tasks to attend to tonight. I'll be late."

"Have Hobart bring you something to eat, okay? Don't forget." I think back to my running thoughts only an hour ago, about how if I leave teaching, I may still never find a calling, but in our time here, Patrick morphed into a more self-assured man. The Santa role suits him. He's taken his passion for architecture and his natural affinity for leadership and fashioned it into a winning combination.

Next year, in New Jersey, back in our house, I hope he finds a job that lets him shine as much as this one does.