Page 4 of The Grumpiest Elf

“Are you one of those, ‘OMG being an elf is the greatest job on earth!’ types?” He affects a high, prissy voice. “‘I get to spread Christmas cheer to everyone! Singing’s my favorite!’”

Shoes on, I spin to face him, finding him standing in front of the mirror to put on the elf ears and hat to complete his costume. He looks ridiculously good in the elf outfit, I have to admit. It’s unfair, since he should look goofy. But also, he’s being kind of a dick.

“What if I am?” I ask, the challenge in my voice unmistakeable. At first I was making an attempt to be polite, despite my accidental bumbling, but if he’s going to be a dick, why bother?

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, condescending amusement tugging at his full lips as he settles his hat just so. For someone who seems like he doesn’t much like this gig, he sure is being particular about making sure he looks the part. “Then you’d get along great with my sister Sarah. She thinks it’s her job to make everyone’s season as merry and bright as possible, whether they like it or not.”

“And you prefer to impersonate the Grinch, I take it?” I shoot back. Though now I’m curious about Sarah. She sounds like she might be nice. Does she come around Santa’s Workshop too? If so, maybe I could make a new friend. If I’m going to stay here for a while, knowing someone other than my mom, my mom’s boss, and this dick would be nice. Well, there’s Nora, too. She’s my age and seems nice, but she grew up here and already has a robust social life, if her stories are anything to go by. I’m not sure she’s looking to add a local friend, especially since she’s going to college in Portland.

He gives me a disdainful look, crossing his arms. From anyone else, I’d expect an eye roll, but he seems too full of himself to stoop to that level. For my part, I barely manage to contain my own. “So because I don’t think prancing around dressed as an elf and getting called Elfie Tinselbottom at twenty-one years old is fun, I must be a Grinch. Is that it?”

When he gives his full elf name, I burst out laughing, which only causes his look to turn even more sour. Which, of course, only makes me laugh harder. Shaking my head, I wave a hand. “So-sorry,” I splutter, feeling anything but remorseful. “I’m sorry.” I manage to control myself enough to get out, “It’s just you”—I wave a hand up and down to indicate him—“looking like that, going by a name like ElfieTinselbottom.” I collapse in a fit of hysterics as I repeat the name. It’s just too much.

I’m lying sideways on the bench cackling, when I hear a locker door slam. I straighten up, laughing less, though still giggling, as he stomps out the door, though the hydraulics that keep the door from slamming probably dampen the effect he was going for.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, carefully wiping the tears from under my eyes. I’m still giggling as I retrieve my ears and hat from my purse, doing my best to straighten my face as I put them on in the mirror, but a burst of giggles keeps popping out despite my best efforts.

I know laughing at him isn’t going to help my relationship with this newly discovered coworker, but even if I’d been the picture of professional politeness, I’m not sure it’d make much difference. I might as well enjoy myself when and how I can.

CHAPTERTHREE

Dylan

Irritation doesn’t evenbeginto describe the feeling coursing through me. Frustration. Humiliation. Anger.

Dread.

Because I’ll have to spend the next four to eight hours with the cheerful girl who not only enjoys her temp job as one of Santa’s elves but who also delights in my humiliation as much as my sisters. The way she fell over laughing when she said my elf name has my cheeks burning as I stomp from the locker room to Santa’s Workshop.

I’m the first one here, of course. Mom and Dad always show up in costume, and they don’t arrive until right before their first scheduled appointment.

Standing in front of the tall desk, I power on the computer, tapping my fingers impatiently as I wait for the ancient machine to go through its processes. I’ve been telling my parents we need to upgrade for years. I even found a bunch of Black Friday sales this year—again—and sent them the links. But do they listen to me?

Of course not. Because who listens to me anyway?

They don’t listen when I protest. They don’t listen when I have good ideas, like upgrading this dinosaur that I swear is as old as I am. The only way to get them to listen, it seems, is to do exactly what they say—find a way to support myself.

Only one more semester, and I’ll do exactly that. I’ve been working part time at Johnson and Weaver, the architecture firm where I did a short internship last summer. They brought me in as support staff, but it’s a good in for after I finish my degree in the spring. They’ve practically guaranteed me one of the paid internship spots I’ll need to complete my training and take the licensing exam.

At least people there respect me. And while I might be support staff at this point, so I do a lot of grunt work, they don’t treat me like a joke, and when I’m tasked with researching projects for the staff architects, they listen when I tell them what I’ve found. Randy, the architect I shadowed last summer, even asks my opinion on the projects, how I’d run them, letting me have a taste for what it’d be like to be an actual intern there. Of course, he doesn’t always go with my ideas, but he takes the time to explain why he’s choosing to do what he does. And when hedoesincorporate my suggestions, he always credits me and tells me I have good instincts.

Such a different experience than my family, who seem to take particular pleasure in giving me shit and pretending like my thoughts and feelings don’t matter.

And now there’s this new chick adding to the mess.

Greeeeat.

Even if she looks cute in that elf costume—her slim, willowy figure and short dark hair making her look like she could actually be a real elf—the last thing I need is someone else busting my balls while I’m home.

She’s quiet when she comes to the Workshop area, studiously avoiding me while she straightens the stuffed animals, fills the candy cane baskets, and flashes the lights to make sure they’re working and in the right positions.

“You wanna do the camera or do I need to do it?” I ask gruffly once she’s satisfied the lights are working properly.

She turns to me, surprise lifting her eyebrows until they almost disappear under the brim of her elf hat. She lays a hand over her chest. “You’re giving me the option? I figured you’d just tell me what to do since you’re obviously the one with tenure around here, being Santa and Mrs. Claus’s son and all.” Then she adds under her breath, “A disgruntled one at that.”

My lips tighten, and I’m tempted to call her out for the last bit—because I definitely heard it, even if she didn’t really mean for me to—but decide to ignore it for the sake of trying to get through the day with minimal drama. It’s not off to a great start, and we haven’t even opened yet.

Vendors are starting to filter in to the big open space where the ChristmasFest is held, flipping on their own lights, opening drawn curtains over their booths, arranging and filling in depleted inventory. It’s a big multi-use event space the town uses for concerts and festivals all year long—Arcadian Falls loves a good festival. When my parents got the town to agree to start the ChristmasFest, they also agreed to use the funds raised from booth fees to contribute to the expansion and upkeep of the town hall space. They did a big renovation and expansion when I was in high school, adding the locker room and additional storage spaces and upgrading the look of the main space.

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