wrong reasons. There’s always some ornery group of elf kids who dare one another to cast wicked spells on birds and frogs, at least until their magic dries up for a few hours, and leaves them with coughs and runny noses. I let the butterfly go and with it some of my fury about Bella’s blog. Even though I don’t feel as mad anymore, I’m still totally confused. I wish I could talk to my dad. I just don’t understand the erdler world. People act one way in front of you and then call you something horrible behind your back. Why? What good does that do?
I come out of the park and see the big pine tree in front of our house. It still feels funny to call this place our house. It’s not our house. Our house is in Alverland, in the middle of a grove of tall maple trees that we tap for syrup, next to the stream where I learned to fish for trout, not far from a tangled patch of black raspberries that we pick every summer and cook into jam for the winter. Now syrup comes in a glass bottle with a picture of a tree on the label, and trout is something dead on a Styrofoam tray with no head or tail, and we’ve eaten almost every jar of homemade jam that we brought with us because it tastes so much like home that we can’t keep our spoons out of it. This house is a strange place with its locking doors and shuttered windows and tiny patch of green in the back that we own but do not share.
I open our front door and trudge through the dark, gloomy living room. “Hello?” I call, hoping that my mom or Willow will answer because I need to talk, but there’s no answer.
I find my mom in the sunny kitchen humming one of Dad’s songs as she chops up vegetables. That’s a good sign. She hums when she’s happy. In Alverland, she was always humming, but I haven’t heard her pretty singing voice much since we’ve been in Brooklyn.
“Hi, Zephyr,” she says when I walk in. She stops what she’s doing and wraps me in a hug. “How was your day?”
I hop up on the counter beside her. “I just don’t understand erdlers,” I say, swiping a carrot from the cutting board.
“Why not?” She goes back to deseeding a cucumber.
“I can’t figure them out.” I wave my carrot around. “Are they nice? Are they mean? Seems like they’re both, all the time, at the same time.”
“I think that would be exhausting.” She slices open a juicy tomato.
“Exactly!” I say. “I don’t know how they keep track of who they like and who they dislike and who they’re friends with and who they hate, especially because it keeps changing all the time. I mean, one minute Bella is sitting next to me offering to help me and the next minute she’s telling everyone that I’m going to fall flat on my face!”
“Who’s Bella?” Mom asks. “Did I meet her the other day?”
“No that was Mercedes and Ari. They’re my friends. But see, it’s weird. How can Mercedes and Ari be so nice to me, someone they hardly know, but then hate Bella so much that they want to make her miserable?”
“That doesn’t sound very nice,” says Mom. “Are those the kind of erdler friends you want?”
“I think they’re all that way. And what worries me most,” I continue, “is whether my friendship with Ari and Mercedes is real or if I’m just a convenient way for them to get at Bella. What if Bella beats me at the audition? Will Ari and Mercedes like me anymore?”
“What audition?” Mom asks.
“Because if that happens,” I say, ignoring her question, “then I’ll be back where I started on the first day of school when I cried like a stupid baby in the middle of the hallway.”
“You cried?” Mom looks stricken at the thought of me upset, like she might cry, too.
“Yeah, but it was okay because then I met Mercedes and Ari and I wasn’t alone anymore.”
“I don’t know, Zephyr,” she says. “This all sounds very complicated and—” As she says this the phone rings. Without finishing her thought, she answers, as if she’s been
I come out of the park and see the big pine tree in front of our house. It still feels funny to call this place our house. It’s not our house. Our house is in Alverland, in the middle of a grove of tall maple trees that we tap for syrup, next to the stream where I learned to fish for trout, not far from a tangled patch of black raspberries that we pick every summer and cook into jam for the winter. Now syrup comes in a glass bottle with a picture of a tree on the label, and trout is something dead on a Styrofoam tray with no head or tail, and we’ve eaten almost every jar of homemade jam that we brought with us because it tastes so much like home that we can’t keep our spoons out of it. This house is a strange place with its locking doors and shuttered windows and tiny patch of green in the back that we own but do not share.
I open our front door and trudge through the dark, gloomy living room. “Hello?” I call, hoping that my mom or Willow will answer because I need to talk, but there’s no answer.
I find my mom in the sunny kitchen humming one of Dad’s songs as she chops up vegetables. That’s a good sign. She hums when she’s happy. In Alverland, she was always humming, but I haven’t heard her pretty singing voice much since we’ve been in Brooklyn.
“Hi, Zephyr,” she says when I walk in. She stops what she’s doing and wraps me in a hug. “How was your day?”
I hop up on the counter beside her. “I just don’t understand erdlers,” I say, swiping a carrot from the cutting board.
“Why not?” She goes back to deseeding a cucumber.
“I can’t figure them out.” I wave my carrot around. “Are they nice? Are they mean? Seems like they’re both, all the time, at the same time.”
“I think that would be exhausting.” She slices open a juicy tomato.
“Exactly!” I say. “I don’t know how they keep track of who they like and who they dislike and who they’re friends with and who they hate, especially because it keeps changing all the time. I mean, one minute Bella is sitting next to me offering to help me and the next minute she’s telling everyone that I’m going to fall flat on my face!”
“Who’s Bella?” Mom asks. “Did I meet her the other day?”
“No that was Mercedes and Ari. They’re my friends. But see, it’s weird. How can Mercedes and Ari be so nice to me, someone they hardly know, but then hate Bella so much that they want to make her miserable?”
“That doesn’t sound very nice,” says Mom. “Are those the kind of erdler friends you want?”
“I think they’re all that way. And what worries me most,” I continue, “is whether my friendship with Ari and Mercedes is real or if I’m just a convenient way for them to get at Bella. What if Bella beats me at the audition? Will Ari and Mercedes like me anymore?”
“What audition?” Mom asks.
“Because if that happens,” I say, ignoring her question, “then I’ll be back where I started on the first day of school when I cried like a stupid baby in the middle of the hallway.”
“You cried?” Mom looks stricken at the thought of me upset, like she might cry, too.
“Yeah, but it was okay because then I met Mercedes and Ari and I wasn’t alone anymore.”
“I don’t know, Zephyr,” she says. “This all sounds very complicated and—” As she says this the phone rings. Without finishing her thought, she answers, as if she’s been
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