But who would do this? I couldn’t bring myself to look at any of it, but Grace had done a full deep dive. Apparently it was a gossip account just for the film’s mega-fans. Photos of the cast. Interview clips. Rumours about who was dating who. Behind the scenes photos and pap pics. Grace had tried to report the post. She’d chosen “inappropriate” as the reason it breached guidelines – no lie, though, sharing a picture of me as a blinking elf was deeply, deeply inappropriate. But it was still there.
I scrolled down the comments. At least there were less new ones every day.
“Lol.”
“Why is he standing next to that mutant?”
“Check out my TikTok. Link in Bio. I originated the ElfYoSelf challenge!!!”
I felt sick all over again. I stared out of the windscreen – all the streets and places that felt like home feeling at risk of changing for ever.
My school. Where up until now I’d just been Molly. Nothing out of the ordinary Molly. Not embarrassing-Elf-Girl Molly.
The newsagent. Where I’d been Molly. Sure, slightly obsessed with Freddos Molly, but not in-a-ridiculous-singing-family Molly.
The bus stop where Grace had pressed send on that first email to Zaiynab. And now The POWR were a few clicks away from realizing I was a national musical laughing stock.
But wait… I froze.
What was that new comment?!
“Is Elf Girl at St Augustine’s??? I SWEAR she did a coding camp with me 
Also. Campaign for better elf emoji starts here.”
I groaned so loudly Dad heard it over his exceptionally powerful rendition of “Stay Another Day”.
“Harmony time?” He turned the volume up even more, his eyebrows wiggling in excitement, making his Santa beard wobble. Why he was wearing a fake Santa beard to drive Cara was beyond me. But I’d realized from a young age that asking my family questions was dangerous.
“DAD!” I had to yell. “THAT WASN’T A HARMONY! IT WAS ME GROANING.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound lit.” He was still deep in his using-words-he-didn’t-understand phase. I didn’t have the energy to explain. “What’s up, Mol?”
The fact he said things like that, for one. The fact that I’d begged him to dress normal and he was wearing a Christmas jumper that said Feliz Navi-Dad with a picture of his own face on was another. “Nothing,” I lied. Our argument last night had confirmed that trying to explain was pointless.
“The Brussel Shouts have been asked to go on” – he’d begun cheerfully. I’d hoped he was going to finish the sentence with “a permanent hiatus” – “The One Show to talk about Love Your Elf!”
I’d begged them not to go, said I’d never ask for a single Christmas present ever again, but all Mum and Dad had said was “potentially”, which is British for “it’s the answer you don’t want to hear”.
Eurgh. Everything was getting so out of control. And even though I’d sent off the new lyrics they’d asked for, Zaiynab and Matt hadn’t said a word about the band. Was it because they didn’t like my lyrics? Or had they figured out my connection to the worst band in history? Because at school I couldn’t shake a feeling. Had people started whispering when I walked past?
If this was the most wonderful time of the year, the other eleven months must be pretty terrible.
“Well, whatever ‘nothing’ is, this should help…” Dad turned up his favourite Christmas song. “Let It Snow” by Dragos Cicu. “And did I tell you it’s SNOWING in Edinburgh!” He sighed, a big grin on his face. “It’s going to be magical.”
We pulled up outside Grace’s house. Their cottage was the only one on the road that didn’t have a single decoration up. Dad beeped. I wasn’t sure how Mr W was going to feel about his neighbours getting woken up by a bright orange camper van, with flashing Christmas lights, blaring a tinny “Wish You a Merry Christmas” at 7 a.m., but I also wasn’t sure he had a choice. Mr W and Grace walked out of their house doing polite sorry waves to the next-door neighbours, who were flinging their bedroom curtains open, looking less than impressed.
I jumped in the back and watched as Mr W climbed in, taking in the tinsel on Cara’s gear stick, brand new Christmas ham air freshener and drink holders that had been turned into pots of Lindt balls.
He sat down silently, potentially in shock, as Grace and I hugged hello.
“Can I just say.” Grace inspected the van. “Cara is looking particularly divine.”
“Glad someone appreciates it.” Dad shot me a look in the rear-view mirror. “Which reminds me, I’ve been chatting to Sam,” Dad said cheerfully, as if there wasn’t a mute man blinking next to him. “And he agrees. How about we get the ol’ band back together for Grampy G’s party? The Brussel Shouts taking to the stage for one last time?”
Dad had a glint in his eye, lost in his vision. His terrifying vision. He moved his hand in the air.
“Molly … on backing vocals.” Never going to happen. “Maybe bass guitar too?”
“You know I don’t play in public,” I hissed. But he ignored me completely and carried on.
“Me … vocal lead.” He hit his chest. “Mum, rocking that banjo.” Was that a thing?! “Tess on drums.” She hadn’t played in a zillion years. “Billy on … tambourine and general dancing, and Grace, Sam, you can have whatever parts you want.” Mr W steadied himself on the dashboard. “First live performance together in almost ten years!” Dad turned to the back seat, where I was aggressively shaking my head. “C’mon, Grolly! Tell me that wouldn’t bring a tear to the eye.”
It really would bring a tear to my eye.
“Well, I for one would love to see it,” Mr W said politely. “And I know my dad would have too. The infamous Brussel Shouts I’ve heard so much about? At the even more infamous Bromster Village Hall?” Oops. I still needed to send over the official booking form to the village hall, especially now we had forty people confirmed. I could do it on the train. Mr W leant through the gap between the front seats. “Grampy G would be so very proud of you two…” He paused, his voice choking up. Dad put his hand on Mr W’s knee. We all knew how tough the last year and a half had been. Mr W shook his head and smiled again. “Did I tell you, I had a call from the hospice yesterday? They’re getting a volunteer photographer to come down and film it too. The residents want to live stream it all for their own Christmas party.” Uh-oh. His voice was really going. “Dad couldn’t have asked for anything he would have loved more.”
Grace reached round the front seat, pressing her face against the head rest, to give her dad a big cuddle from behind. “It’s going to be awesome. I promise. And just imagine all the fun they can have with a thousand pounds?!”
That meant making over six hundred pounds on the night, but Grace was sure we’d do it. And I was sure I’d never seen Grace put her mind to something and not make it happen. Which reminded me, I hadn’t heard back from Ru about any prizes to raffle off. Maybe I should ask again? We’d been sending messages all week, although I’d avoided saying yes or no to meeting up this weekend. I wasn’t sure what the Jingle-protocol was, so wanted to wait until I’d chatted to Grace. But that hadn’t happened. Yet. I was sure it would be fine, though. A Jingle Lady was still allowed to make friends. Good-looking, nice friends who had spent the week checking on how Grace was doing, asking after Derek, and sending all the celebration gifs when I told him I’d sent off the lyrics to Zaiynab.
I started to type.
Heyyyy. Just left for Edinburgh.
Nope. Sounded like a message Mum would send. Maybe more casual…
Wassup Ru
Immediate delete.
