Dibbly Fresh, an Elfling-Sitters Club Story by annarobots  

“I hereby call this meeting of the Elfling-Sitters Club to order,” said Fingon.  He was perched in his usual spot, the director’s chair right in front of the Raiders of the Lost Ark poster on my bedroom wall.  Fingon’s long, dark hair was pulled back with a blue headband that matched his Keds.  “Any new business to discuss, Vice-President Daeron?”

He said my name pointedly.  I sighed and closed my book, the latest Stephen King novel.  To be fair, Fingon was a good President, even if he could get a little pompous about the authority he thought the office gave him.  It was, after all, five-thirty on a Monday afternoon.  And you know what that meant: I and my five closest friends, all of us eighth-graders at Beleriand Middle School, had gathered in my bedroom for our regular club meeting. 

Before I could even answer his question, the cordless phone started to ring.  While Pengolodh, our club secretary, answered it, Salgant opened up his Lacoste backpack and started passing around the provisions.  Today, it was Mallomars.

The first caller was one of our regulars, Mrs. Mariner. 

“Friday night?  A sitter for the twins?  While you and Mr. Mariner are at the Journey concert?” asked Pengolodh, writing down the details in his Trapper Keeper.  “Sure thing!  We’ll see who’s available and call you right back.”

Maglor was so excited, he was practically vibrating right out of his Doc Martens.  It was very cute.  “Oh, me, me, me, please!  Can I do it?  Can I have the job?  I love those kids.”

“We know, we know,” said Salgant.

“You’d adopt them if you could,” said Finrod.

“But uh, you can’t take the job.  Not this Friday,” I interrupted, thinking fast.  “Don’t you remember?  We have that thing we have to do, you know, for band?  I had Pengolodh put it in the appointment book.” 

Maglor frowned, his forehead wrinkling up adorably.  “Oh, there’s a band thing?  I must have forgotten.  Oh, well, I’m glad you reminded me!  You’re the best.”

My heart leapt into my throat at the compliment.  Get a grip, dorkus, I chided myself. 

To be honest, Maglor hadn’t forgotten anything at all.  But it was the best I could come up with on the fly.  He couldn’t sit for the twins Friday, it would ruin all my plans.

“People, please!”  Fingon shot us a Look.  He didn’t like it when chitchat distracted people from Important Club Business. 

“Well, we might have a problem,” said Pengolodh.  “Maglor and Daeron can’t do it.  Salgant, Finrod, and Fingon are already booked with jobs, and I’m supposed to go to my dad’s for the weekend.  So, I guess it’s time to call on one of our associate members.”

I felt guilty.  Only a little, though.  After months and months of agonizing about it, I’d finally made a decision.  I was going to ask Maglor out.  No more pining, no sir.  Just the two of us, and to make sure I wouldn’t chicken out, I’d already bought the tickets!  I wasn’t about to cancel for anything less important than oh, I don’t know, an assassination or an earthquake or something.  Or another space shuttle explosion! 

“Do you think Lúthien can take the job?  Is she home?” Pengolodh asked. 

I shrugged.  My sister and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment; she was still ticked at me for getting her grounded.  (A story for another time.)

“I think Turgon should be free on Friday,” said Fingon.  “I’ll talk to him.” 

Everybody went quiet.  Fingon’s brother was a sore subject.  He had been a founding club member, the first recruit, when Fingon had gotten his Great Idea.  They had both watched their mom struggle to find care for their younger siblings, when she went back to work after his dad had quit his job to run for Mayor against his own half-brother.  Phone call after phone call, night after night, no, nobody was free, nobody could help.  Sorry, can’t do it.  Too many of the teenagers around town would rather play Super Mario Bros. and Donkey Kong on their Nintendo Entertainment Systems than toss around a Koosh ball or look for Waldo with little kids.  Elfling-sitters were few and far between, these days.  So much time wasted, so many calls. 

And that was the seed of Fingon’s best, greatest idea.  Why not make it easier for parents?  Why not get a group together of proven, reliable sitters—all in one place, a couple of times a week?  Parents could call one phone number and get seven potential sitters: Fingon, his brother Turgon, his cousins Maglor and Finrod, their friends Pengolodh and Salgant, and me, Daeron.  Turgon, who was the tallest of us all even though he was a grade younger, was widely beloved, and he had been a huge part of the club’s early success. 

At least, he was a huge part of it, until he went on that weekend camping trip, had some kind of religious conversion experience, and came home acting secretive and strange.  He started wearing a crucifix necklace, he begged his parents to let him transfer to St. Ulmo’s Academy over in Tumladen, and ever since then, well, he’d been just too busy for the stuff he used to care about.  Like elfling-sitting.  And his friends.

Inwardly, I thought Fingon was a fool for expecting his brother to show up and help, now, after leaving us in the lurch for months, but I wasn’t about to stop him from trying. 

I needed my Friday night to stay free.

On an unrelated note, I had to make a club announcement.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” I said.  “My parents are getting the house remodeled.  It’s a whole thing, they’re redoing everything in the Dwarven style, installing this state-of-the-art security system, the works.  It’s going to be too much of a mess to hold club meetings here for a while.  The point is—we’re going to need to find a new temporary headquarters.”

For a long moment, nobody said anything.

“Well,” began Maglor, doubtfully.  “I’m sure we have space at ours.  But….”

He didn’t have to finish.  Everybody knew the problem.  Sure, Maglor’s house was a mansion, and he even had his very own personal computer.  His father was the inventor of the Palantir smartmodem and had made a fortune when his company went public.

Yup.  Maglor’s dad was a real, live millionaire.  That wasn’t why I liked him, though.  I hadn’t even known who he was, when I sat next to him in Quenya class, the first day of seventh grade.  I just saw an open seat by to a boy listening to music on his Walkman.  And next thing I knew, I was being flashed a dazzling grin, and finding out that there was at least one other boy in the universe who liked the Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath as much as I did.

“You know what, let’s meet at my house,” said Finrod.  “I’m sure my parents would love to have us.  As long as you can handle an honorary member with attitude to spare.”  Finrod’s sister Galadriel was seven years old.  She followed Finrod everywhere.  And she was fully convinced that she was so responsible and mature, she didn’t even need an elfling-sitter.  (In all honesty, she was probably right.)

Everyone agreed to Finrod’s offer, and the rest of the meeting passed uneventfully.  When six o’clock hit, I walked my friends downstairs. 

As expected, Maglor’s brother was waiting to pick him up in his white Volvo station wagon.  He had gotten his license earlier that year and took every chance he could to show off the car with its “Just Say No (to New Coke)” bumper sticker.  “Like a Prayer” was blaring from the stereo.  Fingon, who had been obsessed with Madonna since “Material Girl,” and with Maglor’s brother for a lot longer than that, started singing along at the top of his lungs.  When Maitimo caught sight of Fingon, he rolled down the window, laughing and singing, too. 

All right, that was as good of a distraction as I might get.  While the other boys all headed off on their bikes, I grabbed Maglor by the sleeve of his neon windbreaker. 

“Hey,” I began, then immediately went speechless as Maglor turned to face me, the full force of his handsomeness nearly knocking me over.  It should have been illegal for someone to look so good in a perm and acid-washed jeans.  And yet, there was Maglor.

“Hey,” echoed Maglor, one corner of his mouth turning up.  “So what was that about, anyway?  The band thing?  I’m sure I didn’t forget an important practice.”

“No,” I agreed, “you didn’t.”  I gulped.  I fiddled with the Swatch on my wrist.

Maglor stepped closer.  “What’s going on Friday night, then?”  He met my gaze and held it.

Just then, over the speakers of Maglor’s brother’s car stereo, Madonna’s voice faded into silence, and without even a radio break, the next song began: the familiar, gentle synthesizer chords of “Time After Time.” 

Well.  If I was ever going to find the courage, now would be the moment, wouldn’t it?

“I was wondering—hoping, really—if you would want to go to the movies with me,” I said in a rush.

“Yes.”

“I got two tickets, for the AMC at the mall?  Just the two of us, I thought, would be nice.  My dad can come pick you up, if you need a ride.  But he won’t stay, at the movie, I mean.  Or, maybe, if the weather is nice enough—”

“Daeron,” Maglor reached for my hand.  “I said yes.”

“—we can Rollerblade.  Oh.” 

He said yes.  I started smiling.  I smiled so big my cheeks hurt.  I’m sure I looked like the biggest dweeb. 

He said yes and he took my hand.  His palm was a little sweaty, and Cyndi Lauper sang.  “You picked the movie already?” he asked.

“Yeah.  I know you’ll like it.  It’s about poetry, and seizing the day,” he squeezed my hand, “and besides, it’s got Robin Williams in it, so it’s bound to be a laugh.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great.”  The honk of the Volvo’s horn.  Maitimo must have gotten tired of Fingon’s yapping.  Maglor didn’t drop my hand, though.  “I guess I gotta go now.  See you Friday.  I mean, see you at school.  Then see you Friday.  After school.  At the movie.”  He laughed a little, brushing a curl out of his face.

The horn again.  Finally, Maglor dropped my hand.  I watched as he got into the car.  He rolled down the window.  “Hey, Daeron?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’ll be a warm night.  Let's Rollerblade.”

“I’m not very good.”

“That’s all right.  If you fall, I will catch you.”

Chapter End Notes

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