Текст книги "Dash & Lily's Book of Dares"
Автор книги: Rachel Caine
Соавторы: David Levithan
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“Fate has a strange way of making plans,” I agreed.
Lily had relatives al across the ve boroughs, but unfortunately none of them were in law enforcement.
She listed many of them for me, trying to gure out who would be best suited to get us out of this jam.
“Uncle Murray got indicted, which is pret y much the opposite of what we need. Great-aunt Mrs. Basil E. dated someone in the district at orney’s
o ce for a while … but I don’t think it ended wel . One of my cousins went into the CIA, but I’m not al owed to say which one. This is so
frustrating!”
We weren’t, thankful y, locked in a cel . Instead, we’d been marched into an interrogation room, although nobody had thought to interrogate us
yet. Maybe they were just watching through the mirror to see if we’d confess something to each other.
I was surprised by how wel Lily was taking our incarceration. She was far from a wee timorous beastie—if anything, I was the one who was
jangled as we were ramrodded into custody. None of the police o cers seemed particularly impressed that neither of us had parents who were
currently within bailing-out distance. Lily ended up cal ing her brother. I ended up cal ing Boomer, who happened to be with Yohnny and Dov at
the time.
“It’s al over the news!” Boomer told me. “Some people are cal ing you heroes and others are saying you’re criminals. The videos are al over the
Web. I think you might even make the six o’clock news.”
This was not how I’d seen the day going.
Lily and I hadn’t been read our rights or o ered a lawyer, so I was guessing we hadn’t actual y been charged with anything yet.
Meanwhile, Boris was get ing hungry.
“I know, I know,” Lily responded to his whining. “Hopeful y your daddy doesn’t have Internet where he is.”
I tried to think of interesting conversational topics to bring up. Had she been named after the ower? How long had she been dog walking?
Wasn’t she relieved that none of the o cers had thought to use a bil y club against us?
“You’re uncharacteristical y quiet,” she said, sit ing down at the interrogation table and taking the red notebook from her jacket pocket. “Do you
want to write something down and pass it over to me?”
“Do you have a pen?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s in my bag. And they took my bag.”
“I guess we’l have to talk, then,” I said.
“Or we could take the Fifth.”
“Is this your rst time in prison?” I asked.
Lily nodded. “You?”
“My mom once had to bail my father out, and there wasn’t anybody at home to watch me. So I came along. I must’ve been seven or eight. At rst
she told me he’d had a lit le accident, which made me think he’d peed himself somewhere inconvenient. Then I was told it had been ‘disorderly
conduct’—it never went to trial, so there’s no paper trail.”
“That’s awful,” Lily said.
“I guess it is. At the time, it just seemed normal. They got divorced soon after.”
Boris started to bark.
“Not a fan of divorce, I see,” I observed.
“His treats are also in my bag,” Lily said with a sigh.
For a minute or two, she closed her eyes. Just sat there and let everything else drift away, become beside the point. I didn’t mind that I, too, was
disappearing. She looked like she needed a break, and I was wil ing to give it to her.
“Here, Boris,” I said, at empting to be friendly with the beast. He looked at me warily, then started licking the oor.
“I guess I’m nervous to be meeting you,” Lily said at long last, eyes stil closed.
“I guess I’m nervous to be meeting you,” Lily said at long last, eyes stil closed.
“Likewise,” I assured her. “I nd I very rarely live up to my words. And since you know me primarily through my words, there are oh so many
ways I can disappoint.”
She opened her eyes. “It’s not just that. It’s just the last time you saw me—”
“—you weren’t yourself. Don’t you think I know that?”
“Sure. But isn’t it possible that I was myself then? Maybe that’s who I’m supposed to be, only I don’t let her out a lot.”
“I think I like the dog-walking, baby-catching, truth-tel ing Lily bet er,” I said. “For what it’s worth.”
And that was the question, wasn’t it? What was it worth?
“That Lily landed us in jail,” Lily pointed out.
“Wel , you wanted danger, right? And, real y, it was Boris who landed us in jail. Or the red notebook that landed us in jail. The red notebook
was a great idea, by the way.”
“It was my brother’s,” Lily admit ed. “Sorry.”
“Wel , you’re the one who stuck with it, aren’t you?”
Lily nodded. “For what it’s worth.”
I pul ed my chair over so we were next to each other at the interrogation table.
“It’s de nitely worth something,” I said. “A lot. We stil don’t know each other, right? And I’l admit—I thought it might be best if we kept it al
to the page, passed that notebook back and forth until we were ninety. But clearly that wasn’t meant to be. And who am I to blow against the
wind?”
Lily blushed. “ ‘And what did you do on your rst date, Lily?’ ‘Wel , we went down to the precinct house and grabbed two Styrofoam cups of
water.’ ‘That seems very romantic.’ ‘Oh, it was.’ ”
“ ‘So what did you do for a second date?’ ” I continued. “ ‘Wel , we gured we’d have to rob a bank. Only it ended up being a sperm bank, and
we were accosted by angry mommies-to-be in the waiting room. So it was back to the jailhouse for us.’ ‘That sounds exciting.’ ‘Oh, it was. And it
went on. Now when I have to remember a date, al I have to do is consult my rap sheet.’ ”
“ ‘And what drew you to her?’ ” she asked.
“ ‘Wel ,’ ” I answered the phantom interviewer, “ ‘I’d have to say it was the way she catches babies. Exquisite, real y. And you? What made you
think, Wow, this gent’s a keeper?’ ”
“ ‘I love a man who doesn’t let go of the leash, even when it leads him to ruin.’ ”
“Wel done,” I said. “Wel done.”
I thought Lily would be happy with this compliment. But instead she sighed and slumped down in her chair.
“What?” I asked.
“What about So a?” she said.
“So a?”
“Yes. Boomer mentioned So a.”
“Ah, Boomer.”
“Do you love her?”
I shook my head. “I can’t love her. She lives in Spain.”
Lily laughed. “I guess you get points for truthfulness.”
“No, real y,” I said. “I think she’s great. And I honestly like her about twenty times more now than I did when we were dating. But love needs to
have a future. And So a and I don’t have a future. We’ve just had a good time sharing the present, that’s al .”
“You real y think love needs to have a future?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” Lily said. “So do I.”
“Good,” I echoed, leaning in. “So do you.”
“Don’t repeat what I say,” she told me, swat ing at my arm.
“Don’t repeat what I say,” I murmured, smiling.
“You’re being sil y,” she said, but the sil iness was fal ing out of her voice.
“You’re being sil y,” I assured her.
“Lily is the greatest girl who ever was.”
I drew closer. “Lily is the greatest girl who ever was.”
For a moment, I think we’d forgot en where we were.
And then the o cers returned, and we were reminded once again.
“Wel ,” said O cer White, who was black, “you’l be happy to know that the videos of your exploits this afternoon have already garnered two
hundred thousand hits on YouTube. And you were captured at pret y much every angle possible—it’s impressive that the statue of George
Washington didn’t whip out an iPhone and email the photos to his friends.”
“We’ve looked at al the footage closely,” said O cer Black, who was white, “and have come to the conclusion that there’s only one guilty party
in this room.”
“I know, sir,” I stepped in. “It was al my fault. Real y, she had nothing to do with it.”
“No, no, no,” Lily disagreed. “I was the one who hung that poster. It was a joke. But that made the mommies go a lit le crazy.”
“Seriously,” I said, turning to Lily, “you did nothing but help. It’s me they wanted.”
“No, I’m the one they thought was stealing the baby. And believe me, I don’t even want a baby.”
“Neither of you is to blame,” O cer White interrupted.
“Neither of you is to blame,” O cer White interrupted.
O cer Black pointed her nger at Boris. “If there’s anyone at fault, it’s the one on al fours.”
Boris shu ed back guiltily.
O cer White looked at me. “As for Johnny One-Eye, we can’t nd anything actual y wrong with him. So even if you happened to hit him with a
snowbal in the middle of a snowbal ght—and I’m not saying you did or didn’t—no harm, no foul.”
“Does that mean we’re free to go?” Lily asked.
O cer Black nodded. “You’ve got quite a posse waiting for you outside.”
O cer Black wasn’t kidding. Boomer was there with not only Yohnny and Dov but So a and Priya as wel . And it looked like Lily’s whole family
was waiting in the wings, presided over by Mrs. Basil E.
“Take a look!” Boomer said, holding up two printouts, one from the Post website, one from the Daily News.
Both had a dazzling photo of the baby fal ing into Lily’s arms.
OUR HERO! shouted the Daily News.
BABY STEALER! cried the Post.
“There are reporters outside,” Mrs. Basil E. informed us. “Most of them quite indecent.”
O cer Black turned to us.
“Wel , then—do you want to be celebrities or not?”
Lily and I looked at each other.
The answer was pret y clear.
“Not,” I said.
“De nitely not,” Lily added.
“The back door it is, then!” O cer Black said. “Fol ow me.”
With the crowds that had come to fetch us, Lily and I lost each other in the shu e. So a was asking if I was okay, Boomer was enthusing that
Lily and I had nal y met, and the rest were just taking it al in.
We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. The doors opened and the police told us to move quickly, because the reporters would catch on
quick.
She went her way with her people, and I went my way with mine.
I felt a weight in my pocket.
Sly girl, she’d slipped me the notebook.
eighteen
(Lily)
December 30th
The news of the world travels fast and far. Even to Fiji.
They didn’t know it, but I was intermit ently muting my computer speakers while my parents ranted from their side of our video chat.
Occasional y I’d click the speakers back on to hear snippets of their tirade:
“How are we supposed to trust you on your own, Lily, if—”
Mute.
Their hands ailed madly about from across the world while my hands concentrated on my new knit ing project.
“Who is this Dash? Does Grandpa know about—”
Mute.
I watched as Mom and Dad furiously tried to pack luggage while yel ing at their computer.
“We’re late for our ight! We’l be lucky to make it. Do you know how many cal s we’ve—”
Mute.
Dad appeared to be yel ing at his cel phone for ringing again. Mom peered into the computer screen.
“Where has Langston been al this time—”
Mute.
I continued working on my newest creation: a pin-striped, jail-uniform-themed doggy sweater for Boris. I looked up to see Mom’s index nger
wagging at me.
Un-mute.
“And one more thing, Lily!” Mom’s face peered as close as she possibly could to her computer screen. I’d never noticed before, but she had truly
excel ent pores, which could only bode wel for my own aging process.
“Yes, Mommy?” I asked as Dad sat on their hotel bed behind her, ailing his arms around again, explaining the situation again to someone
cal ing his phone again.
“That was a marvelous catch, darling.”
Grandpa was driving through Delaware (the tol capital of the highway world, he says) when Mr. Borscht cal ed his cel to tel him about the
headline, fol owed by cal s from scandalized Messrs. Curry and Cannoli. First Grandpa almost had a heart at ack while driving. Then he went to
McDonald’s for a Big Mac to calm himself down. Then he cal ed Langston and yel ed at him for al owing me to become a jailbird and an
international celebrity in the few hours since Langston was supposed to be in charge after Grandpa left back for Florida. Grandpa then turned
around and returned to Manhat an, arriving home just in time for Langston and Mrs. Basil E. to bring me home from the police station.
“You’re grounded until your parents get home to take care of this mess!” Grandpa screeched at me. He pointed at poor lit le Boris. “And keep
that terror dog away from my cat upstairs!” Boris barked loudly and appeared poised to topple Grandpa, too.
“Sit, Boris,” I told the beast.
Boris plopped down onto the oor and placed his head across my feet. He hissed a low growl in Grandpa’s direction.
“I don’t think Boris and I agree about being grounded,” I told Grandpa.
“This is nonsense, Arthur,” Mrs. Basil E. chimed in. “Lily didn’t do anything wrong. It was al a big misunderstanding. She saved a baby! It’s not
like she stole a car and went out joyriding.”
“It’s common knowledge that no good comes to a young lady appearing on the cover of the New York Post!” Grandpa bel owed. He pointed at
me. “Grounded!”
“Go to your room, Lily bear,” Mrs. Basil E. whispered in my ear. “I’l take care of this from here. Take that pony with you.”
“Please don’t tel Grandpa about Dash,” I whispered back.
“Can’t keep a lid on that one,” she said aloud.
The upshot of al the parental and grandparental hysteria was that I did not technical y get grounded. Instead, I was told, most a rmatively, to lay
low until Mom and Dad got home from Fiji on New Year’s Day. It was recommended that I stay home and chil for the time being.
Not that I wanted to anyway, but I’ve been instructed I’m not al owed to talk to the press, al my trash must go through a shredder, I’m not to
plan how I’d look on the cover of People magazine (an exclusive, which could potential y pay for my whole col ege education in one fel swoop),
and if Oprah cal s, she talks to my mom rst, and not to me. Quite frankly, the family are al hoping some celebrity dies or is exposed in a tawdry
scandal ASAP so the tabloids can move on from Lily Dogwalker.
For my own emotional wel -being it has been suggested that I not Google myself.
There aren’t many people you can trust in this world who aren’t related to you, according to the familial overseers. Bet er to stay within your
own family’s tender bosom til al this blows over.
What I know for certain is: You can always trust a dog.
Boris liked Dash.
You can tel a lot about a person by the way they treat animals. Dash never hesitated to grab for Boris’s leash when crisis struck. He’s one stand-
up (or sat-upon, in the case of the crimson alert mommies) kind of dude, for sure.
up (or sat-upon, in the case of the crimson alert mommies) kind of dude, for sure.
Boomer, who’s rather like a dog, also likes Dash.
Dog instincts are always right.
Dash must be very likable.
There are just lots of possibilities in the world, I’ve decided. Dash. Boris. I need to keep my mind open for what could happen and not decide
that the world is hopeless if what I want to happen doesn’t happen. Because something else great might happen in between.
The verdict on Boris, therefore, is unequivocal: He’s a keeper.
Boris’s owner, my cousin Mark’s co-worker Marc from the Strand, had been il egal y harboring Boris at his own studio apartment, in a no-pets
building. He’d been able to get away with it before, because his building was run by an o -site management company with no super or owner
living there, but now that Boris is so famous (according to a New York Post online pol , 64 percent of respondents think Boris is a menace to
society, 31 percent think he’s an unwit ing victim of his own strength, and 5 percent think Boris should meet his maker in an unmentionable way),
Marc obviously can’t bring Boris “home.”
That’s okay, because I’ve made the executive decision that my home is now Boris’s home. In the less than twenty-four hours since he’s been
under my care, Boris has learned to Sit, to Heel, to Not Beg for Food at the Dinner Table, and to Drop It (meaning Grandpa’s shoes about to be
chewed to oblivion). Clearly the problem al along was that Boris’s owner was not giving him the proper at ention and guidance he needed to
ourish and become an upstanding member of society. Also, according to the Internet, Marc was not a reliable pooper-scooper and only used Boris
as a pawn to meet girls. More disturbingly, Marc has texted me several times that he doesn’t mind me keeping Boris as long as I want. That’s one
high-maintenance dog. Obviously Marc never deserved Boris to begin with.
Boris and I spent a night at the jailhouse together. We are bonded for eternity. Wel , we spent a few hours in an interrogation room at the police
precinct together, with an extremely cute boy. Close enough. Boris’s home is with me now, and Mom and Dad and everyone else wil just have to
get used to that. Family takes care of family, and Boris is family now.
My crisis management team turned out to be Alice Gamble, along with Heather Wong and Nikesha Johnson, two other girls from my soccer team.
As we hung out in my room, Alice said, “So, Lily. Even though we’ve known you for a long time, we’ve never, like, real y got en to know you,
know you, right? So since your grandpa invited us over for this slumber party to keep you from going outside—”
“The slumber party was my idea,” I interrupted. “Grandpa just had conveniently hidden my phone before I had a chance to ask you myself.”
“Where’d you nd your phone?” Alice asked.
“The cookie jar. So. Obvious. It’s like he wasn’t even trying.”
Alice smiled. “The girls and I, we conjured up something sweet for you, too.” She sat over my laptop and cal ed up a video clip on YouTube.
“Since you’re not available to the media to defend yourself, we decided your soccer could do it for you.”
“Huh?” I said.
Nikesha said, “You’re a mad good goalie! And who but a mad good goalie could make a baby catch like that? A goalie catches babies by natural
instinct. Not because they’re trying to steal it! They’re trying to save it.”
Heather said, “Behold,” and started the YouTube video.
And there it was. To the tune of “Stop,” by the Spice Girls, my teammates had assembled a series of photos and video clips showing me in soccer
goalie motion—running, grunting, kicking, leaping, jumping, soaring.
I had no idea I was that good a player.
I had no idea my teammates had ever noticed, or cared.
Maybe I’d never bothered to think of them as my teammates before. Maybe I myself had been the biggest part of the friendship impasse.
There’s no i in team, as the saying goes.
When the clip ended, the girls wrapped me in a victory huddle in my bedroom such as we’d never shared together on the eld. I couldn’t help it.
I was crying—not a ful -on embarrassing sobfest, but sil y yet profound tears of joy and gratitude.
“Wow, guys. Thank you” was al I could blubber to say.
“We chose the ‘Stop’ song because that’s what you do—stop the other team from scoring,” Heather said. “Just like you stopped that baby from
hit ing the pavement.”
Nikesha said, “And as a Beckham homage, too.”
“Obvs,” Alice and I both said.
Heather said, “If you read the comments—I mean, there are 845 of them so far, so maybe don’t. But I perused them when we rst put this up to
defend your good name, and, Lily, you total y already have ve proposals of marriage in there, at least until I stopped reading. I mean, 95,223
views—no, just jumped to 95,225 as of this second. I could only read so many of the marriage o ers and other indecent proposals. There are a few
col ege recruiters who posted that you should try out for their teams, too.”
Boris barked approvingly from his new dog bed at the corner of my room.
December 31st
“Benny and I are back together,” Langston announced over lunch. The slumber party girls had al gone home to prepare for their own New Year’s
Eve celebrations, and Grandpa was upstairs negotiating on the phone with Mabel to forsake Miami to visit him in New York—in January!—so he
wouldn’t have to drive down to Florida again, return to New York again, turn around back to Florida again, then return to New York again, al
within a mat er of days.
Men just can’t make up their minds about what they want.
“A couple of days apart was just too much for you and Benny?” I asked my brother.
“That, yes. But also, we gured, you know, we started that whole red notebook thing for you. We have kismet together.”
“And you real y missed each other! And hopeful y decided to just admit that and see each other exclusively?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Langston said. “Let’s just say Benny and I have a behind-closed-doors Skype date for New Year’s Eve tonight while he’s
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Langston said. “Let’s just say Benny and I have a behind-closed-doors Skype date for New Year’s Eve tonight while he’s
in Puerto Rico. No babysit ing you and your hijinks.”
“Gross. And you never babysat me.”
“I know. And believe me, I’l be blamed for everything that’s happened for the rest of my life.”
“Thanks for doing a terrible job being in charge, Brother. I had a blast.” Something about the red notebook’s origins stil bothered me, though.
“Langston?” I asked.
“Yes, Lily celebrity-bear? Oh, Celebri-bear! That’s going to be my new name for you.”
I ignored that last bit. “What if it’s real y you he likes?”
“Who? What do you mean?”
“Dash. Finding the red notebook. That was your idea. I wrote the rst messages in my own handwriting, but the words and ideas were yours.
Maybe the person Dash asked out for New Year’s Eve is based on some gment of his imagination that you created?”
“So what if it is? You kept on with the notebook. You continued the adventure. And look what it turned into! I coughed away in my bedroom
and mistakenly broke up with my boyfriend. You went out and made your own destiny with that notebook!”
He didn’t get it.
“But, Langston. What if … Dash ends up not real y liking me? Me-me, not his idea of me.”
“So what if he doesn’t?”
I’d been expecting my brother to jump to my defense and proclaim his certainty in Dash’s certain liking of me. “What?” I said, o ended.
“I mean, if Dash doesn’t like you once he gets to know you, so what?”
“I don’t know if I want to take that risk.” Get hurt. Be rejected. Like Langston once was.
“The reward is in the risk. You can’t stay hidden inside Grandpa’s overprotective cloak forever. You’ve seemed like you needed to grow out of
that for a while. Mom and Dad going away, and the red notebook, these things just helped. Now it’s up to you to gure out how Dash gures into
the picture. How you t into this picture. Take the risk.”
I wanted so badly to believe, but the fear felt as great and overwhelming as the desire. “What if this al has been a dream? What if we’re just
wasting each other’s time?”
“How can you know if you don’t try?” Langston then quoted the poet he’d been named after, Langston Hughes. “ ‘A dream deferred is a dream
denied.’ ”
“Are you over him?” I asked.
We both knew the him I referred to was not Benny, but the him who broke Langston’s heart so devastatingly. Langston’s rst love.
“In some ways, I think I’l never be over him,” Langston said.
“That is such an unsatisfying answer.”
“That’s because you’re interpreting it the wrong way. I don’t mean it as a wistful, overdramatic declaration. I meant that the love I felt for him
was huge and real, and, while painful, it forever changed me as a person, in the same way that being your brother re ects and changes how I
evolve, and vice versa. The important people in our lives leave imprints. They may stay or go in the physical realm, but they are always there in
your heart, because they helped form your heart. There’s no get ing over that.”
My heart undoubtedly wanted to embrace and/or be trampled upon by Dash. That much was sure. The risk would have to discover its own
reward.
From under the table, Boris licked at my ankles. I said, “Boris is staying and he has imprinted on my heart and Mom and Dad are just going to
have to live with that.”
“Joke’s on you, Celebri-bear. Your big Christmas present on New Year’s Day was going to be Mom and Dad nal y giving you permission again
to have your own pet.”
“Real y? But what if we move to Fiji?”
“The parents wil gure it out. If they do decide to go, they’l keep this apartment, where I’m going to stay living while I’m at NYU. I don’t think
Mom and Dad are planning to live in Fiji year-round—just during the school terms. I’l take care of Boris when you’re away, if you end up going
with them and it turns out Boris isn’t al owed past customs in Fiji. How about if that’s my Christmas present to you?”
“Because you were too busy being with Benny to get me something this year?”
“Yep. And how about in return, instead of the sweater you’ve undoubtedly knit me, and the umpteen cookies you’ve undoubtedly baked me for
Christmas on New Year’s, if you just tel Grandpa not to blame me for al your hijinks and get him o my case?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Let the girl cal the rules, as it should be.”
“Speaking of rules … what are you doing for New Year’s, Lily? Surely you’l be let back outside again? Wil Monsieur Dashiel be squiring you
around our fair town tonight?”
I sighed and shook my head. There was nothing to do but admit it: “He hasn’t cal ed me or emailed me or notebooked me since the police
station.”
I abruptly stood up from my chair so I could return to my room and feel terribly sorry for myself and eat way too much chocolate in private.
I supposed I could text or email Dash (even cal him—what?!?!?), but those options felt intrusive after al we’d been through. After the red
notebook. Dash was a guy that appreciated his privacy and seemed to revel in solitude. I could respect that.
He should be the one to contact me.
Right?
What did it say about me that he hadn’t?
That he couldn’t possibly like me as much as I’d started to like him. That I would never be as pret y and interesting as that So a girl, while
Dash’s handsome face would continue to appear in my daydreams.
Unrequited.
It wasn’t fair that I sort of missed him. Not his presence so much—I barely knew him—but having that red notebook link to him. Knowing he
was out there thinking or doing something that would be communicated to me in some surprising way.
was out there thinking or doing something that would be communicated to me in some surprising way.
I lay on my bed, daydreaming about Dash, and reached down to receive a reassuring lick from Boris, but he was not there. He was out on his
walk.
Our apartment doorbel buzzed loudly and I jumped up and ran into the hal way to answer it. “Hel o?” I said from the other side of the door.
“It’s your favorite great-aunt. I left my key inside the apartment when I came to walk Boris.”
Boris!
The twenty minutes since he’d been gone had nearly destroyed me. Boris never ignored me like that Dash guy.
I opened the door to let Mrs. Basil E. and Boris back inside.
I looked down at Boris, pawing at my ankles to get my at ention.
Boris’s mouth held not a doggy bone or a postman’s jacket. From between his teeth, Boris slobberingly o ered me a red-ribbon-wrapped red
notebook.
nineteen
–Dash–
December 30th
We retreated to my mother’s apartment after I was released from jail. The adrenaline in al of us was amazing—we alternated between bouncing
and oating, as if the excitement of escape had turned the world into a giant trampoline.
As soon as we were in the door, Yohnny and Dov at empted to raid the refrigerator and were unsatis ed with what they found.
“Noodle pudding?” Yohnny asked.
“Yeah, my mom made it,” I told them. “I always save it for last.”
While Priya went to the loo and Boomer checked his email on his phone, So a stepped into my bedroom. Not for any lascivious reason—just to
check it out.
“It hasn’t changed much,” she observed, staring at the quotes I’d thumbtacked to my wal s.
“Lit le things have,” I said. “There are some new quotes on the wal . Some new books on the shelves. Some of the pencils have lost their erasers.
The sheets are changed every week.”
“So even though it doesn’t seem like anything’s changed—”
“—things change al the time, mostly in lit le ways. That’s how it goes, I guess.”
So a nodded. “Funny how we say it goes. That’s the way life goes.”
“That’s the way life comes just sounds so awkward.”
“Wel , sometimes you can see the future come, no? Sometimes it even, say, catches a baby.”
I studied her face for any hint of sarcasm or meanness. And sadness—I was also looking for sadness, or regret. But al I found was amusement.
I sat down on my bed and held my head in my hands. Then, realizing this was way too dramatic, I looked up at her.
“I truly don’t understand any of this,” I confessed.
She stayed standing, facing me.
“I wish I could help you there,” she told me. “But I can’t.”
So there we were. Once upon a time, during the storybook version of dating we’d gone through, I’d pretended that it was possible to love her
when I only mildly liked her. Now I had no desire to pretend we’d ever be in love, and I liked her madly.
“Can we try to be wise with each other for a very long time?” I asked her.
She laughed. “You mean, can we share our fuckups and see if we can get any wisdom out of them?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That would be nice.”
I felt we needed to seal our new pact. Kissing was out. Hugging seemed peevish. So I o ered her my hand. She shook it. And then we went to
join the rest of our friends.
I couldn’t help but wonder about what Lily was doing. How she was feeling. What she was feeling. Yes, it was confusing, but it wasn’t a bad
confusion. I wanted to see her again, in a way I’d never wanted to see her before.
I knew the notebook was in my hands. I just wanted to nd the right thing to say.
My mother cal ed to see how things were going. There was no Internet access at the spa, and she wasn’t the type who turned on the TV when she
wasn’t home. So I didn’t have to explain anything. I just said I had a few people over and we were al behaving ourselves.
My father, I couldn’t help but note, usual y checked the news every ve minutes on his phone. He’d probably even seen the headline on the Post
site, and the photos. He simply didn’t recognize his own son.
Later that night, after a marathon of John Hughes movies, I kept Boomer, So a, Priya, Yohnny, and Dov in my mother’s living room and brought
out a dry-erase board from her home o ce.
“Before you leave,” I told them, “I would like to conduct a brief symposium on love.”
I took out a red marker—I mean, why not?—and wrote the word love on the board.
“Here we have it,” I said. “Love.” For good measure, I drew a heart around it. Not the ventricled kind. The made-up kind.
