Текст книги "Dash & Lily's Book of Dares"
Автор книги: Rachel Caine
Соавторы: David Levithan
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“It exists in this pristine state, upholding its ideals. But then … along come words.”
I wrote words over and over again, al around the dry erase board, including over the word love.
“And feelings.”
I wrote feelings in the same way, crisscrossing it on top of everything I’d already writ en.
“And expectations. And history. And thoughts. Help me out here, Boomer.”
We wrote each of these three words at least twenty times each.
The result?
Pure il egibility. Not only was love gone, but you couldn’t make out anything else, either.
“This,” I said, holding up the board, “is what we’re up against.”
Priya looked disturbed—more by me than by what I was saying. So a stil looked amused. Yohnny and Dov were curling closer together.
Boomer, pen stil in hand, was trying to work something out.
Boomer, pen stil in hand, was trying to work something out.
He raised his hand.
“Yes, Boomer?” I asked.
“You’re saying that either you’re in love or you’re not. And if you are, it becomes like this.”
“Something to that e ect.”
“But what if it’s not a yes-or-no question?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I mean, what if love isn’t a yes-or-no question? It’s not either you’re in love or you’re not. I mean, aren’t there di erent levels? And maybe these
things, like words and expectations and whatever, don’t go on top of the love. Maybe it’s like a map, and they al have their own place, and then
when you see it from the sky—whoa.”
I looked at the board. “I think your map is cleaner than mine,” I said. “But isn’t this what the col ision of the right two people at the right time
looks like? I mean, it’s a mess.”
So a chuckled.
“What?” I asked her.
“Right person, right time is the wrong concept, Dash,” she said.
“Total y,” Boomer agreed.
“What does she mean by that?” I asked him.
“What I mean,” So a said, “is that when people say right person, wrong time, or wrong person, right time, it’s usual y a cop-out. They think that
fate is playing with them. That we’re al just participants in this romantic reality show that God gets a kick out of watching. But the universe
doesn’t decide what’s right or not right. You do. Yes, you can theorize until you’re blue in the face whether something might have worked at
another time, or with someone else. But you know what that leaves you?”
“Blue in the face?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“You have the notebook, right?” Dov chimed in.
“I real y hope you didn’t lose it,” Yohnny added.
“Yes,” I said.
“So what are you waiting for?” So a asked.
“You al to leave?” I said.
“Good,” she said. “You now have your writing assignment. Because you know what? It’s up to you, not fate.”
I stil didn’t know what to write. I fel asleep with the notebook next to me, both of us staring at the ceiling.
December 31st
The next morning, over breakfast, I had my grand idea.
I cal ed Boomer immediately.
“I need a favor,” I told him.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Is your aunt in town?”
“My aunt.”
I told him my idea.
“You want to go on a date with my aunt?” he asked.
I told him my idea again.
“Oh,” he said. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
I didn’t want to give too much away. Al I wrote is the time and the place to meet. When the hour dawned decent, I headed over to Mrs. Basil
E.’s. I found her outside, taking Boris around the block.
“Your parents have let you run free?” Mrs. Basil E. inquired.
“So to speak,” I said.
I o ered her the notebook.
“Assuming she’s up for the next adventure,” I said.
“You know what they say,” Mrs. Basil E. o ered. “Dul ness is the spice of life. Which is why we must always use other spices.”
She went to take the notebook, but Boris beat her to it.
“Bad girl!” she chided.
“I’m pret y sure Boris is a boy,” I said.
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Basil E. assured me. “I just like to keep him confused.”
Then she and Boris headed o with my future.
When Lily arrived at ve o’clock, I could tel she was a lit le bit disappointed.
“Oh, look,” she said, gazing out at the Rockefel er Center ice rink. “Skaters. Mil ions of them. Wearing sweaters from al fty states.”
My nerves were whirling to see her. Because, real y, this was our rst shot at a semi-normal conversation, assuming no dogs or mothers
intervened. And I wasn’t as good at semi-normal conversations as I was at ones that were writ en down, or adrenalized in a surreal moment. I
intervened. And I wasn’t as good at semi-normal conversations as I was at ones that were writ en down, or adrenalized in a surreal moment. I
wanted to like her, and I wanted her to like me, and that was more want than I’d saddled myself with in many a moon.
It’s up to you, not fate.
True. But it was also up to Lily.
That was the trickiest part.
I pretended to be hurt by her unenthusiastic reaction to my cliché destination. “You don’t want to hit the ice?” I said, pouting. “I thought it
would be so romantic. Like in a movie. With Prometheus watching over us. Because, you know, what’s more t ing than Prometheus over an ice
rink? I’m sure that’s why he stole the re for us in the rst place—so we could make ice rinks. And then, when we’re done skating on that tra c
jam of an ice rink, we could go to Times Square and be surrounded by two mil ion people without any bathrooms for the next seven hours.
C’mon. You know you want to.”
It was funny. She clearly hadn’t known what to dress for, so she’d given up and just dressed for herself. I admired that. As wel as the revulsion
she couldn’t hide at the thought of us being not-at-al -alone in a crowd.
“Or …,” I said. “We could go with Plan B.”
“Plan B,” she said immediately.
“Do you like to be surprised, or would you rather anticipate?”
“Oh,” she said. “De nitely surprised.”
We started walking away from Prometheus in his ring. After about three steps, Lily stopped.
“You know what,” she said. “That was a total lie. I would much rather anticipate.”
So I told her.
She slapped me on the arm.
“Yeah, right,” she said.
“Yeah,” I told her. “Right.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying … but say it again.”
So I said it again. And this time I took a key out of my pocket and dangled it in front of her eyes.
Boomer’s aunt is famous. I’m not going to name names, but it’s a name everyone knows. She has her own magazine. Practical y her own cable
network. Her own line of housewares at a major chain store. Her kitchen studio is world famous. And I happened to have the key for it in my
hand.
I turned on al the lights, and there we were: in the center of the most glamorous baking palace in al of New York City.
“Now, what do you want to make?” I asked Lily.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “We can actual y touch things.”
“This isn’t the NBC tour,” I assured her. “Look. Supplies. You are an ace baker, so you deserve ace raw material.”
There were copper pots and pans of al sizes. Every sweet and/or salty and/or sour ingredient that U.S. Customs would al ow.
Lily could hardly contain her glee. After a split second more of reticence, she started opening drawers, sizing up her options.
“That’s the secret closet,” I said, pointing to an out-of-the-way door.
Lily went right over and opened it.
“Whoa!” she cried.
It had been the most magical place for me and Boomer growing up. Now it was like I was eight again, and Lily was eight again. We both stood,
awed supplicants in front of the bounty before us.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many boxes of Rice Krispies,” Lily said.
“And don’t forget the marshmal ows and the mix-ins. There’s every kind of marshmal ow, and every kind of mix-in.”
Yes, for al of the oral arrangements Boomer’s aunt got just right, and al the wine tours given in her name, her favorite food just happened to
be the Rice Krispie treat, and her goal in life was to perfect the recipe.
I explained this to Lily.
“Wel , let’s get to it,” she said.
Rice Krispies are designed to be a clean food to make—no our, no sifting, no baking.
And yet Lily and I made the mother of al messes.
Partly, it was the trial and error with the mix-ins—everything from peanut but er cups to dried cherries to one il -advised foray into potato chips.
I let Lily take the lead, and she in turn let her inner-baking freak out. Before I knew it, marshmal ows were melting everywhere, cereal boxes were
toppled, and Rice Krispies were nding their way into our hair, our shoes, and—I had no doubt—our underwear.
It didn’t mat er.
I had thought Lily would be methodical—a checklist kind of baker. Much to my surprise—and delight—she was not like this at al . Instead, she
was impulsive, instinctive, combining ingredients at whim. There was stil a seriousness to her endeavor—she wanted to get this right—but there
was also a playfulness. Because she realized that this was playing, after al .
“Snap!” Lily said, feeding me an Oreo Krispie treat.
“Crackle,” I purred, feeding her a banana crème Krispie treat.
“Pop!” we said together, feeding each other from a pan of plum-and-Brie Krispie treats, which were gruesome.
She caught me looking at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Your lightness,” I said, hardly knowing what I was saying. “It’s disarming.”
“Wel ,” she said, “I have a treat for you, too.”
I looked at the pans and pans we’d made.
I looked at the pans and pans we’d made.
“I’d say we have treats for everyone in your extended family,” I told her. “And that’s saying a lot.”
She shook her head. “No. A di erent kind of treat. You’re not the only one who can make secret plans, you know.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Wel , do you like to be surprised, or do you like to anticipate?”
“Anticipate,” I said. Then, when she opened her mouth to tel me, I jumped in with, “No no no—I like to be surprised.”
“Okay then,” she said, smiling in a way that was almost devilish. “Let’s pack up these treats, clean up this kitchen, and take this show on the
road.”
“Somewhere there are babies to catch,” I said.
“And words to nd,” she added mischievously. But she wouldn’t say anything more.
I readied myself for the surprise.
twenty
(Lily)
December 31st
Imagine this:
You may not own the claim to a friend cal ed Boomer who can get the key to his famous aunt’s cooking studio.
But you are more than delighted to be a bene ciary of said key’s treasures.
Snap. Crackle. Dash yum.
In exchange for said privilege, perhaps the opportunity exists for you to cal upon a great-aunt nicknamed Mrs. Basil E. and ask that she
telephone a cousin named Mark to harangue this cousin into giving you the key to a very di erent kind of kingdom.
What do you do?
The answer is obvious:
You get that key.
“Cheap shot, Lily,” my cousin Mark said as he stood at the entrance to the Strand. “Next time, just ask me yourself.”
“You would have said no if I’d asked you.”
“True. Trust you to manipulate what a sucker I am for Great-aunt Ida.” Mark eyed poor Dash, then pointed a nger warily at him. “And you! No
funny stu in here tonight, you understand?”
Dash said, “I assure you I could not contemplate any of your so-cal ed funny stu seeing as how I have no idea why I’m even here.”
Mark sco ed. “You bookish lit le pervert.”
“Thank you, sir!” Dash said brightly.
Mark turned the key to the front door and opened the store to us. It was 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. Revelers streamed by along Broadway and
we could hear loud, festive gatherings a couple blocks up at Union Square.
This quiet bookstore, our evening’s destination, had closed hours before.
For us, and us alone, it had opened on New Year’s Eve.
It pays to know people.
Or it pays to know people who wil cal certain cousins and remind them who put aside a trust fund many years ago for their col ege education
and al that’s asked in return is one teensy lit le favor for a Lily bear.
Dash and I stepped inside the Strand as Mark closed and locked the door behind us. He said, “Management has requested that in exchange for
this privilege, you two pose for some publicity shots, wearing Strand T-shirts and holding Strand bags. We’d like to capitalize on your fame before
the tabloids forget al about you.”
“No,” Dash and I both said.
Mark rol ed his eyes. “You kids today. Think everything’s a handout.”
He waited, as if expecting us to change our minds.
He waited a few more seconds before throwing up his hands.
To me, Mark said, “Lily, lock up behind you when you leave.” To Dash, Mark said, “Try anything with this precious baby girl and—”
“STOP DOTING ON ME!” Shril y let out.
Oops.
Quietly, I added, “We’l be ne, Mark. Thank you. Please leave. Happy new year.”
“You won’t change your minds about those publicity shots?”
“No,” Dash and I both proclaimed again.
“Baby stealers,” Mark mut ered.
“You’re coming over tomorrow night for Christmas on New Year’s Day dinner, right?” I asked Mark. “Mom and Dad get home in the morning.”
“I’l be there,” Mark said. He leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Love you, kid.”
I kissed his cheek in return. “You too. Be careful you don’t become a growly old man like Grandpa.”
“I should be so lucky,” Mark said.
He then unlocked the front door to the Strand and stepped back out into the New Year’s Eve night.
Dash and I remained inside, staring at each other.
Here we were, alone together in our city’s most hal owed ground of bookishness, on this city’s night of biggest holiday anticipation.
“What now?” Dash asked, smiling. “Another dance?”
On the subway train from the cooking studio over to Union Square and the Strand, there had been a Mexican mariachi playing in our train car. A
ful ve-piece band, no less, in traditional Mexican costumes, with a handsome, mustached singer who was wearing a sombrero and singing a most
beautiful love song. I think it was a love song; he sang in Spanish, so I’m not sure (note to self: learn Spanish!). But two separate couples sit ing
nearby started randomly making out when the guy sang so beautiful y, and I have to believe it’s because the song’s words were that romantic, and
not because the couples didn’t want to fork over some dinero to the musician passing round the donation hat.
not because the couples didn’t want to fork over some dinero to the musician passing round the donation hat.
Dash threw a dol ar into the donation hat.
I took a risk and upped the ante. I said, “Cinco dol ars if you’l share a dance with me.” Dash had asked me out for New Year’s Eve. The least I
could do was return the favor and ask him for a dance. Someone had to step up already.
“Here?” Dash asked, looking morti ed.
“Here!” I said. “I dare you.”
Dash shook his head. His cheeks turned bright crimson.
A bum slumped in a corner seat cal ed out, “Give the girl a dance already, ya bum!”
Dash looked at me. He shrugged. “Pay up, lady,” he said.
I dropped a ve-dol ar bil into the musician’s hat. The band played with renewed energy. Anticipation from the crowd of revelers on the train
felt high. Someone mut ered, “Isn’t that the baby stealer?”
“Catcher!” Dash defended. He held out his hands to me.
I’d never imagined my dare would actual y get cal ed in. I leaned into Dash’s ear. “I’m a terrible dancer,” I whispered.
“Me too,” he whispered in mine.
“Dance already!” the bum demanded.
The revelers applauded, goading us on. The band played harder, louder.
The train pul ed into the Fourteenth Street Union Square station.
The doors opened.
I placed my arms on Dash’s shoulders. He placed his hands around my waist.
We polkaed o the train.
The doors closed.
Our hands returned to their respective owners’ sides.
We stood at the door to a special storage room in the basement of the Strand.
“Do you want to guess what’s in here?” I asked Dash.
“I think I’ve got it gured out already. There’s a new supply of red notebooks in there, and you want us to l them in with clues about the
works of, say, Nicholas Sparks.”
“Who?” I asked. Please, no more broody poets. I couldn’t keep up.
“You don’t know who Nicholas Sparks is?” Dash asked.
I shook my head.
“Please don’t ever nd out,” he said.
I took the storage room key from a hook beside the door.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
I needn’t have asked Dash to close his eyes. The basement was cold and dark and forbidding enough, except for the beautiful, musty scent of
books everywhere. But it felt like there should be some element of surprise. Also, I wanted to remove some Rice Krispies lodged in my bosoms
without him noticing.
Dash closed his eyes.
I turned the key and opened the door.
“Keep them closed just a lit le longer,” I requested.
I removed one more Rice Krispie marshmal owed to my bra, then extracted a candle from my purse and lit it.
The cold, musty room glowed.
I took Dash’s hand and guided him inside.
While his eyes were stil closed, I took o my glasses so I’d seem, I don’t know—sexier?—upon new re ection.
I let the door fal closed behind us.
“Now open your eyes. This isn’t a gift for keeps. Just a visitation.”
Dash opened his eyes.
He did not notice my new glasses-less look. (Or I may have been too blind to distinguish his reaction.)
“No way!” Dash exclaimed. Even with such dim visibility, he didn’t need an explanation of the stacks of bound volumes piled up against the
cement wal . He ran over to touch the books. “The complete volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary! Oh wow oh wow oh WOW!” Dash
swooned, with the palpable bliss of Homer Simpson exalting, “Mmmm … donuts.”
Happy new year.
Sorry to be so goofy and obvious about the declaration, but there was something just so … dashing about young Dashiel . It wasn’t the fedora hat
he was wearing or how nicely his blue shirt complemented his deep blue eyes; it was more the composition of his face, a mixture of handsome
and sweet, young but wise, his expression arch yet kind.
I wanted to appear cool and indi erent, like this kind of thing happened to me al the time, but I couldn’t. “Do you like it? Do you like it?” I
asked, with al the eagerness of a ve-year-old tasting the world’s best cupcake.
“Fucking love it,” Dash said. He took o his hat and tipped it to me in appreciation.
Ouch. Cursing—not so dashing.
I decided to pretend he’d said “frocking love it.”
We sat down on the oor and chose a volume to explore.
“I like the etymology of words,” I said to Dash. “I like to imagine what was happening when the word originated.”
“I like the etymology of words,” I said to Dash. “I like to imagine what was happening when the word originated.”
The red notebook was peeking out from my purse. Dash grabbed it, then looked up a word from the R volume of the OED and wrote it inside
the red notebook.
“How about this one?” he asked.
He’d writ en revel. I took the R volume from Dash’s lap and read up on the word. “Hmm,” I said. “Revel. Circa 1300, ‘riotous merry-making.’
What else? As a verb, ‘to feast in a noisy manner,’ circa 1325.”
Next to Dash’s revel in the red notebook, I wrote, Slop that trough, wench. ’Tis New Year’s! We shal revel in slaughtering that there poor
innocent pig and have bacon for breakfast! R-E-V-E-L.
Dash read my entry and chuckled. “Now you choose a word.”
I opened the E volume and chose a random word, writing down epigynous.
Only after I’d copied the word into the red notebook did I actual y read what it meant. Epigynous (i-pi-jә-nәs): having oral parts at ached to or
near the summit of the ovary, as in the ower of the apple, cucumber, or da odil.
Could I have chosen a more suggestive word?
Dash would think I was a trol op now.
I should have chosen the word trol op.
Dash’s cel phone rang.
I think we were both relieved.
“Hi, Dad,” Dash answered. His dashingness seemed to wither for a moment as his shoulders slumped and his voice became measured and …
tolerant was the only word I could think of for the tone Dash used with his father. “Oh, it’s my usual New Year’s. Booze and women.” Pause. “Ah,
yes, you heard about that? Funny story …” Pause. “No, I don’t want to talk to your lawyer.” Pause. “Yes, I’m aware you’l be home tomorrow
night.” Pause. “Awesome. Nothing I love more than our father-son chats about important mat ers in my life.”
I don’t know what boldness came over me, but the resolute heaviness of Dash’s demeanor threatened to crush my soul. My pinky nger crept
over and nestled against his, for comfort. Like a magnet, his pinky nger latched onto and intertwined with mine.
I like magnets a whole lot.
“Now, about that word,” Dash said after his cal with his dad. “Epigynous.”
I immediately jumped to my feet, in search of a new reference book with less embarrassing words. I picked up an edition of something cal ed
The Speakeasy Urban Dickshun-yary. I turned to a random page.
“ ‘Running lat e,’ ” I said aloud. “ ‘When you’re late because you stopped for a co ee.’ ”
Dash resumed writing in the red notebook.
Sorry I missed your bar mitzvah, I was running lat e.
I took the pen and added Sorry I just spil ed co ee on your tux, too!
Dash looked at his watch. “Almost midnight.”
My epigynous zone worried. Would Dash think I trapped him in the storage room to trap him into that awful (or wonderful?) midnight ritual of
a New Year’s kiss?
If we stayed in this room much longer, Dash might nd out how completely inexperienced I was in the mat ers I was desperately wanting to
experience. With him.
“There’s something I need to tel you,” I said quietly. I don’t know what I’m doing. Please don’t laugh at me. If I’m a disaster, please be kind and
let me down gently.
“What?”
I meant to tel him, I real y did. But what came out of my mouth was “Snarly Muppet has been returned to me by Uncle Carmine. It has asked to
come live in this storage room, surrounded by reference books. It prefers these musty old tomes to su ocating inside a nutcracker.”
“Smart Snarly.”
“Do you promise to visit Snarly?”
“I can’t make that promise. It’s ridiculous.”
“I think you should promise.”
Dash sighed. “I promise to try. If your curmudgeon cousin Mark ever lets me back into the Strand.”
I looked up to a clock on the wal behind Dash’s head.
The midnight hour had passed.
Phew.
January 1st
“This is a rare opportunity we have, Lily. Alone in the Strand like this. I think we should take ful advantage of it.”
“How so?” Was it possible my heart was shaking as hard as my hands?
“We should dance around the aisles upstairs. Pore through volumes of books about circus freaks and shipwrecks. Pil age the cookbooks for that
ultimate Rice Krispie treat recipe. Oh, and we must track down the fourth edition of The Joy of—”
“Okay!” I screeched. “Let’s go upstairs! I love books about freaks.” Because I am one. You might be, too. Let’s be freaks together?
We walked to the storage room door.
Dash leaned in toward me mysteriously. Flirtatiously. He raised an eyebrow and declared, “The night is young. We have volumes and volumes of
the OED to return to.”
I reached for the doorknob and turned it.
I reached for the doorknob and turned it.
The knob did not budge.
I noticed a handwrit en sign next to the light switch I hadn’t bothered to turn on when we rst entered the room, so intent had I been on
e ecting a candle glow to our atmosphere. The sign read:
BEWARE!
In case you didn’t read the huge sign on the wal
outside the door, please read this one:
DUDE! How many times do you have to be reminded?
The storage door locks from the OUTSIDE.
Be sure to keep the key on you to open it from the inside,
or you won’t be able to get out.
No.
No no no no no no no.
NO! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
I turned to face Dash.
“Um, Dash?”
“Um, yes?”
“I kind of locked us in here.”
I had no choice but to cal my cousin Mark for help. “You’ve awakened me, Lily Dogwalker,” he barked into the phone. “You know it’s my
tradition to be asleep long before that stupid bal drops in Times Square.”
I explained the predicament.
“Wel , wel ,” Mark said. “Great-aunt Ida can’t save you from this one, now can she?”
“You can, Mark!”
“I might choose not to.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would. For the emotional blackmail you placed upon me that got you and your punk friend into this situation.”
He had a point.
I said, “If you don’t come help us, I’l cal the police to get us out.”
“If you do that, the Post and News reporters wil hear it on the police scanner. You’l be a headliner a second time. Just as Mommy and Daddy
arrive home to the newsstands at JFK. I’m going to take a guess here and presume that they and Grandpa think you’re spending the night at a
girlfriend’s and not out with a fel a, and your cohorts Langston and Mrs. Basil E. are backing you up. This scandal gets out, and your folks wil
never leave you alone again. To say nothing of the fact that the media incident wil ensure I lose my job. And, Lily? The worst part of al ?
Teenagers the world over wil lose access to the secret stash of OEDs in the basement at the Strand, al because of you and your bookish lit le
pervert friend’s reckless desire to peruse the volumes on New Year’s Eve. Can you live with that, Lily? Oh, the horror!”
I paused before answering. Dash, who’d heard the conversation standing next to me, was laughing. That was a relief.
“I had no idea you were this evil, Mark.”
“Sure you did. Now Markypoo wants to nish his sleep. Because he’s such a sport, he’s going to get up at seven a.m. and come rescue you two
from your lit le predicament. But not before the sun rises.”
I tried one last tactic. “Dash is get ing very frisky in here with me, Mark.” What I wanted to say was I wish Dash was get ing frisky in here with
me.Dash raised an eyebrow at me again.
“No he’s not,” Mark said.
“How do you know?”
“Because if he was, you wouldn’t be cal ing me to rescue you now, Googly Eyes. So here’s the deal. You wanted to get to know this fel ow.
Here’s your chance. You’ve got the night to yourselves. I’l be there after my good night’s sleep. There’s a toilet in a closet in the corner at the back
of the storage room if you can’t hold it. Might not be so clean. Probably no toilet paper.”
“I real y hate you right now, Mark.”
“You can thank me in the morning, Lily bear.”
Dash and I did what any two teenagers stranded in the Strand would do alone together in a basement storage room.
We sat side by side on the cold oor and played hangman in the red notebook.
S-N-A-R-L.
Q-U-I-E-S-C-E-N-T.
We talked. We laughed.
He made no untoward moves on me.
I thought about the bigger picture of my life, and about the people—and particularly the guys—I would encounter during my lifetime. How
would I ever know when that moment was right, when expectation met anticipation and formed … connection?
“Lily?” Dash said at two in the morning. “Do you mind if we go to sleep? Also, I sort of hate your cousin.”
“For imprisoning you here with me?”
“No, for imprisoning me here without any yogurt.”
“No, for imprisoning me here without any yogurt.”
Food!
I’d forgot en I had some lebkuchen spice cookies inside my purse, along with an obscene amount of Rice Krispie treats. I couldn’t eat another
Rice Krispie treat or I’d surely turn into a human snap-crackle-pop, so I reached for the plastic bag of cookies.
As I fumbled inside my purse, I looked up once and saw that most dashing face just looking at me. In that certain way I knew had to mean
something.
“You make real y good cookies,” Dash said, in that Mmmm … donuts voice.
Should I wait for him to make a move, or dare to make it myself?
As if he were wondering the same thing, he leaned down. And there it was. Our lips nal y met—in a ful -on head bang that wasn’t anything
close to a romantic kiss.
We both pul ed back.
“Ouch,” we both said.
Pause.
Dash said, “Try again?”
It had never occurred to me the mat er would require conversation rst. This lip-maneuvering business was complicated. Who knew?
“Yes, please?”
I closed my eyes and waited. And then I felt him. His mouth found mine, his lips grazing mine softly, playful y. Not knowing what to do, I
mimicked his moves, exploring his lips with my own gently, happily. The honest-to-God smooching went on like that for a good minute.
There was no word in the dictionary adequate to describe the sensation other than sensational.
“More, please?” I asked him when we separated for air, our foreheads leaned in against one another.
“Can I be honest with you, Lily?”
Uh-oh. Here it was. Al my hopes and fears about to be dashed by rejection. I was a bad kisser. Before I’d even got en a good start.
Dash said, “I’m seriously so tired I feel like I’m going to pass out. Could we please sleep on this, and resume tomorrow?”
“With great frequency?”
“Yes, please.”
I’d set le for one bang of a kiss fol owed by one sensational minute of kissing. For now.
I rested my head on his shoulder, and he rested his head on mine.
We fel asleep.
As threatened, my cousin Mark arrived after seven on New Year’s morning to rescue us. My head was stil nestled on Dash’s shoulder when I heard
Mark’s footsteps coming downstairs and saw a light burst on underneath the doorway.
I needed to wake Dash. And believe that this hadn’t al been a dream.
I looked down at the red notebook, sit ing on Dash’s lap. He must have woken up in the night while I was asleep and writ en in it. The pen was
stil in his hand and the notebook was open to a new page l ed with his scrawl.
He’d writ en out the word and meaning for anticipate, next to which, in big block let ers, he’d writ en: DERIVATIVE: ANTICIPATOR.
Below that, he’d drawn two gures who looked like action heroes in a cartoon. The sketch pictured two caped crusader teens, a fedora-wearing
boy and a girl with black glasses and wearing majoret e boots, passing a red notebook between them. The Anticipators, he’d labeled the drawing.
I smiled, and kept the smile on my face as I prepared to wake him. I wanted the rst thing he saw when he opened his eyes to be the
welcoming face of someone who liked him so much, someone who on this new morning, in this new year, was going to do her best to cherish this
new person, whose name she nal y knew.
I nudged his arm.
I said:
“Wake up, Dash.”
Rachel Cohn & David Levithan have written three books together. Their rst, Nick & Norah’s In nite
Playlist, was made into a movie starring Michael Cera and Kat Dennings, directed by Peter Sol ett.
Their second, Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List, was named a New York Public Library Book for the Teen
Age. For their third book, Dash & Lily’s Book of Dares, David wrote Dash’s chapters and Rachel wrote
Lily’s. Although they did not pass the chapters back and forth in a red Moleskine notebook, they did
