Текст книги "Dash & Lily's Book of Dares"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

Соавторы: David Levithan
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

never hear me ut er the word, much less read a book with that word in its title.

I thought the notebook was seriously Langston’s stupidest idea ever until Langston mentioned where he was going to leave it—at the Strand, the

bookstore where our parents used to take us on Sundays and let us roam the aisles like it was our personal playground. Furthermore, he’d placed it

next to my personal anthem book, Franny and Zooey. “If there’s a perfect guy for you anywhere,” Langston said, “he’l be found hunting for old

Salinger editions. We’l start there.”

If it had been a regular Christmas season, where my folks were around and our normal traditions carried on, I never would have agreed to

Langston’s red notebook idea. But there was something so empty about the prospect of a Christmas Day without opening presents and other, less

important forms of merrymaking. Truthful y, I’m not exactly a popularity magnet at school, so it wasn’t like I had alternate choices of

companionship over the holidays. I needed something to look forward to.

But I never thought anyone—much less a prospect from that highly coveted but extremely elusive Teenage Boy Who Actual y Reads and Hangs

Out at the Strand species—would actual y nd the notebook and respond to its dares. And just as I never thought my newly formed Christmas

caroling society would abandon me after only two nights of street caroling to take up Irish drinking songs at a pub on Avenue B, I never thought

someone would actual y gure out Langston’s cryptic clues and return the favor.

Yet there it was on my phone, a text from my cousin Mark con rming such a person might exist.

Mark: Lily, you have a taker at the Strand. He left you something in return. I left it there for you in a brown envelope.

I couldn’t believe it. I texted back: WHAT DID HE LOOK LIKE?!?!?

Mark answered: Snarly. Hipster wannabe.

I tried to imagine myself befriending a snarly hipster wannabe boy, and I couldn’t see it. I am a nice girl. A quiet girl (except for the caroling). I

get good grades. I am the captain of my school’s soccer team. I love my family. I don’t know anything about what’s supposed to be “cool” in the

downtown scene. I’m pret y boring and nerdy, actual y, and not in the ironic hipster way. It’s like if you picture Harriet the Spy, eleven-year-old

tomboy wunderkind spy, and then picture her a few years later, with boobs she hides under a school oxford uniform shirt that she wears even on

non-school days, along with her brother’s discarded jeans, and add to her ensemble some animal pendant necklaces for jewelry, worn-out Chucks

on her feet, and black-rimmed nerd glasses, then you’ve pictured me. Lily of the Field, Grandpa cal s me sometimes, because everyone thinks I am

so sweet and delicate.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to venture to the darker side of the lily-white spectrum. Maybe.

I sprinted over to the Strand to retrieve whatever the mysterious notebook taker had left behind for me. Mark was gone, but he’d scrawled a

message on the envelope he’d left behind for me: Seriously, Lily. Dude snarls a lot.

I ripped open the package, and … what?!?! Snarl had left me a copy of The Godfather, along with a delivery menu for Two Boots Pizza. The

I ripped open the package, and … what?!?! Snarl had left me a copy of The Godfather, along with a delivery menu for Two Boots Pizza. The

menu had dirty footprints embedded on it, indicating perhaps it had been on the oor at the Strand. To go along with the unsanitary theme, the

book wasn’t even a new copy of The Godfather, but a tat ered used copy that smel ed like cigaret e smoke and had pages that were crinkled and a

binding that was at death’s door.

I cal ed Langston to decipher this nonsense. No answer. Now that our parents had messaged us that they’d arrived in Fiji paradise safely, Benny

was probably o cial y moved in, the door to Langston’s room locked, his phone o .

I had no choice but to go grab a slice and ponder the red notebook alone. What else could I do? When in doubt, ingest carbs.

I went to the Two Boots location on the delivery menu, on Avenue A just above Houston. I asked the person at the counter, “Do you know a

snarly boy who likes The Godfather?”

“I wish I did,” the counter person said. “Plain or pepperoni?”

“Calzone, please,” I said. Two Boots makes weird Cajun– avored pizzas. Not for me and my sensitive digestive system.

I sat at a corner booth and ipped through the book Snarl had left for me but could nd no viable clues. Wel , I thought, I guess this game is

over as soon as it’s started. I was too Lily white to gure it out.

But then the menu that had been tucked inside the book dropped to the ground, and out of it peeked a Post-it note I hadn’t noticed before. I

picked up the Post-it note. It was de nitely a boy’s scrawl: moody, foreign, and barely legible.

Here’s the scary part. I could decipher this message. It contained a poem by Marie Howe, a personal favorite of my mother’s. Mom is an English

professor specializing in twentieth-century American lit, and she regularly tortured Langston and me with poetry passages instead of bedtime

stories when we were kids. My brother and I are frighteningly wel -versed in modern American poetry.

The note was a passage from my mother’s favorite of Marie Howe’s poems, too, and it was a poem I had always liked because it contained a

passage about the poet seeing herself in the window glass of a corner video store, which never failed to strike me as funny, imagining some mad

poet wandering the streets and spying herself in a video store window re ected next to, perhaps, posters of Jackie Chan or Sandra Bul ock or

someone super-famous and probably not at al poet-y. I liked Moody Boy even more when I saw that he’d underlined my favorite part of the

poem:

I am living. I remember you.

I had no idea how Marie Howe and Two Boots Pizza and The Godfather could possibly be connected. I tried cal ing Langston again. Stil no

answer.

I read and re-read the passage. I am living. I remember you. I don’t real y get poetry, but I had to give the poetess credit: nice.

Two people sat in the booth next to me, set ing down some rental videos on their table. That’s when I realized the connection: say the window

of the corner video store. This particular Two Boots location also had a video store at ached to it.

I dashed over to the video section like it was the bathroom after I’d accidental y ingested some Louisiana hot sauce on top of my calzone. I

immediately went to where The Godfather was. The movie wasn’t there. I asked the clerk where I’d nd it. “Checked out,” she said.

I returned to the G section anyway and found, mis-shelved, The Godfather I I. I opened up the case and—yes!—another Post-it note, in Snarl’s

scrawl:

Nobody ever checks out Godfather I I. Especial y when it’s mis led. Do you want another clue? If so, nd Clueless. Also mis led, where sorrow

meets pity.

I returned to the clerk’s counter. “Where does sorrow meet pity?” I asked, ful y expecting an existential answer.

The clerk didn’t look up from the comic book she was reading under the counter. “Foreign documentaries.”

Oh.

I went to the foreign documentaries section. And yes, next to a lm cal ed The Sorrow and the Pity was a copy of Clueless! Inside the case for

Clueless was another note:

I didn’t expect you to make it this far. Are you also a fan of depressing French lms about mass murder? If so, I like you already. If not, why

not? Do you also despise les lms de Woody Al en? If you want your red Moleskine notebook back, I suggest you leave instructions in the lm of

your choice with Amanda at the front desk. Please, no Christmas movies.

I returned to the front desk. “Are you Amanda?” I asked the clerk girl.

She looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I am.”

“May I leave something for someone with you?” I asked. I almost added, Wink wink, but I couldn’t bring myself to be that obvious.

“You may,” she said.

“Do you have a copy of Miracle on 34th Street?” I asked her.

three

–Dash–

December 22nd

“Is this a joke?” I asked Amanda. And the way she looked at me, I knew that I was the joke.

Oh, the impertinence! I should have known bet er than to mention Christmas movies. Clearly, no invitation was too smal for Lily’s sarcasm. And

the note:

5. Look for the warm woolen mittens with the reindeer on them, please.

Could there be any doubt what my next destination was supposed to be?

Macy’s.

Two days before Christmas Eve.

She might as wel have gift-wrapped my face and pumped the carbon dioxide in. Or hung me on a noose of credit card receipts. A department

store two days before Christmas Eve is like a city in a state of siege—wild-eyed consumers bat ling in the aisles over who gets the last sea horse

snow globe to give to their respective great-aunt Marys.

I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

I had to.

I tried to distract myself by debating the di erence between wool and woolen, then expanding it to include wood vs. wooden and gold vs. golden.

But this distraction only lasted the time it took to walk the stairs from the subway, since when I emerged on Herald Square, I was nearly capsized

by the throngs and their shopping bags. The knel of a Salvation Army bel ringer added to the grimness, and I had no doubt that if I didn’t escape

soon, a children’s choir would pop up and carol me to death.

I walked inside Macy’s and faced the pathetic spectacle of a department store ful of shoppers, none of whom were shopping for themselves.

Without the instant grati cation of a self-aimed purchase, everyone walked around in the tactical stupor of the nancial y obligated. At this late

date in the season, al the fal backs were being used. Dad was get ing a tie, Mom was get ing a scarf, and the kids were get ing sweaters, whether

they liked it or not. I had done al of my shopping online from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. on the morning of December 3; the gifts now sat at their respective

houses, to be opened in the new year. My mother had left me gifts to open in her house, while my father had slipped me a hundred-dol ar bil and

told me to go to town with it. In fact, his exact words were, “Don’t spend it al on booze and women”—the implication being, of course, that I

should spend at least some of it on booze and women. Had there been a way to get a gift certi cate for booze and women, I was sure he would

have made his secretary run out and get me one over her lunch break.

The salespeople were so shel -shocked that a question like “Where do I nd the warm woolen mit ens with reindeer on them?” didn’t seem the

least bit strange. Eventual y, I found myself in Outer Garments, wondering what, short of an earplug, would count as an Inner Garment.

I had always felt that mit ens were a few steps back on the evolutionary scale—why, I wondered, would we want to make ourselves into a less

agile version of a lobster? But my disdain for mit ens took on a new depth when looking at Macy’s (Macy’s’s?) holiday o erings. There were

mit ens shaped like gingerbread men and mit ens decorated in tinsel. One pair of mit ens simulated the thumb of a hitchhiker; the destination was,

apparently, the North Pole. In front of my very eyes, a middle-aged woman took a pair o the rack and placed them in the pile she’d grown in her

arms.

“Real y?” I found myself saying aloud.

“Excuse me?” she said, irritated.

“Aesthetic and utilitarian considerations aside,” I said, “those mit ens don’t particularly make sense. Why would you want to hitchhike to the

North Pole? Isn’t the whole gimmick of Christmas that there’s home delivery? You get up there, al you’re going to nd is a bunch of exhausted,

grumpy elves. Assuming, of course, that you accept the mythical presence of a workshop up there, when we al know there isn’t even a pole at the

North Pole, and if global warming continues, there won’t be any ice, either.”

“Why don’t you just fuck o ?” the woman replied. Then she took her mit ens and got out of there.

This was the miracle of the season, the way it put the fuck o so loud in our hearts. You could snap at strangers, or snap at the people closest to

you. It could be a fuck o for a slight reason—You took my parking space or You questioned my choice of mit ens or I spent sixteen hours tracking

down the golf club you wanted and you gave me a McDonald’s gift certi cate in return. Or it could bring out the fuck o that’d been lying in wait

for years. You always insist on cut ing the turkey even though I’m the one who spent hours cooking it or I can’t spend one more holiday pretending

to be in love with you or You want me to inherit your love for booze and women, in that order, but you’re more of a role anti-model than a father.

This was why I shouldn’t have been al owed in Macy’s. Because when you turn a short span of time into a “season,” you create an echo chamber

for al of its associations. Once you step in, it’s hard to escape.

I started shaking hands with al the reindeer mit ens, certain that Lily had hidden something inside one of them. Sure enough, the fth shake

brought a crumple. I pul ed out the slip of paper.

6. I left something under the pillow for you.

Next stop: bedding. Personal y, I preferred the word bedding when it was a verb, not a noun. Can you show me the bedding section? could not

compare to Are you bedding me? Seriously, are we going to bed each other? In truth, I knew these sentences worked bet er in my head than

anywhere else—So a never real y understood what I was saying, although I usual y chalked that up to her not being a native speaker. I even

encouraged her to throw some obscure Spanish wordplay my way, but she never knew what I was talking about when I talked about that, either.

She was pret y, though. Like a ower. I missed that.

She was pret y, though. Like a ower. I missed that.

When I got to the bedding section, I wondered if Lily appreciated how many beds there were for me to probe. They could house a whole

orphanage in here, with a few extra beds for the nuns to fool around in. (Pul my wimple! PULL MY WIMPLE!) The only way I was going to be

able to do this was to divide the oor into quadrants and move clockwise from north.

The rst bed was a paisley print with four pil ows propped up on it. I immediately launched my hand underneath them, looking for the next

note.

“Sir? Can I help you?”

I turned and saw a bed salesman, his look half amused and half alarmed. He looked a lot like Barney Rubble, only with the remnants of a spray

tan that would have been unavailable in the prehistoric age. I sympathized. Not because of the spray tan—I’d never do shit like that—but because I

gured being a bed salesman was a job of biblical y bad paradox. I mean, here he was, forced to stand for eight or nine hours a day, and the whole

time he’s surrounded by beds. And not only that, he’s surrounded by shoppers who see the beds and can’t help but think, Man, I’d love to lie down

on that bed for a second. So not only does he have to stop himself from lying down, but he has to stop everyone else from doing it, too. I knew if I

were him, I would be desperate for human company. So I decided to take him into my con dence.

“I’m looking for something,” I said. I glanced at his ring nger. Bingo. “You’re a married man, right?”

He nodded.

“Wel , here’s the thing,” I said. “My mother? She was looking at bedding and she total y dropped her shopping list under one of the pil ows. So

now she’s upstairs in cutlery, upset that she can’t remember what to get anyone, and my dad is about to blow his last fuse, because he likes

shopping about as much as he likes terrorism and the estate tax. So he sent me down here to nd the list, and if I don’t nd it quick, there’s going

to be a major meltdown on oor ve.”

Super-tan Barney Rubble actual y put his nger on his temple to help him think.

“I might remember her,” he said. “I’l go look under those pil ows if you want to look under these. Just please be careful to put the pil ows back

in their place and avoid mussing the sheets.”

“Oh, I wil !” I assured him.

I decided if I were ever to get into booze and women, my line would be Excuse me, madam, but I would real y love to bed and muss you.… Are

you perchance free this evening?

Now, at the risk of saying something legal y actionable, I have to remark: It was amazing the things I found underneath the pil ows at Macy’s.

Half-eaten candy bars. Baby chew toys. Business cards. There was one thing that could have been either a dead jel y sh or a condom, but I pul ed

my ngers back before I found out for sure. Poor Barney actual y let out a lit le scream when he found a decomposed rodent; it was only after he

ran away for a quick burial and thorough disinfecting that I found the slip of paper I was looking for.

7. I dare you to ask Santa for your next message.

No. No fucking no no no.

If I hadn’t appreciated her sadism, I would’ve headed straight for the hil s.

But instead, I headed straight for Santa.

It wasn’t as easy as that, though. I got down to the main oor and Santa’s Wonderland, and the line was at least ten classrooms long. Children

lol ed and dgeted while parents talked on cel phones or fussed with strol ers or teetered like the living dead.

Luckily, I always travel with a book, just in case I have to wait on line for Santa, or some such inconvenience. More than a few of the parents

–especial y the dads—gave me strange looks. I could see them doing the mental math—I was way too old to believe in Santa, but I was too young

to be after their children. So I was safe, if suspicious.

It took me forty– ve minutes to get to the front of the line. Kids were whipping out lists and cookies and digital cameras, while I just had Vile

Bodies. Final y, it was my turn. I saw the girl in front of me wrapping up, and I started to move forward.

“One second!” a dictatorial rasp commanded.

I looked down to nd the least satisfying cliché in Christmas history: a power-mad elf.

“HOW OLD ARE YOU?” he barked.

“Thirteen,” I lied.

His eyes were as pointy as his stupid green hat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice not sorry at al , “but twelve is the limit.”

“I promise I won’t take long,” I said.

“TWELVE IS THE LIMIT!”

The girl had nished her stint with Santa. It was my turn. By al rights, it was my turn.

“I just have to ask Santa one thing,” I said. “That’s al .”

The elf body-blocked me. “Get out of the line now,” he demanded.

“Make me,” I replied.

The whole line was paying at ention now. Kids’ eyes were wide with fear. Most of the dads and some of the moms were get ing ready to jump

me if I tried anything.

“I need security,” the elf said, but I couldn’t tel who he was talking to.

I walked forward, knocking his shoulder with my thigh. I was almost at Santa when I felt a tug on my ass—the elf had grabbed the back pocket

of my jeans and was trying to pul me back.

“Get. O . Of. Me,” I said, kicking back.

“You’re NAUGHTY!” the elf screamed. “Very NAUGHTY!”

We’d caught Santa’s at ention. He gave me the once-over, then chuckled out, “Ho ho ho! What seems to be the problem?”

“Lily sent me,” I said.

From somewhere behind the beard, he gured it out. Meanwhile, the elf was about to pul down my pants.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Get o of him, Desmond!”

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Get o of him, Desmond!”

The elf let go.

“I’m cal ing security,” he insisted.

“If you do,” Santa murmured, “you’l be back to folding hand towels so fast you won’t even have time to take the bel s o your boots or your

bal s out of your elfy boxer briefs.”

It was a very good thing that the elf wasn’t packing any of his toy-carving tools at that point, because it might have been a very di erent day at

Macy’s if he had.

“Wel , wel , wel ,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, lit le boy.”

This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around.

“I’m not real y a lit le boy,” I pointed out.

“Get on my lap, then, big boy.”

I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his bel y. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his

crotch.

“Ho ho ho!” he chortled.

I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it.

“Have you been a good lit le boy this year?” he asked.

I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes.

He actual y wobbled with joy.

“Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?”

I thought it was obvious.

“A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.”

“So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a lit le something for you”—he shifted a lit le in his

seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’l have to rub Santa’s bel y.”

“What?” I asked.

He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.”

I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat.

“You know you want it,” he whispered.

The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was.

Fuck o , Lily. You can’t intimidate me.

I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, eshy, hairy … and his bel y

was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa

laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hel !” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa.

And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pul ing some of his

white bel y hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The let er was in my hand, damp but

intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.

I ran. I bobbed. I weaved. I propel ed myself through the tourists until I was safe in menswear, sheltered in a changing room. I dried my hand

and the envelope on a purple velour tracksuit that someone had left behind, then opened it to reveal Lily’s next words.

8. That’s the spirit!

Now, all I want for Christmas

(or December 22nd)

is your best Christmas memory.

I also want my red notebook back,

so leave it, with your memory included,

in my stocking on the second oor.

I opened to the rst available blank page in the Moleskine and started to write.

My best Christmas was when I was eight. My parents had just split up, and they told me I was real y lucky, because this year I was going to get two

Christmases instead of one. They cal ed it Australian Christmas, because I would get presents at my mom’s place one evening and at my dad’s place

the next morning, and it would be okay because they would both be Christmas Day in Australia. This sounded great to me, and I honestly felt

lucky. Two Christmases! They went al out, too. Ful dinners, al the relatives from each side at each Christmas. They must have split my Christmas

list down the middle, because I got everything I wanted, and no duplication. Then my father, on the second night, made the big mistake. I was up

late, way too late, and everyone else had gone home. He was drinking something brown-gold—probably brandy—and he pul ed me to his side and

asked me if I liked having two Christmases. I told him yes, and he told me again how lucky I was. Then he asked me if there was anything else I

wanted.

I told him I wanted Mom to be with us, too. And he didn’t blink. He said he’d see what he could do. And I believed him. I believed I was lucky,

and I believed two Christmases were bet er than one, and I believed even though Santa wasn’t real, my parents could stil perform magic. So that’s

why it was my best Christmas. Because it was the last one when I real y believed.

Ask a question, get the answer. I gured if Lily couldn’t understand that, there wasn’t any reason to continue.

I found the spot on the second oor where they were sel ing the personalized Christmas stockings, making a wide berth around the Santa stand

and al of the security guards. Sure enough, there was a hook of Lily stockings, right before LINAS and LIVINIA. I’d leave the red notebook there …

… but rst I had to go to the AMC to buy Lily a ticket to the next day’s 10 a.m. showing of Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.

four

(Lily)

December 23rd

I have never gone to a movie by myself. Usual y when I see a movie, it’s with my grandpa, or my brother and parents, or lots of cousins. The best

is when we al go at once, like an army of interrelated popcorn zombies who laugh the same laughs and gasp the same gasps and aren’t so germ-

phobic with each other that we won’t share a ginormous Coke with one straw. Family is useful like that.

I planned to insist that Langston and Benny accompany me to the 10 a.m. showing of Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. I gured it was their

responsibility to take me, since they started this whole thing. I woke them up promptly at 8 a.m. to let them know and to give them enough time

to gure out their ironic T-shirts and tousled I-don’t-care-but-actual y-I-care-too-much hairstyles before we headed out for the day.

Only Langston threw his pil ow at me when I tried to get him up. He didn’t budge from bed.

“Get out of my room, Lily!” he grumbled. “Go to the movies by yourself!”

Benny rol ed over and looked at the clock next to Langston’s bed. “Ay, mamacita, it’s what o’clock in the morning? Eight? Merde merde merde,

and during Christmas break, when it’s like the law to sleep in til noon? Ay, mamacita … GO BACK TO SLEEP!” Benny rol ed over onto his

stomach and placed his pil ow over his head to get started right away, I guess, on dreaming in Spanglish.

I was pret y tired myself, since I’d got en up at 4 a.m. to make my mystery snarly friend a special present. I wouldn’t have minded taking a nap

on the oor next to Langston like when we were kids, but I suspected if I suggested such a thing on this particular morning, in this particular

company, Langston would repeat his standby refrain:

“Did you hear me, Lily? GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”

He actual y did say that. I wasn’t imagining he might say it.

“But I’m not al owed to go to the movies by myself,” I reminded Langston. At least, that was the rule when I was eight. Mom and Dad had never

clari ed whether the rule had been amended as I’d aged.

“Of course you’re al owed to go to the movies by yourself. And even if you’re not, I’m in charge while Mom and Dad are gone, and I hereby

authorize you. And the sooner you leave my room, the sooner your curfew gets bumped from eleven p.m. to midnight.”

“My curfew is ten p.m. and I’m not al owed to be outside alone late at night.”

“Guess what? Your new curfew is no curfew, and you can stay out as long as you want, with whomever you want, or be alone, I don’t care, just

make sure your phone is turned on so I can cal you to make sure you’re stil alive. And feel free to get wasted drunk and fool around with boys

and—”

“LA LA LA LA LA,” I said, my hands over my ears to block out Langston’s dirty talk. I turned around to step out of his room but leaned back in

to ask, “What are we making for pre–Christmas Eve dinner? I was thinking we could roast some chestnuts and—”

“GET OUT!” Langston and Benny both yel ed.

So much for day before the day before Christmas Eve cheer. When we were lit le, the Christmas countdown began a week in advance and always

started with either Langston or me greeting each other at breakfast by saying, “Good morning! And happy day before the day before the day before

the day before Christmas!” And so on until the real day.

I wondered what kind of monsters lurked in theaters to prey on people sit ing by themselves because their brothers wouldn’t get out of bed to

take them to the movies. I gured I’d bet er get mean real fast so I could be prepared for any dangerous scenario. I got dressed, wrapped my

special present, then stood in front of the bathroom mirror, where I practiced making scary faces that would ward o any movie monsters preying

upon single-seated persons.

As I practiced my meanest face—tongue wagging out, nose crinkled, eyes at a most hateful glare—I saw Benny standing behind me in the

bathroom hal way. “Why are you making kit en faces in the mirror?” he asked, yawning.

“They’re mean faces!” I said.

Benny said, “Look, that out t you’re wearing is gonna scare papi o more than your mean kit en face. What are you wearing, Lit le Miss

Quinceañera Gone Batshit?”

I looked down at my out t: oxford uniform school shirt tucked into a knee-length lime-green felt material skirt with a reindeer embroidered on

it, candy-cane-colored swirled stockings, and beat-up Chucks on my feet.

“What’s the mat er with my out t?” I asked, smiling upside down into a … *shudder* … frown. “I think my out t is very festive for the day

before the day before Christmas. And for a movie about a reindeer. Anyway, I thought you went back to sleep.”

“Bathroom break.” Benny inspected me head to toe. “No,” he said. “The shoes don’t work. If you’re gonna go with that out t, you might as wel

go al out. C’mon.”

He took my hand and dragged me to the closet in my room. He perused through the heaps of Converse sneakers. “You don’t got no other types

of shoes?” he said.

“Only in our old dress-up-clothes trunk,” I said, joking.

“Perfect,” he said.

Benny darted over to the old trunk in the corner of my room, pul ing out tul e tutus, yards of muumuus, #1 FAN basebal caps, reman hats,

princess slippers, platform shoes, and an alarming number of Crocs, until nal y he grabbed for our Great-aunt Ida’s retired tasseled majoret e

boots, with taps stil on the toes and heels. “These t you?” Benny asked.

I tried them on. “A lit le big, but I guess.” The boots spiced up my candy-cane-colored stockings nicely. I liked.

“Awesome. They’l go great with your winter hat.”

My winter head-warming accessory of choice is a vintage red knit hat with pom-poms dangling down from the ears. It’s “vintage” in the sense of

being a hat I made for my fourth-grade school Christmas pageant production of A Christmas Carol(ing) A-go-go, the Dickens-inspired disco musical