Текст книги "Dash & Lily's Book of Dares"
Автор книги: Rachel Caine
Соавторы: David Levithan
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
fact, that even though she has lots of money, she stil works one day a week at Madame Tussauds. She said she needs something to do, and she
likes hanging out with celebrities. Secretly I think she is writing a tel -al book about what happens between the wax people when no one’s
looking.
Langston and I cal Great-aunt Ida Mrs. Basil E. because of the book we loved when we were kids, From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E.
Frankweiler. That book’s Mrs. Basil E. is a rich old lady who sets the sister and brother in the book out on a treasure hunt in the Metropolitan
Museum of Art of New York. When we were kids, our Mrs. Basil E. used to take Langston and me on museum adventures on school holidays when
our parents had to work. The days always ended with a trip for giant ice cream sundaes. How great is a great-aunt who lets her niece and nephew
have ice cream for dinner? Truly great, in my opinion.
Great-aunt Ida/Mrs. Basil E. wrapped me in a giant Christmas hug when I arrived at her apartment. I loved how she always smel s like lipstick and
classy perfume. She always wears a proper ladies’ suit, too, even on Christmas Day, when she should be lounging around in her pj’s.
“Hel o, Lily bear,” Mrs. Basil E. said. “I see you found my old majoret e boots from my high school days at Washington Irving High.”
I leaned into her for another hug. I love her hugs. “Yes.” I nodded into her shoulder, grateful for it. “I found them in our old dress-up-clothes
trunk. At rst they were too big on me, but I put on a thick pair of socks over my tights, so they’re comfy now. They’re my new favorite boots.”
“I like the gold tinsel you added to the tassels,” she said. “Are you going to let me go anytime before New Year’s?”
“I like the gold tinsel you added to the tassels,” she said. “Are you going to let me go anytime before New Year’s?”
Reluctantly, I released my arms from around her.
“Now please take my boots o ,” she said. “I don’t want the taps on the soles scratching my wood oors.”
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
Mrs. Basil E.’s tradition is to have tons of people over for Christmas dinner, and enough food for a ton more.
“The usual,” she said.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Right this way,” she said, turning toward the kitchen.
But I didn’t fol ow her.
She turned around. “Yes, Lily?” she asked.
“Did he return the notebook?”
“Not yet, dear. But I’m sure he wil .”
“What does he look like?” I asked her, once again.
“You’l have to nd out for yourself,” she said. Aside from being snarly, Snarl must not be a total monster, because if he was, no way would Mrs.
Basil E. have signed on as an accessory to the latest instal ment.
Into the kitchen we went.
Mrs. Basil E. and I cooked and sang til six while workers around us did the same, preparing the grand house for its grand feast. I kept wanting to
shriek, WHAT IF HE DOESN’T RETURN THE NOTEBOOK? But I didn’t. Because my great-aunt didn’t seem too concerned. Like she had faith in
him, and so should I.
Final y, at seven that night—perhaps the looooongest wait of my life ever—the Dyker Heights contingent of the family arrived. Uncle Carmine
and his wife and their massive brood came in loaded with presents.
I didn’t bother to open mine. Uncle Carmine stil thinks I’m eight and gives me American Girl dol accessories. Which I stil love, by the way, but
it’s not exactly like there’s a mystery about what’s inside his wrapped gift boxes for me. So I asked him, “Do you have it?”
Uncle Carmine said, “It’l cost you.” He turned his cheek to me. I gave his cheek a Christmas kiss. The tol paid, he pul ed the red notebook from
his goody bag of presents and handed it to me.
Suddenly I didn’t see how I could survive one more second without absorbing the latest contents in the notebook. I needed to be alone.
“Bye, everyone!” I chirped.
“Lily!” Mrs. Basil E. scolded. “You can’t possibly think you’re leaving.”
“I forgot to tel you I’m not real y talking to anyone today! I’m more or less on strike! So I wouldn’t be very good company! And since Langston’s
sick at home, I should probably check on him.” I threw her a kiss from my hand. “Mwahhh!”
She shook her head. “That child,” she said to Carmine. “Kooky.” She threw her hands up in the air before throwing me back an air kiss. “What
should I tel the caroling friends you invited here to dinner tonight?”
“Tel them merry Christmas!” I cal ed out as I left.
Langston was asleep again when I got home. I l ed his water glass and left some Tylenols by his bed and went to my own room to read the
notebook in private.
At last I had it—the Christmas present I’d wanted al along, but hadn’t realized. His words.
I felt a sense of longing for him such as I’ve never experienced in my lifetime for any person, or even for any pet.
It seemed weird to me that he’d spent his Christmas alone … and had seemed to like it. He hadn’t seemed to think anyone should feel sorry for
him about that, either.
I had spent my Christmas mostly alone for the rst time in my life, too.
I had felt rather sorry for myself.
But it hadn’t been so terrible, actual y.
In the future, I decided I would tackle the solitude thing more enthusiastical y, so long as solitude meant I could also walk in the park and pet a
few dogs and pass them treats.
What did you get for Christmas? he asked me in the notebook.
I wrote:
We didn’t do presents this year at Christmas. We’re saving it for New Year’s. (Long story. Maybe you’d like to hear it in person sometime?)
But I couldn’t concentrate on writing in the notebook. I wanted to live inside it, not write in it.
What kind of girl did Snarl think I was, sending me to a music club in the middle of the night?
My parents would never let me go.
But they weren’t here to say no.
I returned to the notebook. I liked what you said, my nameless new friend. Are we that? Friends? I hope so. Only for a friend would I consider
going out at TWO IN THE MORNING on Christmas night—or any night, for that mat er. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, so much as … I don’t
real y go out that much. In that teenager kind of way. Is that okay?
I’m not sure how this Being a Teenager thing is supposed to work. Is there an instruction manual? I think I have the moody muscle instal ed, but
I don’t ex it that often. More times I feel so l ed with LOVE for the people I know—and even more so for the dogs I walk in Tompkins Square
Park—that I feel like I could wel up like a giant bal oon and y away. Yes, that much love. But other teenagers? Historical y, I haven’t always
related so much. In seventh grade, my parents made me join my school’s soccer team to force me to socialize with other girls my age. It turns out I
was pret y good at soccer, but not so great at the socializing part. Don’t worry—it’s not like I am a complete freak of nature that nobody talks to.
It’s more like the other girls talk to me, but after a while they’l sort of look at me like, “HUH? What did she just say?” Then they go o into their
groups, where I’m pret y sure they speak a secret language of popularity, and I go back to kicking the bal by myself and having imaginary
conversations with my favorite dogs and literary characters. Everyone wins.
I don’t mind being the odd girl out; it’s kind of a relief, maybe. In the language of soccer, however, I am highly uent. That’s what I like about
I don’t mind being the odd girl out; it’s kind of a relief, maybe. In the language of soccer, however, I am highly uent. That’s what I like about
sports. No mat er if everyone playing the game speaks completely di erent languages, on the eld, or the court, wherever they are playing, the
language of moves and passes and scores is al the same. Universal.
Do you like sports? I don’t imagine you being the sporty type. I KNOW! Your name is Beckham, isn’t it?
I’m not sure you wil get this notebook back tonight. I’m not sure I can accept your latest mission. It’s only because my parents are away that I
can even consider it. I’ve never been to a late-night music club before. And going out by myself in the middle of the night, in the middle of Manhat an? Wow. You must have a lot of faith in me. Which I appreciate. Even if I’m not sure I share it.
I stopped writing so I could take a nap. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to accept Snarl’s task, but if I did, I’d need to rest rst.
I dreamt about Snarl. In my dream, Snarl’s face was Eminem’s, and he was singing “My name is …” over and over while holding up the red
notebook to reveal a new page displaying di erent names.
My name is … Ypsilanti.
My name is … Ezekiel.
My name is … Mandela.
My name is … Yao Ming.
At one in the morning, my alarm went o .
Snarl had in ltrated my subconscious. The dream was obviously a sign: he was too enticing too resist.
I checked in with Langston (passed out cold), then put on my best Christmas party frock, a gold-colored crushed velvet mini-dress. I was
surprised to discover I’d developed more boobage and hippage since I wore the dress the previous Christmas, but decided not to care how snug it
was. The club would probably be dark. Who’d notice me? I completed the out t with red tights and Mrs. Basil E.’s majoret e boots with the gold-
tinseled tassels. I put my red knit hat with the poms-poms dangling from the ears on my head but pul ed out some strands of blond hair from the
front to cover one of my eyes so I could look a lit le mysterious for once. I whistled to hail a cab.
Snarl must have had me under some kind of spel because sneaking out in the middle of the night, on Christmas night no less, to a dive club on
the Lower East Side was about the last dare that pre-notebook Lily ever would have taken on. But somehow, knowing the Moleskine was tucked
away in my bag, containing our thoughts and clues, our imprints to each other, somehow that made me feel safe, like I could have this adventure
and not get lost and not cal my brother to save me. I could do this on my own, and not freak out that I had no idea what waited for me on the
other side of this night.
“Merry Christmas. Tel me something that’s a drag.”
The bouncer she-man’s request at the door to the club would have confused me before Thanksgiving, but because of meeting Shee’nah through
my caroling group a few weeks ago, I understood the system.
Shee’nah, who is a proud member of this “new now next wave of fabulosity” in the downtown club scene, had explained the drag-on ladies as
being “not quite drag queens, not quite dragons, there for you to drag your woes to.”
And so, to a very large, very gold-lamé-dress-wearing club bouncer who had a dragon’s mask on her head, I whined, “I didn’t get any presents for
Christmas.”
“Sister, this is a Hanukkah show. Who cares about your Christmas presents? Come on, do me bet er. What’s your drag?”
“There may or may not be a person of unknowable name and face inside that club who may or may not be looking for me.”
“Bored.”
The door did not budge open.
I leaned into the drag-on lady and whispered, “I’ve never been kissed. In that certain way.”
Drag-on lady’s eyes widened. “Seriously? With those boobs?”
Gosh! Ex-squeamish me?
I covered my chest with my hands, ready to bolt.
“You are serious!” the drag-on lady said, nal y opening the door to me. “Get in there already! And mazel tov!”
I kept my arms covering my chest as I entered the club. Inside, al I could see was screaming-thrashing-moshing crazy people. It smel ed like beer
and puke. It was as close an approximation to hel as I could imagine. Immediately I wished to return outside and pass the night chat ing with the
drag-on lady, and hearing everyone else’s tales of woe at the door.
Was Snarl playing some kind of cosmic joke on me, sending me to such a dump?
I was scared, frankly.
If I’d ever been intimidated trying to make conversation with a posse of lip-glossed sixteen-year-old girls at school, they were child’s play in
comparison to the formidable group of club folks.
Meet [dramatic drumrol , please] the punky hipsters.
I was easily the youngest person there, and the only person there by herself, so far as I could tel . And for a Hanukkah party, no one was dressed
appropriately. I seemed to be the only person there dressed festively. Everyone else was in skinny jeans and crappy T-shirts. Like teenage girls, the
hipsters congregated in cooler-than-you packs, wearing bored expressions on their faces, but unlike the teenage girls I knew, I didn’t think any of
them wanted to ask to copy my math homework or play soccer. The hipsters’ sneers in my direction immediately dismissed me as Not One of
Them. I can’t say I wasn’t grateful about that.
I wanted to go home to the safety of my bed and to my stu ed animals and to my people I’d known my whole life. I had nothing to say to
anybody, and fervently prayed that no one there would have anything to say to me. I was starting to hate Snarl for throwing me into this lion’s den.
The worst punch I’d swung him was Madame Tussauds. But wax people don’t pass judgment and say to each other “What is that girl wearing? Are
there taps on her boots?” when I walk by. I don’t think.
Ah, but … the music. When the band of young Hasidic punk boys took the stage—a guitar player, a bass player, some horns, some violins, and,
strangely, no drummer—and let loose their explosion of sounds, then I understood Snarl’s master plan.
The band played a style I’d heard before, when one of my cousins married a Jewish musician. At their wedding reception, a klezmer band
played, which Langston told me was like a kind of Jewish punk-jazz fusion. The music at this club was like if you mixed the horah dance with
Green Day playing a Mardi Gras parade? The guitar and bass provided the sound’s foundation, while the horns ri ed with the violins, and the band
Green Day playing a Mardi Gras parade? The guitar and bass provided the sound’s foundation, while the horns ri ed with the violins, and the band
members’ voices laughed and wept and sang al at once.
It was clown insane. I loved it. My arms removed themselves from protecting my chest. I needed to move! I danced my tuchus o , not caring
what anyone thought. I twirled in the middle of the mosh, thrashed my hair around, and jumped like I was on a pogo stick. I tapped my boot taps
on the oor like I was part of the music, too, not caring what anyone thought.
Apparently, the wildly dancing hipsters thought the same as me about the music, dancing around me like we were in a punk horah dance.
Maybe klezmer music was a universal language, like soccer. I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed myself.
I realized that Snarl had given me what I asked for as a Christmas present. Hope and belief. I’d always hoped but never believed that I could
have such an adventure on my own. That I could own it. And love it. But it had happened. The notebook had made it so.
I was sad when the band’s set ended, but also glad. My heart rate needed to come down. And it needed to nd its next message.
While the opening band left the stage, I went to the bathroom, as instructed.
May I just say, if I ever have to return to that bathroom in my lifetime, I’m bringing a bot le of Clorox.
I took a paper towel from the sink and placed it on the toilet to sit down on; no way would I use that toilet. There was writing al over the stal
wal —trails of gra ti and quotes, messages to lovers and friends, to exes and enemies. It was almost like a wailing wal —the punked-out place to
puke out your heart. If it wasn’t so lthy and smel y, it could almost have doubled as a museum art instal ation—so many words and feelings, so
many diverse styles of scribbling, with messages writ en in Magic Marker, di erent-colored pens, eyeliner, nail polish, glit er pens, and Sharpies.
I related most to this scrawled line:
BECAUSE I’M SO UNCOOL AND SO AFRAID
I thought, Good for you, Uncool and So Afraid. You made it here anyway. Maybe that’s half the bat le?
I wondered what happened to that person. I wondered if I could leave him or her a red notebook to nd out.
My favorite scrawl was writ en in black Magic Marker. It said:
The Cure. For the Exes. I’m sorry, Nick. Will you kiss me again?
Because suddenly, on the night-(horah-)mare after Christmas, as I sat on a lthy toilet in a stinky bathroom, dripping in sweat from dancing, I
real y real y wanted that certain someone to kiss. In a way I’d never wished for in my life. It wasn’t about the fantasy. That was now replaced with
hope and belief that it could happen, for real.
(I’ve never kissed anyone for real, in a romantic way, before. I hadn’t lied to the drag-on lady. I don’t think my pil ow counts.
(Should I confess this to Snarl in the notebook? Ful disclosure, so he had a fair chance to run?
(Nah.)
There were so many messages on the bathroom wal that I might never have found his, except I recognized his handwriting. The message was a
few lines down from the Cure kiss message. He’d painted a strip of white paint as background, then alternated the words in blue and black Magic
Marker—a nice Hanukkah-themed message, I guessed. So Snarl was secretly a sentimentalist. Or maybe part Jewish?
The message said:
Please return the notebook to the handsome gumshoe wearing the fedora hat.
Wel , just dreidel me verklempt.
Was Snarl here?
Or was I going to meet a kid named Boomer again?
I stepped back out into the club. In al the black jeans and black T-shirts and bad lighting, I nal y identi ed two men in a corner by the bar
wearing fedora hats, although one had a yarmulke pinned over it. Both guys wore sunglasses. I noticed the one not wearing the yarmulke lean
down and scrape a piece of gum from his shoe with a paper clip. (I think he used a paper clip. Gosh, I hope he didn’t use his ngernail—gross.)
In the club’s darkness, it was impossible to make out their faces.
I pul ed out the notebook, then changed my mind and put it in my purse for safekeeping, in case I had the wrong guys. If they were the right
guys, shouldn’t they be saying something to me like, Hey, we’re here for the notebook?
They shot me their glazed, punky hipster glares instead.
I was struck mute, panic-a icted.
I ran out of the club as fast as I could.
Mortifyingly, I ran right out of one of my boots. Real y. I’d neglected to wear socks over my tights so the too-big boots would t properly, and
like a Shril y Cinderel a at the indie-gayjew re bal , I slipped right out of one of my boots.
No way was I going back for it.
Only when the cab dropped me o at home and I took out my wal et to pay the driver did I realize:
I’d left the gumshoe a boot and no notebook.
The notebook was stil in my purse.
I’d given Snarl no clues how to nd me back.
nine
–Dash–
December 26th
I was woken up at eight in the morning by a banging on the door. I stumbled into the front hal way, squinted into the peephole, and found Dov
and Yohnny peering back at me, fedoras askew.
“Hey, guys,” I said after I opened the door. “Isn’t it a lit le early for you?”
“Haven’t gone to sleep yet!” Dov said. “We’re al Red Bul ish and Diet Coked–up, if you know what I mean.”
“Can we crash here?” Yohnny asked. “I mean, soon. Like, in two minutes.”
“How could I turn you away?” I asked. “How was the show?”
“You should’ve stayed,” Dov said. “Sil y Rabbi was awesome. I mean, they’re no Fistful of Assholes, but they’re about eighteen times bet er than
Ozrael. And let me tel you, your girl busted some moves, man.”
I smiled. “Real y?”
“She put the ho in horah!” Dov exclaimed.
Yohnny shook his head. “It was more like the rah. I mean, she was more like the rah.”
Dov hit Yohnny on the shoulder with what looked like a boot.
“Bitch, I’m talking here!” Dov cried.
“Someone’s not get ing to break the glass tonight,” Yohnny mut ered.
I stepped in. “Guys! Do you have something for me?”
“Yeah,” Dov said, holding out the boot. “This.”
“What is it?” I asked.
Dov looked at me atly. “What is it? Wel , let’s see …”
Yohnny said, “There wasn’t any notebook. I mean, she held it out to Dov, but then she ran away with it. Only, she lost her boot in the process.
Don’t ask me how—it seems to defy the law of physics for a foot to fal out of a boot. So maybe she wanted to leave it behind for you.”
“Cinderel a!” Dov cried. “Let down your hair!”
“Yeah,” Yohnny went on, “I think it’s time for bed. Mind if we crawl into a cave?”
“You can use my mom’s room,” I said. Then I took the boot from Dov and looked inside.
“No notebook,” Yohnny said. “I thought that, too. I even checked the oor, which was not a pleasant experience. I can honestly say, if the
notebook had fal en out, it wouldn’t have got en far—it would’ve stuck right where it landed.”
“Ew. Sorry. I mean, thanks.” I led them to my mom’s room. It felt a lit le wrong to loan out her bed, but it was also Giovanni’s bed, and I loved
the idea of casual y mentioning to him that two clubbed-out gay unorthodox Jews had caved there together while he was gone. I removed the
bedspread while Yohnny kept Dov propped up; just the sight of a sleeping place had drained al the Red Bul from his veins.
“What time do you want a wake-up cal ?” I asked.
“You going to Priya’s party tonight?” Yohnny said.
I nodded.
“Wel , wake us up a lit le before that.”
Delicately, Yohnny removed his hat, then Dov’s. I bid them good night, even though the morning was just get ing started.
I examined the boot. I pondered it. I searched for secret messages etched into the leather. I removed the insole to see if there was a note
underneath. I asked the boot questions. I played with its tassel. I felt that Lily had outriddled me.
If she hadn’t left anything, I would’ve thought, Wow. That’s it. It’s over. But the boot was a clue, and if there was a clue, that meant the mystery
was stil intact.
I decided to retrace my steps. I knew Macy’s had probably opened early for the day after Christmas, so I cal ed them right away … and was put
on hold for fteen minutes.
Final y, an exasperated voice answered, “Macy’s—how may I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “I was wondering if Santa was stil there.”
“Sir, it’s the day after Christmas.”
“I know—but is there any way to track down Santa?”
“Sir, I don’t have time for this.”
“No, you don’t understand—I real y need to have a word with the man who was Santa four days ago.”
“Sir, I appreciate your desire to speak to Santa, but this is our busiest day of the year and I have other cal s I must at end to. Maybe you should
just write him a let er—do you need the address?”
“One North Pole?” I guessed.
“Precisely. Have a nice day, sir.”
And then she hung up.
The Strand, of course, didn’t open early for the day after Christmas. I had to wait until nine-thirty to get through to someone there.
“Hi,” I said, “I was wondering if Mark was around?”
“Hi,” I said, “I was wondering if Mark was around?”
“Mark?” a bored male voice asked.
“Yeah. Works at the information desk.”
“There are about twenty of us named Mark. Can you be more speci c?”
“Dark hair. Glasses. Ironic detachment. Scru .”
“That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“He’s a lit le heavier than the rest of you?”
“Oh, I think I know the Mark you mean. He’s not here today. Let me see—yeah, he’s on tomorrow.”
“Could you tel me his last name?”
“I’m sorry,” the guy said, pleasantly enough, “but we don’t disclose personal information to stalkers. If you want to leave a message, I can get it
to him tomorrow.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I thought so.”
So, not much progress there. But at least I knew he’d be around the next day.
As a last resort, I left Dov and Yohnny asleep in my mom’s bed and ponied up another twenty– ve bucks to hang with the waxed-out celebrities.
But the woman guard was nowhere to be found, as if she’d been moved into the back room with the statues of the cast of Baywatch.
When I got back to the apartment, I decided to write to Lily anyway.
I fear you may have outmatched me, because now I nd these words have nowhere to go. It’s hard to answer a question you haven’t been asked.
It’s hard to show that you tried unless you end up succeeding.
I stopped. It wasn’t the same without the notebook. It didn’t feel like a conversation. It felt like I was talking to silence.
I wished I had been there to see her dancing. To witness her there. To get to know her that way.
I could have looked up al the Lilys in Manhat an. I could have shown up on the doorsteps of al the Lilys of Brooklyn. I might have scoured the
Lilys of Staten Island, sifted through the Lilys of the Bronx, and treated the Lilys of Queens like royalty. But I had a feeling I wasn’t supposed to
nd her that way. She was not a needle. This was not a haystack. We were people, and people had ways of nding each other.
I could hear the sounds of sleep coming from my mom’s bedroom—Dov snoring, Yohnny murmuring. I cal ed Boomer to remind him of the
party, then reminded myself who was going to be there.
So a. It was strange she hadn’t told me she would be in town, but it wasn’t that strange. We’d had the easiest breakup imaginable—it hadn’t
even felt like a breakup, just a parting. She had been going back to Spain, and nobody had expected us to stay together through that. Our love had
been liking; our feelings had been ordinary, not Shakespearean. I stil felt fondness for her—fondness, that pleasant, detached mix of admiration
and sentiment, appreciation and nostalgia.
I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable conversation. The awkward teetering. The simple smiles. In other words, a return to our old ways. No
sharp shocks of chemistry, just the low hum of knowing our place. We’d had her going-away party at Priya’s, too, and I remembered it now. Even
though we’d already had the talk about things ending when she left, I was stil put in the boyfriend position; standing next to her for so many
goodbyes made me feel the goodbye a lit le more deeply within myself. By the time most of the people had left, the feelings of fondness were
nearly overwhelming me—not just a fondness for her, but a fondness for our friends, our time together, and the future with her that I’d never quite
wanted.
“You look sad,” she told me. We were alone in Priya’s bedroom, only a few coats left on the bed.
“You look exhausted,” I told her. “Exhausted from the goodbyes.”
She nodded and said yes—a lit le redundancy I’d always noticed in her without ever saying something about it. She’d nod and say yes. She’d
shake her head and say no.
If it hadn’t been over, I might have hugged her. If it hadn’t been over, I might have kissed her. Instead, I surprised both of us by saying, “I’m
going to miss you.”
It was one of those moments when you feel the future so much that it humbles the present. Her absence was palpable, even though she was stil
in the room.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” she said. And then she slipped out of the moment, slipped out of the us, by adding, “I’m going to miss everyone.”
We had never lied to each other (at least not to my knowledge). But we had never gone out of our way to reveal ourselves, either. Instead, we’d
let the facts speak for themselves. I think I’m in the mood for Chinese food. I have to go now so I can nish my homework. I real y enjoyed that
movie. My family is moving back to Spain, so I guess that means we’re going to be apart.
We hadn’t vowed to write every day, and we hadn’t writ en every day. We hadn’t sworn to be true to each other, because there hadn’t been much
to be true to. Every now and then I would picture her there, in a country I’d only seen in her photo albums. And every now and then I’d write to
say hel o, to get the update, to stay in her life for no real reason beyond fondness. I told her things she already knew about our mutual friends and
she told me things I didn’t real y need to know about her friends in Spain. At rst, I’d asked her when she was going to come back to visit. Maybe
she’d even said the holidays were a possibility. But I’d forgot en. Not because there was now an ocean between us, but because there had always
been something in the way. Lily probably knew more about me in ve days of back-and-forth than So a had known in our four months of dating.
Maybe, I thought, it’s not distance that’s the problem, but how you handle it.
When Dov, Yohnny, and I arrived at Boomer’s place a lit le after six-thirty, we found him dressed like a prize ghter.
“I gured this was a good way to celebrate Boxing Day!” he said.
“It’s not a costume party, Boomer,” I pointed out. “You don’t even have to bring boxes.”
“Sometimes, Dash, you take the fun out of fun,” Boomer said with a sigh. “And you know what’s left then? Nothing.” He trooped o to his room,
came back with a Manta Ray T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and proceeded to put his jeans on right over his prize ghter shorts.
As we headed down the sidewalk, our own rock-bot om Rocky acted out his approximation of a boxer’s moves, punching wildly into the air
until he accidental y connected with the side of an old lady’s grocery cart, toppling both of them. While Dov and Yohnny helped them back up,
Boomer kept saying, “I’m so sorry! I guess I don’t know my own strength!”
Luckily, Priya didn’t live that much farther away. While we waited to be buzzed in, Dov asked, “Hey, did you bring the boot?”
Luckily, Priya didn’t live that much farther away. While we waited to be buzzed in, Dov asked, “Hey, did you bring the boot?”
I had not brought the boot. I gured if I saw some girl limping around the city wearing only one boot, I had enough of a recol ection of the item
to at empt a mental match.
“What boot?” Boomer asked.
“Lily’s,” Dov explained.
“You met Lily!” Boomer nearly exploded.
“No, I did not meet Lily,” I replied.
“Who’s Lily?” Priya asked. I hadn’t even seen her appear in the doorway.
“A girl!” Boomer answered.
“Wel , not real y a girl,” I corrected.
Priya raised an eyebrow. “A girl who’s not real y a girl?”
“She’s a drag queen,” Dov said.
“Lily Pad,” Yohnny chimed in. “She does the most amazing version of ‘It’s Not Easy Being Green.’ It reduces me to tears every time.”
“Tears,” Dov said.
“And Dash has her boot!” Boomer said.
“Hi, Dash.”
Here she was. Over Priya’s shoulder. A lit le hidden in the hal way light.
“Hi, So a.”
Now, when I would have loved an interruption from Boomer, he fel silent. Everyone fel silent.
