Текст книги "Dash & Lily's Book of Dares"
Автор книги: Rachel Caine
Соавторы: David Levithan
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, it’s good to see you, too.”
It was like the ful amount of time we’d been apart was fal ing between each sentence. There, on the front stoop, it was months of us looking at
each other. Her hair was longer, her skin a lit le darker. And there was something else, too. I just couldn’t gure it out. It was something in her
eyes. Something in the way she was looking at me that wasn’t like the way she’d looked at me before.
“Come in,” Priya said. “There are some people here already.”
It was peculiar—I wanted So a to hold back, to wait for me, like she would have when we’d been going out. But instead she led us into the
party, with Priya, Boomer, Dov, and Yohnny between us.
Inside, it was hardly a rager. Priya’s parents were not the type to leave the apartment while their daughter had a party. And they were of the
mind that the strongest beverage o ered should be sugared soda, and only that in moderation.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Priya was saying to me. “And that you’re not in Sweden. I know So a would have been disappointed.”
There was no reason for Priya to impart this information to me, so I immediately suspected there was much more to it than was being said. So a
would have been disappointed. Did that mean she real y wanted to see me? That she would have been crushed if I hadn’t shown? Was this in fact
the reason Priya had thrown the party in the rst place?
I knew this was quite a leap to make, but when I looked at So a again, I found some footing on the other side. She was laughing at something
Dov was saying to her, but she was looking at me, like he was the distraction and I was the conversation. She gestured with her head over to the
drinks counter. I moved to meet her there.
“Fanta, Fresca, or Diet Rite?” I asked.
“I’l have a Fanta,” she said.
“Fan-tastic,” I replied.
As I got some ice and poured some soda, she said, “So how have you been?”
“Good,” I said. “Busy. You know.”
“No, I don’t know,” she said, taking the plastic cup from my hand. “Tel me.”
There was a slight chal enge in her voice.
“Wel ,” I said, pouring myself a Fresca, “I was supposed to go to Sweden, but that had to be canceled at the last minute.”
“Yeah, Priya told me.”
“This soda has a massive amount of carbonation, doesn’t it?” I gestured to where the Fresca was foaming over. “I mean, when this al set les
down, I’l end up with, like, a demitasse of soda. I’m going to be pouring this drink al night.”
I took a sip just as So a said, “Priya also told me you were studying the joys of gay sex.”
Fresca. Up. My. Nose.
After I was done coughing, I said, “I’l bet she didn’t mention the French pianism, did she? I’l bet she left that out entirely.”
“You are studying French penises?”
“Pianism. Good lord, don’t they teach you anything in Europe?”
This was a joke, but it didn’t come out sounding entirely like a joke. As a result, So a was mi ed. And if American girls make being mi ed a
sweet-and-sour emotion, European girls always manage to add an undercurrent of murder to it. At least in my limited experience.
“I can assure you,” I told her, “that while I believe gay sex to be a beautiful, joyful thing, I do not think that I myself would nd it particularly
joyful, and thus my reading about its joys was al a part of a greater pursuit.”
So a looked at me archly. “I see.”
“Since when do you have an arch expression?” I asked. “There is a certain feistiness in your voice, too, that heretofore has not been present. It’s
extremely at ractive, but not real y the So a I knew before.”
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she replied.
“WHAT?”
She gestured behind me, where there were at least half a dozen people waiting to get some soda.
“We’re in the way,” she said. “And I have a present for you.”
“We’re in the way,” she said. “And I have a present for you.”
The path to the bedroom was not a clear one. It felt like every two steps we took, someone stopped So a to welcome her back, to ask her how
Spain was, to tel her how amazing her hair looked. I hovered on the side, in the boyfriend position once more. And it felt just as awkward now as
it had when I’d real y been her boyfriend.
After a while, it appeared that So a had abandoned the bedroom plan, but when I moved to get myself some more Fresca, she actual y took
hold of my sleeve and extricated us from the kitchen.
Priya’s door was closed, and when we opened it, we found Dov and Yohnny making out.
“Boys!” I cried.
Dov and Yohnny quickly refastened their jackets and put their hats back on over their yarmulkes.
“Sorry,” Yohnny said.
“It’s just that we haven’t had a chance to …,” Dov continued.
“You spent al day in bed!”
“Yeah, but we were exhausted,” Dov said.
“Completely wiped out,” Yohnny echoed.
“And—”
“—it was your mom’s bed.”
They scooted past us, through the doorway.
“That happen a lot in Spain?” I asked So a.
“Yes. Only they’re Catholic.”
She went over to what I assumed to be her bag and took out a book.
“Here,” she said. “This is for you.”
“I didn’t real y get you anything,” I sput ered. “I mean, I didn’t know that you were going to be here, and—”
“Don’t worry. It’s your embarrassment at not having the thought that counts.”
I was completely disarmed.
So a smiled and handed over the book. Its cover screamed LORCA! Literal y, that was the title: LORCA! Which wasn’t very SUBTLE! I started to
thumb through.
“Oh, look,” I said. “It’s poetry! And in a language I don’t speak!”
“I know you’l go out and buy a translation, just to make me believe you’ve read it.”
“Touché. Absolutely true.”
“But real y, it’s just a book that means a lot to me. He is a beautiful writer. And I think you’d like him.”
“You’l have to give me Spanish lessons.”
She laughed. “Just like you gave me English lessons?”
“Why did you just laugh?”
She shook her head. “No, it was sweet when you did that. Wel , sweet and condescending.”
“Condescending?”
She began to mimic my voice—inadequately, but enough so that I knew she was mimicking my voice. “ ‘What, you don’t know what a pizza
bagel is? Do you need me to explain the derivation of the word derivation? Is everything copacetic—I mean, al right?’ ”
“I never said that. I never said any of that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. That’s just how it felt. To me.”
“Wow,” I said. “You could’ve said something.”
“I know. But it wasn’t my thing, to ‘say something.’ And I liked that you never minded explaining things. I felt there was a lot that needed to be
explained to me.”
“And now?”
“Not as much.”
“Why?”
“Do you real y want to know?”
“Yes.”
So a sighed and sat down on the bed.
“I fel in love. It didn’t work out.”
I sat down next to her.
“Al in the past three months?”
She nodded. “Yes, al in the past three months.”
“You didn’t mention …”
“In my emails? No. He didn’t want me talking to you at al , not to mention talking to you about him.”
“I was such a threat?”
She shrugged. “I exaggerated you a lit le at rst. To make him jealous. It worked in making him jealous, but didn’t work so much in making him
love me more.”
“Was that why you didn’t tel me you were coming?”
She shook her head. “No. I only knew I was coming last week. I convinced my parents I missed New York so much that they had to take me here
for the holidays.”
“But real y, you wanted to get away from him?”
“No, that wouldn’t work. I just thought it would be nice to see people. Anyway, what about you? Are you in love with anybody?”
“No, that wouldn’t work. I just thought it would be nice to see people. Anyway, what about you? Are you in love with anybody?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ah. Then there is someone. The Joy of Gay Sex?”
“Yes,” I said. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”
So I told her. About the notebook. About Lily. Sometimes I looked at her while I was talking. Sometimes I was talking to the room, to my hands,
to the air. It was too much at once to be so close to So a, yet also trying to conjure some closeness to Lily.
“Oh my,” So a said when I was through. “You think you’ve nal y found the girl in your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like most guys, you carry around this girl in your head, who is exactly who you want her to be. The person you think you wil love the
most. And every girl you are with gets measured against this girl in your head. So this girl with the red notebook—it makes sense. If you never
meet her, she never has to get measured. She can be the girl in your head.”
“You make it sound like I don’t want to get to know her.”
“Of course you want to get to know her. But at the same time, you want to feel like you already know her. That you wil know her instantly.
Such a fairy tale.”
“A fairy tale?”
So a smiled at me. “You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here’s a hint—ask yourself who wrote them. I assure you, it wasn’t just the women.
It’s the great male fantasy—al it takes is one dance to know that she’s the one. Al it takes is the sound of her song from the tower, or a look at her
sleeping face. And right away you know—this is the girl in your head, sleeping or dancing or singing in front of you. Yes, girls want their princes,
but boys want their princesses just as much. And they don’t want a very long courtship. They want to know immediately.”
She actual y put her hand on my leg and squeezed. “You see, Dash—I was never the girl in your head. And you were never the boy in my head. I
think we both knew that. It’s only when we try to make the girl or boy in our head real that the true trouble comes. I did that with Carlos, and it
was a bad failure. Be careful what you’re doing, because no one is ever who you want them to be. And the less you real y know them, the more
likely you are to confuse them with the girl or boy in your head.”
“Wishful thinking,” I said.
So a nodded. “Yes. You should never wish for wishful thinking.”
ten
(Lily)
December 26th
“You’re grounded.”
Grandpa stared at me in al seriousness. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
Grandpas give out dol ar bil s and bicycles and hugs. They don’t give punishments to grandchildren! Everybody knows that.
Grandpa had unexpectedly driven back to NYC, al day and night, al the way from Florida! Once he got home, he immediately went looking for
me and my brother to check on us, only to nd my brother passed out in bed, lost under a sea of blankets and snot y tissues, and worse, his Lily
Bear not only not upstairs in her Lily pad but nowhere to be found in her own family’s apartment.
Luckily, I arrived home around three-thirty in the morning, within minutes of Grandpa’s discovery of my disappearance. He’d only had enough
time to nearly have a heart at ack, and to search for me inside every closet and cabinet in the apartment. Before Grandpa had a chance to cal the
police, along with my parents and several thousand other relatives to instigate a ful -on worldwide panic, I waltzed in the door, stil breathless and
ushed from the night’s club scene excitement.
Grandpa’s rst words to me when he caught sight of me were not “Where have you been?” That came second. First was “Why are you only
wearing one boot? And dear God, is that my sister’s old majoret e boot from high school on your foot?” He spoke from the kitchen oor in my
apartment, where he was lying down, trying to determine, I believe, if I was hiding beneath the sink.
“Grandpa!” I cried out. I ran to smother him in day after Christmas kisses. I was so happy to see him, and exhilarated from the night out, despite
how I’d ended it by sacri cing one of my great-aunt’s shoes to the gumshoes and neglecting to return the notebook for Snarl.
Grandpa wasn’t having my a ection. He turned his cheek to me, then went for the “you’re-grounded routine.” When I failed to meet his
pronouncement with fear, he frowned and demanded, “Where have you been? It’s four in the morning!”
“Three-thirty,” I corrected him. “It’s three-thirty in the morning.”
“You’re in a world of trouble, young lady,” he said.
I giggled.
“I’m serious!” he said. “You’d bet er have a good explanation.”
Wel , I’ve been corresponding with a complete stranger in a notebook, tel ing him my innermost feelings and thoughts and then blindly going to
mystery places where he dares me to go….
No, that wouldn’t go over so wel .
For the rst time in my life, I lied to Grandpa.
“This friend from my soccer team had a party where her band played a Hanukkah show. I went to hear them.”
“THIS MUSIC REQUIRES YOU TO GET HOME AT FOUR IN THE MORNING?”
“Three-thirty,” I said again. “It’s, like, a religious thing. The band’s not al owed to play before midnight on the night after Christmas Day.”
“I see,” Grandpa said skeptical y. “And don’t you have a curfew, young lady?”
The invocation not once, but twice, of the dreaded young lady term of endearment should have put me on high fear alert, but I was too giddy
from the night’s adventures to care.
“I’m pret y sure my curfew is suspended on holidays,” I said. “Like alternate side of the street parking rules.”
“LANGSTON!” Grandpa yel ed. “GET IN HERE!”
It took a few minutes, but my brother nal y moped into the kitchen, trailing a comforter, looking like he’d been woken from a coma.
“Grandpa!” Langston wheezed, surprised. “What are you doing home?” I knew Langston was relieved now to be sick, because if he wasn’t, Benny
would surely have spent the night, and overnight companions of the romantic sort have not yet been authorized by the designated authority gures.
Langston and I both would have been busted.
“Never mind me,” Grandpa said. “Did you al ow Lily to go out on Christmas night to hear her friend’s music?”
Langston and I shared a knowing glance: Our secrets needed to stay just that, secrets. I initiated our covert code from childhood, bat ing my
eyelids up and down, so Langston would know to con rm what had just been asked of him.
“Yes,” Langston coughed. “Since I’m sick, I wanted Lily to go out and try to have some fun on the holiday. The band was playing in, like, the
basement of someone’s brownstone on the Upper West Side. I arranged a car service to take her home. Total y safe, Grandpa.”
Quick thinking for a sickie. Sometimes I real y love my brother.
Grandpa eyed the two of us suspiciously, not sure whether he’d been caught in a siblings’ web of deceit and got-your-back-yo.
“Go to bed,” Grandpa barked. “Both of you. I’l deal with you in the morning.”
“Why are you home, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Never mind. Go to bed.”
I couldn’t fal asleep after the klezmer night, so I wrote in the notebook instead.
I’m sorry I didn’t return our notebook to you. It was such a simple task, I mean. Yet I botched it. Why I’m writing to you now even though I have
no idea how to return this to you, I don’t know. There’s just something about you—and this notebook—that gives me faith.
Were you even at the club tonight? At rst I thought you might have been one of those gumshoe boys, but I quickly realized that was impossible.
For one thing, those boys seemed too upbeat. It’s not that I imagine you to be a miserable person, by the way. But I don’t see you as the grinning
For one thing, those boys seemed too upbeat. It’s not that I imagine you to be a miserable person, by the way. But I don’t see you as the grinning
type, either. Also, I feel like I would have known, like a sensory perception, if you had been standing there near me. For another thing, even
though I don’t know how to picture you yet (every time I try, you seem to be holding up a red Moleskine notebook to cover your face), I have a
solid feeling you don’t have hair ringlets dangling from your temples. Just a hunch. (But if you do, could I braid them sometime?)
So I left you with a boot and no notebook. Or, rather, I left it with two complete strangers.
You don’t feel like a stranger to me.
I’l be wearing the spare boot at al times, just in case you happen to be looking for me.
Cinderel a was such a dork. She left behind her glass slipper at the bal and then went right back to her stepmonster’s house. It seems to me she
should have worn the glass slipper always, to make herself easier to nd. I always hoped that after the prince found Cinderel a and they rode away
in their magni cent carriage, after a few miles she turned to him and said, “Could you drop me o down the road, please? Now that I’ve nal y
escaped my life of horri c abuse, I’d like to see something of the world, you know? Maybe backpack across Europe or Asia? I’l catch back up
with you later, Prince, once I’ve found my own way. Thanks for nding me, though! Super-sweet of you. And you can keep the slippers. They’l
probably cause bunions if I keep wearing ’em.”
I might have liked to share a dance with you. If I may be so bold to say.
Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of the day after Christmas could keep Grandpa from meeting his buddies for co ee the fol owing afternoon.
I went along, feeling like Grandpa needed the moral support.
While Grandpa was in Florida, where he usual y spends the winters, he had indeed proposed on Christmas Day to Mabel, who lives in his
complex down there. I have never liked Mabel. Aside from her always tel ing me and my brother to cal her Glamma, her list of step grandmother-
to-be infractions is long. Here’s just a sampling: (1) The candies in the bowl in her living room are always stale. (2) She tries to put lipstick or
rouge on me even though I don’t like makeup. (3) She’s a terrible cook. (4) Her vegetarian lasagna, which she made sure to mention a mil ion
times she made because I’m such a pain that I won’t eat meat, tastes like glue with grated zucchini. (5) She kind of makes me want to barf. (6) So
does her lasagna. (7) And the candies in her living room.
Shockingly, Mabel turned down Grandpa’s proposal! I thought my Christmas morning had been sucky—but Grandpa’s had been way worse.
When Grandpa presented her with a ring, Mabel told Grandpa she likes the single life and likes having Grandpa as her winter fel a, but she’s got
other fel as during the rest of the year, just like he has other gals during the non-winter months! She told him to get his money back for the ring
and use it to take her on a swel vacation somewhere grand.
Grandpa never imagined she would turn down his proposal, so rather than consider the logic of Mabel’s answer, he typical y returned home to
New York a few hours later, total y heartbroken! Especial y when he came home to nd his sweet lit le Lily bear was out having a wild night on
the town. Like, in twenty-four hours, his whole world turned upside down.
It’s good for the old fel a, I think.
However, Grandpa seems, like, genuinely depressed. So that afternoon, I stayed close to Grandpa’s side as he met with his buddies, al of them
retired business owners from around the neighborhood who’ve been meeting regularly for co ee since my mom was a baby, so they could weigh in
with their opinions about Grandpa’s Christmas misadventure. Most of his buddies’ names are complicated and involve many syl ables, so Langston
and I have always referred to them by the names of their former businesses.
The roundtable discussion of Mabel proceeded like this:
Mr. Cannoli told Grandpa, “Arthur, give her time. She’l come around.”
Mr. Dumpling said, “You virile man, Arthur! This lady not have you, someone bet er wil !”
Mr. Borscht sighed, “This woman who turns down a marriage proposal on a day that’s sacred to you gentile people is worthy of your heart,
Arthur? I think not.”
Mr. Curry exclaimed, “I wil nd you another lady, my friend!”
“He has plenty of other lady friends here in New York,” I reminded the group. “He just”—this kil ed me to say, I want to note—“seems to want
Mabel for keeps.”
Amazingly, I did not choke on my Lilyccino (foamed milk with shaved chocolate on top, courtesy of Mr. Cannoli’s son-in-law, who now runs Mr.
Cannoli’s bakery) when I said this. Grandpa’s face—always so chipper and eager—looked so uncharacteristical y downcast. I couldn’t stand it.
“This one!” Grandpa said to his buddies, pointing at me sit ing next to him. “Do you know what she did? Went to a party last night! Stayed out
past her curfew! As if my Christmas hadn’t been lousy enough, I come home and panic because Lily bear’s nowhere to be found. She strol s in a
few minutes later—at four in the morning!—seemingly without a care in the world.”
“Three-thirty,” I stated. Again.
Mr. Dumpling said, “Were there boys at this party?”
Mr. Borscht said, “Arthur, this child should be out so late at night? Where boys might be?”
Mr. Cannoli said, “I’l kil the kid who …”
Mr. Curry turned to me. “A nice young lady, she does not …”
“Time for me to walk my dogs!” I said. If I spent any more time with these old men in their House of Co ee Woe, they’d conspire to have me
locked in my room away from boys til I was thirty years old.
I left the gentlemen to their kvetching so I could play some catching with my favorite dog-walking clients.
I had my two favorite dogs with me in the park—Lola and Dude, a lit le pug-Chi mix and a giant chocolate Lab. It’s true love between them. You
can tel by how eagerly they sni each other’s but s.
I cal ed Grandpa from my cel phone.
“You need to learn to compromise,” I said.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Dude used to hate Lola because she was so lit le and cute and took al the at ention. Then he learned to play nice with her so he could have the
at ention, too. Dude compromised, like you should. Just because Mabel turned down your proposal doesn’t mean you should break up with her
over it!”
over it!”
This concession was very big of me, I agree.
“I’m supposed to take love advice from a sixteen-year-old girl?” Grandpa said.
“Yes.” I hung up before he could point out how completely not quali ed I was to dole out such advice.
I’ve got to learn to stop being so Lily sweet and transition myself into a hard bargainer.
For instance.
If I am forced to move to Fiji next September, which is when Langston said Dad’s new job would start if Dad decides to take it, I am going to
demand a puppy. I’m realizing there is a lot of parental guilt to be mined from this situation, and I plan to use it to my animal kingdom bene t.
I sat down at a bench while Lola chased Dude in the dog park. From the next bench, I noticed a teenage boy wearing an argyle print beret tilted
backward, squinting at me like he knew me. “Lily?” he asked.
I stared at him more closely.
“Edgar Thibaud!” I growled.
He came over to my bench. How dare Edgar Thibaud recognize me and have the audacity to approach me, after the living hel he made my
elementary school years at PS 41?
Also.
How dare Edgar Thibaud have used the past few years to grow so … tal ? And … good-looking?
Edgar Thibaud said, “I wasn’t sure it was you, then I noticed the weird boot on one foot and the beat-up Chuck on the other, and I remembered
that red pom-pom hat. I knew it could only be you. ’Sup?”
’Sup? he wanted to know? So casual y? Like he hadn’t ruined my life and kil ed my gerbil?
Edgar Thibaud sat down next to me. His (deep green, and rather beautiful) eyes looked a lit le hazy, like perhaps he’d been smoking from the
peace pipe.
“I’m the captain of my soccer team,” I announced.
I don’t real y know how to talk to boys. In person. Which is probably why I’ve become dependent on a notebook for creative expression of a
potential y romantic nature.
Edgar laughed at my idiotic response. But it wasn’t a mean laugh. It sounded like an appreciative one. “Of course you are. Same old Lily. You’ve
even got the same black-rimmed glasses like you wore in elementary school.”
“I heard you got kicked out of high school for some conspiracy plot.”
“Just suspended. It was like a vacation, actual y. And check you out, keeping tabs on me al this time.” Edgar Thibaud leaned into my ear.
“Anyone tel you that you grew up to be sort of cute? In, like, a mis t type of way?”
I didn’t know whether to be at ered or outraged.
I did know his breath in my ear sent very unfamiliar shivers through my body.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, needing trivial conversation to distract me from the sordid thoughts my mind was starting to spin about
Edgar Thibaud … with his shirt o . I could feel my face turning hot, blushing. And yet my dialogue was no racier than: “You didn’t go away for
Christmas like everybody else?”
“My parents went ski ng in Colorado without me. I annoyed them too much.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“No, I did it on purpose. A week without their bourgeois hypocrisy is a week of paradise.”
Was Edgar Thibaud even speaking? I couldn’t stop staring at his face. Just how exactly had it turned so handsome in the intervening years?
I said, “I think that’s a girl’s beret you’re wearing.”
“Is it?” Edgar asked. “Cool.” He cocked his head to the side, pleased. “I like girls. And their hats.” He reached to grab my hat from my head.
“May I?”
Edgar Thibaud had obviously evolved over the last few years if he had the decency to ask for my hat, rather than snatch it o my head and then
probably throw it to the dogs to play with, as the old Edgar on the school yard would have done.
I moved my head down so he could take my hat. He placed my red pom-pom hat on his head, then put his beret on mine.
His beret on my head felt so warm and … forbidden. I liked it.
“Want to go to a party with me tonight?” Edgar asked.
“Grandpa probably won’t let me go!” I blurted out.
“So?” Edgar said.
Exactly!
Clearly, it was time for Lily to have the kind of boy adventures that would al ow her to give legitimate love advice, later in the future.
I might have arrived in Tompkins Square Park with my heart stil intent on a Snarl, but right in front of me, I had a real, live Edgar Thibaud.
The secret tactic of a good hard bargainer is to know when to compromise.
For instance.
I wil demand a puppy if I am forced to move to Fiji.
But I wil set le for a bunny.
eleven
–Dash–
December 27th
So I found myself once again at the Strand.
It hadn’t been a late night—Priya’s parties tended to zzle before the Cinderel a hour, and this was no exception. So a and I stayed together most
of the evening, but once we emerged from the bedroom and started to mingle with everyone else, we stopped talking to each other and instead
talked as two parts of the larger group. Yohnny and Dov left to see their friend Mat hue slam some poetry, and Thibaud never showed. I might
have lingered until So a and I were almost alone again, but Boomer had consumed about thirteen too many cups of Mountain Dew and was
threatening to make holes in the ceiling with his head. So a was going to be around until New Year’s, so I said we had to get together, and she said
yeah, that’d be good. We left it at that.
Now it was eleven the next morning and I was back in the bookstore, resisting the siren cal of the stacks in order to nd and, if necessary,
interrogate Mark. I was walking with a lady’s boot under my arm, like some pal bearer for the post-melt Wicked Witch of the West.
The guy at the information desk was thin and blond, bespectacled and tweeded. In other words, not the guy I was looking for.
“Hey,” I said. “Is Mark here?”
The guy barely looked up from the Saramago novel in his lap.
“Oh,” he said, “are you the stalker?”
“I have a question to ask him, that’s al . That hardly makes me a stalker.”
Now the guy looked at me. “It depends on the question, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m sure stalkers have questions, too.”
“Yes,” I conceded, “but their questions usual y run along the lines of ‘Why won’t you love me?’ and ‘Why can’t I die by your side?’ I’m more
along the lines of ‘What can you tel me about this boot?’ ”
“I’m not sure I can help you.”
“This is the information desk, isn’t it? Aren’t you obligated to give me information?”
The guy sighed. “Fine. He’s shelving. Now let me nish this chapter, okay?”
I thanked him, though not profusely.
The Strand proudly proclaims itself as home to eighteen miles of books. I have no idea how this is calculated. Does one stack al the books on
top of each other to get the eighteen miles? Or do you put them end to end, to create a bridge between Manhat an and, say, Short Hil s, New
Jersey, eighteen miles away? Were there eighteen miles of shelves? No one knew. We al just took the bookstore at its word, because if you
couldn’t trust a bookstore, what could you trust?
Whatever the measurement, the applicable fact was that the Strand had lots of aisles to shelve. Which meant that I had to weave in and out of
dozens of narrow spaces—dodging disgruntled and pregruntled patrons, ladders, and haphazardly placed book cairns in order to nd Mark in the
Military History section. He was buckling a lit le under the weight of an il ustrated history of the Civil War, but otherwise his appearance and
demeanor were similar to that of when we rst met.
“Mark!” I said in a tone of holiday camaraderie, as if we were members of the same eating club who had somehow found ourselves in the lobby
of the same brothel.
He looked at me for a second, then turned back to the shelf.
“Did you have yourself a merry lit le Christmas?” I continued. “Did you make the yuletide gay?”
He brandished a volume of Winston Churchil ’s memoirs and pointed it accusingly at me. The jowly prime minister stared from the jacket
impassively, as if he were the judge of this sudden contest.
“What do you want?” Mark asked. “I’m not going to tel you anything.”
I took the boot from under my arm and placed it on Churchil ’s face.
“Tel me whose boot this is.”
He (Mark, not Churchil ) was surprised by the appearance of footwear—I could tel . And I could also glean from the knowledge he was trying to
hide that he knew the identity of its owner.
Stil , he was obstinate, in the way that only truly miserable people can be obstinate.
“Why should I tel you?” he asked, with no smal amount of petulance.
“If you tel me, I wil leave you alone,” I said. “And if you don’t tel me, I am going to grab the nearest ghostwrit en James Pat erson romance
novel and I am going to fol ow you through this store reading it out loud until you relent. Would you prefer me to read from Daphne’s Three
Tender Months with Harold or Cindy and John’s House of Everlasting Love? I guarantee, your sanity and your indie street cred won’t last a chapter.
And they are very, very short chapters.”
