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feed me already, person!”
Since Langston was lost to Be
draped chaise that sits underneath a skylight built into the at ic apartment that Grandpa turned into his retirement home after he sold his business
on the ground oor and my family moved into the third- oor apartment, where Grandpa and Grandma once raised my mom and my uncles.
Grandma died right before I was born, which is maybe why I am Grandpa’s special girl. I was named after her, and I arrived into the downstairs
just as Grandpa was transitioning upstairs. So while he’d lost one Lily, he’d gained back another. Grandpa said he decided to renovate the upstairs
apartment for his later-in-life bachelor digs because climbing the stairs every day would keep him young.
I take care of Grandpa’s cat, Grunt, when Grandpa goes to Florida. Grunt’s an ornery cat, but lately I like him more than Langston. So long as I
feed him and don’t smother his furry head in too many unwanted kisses, Grunt would never toss me aside for some boy. Grunt’s as close to my own
animal as I’m al owed to have in our living space.
When I was lit le, we had two rescue cats, named Hol y and Hobbie, who disappeared very suddenly. They both died from feline leukemia, only
I didn’t understand that at the time. I was told that Hol y and Hobbie had graduated to “col ege” and that’s why I didn’t see them anymore. Hol y
and Hobbie went o to col ege only a couple years after the gerbil incident, so I guess I understand why the real reason was kept secret from me.
But it would have saved everyone a lot of grief if they’d been honest at the time. Because when I was eight and went with Grandpa to visit my
cousin Mark, who was a freshman at Wil iams Col ege, I spent the whole weekend darting through al eys and peering inside every bookcase
crevice I found in the library, looking for my cats. That’s when Mark had to break it to me, in the very public dining hal no less, why the poor
lit le things were not, in fact, at Mark’s col ege, or at any col ege, other than the big one up in the sky. Begin Shril y incident, stage 2. Let’s just say
Wil iams Col ege probably would appreciate me not applying there next year.
In the years since, I have petitioned at various times to adopt a kit en, a turtle, a dog, a parrot, and a lizard, but al requests have been denied.
And yet I al owed my parents to go on holiday at Christmas, guilt free. Who was the wronged party here? I ask.
I like to think of myself as an optimistic person, especial y at the holidays, but I couldn’t deny the cold, hard suckage that this Christmas had
sunk to. My parents were away in Fiji, Langston was al into Be
away from Manhat an. December 24—what should have been the Most Exciting Day Before the Real y Most Exciting Day of the Year—appeared to
be one big blah.
It would have been helpful at this point, I suppose, if I had some girlfriends to hang out with, but I’m comfortable as a nobody at school, except
on the soccer eld, where I am a superstar. Strangely, my saved-many-a-game goalie skil s have never translated into popularity. Respect, yes.
Movie invitations and after-school socializing, no. (My dad is the vice principal at my school, which probably doesn’t help—it’s a political risk to
befriend me, I suspect.) My athletic ability mixed with my complete social apathy are what got me elected captain of the soccer team. I’m the only
person who gets along with everyone, by way of not being friends with anyone.
On Christmas Eve morning, I decided maybe I should work on this de ciency as my New Year’s resolution. A less Shril y, more Fril y plan. Learn
to be more girl friendly so I’d have some backup on important holidays should my family ever abandon me again.
I wouldn’t have minded someone special to spend Christmas with.
But al I had was a red Moleskine notebook.
And even Nameless He of the Notebook Game, while he was intriguing me to an extreme that was causing my body to feel al tingly every time I
was alerted that the notebook had been returned to She Who Has Politely Told Her Name, was also a cause for concern. When not one, not two,
but three relatives (Cousin Mark at the Strand, Uncle Sal at Macy’s, and Great-aunt Ida at Madame Tussauds), independent of each other, al used
the same word—snarl—to describe the notebook’s mystery boy, who thinks he’s too “esoteric” and “arcane” to tel me something as simple as his
name, I had to wonder why I was bothering with this charade. No one had even bothered to mention whether he’s cute.
Is it wrong that I long for that idealistic, pure kind of love like in that animated movie Col ation? Oh, how I yearn to be the piece of paper
gliding the stapler around the conference room, treating it to amazing visions of city skyscraper skylines and a
forecasts, while avoiding the vil ainous star sh intercom phone on the boardroom table, Dante, voiced by Christopher Walken, the corporate raider
who’s secretly pla
I want to be … stapled. (Is that crude of me? Or anti-feminist? I don’t mean to be.)
Snarl is probably no dreamy stapler, but I think I might like Snarl anyway. Even if he is too pretentious to tel me his name.
I like that he wants an OED for Christmas. That’s so geeky. I wonder how he would react if he knew that I actual y know a way I could give him
what he wants, and for free. But he’d have to prove worthy. If he can’t even tel me his name, I don’t know.
My name is a co
What was that supposed to mean?!?!? I’m not Einstein here, Snarl. Or Train Man (co
Conductor? Is that your name?
The only other thing I want for Christmas, besides the OED, is for you to tel me what you real y want for Christmas. But not a thing. More like a
feeling. Something that can’t be bought in a store or gift-wrapped in a pret y box. Please write it in the notebook and deposit it with the worker
bees in the Make Your Own Muppet department at FAO Schwarz at noon on Christmas Eve. Good luck. (And yes, evil genius, you should consider
bees in the Make Your Own Muppet department at FAO Schwarz at noon on Christmas Eve. Good luck. (And yes, evil genius, you should consider
FAO Schwarz on the day before Christmas payback for Macy’s.)
Conductor Snarl should consider himself lucky that this year turned out to be the Christmas of Suck. Because normal y on this day, I would be
(1) helping Mom chop and peel food for Christmas di
Dad wrap presents and organize the mountains of gifts around the tree, (3) wondering if I should put a sedative in Langston’s water bot le so he’d
fal asleep early and then have no problem get ing up at ve the next morning to open presents with me, (4) wondering if Grandpa wil like the
sweater I knit him (poorly, but I get bet er each year, and he stil wears them anyway, unlike Langston), and (5) hoping and praying I was going to
get a BRAND-NEW BIKE, or any other Major Gift of Comparable Extravagance, the fol owing morning.
I got shivers when I re-read that Snarl cal ed me “evil genius.” Even though I am anything but, the compliment was so personal. Like he’d been
thinking about me. Me me, and not just notebook me.
After I fed Grunt, I headed toward the glass screen door that opened to the rooftop garden outside Grandpa’s apartment so I could water the