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“My instructions said Boomer, Boomer,” said Hermione.
“Boomer,” I interrupted. “Why am I here?”
“Do you have a notebook to return to someone?” he asked.
“I might. What’s his name?” I asked.
“Forbidden information!” Boomer said.
“Real y?” I sighed.
“Real y!” he said.
I looked to Hermione, hoping to invoke some girl power solidarity. She shook her head at me. “Nuh-uh,” she said. “Not get ing it out of me.”
“Then what’s the point of al this?” I asked.
“It’s the Make Your Own Muppet point!” Boomer said. “Designed just for you. Your special friend. Arranged this for you.”
My day had been seriously suck so far, and despite the seemingly good intentions, I wasn’t sure I felt like playing. I’ve never desired a cigaret e in
my life, but suddenly I wanted to light one up, if only to set o the alarm that might get me out of this situation.
There was too much not to think about. I was tired from not thinking about it al . I wanted to go home and ignore my brother and watch Meet
Me in St. Louis and cry when sweet lit le Margaret O’Brien bashes the snowman to bits (best part). I wanted to not think about Fiji or Florida or
anything—or anyone—else. If “Boomer” wouldn’t reveal Snarl’s name or probably anything else about him, what was the point of my being here?
As if he knew I might need a morale boost, Boomer handed me a box of Sno-Caps. My favorite movie candy. “Your friend,” Boomer said. “He
sent this for you. As a deposit on a later gift. Potential y.”
Okay okay okay, I’d play. (Snarl sent me candy! Oh, how I might love him!)
I sat down at the worktable. I decided to make a Muppet that looked like how I imagined Snarl looked. I chose a blue head and body, some
black fur styled like an early Beatles hairdo, some Buddy Hol y black glasses (not unlike my own), and a purple bowling shirt. I glued on a pink
Grover nose shaped like a fuzzy golf bal . Then I cut some red felt to shape the lips like a snarl, and placed that onto the mouth position.
I remembered when I was ten—not too long ago, now that I thought about it—and loved going to the American Girl store beauty parlor to get
my dol ’s hair xed up, and how one time I asked the store manager if I could possibly design my own American Girl. I’d already gured my girl
out—LaShonda Jones, a twelve-year-old rol er boogie champion from Skokie, Il inois, circa 1978. I knew her history and what clothes she’d wear
and everything. But when I asked the store manager if they would help me create LaShonda right there inside the American Girl palace, the
manager looked at me with such an expression of sacrilege you’d have thought I was a junior revolutionary politely asking if I might blow up
Mat el, Hasbro, Disney, and Milton Bradley headquarters at the same time.
Even if his name was classi ed information, I wanted to hug Snarl. He’d inadvertently made one of my secret dreams come true—al owing me to
Even if his name was classi ed information, I wanted to hug Snarl. He’d inadvertently made one of my secret dreams come true—al owing me to
build my own dol while in a toy mecca headquarters.
“Do you play soccer?” Hermione asked me while she folded away the clothes I didn’t use for my Muppet. Her folding was so expert I wondered
if she was a store employee on loan from the Gap.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Thought so,” she said. “I’m a freshman at col ege now, but last year, when I was a senior, I think my high school played yours. I remember you
because your team’s not that great, but you’re such a power goalie it didn’t mat er much that the rest of your team seemed more interested in
touching up their lip gloss than playing, because you were so determined not to let the other side score. You’re a captain, right? So was I.”
I was about to ask Hermione what school she played for when she dropped this one on me: “You’re di erent than So a. But maybe more
interesting-looking. Is that your school uniform shirt you’re wearing underneath that reindeer cardigan? Weird. So a wears the most gorgeous
clothes. From Spain. Do you speak Catalan?”
“No.”
I said no in Catalan, but since the word sounds the same in English, Hermione didn’t notice.
I was starting to wonder what language they spoke in Fiji.
“Time’s up!” Hermione said.
I held up the Muppet. “I christen thee Snarly,” I told it. I handed Snarly over to the guy named Boomer. “Please give this to He of the
Unknowable Name.” I also handed over the red Moleskine. “This too. And don’t read the notebook, Boomer. It’s personal.”
“I won’t!” Boomer promised.
“I think he wil ,” Hermione murmured.
I had so many questions.
Why can’t I know his name?
What does he look like?
Who the heck is So a and why does she speak Catalan?
What am I even doing here?
I gured I would get answers in the notebook, if Snarl decided to continue our game.
Since Grandpa wasn’t here this year to take me to my favorite Christmas sight—the way way waaaayyyyy over-the-top decorated houses in Dyker
Heights, Brooklyn, which this time every year were lit up to such an extreme that the neighborhood was probably visible from space—I gured the
least Snarl could do would be to show up himself and tel me about the experience. I’d already dared him to in the notebook, leaving him a street
name in Dyker Heights and these words: The Nutcracker House.
I realized I wanted to add something to the instructions I’d writ en in the notebook, so I tried to take it back from Boomer.
“Hey!” he said, trying to block me from my own Moleskine. “That’s mine.”
“It’s not yours,” Hermione said. “You’re just the messenger, Boomer.”
Soccer captains look out for one another.
“I just want to add something,” I told Boomer. I gently tried to extract the notebook from Boomer’s grip, but he wasn’t let ing go. “I’l give it
back. Promise.”
“Promise?” he said.
“I just said ‘Promise’!” I said.
Hermione said, “She said ‘Promise’!”
“Promise?” Boomer repeated.
I was starting to see how John got his name.
Hermione snatched the notebook from Boomer’s grip and handed it over to me. “Hurry, before he freaks. This is a lot of responsibility for him.”
Quickly, after the words The Nutcracker House, I added a line to the instructions:
Do bring Snarly Muppet. Or don’t.
seven
–Dash–
December 24th/December 25th
Boomer refused to tel me a thing.
“Was she tal ?”
He shook his head.
“So she was short?”
“No—I’m not tel ing you.”
“Pret y?”
“Not tel ing.”
“Hel aciously homely?”
“I wouldn’t tel you even if I knew what that meant.”
“Was her blond hair blocking her eyes?”
“No—wait, you’re trying to trick me, aren’t you? I’m not saying anything except that she wanted me to give this to you.”
Along with the notebook, there was … a Muppet?
“It looks like Animal and Miss Piggy had sex,” I said. “And this was the spawn.”
“My eyes!” Boomer cried. “My eyes! I can’t stop seeing it now that you’ve said it!”
I looked at the clock.
“You should probably get home before they start serving di
“Wil your mom and Giova
I nodded.
“Christmas hug!” he cal ed out. And immediately I was enmeshed in what could only be cal ed a Christmas hug.
I knew this was supposed to raise the temperature of my cockles. But nothing associated with the culture of Christmas could real y do that for
me. Not in a humbug sense—I stil hugged Boomer like I meant every last squeeze. But mostly I was ready to have the apartment to myself again.
“So I’l see you the day after Christmas for that party, right?” Boomer asked. “Is that the twenty-seventh?”