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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 i
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, Be
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 gri
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 gri
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.