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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. Ca
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. Ca
Ca
“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. Ca
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 a
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