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“When you leave a public bus, is there anything special that you do?”
“I thank the driver.”
“Good, good,” she said. “Now—tel me your intentions regarding Lily.”
There was a pause. Perhaps too long a pause. Because, to be forthright, I hadn’t real y thought about my intentions. Which meant I had to think
aloud while answering.
“Wel ,” I said, “it’s not as if I’ve come to take her to the sock hop, or ask her to go double-spooning in some tapioca, if that’s what you mean.
We’ve already established my position on dil ying and dal ying, which right now is chaste with a chance for inveterate lust, depending on the
ripeness of our rst interactions. I have been told by a source of surprising trustworthiness that I must not paint her too much with my ideas of her,
and my intention is to fol ow that advice. But real y? Completely uncharted territory here. Terra enigma. It could be a future or it could be a fol y.
If she’s cut from your cloth, I have a sense we might get along.”
“I think she’s stil guring out her pat ern,” the woman told me. “So I won’t comment on the cloth. I nd her to be a delight. And while
sometimes delights can be tiresome, mostly they are …”
“Delightful?” I o ered.
“Pure. They’re burnished by their own hopes.”
I sighed.
“What is it?” the old woman asked.
“I’m persnickety,” I confessed. “Not, incidental y, to the point of being snarly. But stil . Delightful and persnickety are not a common blend.”
“Do you want to know why I never married?”
“The question wasn’t at the top of my list,” I admit ed.
The old woman made me meet her eye. “Listen to me: I never married because I was too easily bored. It’s an awful, self-defeating trait to have.
It’s much bet er to be too easily interested.”
It’s much bet er to be too easily interested.”
“I see,” I said. But I didn’t. Not then. Not yet.
Instead, I was looking around the room and thinking: Of al the places I’ve been, this is the one that seems the most like a place that a red
notebook would take me.
“Dash,” the old woman said. A simple statement, like she was holding my name in her hand, holding it out to me like I’d held out her boot.
“Yes?” I said.
“Yes?” she echoed.
“Do you think it’s time?” I asked.
She got up from her chair and said, “Let me make a phone cal .”
twelve
(Lily)
December 26th
“Do you stil kil gerbils?” I asked Edgar Thibaud.
We were standing outside the brownstone apartment building of some girl he goes to school with who was having a party that night.
From the street, we could see the party through the living room window. The scene looked very polite. No wild noises that one would expect to
come from a teenager’s party boomed down to the street. We could see two parental types wandering through the living room, o ering juice boxes
and Mountain Dews on silver trays, which may have explained the lack of noise, and the open curtains.
“This party’s go
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Do you stil kil gerbils, Edgar Thibaud?”
If he gave me a sarcastic answer back, our newly discovered truce would end as abruptly as it had started.
“Lily,” Edgar Thibaud said, oozing sincerity. He took my hand in his. My hand, now oozing sweat, quivered from his touch. “I’m so sorry about
your gerbil. Truly. I would never knowingly harm a sentient being.” His lips placed a contrite peck on my knuckles.
I happen to know that Edgar Thibaud graduated from kil ing gerbils in rst grade to becoming one of those fourth-grade boys who use
magnifying glasses to direct the sun to fry worms and other random insects in al eyways.
It is possibly true what Grandpa’s buddies have repeatedly told me: Teenage boys ca
This must be part of Mother Nature’s master plan—making these boys so irresistibly cute, in such a naughty way, that the purity of their
intentions becomes irrelevant.
“Where would you rather go instead?” I asked Edgar. “I have to be home by nine or my grandpa wil freak.”
I’d lied to Grandpa a second time. I’d told him an emergency holiday soccer practice had been convened because our team was on a massive
losing streak. Only because he was moping over that Mabel lady did he fal for it.
Edgar Thibaud answered in a baby voice. “Gwanpaah won’t wet wit le Wily stay up wate?”
“Are you being mean?”
“No,” he said, his face turning serious. “I salute you and your curfews, Lily. With apologies for the brief and u
you have to be home by nine, that probably only leaves us enough time for a movie. Have you seen Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer?”
“No,” I said.
I’m get ing good at this lying.
* * *
I am trying to embrace danger.
Once again, I found myself locked in a bathroom, communing with Snarl. The movie theater’s bathroom was a bit cleaner than the previous
night’s music club’s, and the evening show meant the cinema wasn’t brimming with toddlers. But once again, life and action brimmed al around
me, yet al I wanted to do was write in a red notebook.
Danger comes in many forms, I suppose. For some people, it might be jumping o a bridge or climbing impossible mountains. For others, it could
be a tawdry love a air or tel ing o a mean-looking bus driver because he doesn’t like to stop for noisy teenagers. It could be cheating at cards or
eating a peanut even though you’re al ergic.
For me, danger might be get ing out from under the protective cloak of my family and venturing into the world more on my own, even though I
don’t know what—or who—awaits me. I wish you were part of this plan. But are you dangerous? Somehow I doubt it. I’m scared you’re just a
gment of my imagination.
I think it’s time to experience life outside the notebook.
Edgar Thibaud whooped with laughter at fat Gramma on the screen as I returned to my seat. The movie was so stupid I had no choice but to xate
my stare away from the screen and onto Edgar Thibaud’s biceps. He has some kind of magical muscle arms—not too bulky, not too skimpy.
They’re cut just right. I was rather mesmerized.
The hand at ached to the end of Edgar’s arm decided to get frisky. His eyes never left the screen, but his hand discreetly landed on my thigh,
while Edgar’s mouth continued to gu aw over the macabre massacre that was befal ing Gramma on the screen as the reindeer’s tusks once again
ran her over.
I couldn’t believe the boldness of the maneuver. (Reindeer’s and Edgar’s.) I was al for danger, but we hadn’t even kissed yet. (I mean, me and
Edgar, not me and Reindeer. I love animals, but not that much.)
I’ve waited al my life for that rst kiss. I wasn’t going to ruin it by al owing whole bases to be skipped.
“Ru ru ,” I barked at Edgar Thibaud as his hand drew circles over the embroidered poodle on my poodle skirt. I returned his hand to the
armrest, the bet er perch from which I could return to admiring his bicep.
In the backseat of the cab home, I let Edgar unbut on my sweater and take it o me. I pul ed my skirt down myself.
I was wearing my soccer shorts and shirt underneath the sweater and skirt in case Grandpa was waiting for me when I got home. I took a water
bot le from my purse and wet my face and hair so I’d appear sweaty.
bot le from my purse and wet my face and hair so I’d appear sweaty.
The meter on the cab read $6.50 and 8:55 p.m. as we pul ed up to the curb in front of my building.
Edgar leaned into me. I knew it could be about to happen.
I don’t delude myself that the rst real kiss I experience wil lead to a happily ever after. I don’t believe in any of that Prince Charming