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nonsense. I also don’t delude myself that I’d wish for it to happen in the backseat of a smel y taxi.
Edgar whispered in my ear, “Do you have money for your half of the fare? I’m kind of broke and won’t have enough for the driver to drop me
o after you otherwise.” His index nger quickly brushed across my neck.
I shoved him away, even though I longed for more of his touch. But not in a taxi, for goodness’ sake!
I gave Edgar Thibaud ve dol ars, and a mil ion silent curses.
Edgar’s mouth moved thisclose to mine. “I’l get the fare next time,” he murmured. I turned my cheek to him.
“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you, Lily?” Edgar Thibaud said.
I ignored his sleek bicep peeking at me from under his snug sweater.
“You did kil my gerbil,” I reminded him.
“I love a hunt, Lily.”
“Good.”
I stepped out of the cab and shut the door.
“Just like that reindeer loved a hunt!” Edgar cal ed out to me from the window as the cab moved toward its next destination.
December 27th
Where ARE you?
It seemed I was destined to commune by notebook with Snarl most frequently while I was lodged in bathrooms.
This day’s bathroom was at an Irish pub on East Eleventh Street in Alphabet City. It was one of those pubs that are more family places during the
day and become watering holes at night. I was there during the day, so Grandpa could relax.
I hadn’t wanted to lie to Grandpa again, so I’d told him the truth—that I was meeting my Christmas caroling group for a reunion. We were going
to sing “Happy Birthday” to angry Aryn, the vegan riot grrrl, whose twenty- rst birthday was December 27.
I didn’t mention the part to Grandpa about how I’d texted Edgar Thibaud to meet me there, too. Grandpa hadn’t asked me whether Edgar
Thibaud would be at the birthday party; therefore, I had not lied to him.
Since it was Aryn’s twenty- rst birthday, my caroling troupe had taken up drinking songs instead of traditional Christmas hymns to usher in her
legal drinking age. The group was on its fourth round of beers by the time I arrived. And Mary McGregor / Wel , she was a pret y whore, they
sang. Edgar had yet to appear. When I heard the dirty words being sung, I quickly excused myself to the bathroom and opened the familiar red
notebook to write a new entry.
But what was there left to say?
I stil wore the one boot and one sneaker, just in case Snarl should nd me, but if I was going to face danger head-on, I probably had to
acknowledge that in forget ing to return the red notebook, I’d blown it with Snarl. I’d have to set le on the brand of danger Edgar Thibaud o ered
as my most promising consolation prize.
My phone rang, displaying a photo of a certain house in Dyker Heights decked out in celestial orbit Christmas lights. I answered. “Happy two
days after Christmas, Uncle Carmine.” I realized I’d taken the notebook back from him on Christmas Day, and yet never asked him for any clues
about Snarl. “Did you ever get a look at the boy who returned the red notebook at your house?”
“I might have, Lily bear,” Uncle Carmine said. “But that’s not what I cal ed to talk to you about. I heard your grandpa came back from Florida
early and that things didn’t go so wel down there. Is this true?”
“True. Now, about that boy …”
“I didn’t get any information about him, sweetheart. Although the kid did do a curious thing. You know the giant nutcracker we place on the
lawn, near the fteen-foot red soldier?”
“Lieutenant Cli ord Dog? Sure.”
“Wel , when your mystery friend left behind the red notebook, he also deposited something else. The most but -ugly puppet I’ve ever seen.”
Snarl couldn’t have. Did he?
“Did it look like an early Beatle who’d got en a makeover for a Muppet movie?”
Uncle Carmine said, “You could say that. A real y bad makeover.”
Another cal rang on my cel , this time displaying my favorite picture of Mrs. Basil E. sit ing in the grand library of her brownstone, legs crossed,
drinking from a teacup. What could Great-aunt Ida want to discuss right now? She probably also wanted to talk about Grandpa, when I had much
more important things on my mind—like that I’d just learned Snarly Muppet, whom I had personal y, lovingly, crafted for Snarl, had been
recklessly abandoned by him inside a nutcracker!
I ignored Mrs. Basil E.’s phone cal and said to Uncle Carmine, “Yeah. Grandpa. Depressed. Please visit him and tel him to stop asking me where
I’m going al the time. And could you return the beautiful puppet to me next time you come into the city?”
“ ‘I love you, yeah yeah yeah,’ ” Uncle Carmine responded.
“I’m very busy,” I told Uncle Carmine.
“ ‘She’s got a ticket to ride,’ ” Uncle Carmine sang. “ ‘But she don’t care!’ ”
“Cal Grandpa. He’l be glad to hear from you. Mwah and goodbye.” I couldn’t help but add one last thing. “ ‘Good day, sunshine,’ ” I sang to
Uncle Carmine.
“ ‘I feel good in a special way,’ ” he answered.
And with that, our cal ended. I saw that Mrs. Basil E. had left me a voice mail, but I didn’t feel like listening. I needed to mourn the end of the
notebook, and of idealizing a Snarl who’d tossed aside my Snarly. Time to move on with my life.
notebook, and of idealizing a Snarl who’d tossed aside my Snarly. Time to move on with my life.
I wrote a nal entry in the notebook and closed it, perhaps for good.
I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep.
The party had moved to a garden table outside, at the back of the pub. The late-December day had nal y turned appropriately wintry and
chil y, and the group huddled now with hot toddies as their drinks of choice.
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, they sang. It was an especial y nice song to sing—a soft, sweet one that matched the feeling in the air like
when snow’s about to fal and the world feels quieter, and lovelier. Content.
Edgar Thibaud had arrived and joined the group while I was in the bathroom. As they sang “White Christmas,” he placed his st to his mouth
and made a beat box of sound with it, rapping in “Go … snow … snow that Mary MacGregor ho,” over the carolers’ song. When he saw me
approach the table, Edgar transitioned to join the carolers in their song, improvising, “Just like the Lily-white one I used to know …”
When the song ended, angry Aryn said, “Hey, Lily. Your chauvinist, imperialist friend Edgar Thibaud?”
“Yes?” I asked, about to cover my ears with the red pom-poms on my hat in expectation of an epithet-laden rant from Aryn about one Edgar
Thibaud.
“He’s got a decent baritone. For a man.”
Shee’nah, Antwon, Roberta, and Melvin raised their glasses to Edgar Thibaud. “To Edgar!” They clinked.
Aryn raised her glass. “It’s my birthday!”
The group raised glasses again. “To Aryn!”
Edgar Thibaud did the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday.” As he sang “Happy birthday to you! Happy bi i i rrrrrrthdayyyy …,” Edgar
closed his eyes, nodded aimlessly, and placed his hands on the table to pretend he was a blind guy playing piano.
Aryn was surely wasted by this point, because the political incorrectness of such a performance normal y should have made her insane. Instead,
she bel owed, “I want my birthday to be a national holiday.” She stood up on her chair and a
give you the day o today!”
It seemed sil y to remind her that most people already had the day o , since it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s.
“What are you drinking?” I asked Aryn.
“A candy cane!” she told me. “Try some!”
Since I was irting with danger, I took a sip of her drink. It did taste like a candy cane … only bet er! I could understand why my carolers had