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turn frostbit en, he’d placed that boot on me when I’d passed out, and he’d made sure I got home safely. What had I done for him, except probably
dashed his hopes, too?
I hoped I’d apologized to him.
I texted that rascal of a gerbil kil er, Edgar Thibaud.
Where can I nd Dash?
R U a stalker?
Possibly.
Awesome. His mom’s place is at E Ninth & University.
Which building?
A good stalker doesn’t need to ask.
I did want to ask Edgar: Did we kiss last night?
I licked my morning lips. My mouth felt very ful and untouched by luscious mat er other than pancakes and syrup.
Wa
From Edgar Thibaud.
Suddenly I recal ed Edgar hit ing on Aryn as Dash had helped my unfortunately wasted self out of the pub.
1. No. Retiring from that game. 2. And especially not with you. Regards, Lily
The snow crunched beneath my boots as I made my way home that afternoon. East Ninth Street at University Place was a not total y inconvenient
stop between Mrs. Basil E.’s in Gramercy Park and my apartment in the East Vil age, and I reveled in the winter’s walk along the way. I love snow
for the same reason I love Christmas: It brings people together while time stands stil . Cozy couples lazily meandered the streets and children
trudged sleds and dogs chased snowbal s. No one seemed to be in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day, with each other,
whenever and however it happened.
There were four di erent apartment buildings at each corner of East Ninth and University. I approached the rst one and asked the doorman,
“Does Dash live here?”
“Why? Who wants to know?”
“I’d like to know, please.”
“No Dash lives here that I know of.”
“Then why did you ask who wanted to know?”
“Why are you asking for Dash if you don’t know where he lives?”
I took a spare Baggie of lebkuchen spice cookies out of my bag and handed it to the doorman. “I think you could use some of these,” I said.
“Merry December 28.”
I walked across the block to the next building. There was no uniformed doorman, but a man sat behind a desk in the lobby as some elderly
people using walkers strol ed the hal way behind him. “Hel o!” I greeted him. “I’m wondering if Dash lives here?”
“Is Dash an eighty-year-old retired cabaret singer?”
“I’m pret y sure not.”
“I’m pret y sure not.”
“Then no Dash here, kiddo. This is a nursing home.”
“Do any blind people live here?” I asked.
“Why?”
I handed him my card. “Because I would like to read to them. For my col ege applications. Also, I like old people.”
“How generous of you. I’l hold on to this just in case I hear of anything.” He glanced down at my card. “Nice to meet you, Lily Dogwalker.”
“You too!”
I crossed the street to the third building. A doorman was outside shoveling snow. “Hi! Would you like some help?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Union rules. No help.”
I gave the doorman one of the Starbucks gift cards one of my dog-walking clients had gifted me with before Christmas. “Have a co ee on me on
your break, sir.”
“Thanks! Now whaddya want?”
“Does Dash live here?”
“Dash. Dash who?”
“Not sure of his last name. Teenage boy, on the tal side, dreamy blue eyes. Peacoat. Shops at the Strand near here, so maybe he carries bags
from there?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Seems sort of … snarly?”
“Oh, that kid. Sure. Lives at that building.”
The doorman pointed to the building on the fourth corner.
I walked over to that building.
“Hi,” I said to the doorman, who was reading a copy of the New Yorker. “Dash lives here, right?”
The doorman looked up from his magazine. “16E? Mom’s a shrink?”
“Right,” I said. Sure, why not?
The doorman tucked the magazine into a drawer. “He went out about an hour ago. Want to leave a message for him?”
I took a package from my bag. “Could I leave this for him?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I handed the doorman my card also. He glanced at it. “No pets al owed in this building,” he said.
“That’s tragic,” I said.
No wonder Dash was so snarly.
The package I’d left for Dash contained a gift box of English breakfast tea and the red notebook.
Dear Dash:
Meeting you through this notebook meant a lot to me. Especial y this Christmas.
But I know I botched its magic, big-time.
I’m so sorry.
What I’m sorry about is not being a tipsy idiot when you found me. I’m sorry about that, obviously, but more sorry that my stupidity caused us to
lose a great opportunity. I don’t imagine you would have met me and fal en crazy in love with me, but I would like to think that if you’d had a
chance to meet me under di erent circumstances, something just as nice could have happened.
We could have become friends.
Game over. I get that.
But if you ever want a (sober) new Lily friend, I’m your girl.
I feel like you may be a special and kind person. And I would like to make it my business to know special and kind people. Especial y if they
are boys my age.
Thank you for being a real stapler of a hero guy.
There is a snowman in the garden at my great-aunt’s house who’d like to meet you. If you dare.
Regards,
Lily
PS I’m not going to hold it against you that you associate with Edgar Thibaud, and I hope you wil extend me the same courtesy.
Below my dare, I’d stapled my Lily Dogwalker business card. I didn’t hold out hope that Dash would take me up on the snowman o er, or try to
cal me ever, but I gured if he did want to get directly in touch with me again, the least I could do was not make him go through several of my
relatives.
After my last entry in the notebook, I’d cut out and pasted a section of a page I’d photocopied of the Contemporary Poets reference book in Mrs.
Basil E.’s parlor library.
Strand, Mark
[Blah blah blah biographical information, crossed out with Sharpie pen.]
We are reading the story of our lives
As though we were in it,
As though we had writ en it.
As though we had writ en it.
fteen
–Dash–
December 28th
I woke up next to So a. At some point in the night, she’d turned away from me, but she’d let one hand linger, reaching back to rest on my own
hand. A border of sunlight ringed the curtains of the hotel room, signaling morning. I felt her hand, felt our breathing. I felt lucky, grateful. The
sound of tra c climbed from the street, mingled with parts of conversations. I looked at her neck, brushed back her hair to kiss it. She stirred. I
wondered.
Our clothes had stayed on the whole time. We’d cuddled together, looking not for sex but comfort. We’d sailed to sleep together, with more ease
than I ever would have imagined.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
POUND. POUND. POUND.
The door. Three pounds on the door.
A man’s voice. “So a? ¿Estás lista?”
Her hand grabbed for mine. Squeezed.
“Un minuto, Papa!” she cal ed out.
As it happened, the maids at the Belvedere did a ne job of vacuuming, so when I hid under the bed, I was at acked by neither rats nor dust
mites. Just the general fear of a vengeful father storming into a hotel room.
More knocking. So a headed for the door.
Too late, I realized my shoes were lol ygagging on the oor about an arm’s length away from me. As So a’s father lumbered in—he was a
sizable man, roughly the shape of a school bus—I made a desperate grab, only to have my hand kicked away by So a’s bare feet. My shoes
fol owed in quick succession—So a shooting them right into my face. I let out an involuntary cry of startled pain, which So a covered by tel ing