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teacher), Shee’nah (cross-dressing part-time choreographer/part-time waiter) and his boi Antwon (assistant manager at Home Depot), angry Aryn
(vegan riot grrrl NYU lm student), and Mark (my cousin—because he owes Grandpa a favor and that’s the one Grandpa cal ed in). The carolers
cal me Third-Verse Lily because I’m the only one who remembers past the second verse of any Christmas song. Besides Aryn (who doesn’t care),
I’m also the only one not of legal drinking age, so with the amount of hot chocolate laced with peppermint liquor that my merry caroling troupe
passes round from Roberta’s ask, it’s no surprise I’m the only one who remembers the third verse.
Truly He taught us to love one another.
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in His name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
Hal elujah, third verse!
In al honesty, I should admit I have researched much of the scienti c evidence refuting G-d’s existence, as a result of which I suspect I am a true
believer in him the way I am in Santa. But I wil unhesitatingly, and joyful y, O-Holy-Night his name between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve,
with the mutual understanding that as of Christmas Day, once the presents are opened, my relationship with him goes on hiatus until I camp out
for best viewing of the Macy’s parade the fol owing year.
I would like to be the person who stands outside Macy’s during the holiday season wearing a cute red out t and ringing a bel to chime in
donations for the Salvation Army, but Mom said no. She said those bel people are possibly religious freaks, and we are holiday-only lapsed
Catholics who support homosexuality and a woman’s right to choose. We do not stand outside Macy’s begging for money. We don’t even shop at
Macy’s.
I may go begging for change at Macy’s simply as a form of protest. For the rst time in, like, the history of ever—that is, al of my sixteen years
—our family is spending Christmas apart. My parents abandoned me and my brother for Fiji, where they’re celebrating their twenty- fth wedding
a
al out for their silver a
am the minority opinion on this one. According to everyone besides me, if my brother and I tag along on their vacation, it won’t be as “romantic.”
I don’t see what’s so “romantic” about spending a week in a tropical paradise with your spouse whom you’ve already seen almost every day for the
past quarter century. I can’t imagine anyone ever wanting to be alone with me that much.
My brother, Langston, said, “Lily, you don’t understand because you’ve never been in love. If you had a boyfriend, you’d understand.” Langston
has a new boyfriend and al I understand from that is a sorry state of co-dependence.
has a new boyfriend and al I understand from that is a sorry state of co-dependence.
And it’s not entirely true that I’ve never been in love. I had a pet gerbil in rst grade, Spazzy, whom I loved passionately. I wil never stop
blaming myself for bringing Spazzy to show-and-tel at school, where Edgar Thibaud let open his cage when I wasn’t looking and Spazzy met
Jessica Rodriguez’s cat Tiger and, wel , the rest is history. Goodwil to Spazzy up in gerbil heaven. Sorry sorry sorry. I stopped eating meat the day
of the massacre, as penance for Spazzy. I’ve been a vegetarian since age six, al for the love of a gerbil.
Since I was eight, I have been in literary love with the character Sport from Harriet the Spy. I’ve kept my own Harriet-style journal—red
Moleskine notebooks that Grandpa buys me at the Strand—since I rst read that book, only I don’t write mean observations about people in my
journals like Harriet sometimes did. Mostly I draw pictures in it and write memorable quotes or passages from books I’ve read, or recipe ideas, or
lit le stories I make up when I’m bored. I want to be able to show grown-up Sport that I’ve tried my darnedest not to make sport out of writing
mean gossip and stu .
Langston has been in love. Twice. His rst big romance ended so badly that he had to leave Boston after his freshman year of col ege and move
back home til his heart could heal; the breakup was that bad. I hope I never love someone so much that they could hurt me the way Langston was
hurt, so wounded al he could do was cry and mope around the house and ask me to make him peanut but er and banana sandwiches with the
crusts cut o , then play Boggle with him, which of course I always did, because I usual y do whatever Langston wants me to do. Langston
eventual y recovered and now he’s in love again. I think this new one’s okay. Their rst date was at the symphony. How mean can a guy be who
likes Mozart? I hope, at least.
Unfortunately, now that Langston has a boyfriend again, he has forgot en al about me. He has to be with Be
parents and Grandpa being gone for Christmas is a gift, and not the outrage it is to me. I protested to Langston about him basical y granting Be
a permanent state of residence in our house over the holidays. I reminded him that if Mom and Dad were going to be away at Christmas, and
Grandpa would be at his winter apartment in Florida, then it was Langston’s responsibility to keep me company. I was there for him in his time of
need, after al .
But Langston repeated, “Lily, you just don’t understand. What you need is someone to keep you occupied. You need a boyfriend.”
Wel sure, who doesn’t need a boyfriend? But realistical y, those exotic creatures are hard to come by. At least a quality one. I go to an al -girls
school, and meaning no disrespect to my sapphic sisters, but I have no interest in nding a romantic companion there. The rare boy creatures I do
meet who aren’t either related to me or who aren’t gay are usual y too at ached to their Xboxes to notice me, or their idea of how a teenage girl
should look and act comes directly from the pages of Maxim magazine or from the tarty look of a video game character.
There’s also the problem of Grandpa. Many years ago, he owned a neighborhood family grocery store on Avenue A in the East Vil age. He sold
the business but kept the corner block building, where he had raised his family. My family lives in that building now, along with Grandpa in the
fourth- oor “penthouse” apartment, as he cal s the converted space that was once an at ic studio. There’s a sushi restaurant on the ground oor
where the grocery store once was. Grandpa has presided over the neighborhood as it went from low-income haven for immigrant families to
yuppie enclave. Everybody knows him. Every morning he joins his buddies at the local Italian bakery, where these huge, burly guys drink espresso
from dainty lit le cups. The scene is very Sopranos meets Rent. It means that because everyone looks a ectionately upon Grandpa, they’re al
looking out for Grandpa’s pet—me, the baby of the family, the youngest of his ten grandchildren. The few local boys so far who’ve expressed an
interest in me have al been quickly “persuaded” that I’m too young to date, according to Langston. It’s like I wear an invisible cloak of
unavailability to cute boys when I walk around the neighborhood. It’s a problem.
So Langston decided to make it his project to (1) give me a project to keep me occupied so he could have Be