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“Neither of you is to blame,” O cer White interrupted.
O cer Black pointed her nger at Boris. “If there’s anyone at fault, it’s the one on al fours.”
Boris shu ed back guiltily.
O cer White looked at me. “As for Joh
snowbal in the middle of a snowbal ght—and I’m not saying you did or didn’t—no harm, no foul.”
“Does that mean we’re free to go?” Lily asked.
O cer Black nodded. “You’ve got quite a posse waiting for you outside.”
O cer Black wasn’t kidding. Boomer was there with not only Yoh
was waiting in the wings, presided over by Mrs. Basil E.
“Take a look!” Boomer said, holding up two printouts, one from the Post website, one from the Daily News.
Both had a dazzling photo of the baby fal ing into Lily’s arms.
OUR HERO! shouted the Daily News.
BABY STEALER! cried the Post.
“There are reporters outside,” Mrs. Basil E. informed us. “Most of them quite indecent.”
O cer Black turned to us.
“Wel , then—do you want to be celebrities or not?”
Lily and I looked at each other.
The answer was pret y clear.
“Not,” I said.
“De nitely not,” Lily added.
“The back door it is, then!” O cer Black said. “Fol ow me.”
With the crowds that had come to fetch us, Lily and I lost each other in the shu e. So a was asking if I was okay, Boomer was enthusing that
Lily and I had nal y met, and the rest were just taking it al in.
We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. The doors opened and the police told us to move quickly, because the reporters would catch on
quick.
She went her way with her people, and I went my way with mine.
I felt a weight in my pocket.
Sly girl, she’d slipped me the notebook.
eighteen
(Lily)
December 30th
The news of the world travels fast and far. Even to Fiji.
They didn’t know it, but I was intermit ently muting my computer speakers while my parents ranted from their side of our video chat.
Occasional y I’d click the speakers back on to hear snippets of their tirade:
“How are we supposed to trust you on your own, Lily, if—”
Mute.
Their hands ailed madly about from across the world while my hands concentrated on my new knit ing project.
“Who is this Dash? Does Grandpa know about—”
Mute.
I watched as Mom and Dad furiously tried to pack luggage while yel ing at their computer.
“We’re late for our ight! We’l be lucky to make it. Do you know how many cal s we’ve—”
Mute.
Dad appeared to be yel ing at his cel phone for ringing again. Mom peered into the computer screen.
“Where has Langston been al this time—”
Mute.
I continued working on my newest creation: a pin-striped, jail-uniform-themed doggy sweater for Boris. I looked up to see Mom’s index nger
wagging at me.
Un-mute.
“And one more thing, Lily!” Mom’s face peered as close as she possibly could to her computer screen. I’d never noticed before, but she had truly
excel ent pores, which could only bode wel for my own aging process.
“Yes, Mommy?” I asked as Dad sat on their hotel bed behind her, ailing his arms around again, explaining the situation again to someone
cal ing his phone again.
“That was a marvelous catch, darling.”
Grandpa was driving through Delaware (the tol capital of the highway world, he says) when Mr. Borscht cal ed his cel to tel him about the
headline, fol owed by cal s from scandalized Messrs. Curry and Ca
McDonald’s for a Big Mac to calm himself down. Then he cal ed Langston and yel ed at him for al owing me to become a jailbird and an
international celebrity in the few hours since Langston was supposed to be in charge after Grandpa left back for Florida. Grandpa then turned
around and returned to Manhat an, arriving home just in time for Langston and Mrs. Basil E. to bring me home from the police station.
“You’re grounded until your parents get home to take care of this mess!” Grandpa screeched at me. He pointed at poor lit le Boris. “And keep
that terror dog away from my cat upstairs!” Boris barked loudly and appeared poised to topple Grandpa, too.
“Sit, Boris,” I told the beast.
Boris plopped down onto the oor and placed his head across my feet. He hissed a low growl in Grandpa’s direction.
“I don’t think Boris and I agree about being grounded,” I told Grandpa.
“This is nonsense, Arthur,” Mrs. Basil E. chimed in. “Lily didn’t do anything wrong. It was al a big misunderstanding. She saved a baby! It’s not
like she stole a car and went out joyriding.”
“It’s common knowledge that no good comes to a young lady appearing on the cover of the New York Post!” Grandpa bel owed. He pointed at
me. “Grounded!”
“Go to your room, Lily bear,” Mrs. Basil E. whispered in my ear. “I’l take care of this from here. Take that pony with you.”
“Please don’t tel Grandpa about Dash,” I whispered back.
“Can’t keep a lid on that one,” she said aloud.
The upshot of al the parental and grandparental hysteria was that I did not technical y get grounded. Instead, I was told, most a rmatively, to lay
low until Mom and Dad got home from Fiji on New Year’s Day. It was recommended that I stay home and chil for the time being.
Not that I wanted to anyway, but I’ve been instructed I’m not al owed to talk to the press, al my trash must go through a shredder, I’m not to
plan how I’d look on the cover of People magazine (an exclusive, which could potential y pay for my whole col ege education in one fel swoop),
and if Oprah cal s, she talks to my mom rst, and not to me. Quite frankly, the family are al hoping some celebrity dies or is exposed in a tawdry
scandal ASAP so the tabloids can move on from Lily Dogwalker.
For my own emotional wel -being it has been suggested that I not Google myself.
There aren’t many people you can trust in this world who aren’t related to you, according to the familial overseers. Bet er to stay within your
own family’s tender bosom til al this blows over.
What I know for certain is: You can always trust a dog.
Boris liked Dash.
You can tel a lot about a person by the way they treat animals. Dash never hesitated to grab for Boris’s leash when crisis struck. He’s one stand-
up (or sat-upon, in the case of the crimson alert mommies) kind of dude, for sure.
up (or sat-upon, in the case of the crimson alert mommies) kind of dude, for sure.
Boomer, who’s rather like a dog, also likes Dash.
Dog instincts are always right.
Dash must be very likable.
There are just lots of possibilities in the world, I’ve decided. Dash. Boris. I need to keep my mind open for what could happen and not decide
that the world is hopeless if what I want to happen doesn’t happen. Because something else great might happen in between.
The verdict on Boris, therefore, is unequivocal: He’s a keeper.
Boris’s owner, my cousin Mark’s co-worker Marc from the Strand, had been il egal y harboring Boris at his own studio apartment, in a no-pets
building. He’d been able to get away with it before, because his building was run by an o -site management company with no super or owner
living there, but now that Boris is so famous (according to a New York Post online pol , 64 percent of respondents think Boris is a menace to
society, 31 percent think he’s an unwit ing victim of his own strength, and 5 percent think Boris should meet his maker in an unmentionable way),
Marc obviously can’t bring Boris “home.”
That’s okay, because I’ve made the executive decision that my home is now Boris’s home. In the less than twenty-four hours since he’s been