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evolve, and vice versa. The important people in our lives leave imprints. They may stay or go in the physical realm, but they are always there in
your heart, because they helped form your heart. There’s no get ing over that.”
My heart undoubtedly wanted to embrace and/or be trampled upon by Dash. That much was sure. The risk would have to discover its own
reward.
From under the table, Boris licked at my ankles. I said, “Boris is staying and he has imprinted on my heart and Mom and Dad are just going to
have to live with that.”
“Joke’s on you, Celebri-bear. Your big Christmas present on New Year’s Day was going to be Mom and Dad nal y giving you permission again
to have your own pet.”
“Real y? But what if we move to Fiji?”
“The parents wil gure it out. If they do decide to go, they’l keep this apartment, where I’m going to stay living while I’m at NYU. I don’t think
Mom and Dad are pla
with them and it turns out Boris isn’t al owed past customs in Fiji. How about if that’s my Christmas present to you?”
“Because you were too busy being with Be
“Yep. And how about in return, instead of the sweater you’ve undoubtedly knit me, and the umpteen cookies you’ve undoubtedly baked me for
Christmas on New Year’s, if you just tel Grandpa not to blame me for al your hijinks and get him o my case?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Let the girl cal the rules, as it should be.”
“Speaking of rules … what are you doing for New Year’s, Lily? Surely you’l be let back outside again? Wil Monsieur Dashiel be squiring you
around our fair town tonight?”
I sighed and shook my head. There was nothing to do but admit it: “He hasn’t cal ed me or emailed me or notebooked me since the police
station.”
I abruptly stood up from my chair so I could return to my room and feel terribly sorry for myself and eat way too much chocolate in private.
I supposed I could text or email Dash (even cal him—what?!?!?), but those options felt intrusive after al we’d been through. After the red
notebook. Dash was a guy that appreciated his privacy and seemed to revel in solitude. I could respect that.
He should be the one to contact me.
Right?
What did it say about me that he hadn’t?
That he couldn’t possibly like me as much as I’d started to like him. That I would never be as pret y and interesting as that So a girl, while
Dash’s handsome face would continue to appear in my daydreams.
Unrequited.
It wasn’t fair that I sort of missed him. Not his presence so much—I barely knew him—but having that red notebook link to him. Knowing he
was out there thinking or doing something that would be communicated to me in some surprising way.
was out there thinking or doing something that would be communicated to me in some surprising way.
I lay on my bed, daydreaming about Dash, and reached down to receive a reassuring lick from Boris, but he was not there. He was out on his
walk.
Our apartment doorbel buzzed loudly and I jumped up and ran into the hal way to answer it. “Hel o?” I said from the other side of the door.
“It’s your favorite great-aunt. I left my key inside the apartment when I came to walk Boris.”
Boris!
The twenty minutes since he’d been gone had nearly destroyed me. Boris never ignored me like that Dash guy.
I opened the door to let Mrs. Basil E. and Boris back inside.
I looked down at Boris, pawing at my ankles to get my at ention.
Boris’s mouth held not a doggy bone or a postman’s jacket. From between his teeth, Boris slobberingly o ered me a red-ribbon-wrapped red
notebook.
nineteen
–Dash–
December 30th
We retreated to my mother’s apartment after I was released from jail. The adrenaline in al of us was amazing—we alternated between bouncing
and oating, as if the excitement of escape had turned the world into a giant trampoline.
As soon as we were in the door, Yoh
“Noodle pudding?” Yoh
“Yeah, my mom made it,” I told them. “I always save it for last.”
While Priya went to the loo and Boomer checked his email on his phone, So a stepped into my bedroom. Not for any lascivious reason—just to
check it out.
“It hasn’t changed much,” she observed, staring at the quotes I’d thumbtacked to my wal s.
“Lit le things have,” I said. “There are some new quotes on the wal . Some new books on the shelves. Some of the pencils have lost their erasers.
The sheets are changed every week.”
“So even though it doesn’t seem like anything’s changed—”
“—things change al the time, mostly in lit le ways. That’s how it goes, I guess.”
So a nodded. “Fu
“That’s the way life comes just sounds so awkward.”
“Wel , sometimes you can see the future come, no? Sometimes it even, say, catches a baby.”
I studied her face for any hint of sarcasm or mea
I sat down on my bed and held my head in my hands. Then, realizing this was way too dramatic, I looked up at her.
“I truly don’t understand any of this,” I confessed.
She stayed standing, facing me.
“I wish I could help you there,” she told me. “But I can’t.”
So there we were. Once upon a time, during the storybook version of dating we’d gone through, I’d pretended that it was possible to love her
when I only mildly liked her. Now I had no desire to pretend we’d ever be in love, and I liked her madly.
“Can we try to be wise with each other for a very long time?” I asked her.
She laughed. “You mean, can we share our fuckups and see if we can get any wisdom out of them?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That would be nice.”
I felt we needed to seal our new pact. Kissing was out. Hugging seemed peevish. So I o ered her my hand. She shook it. And then we went to
join the rest of our friends.
I couldn’t help but wonder about what Lily was doing. How she was feeling. What she was feeling. Yes, it was confusing, but it wasn’t a bad
confusion. I wanted to see her again, in a way I’d never wanted to see her before.
I knew the notebook was in my hands. I just wanted to nd the right thing to say.
My mother cal ed to see how things were going. There was no Internet access at the spa, and she wasn’t the type who turned on the TV when she
wasn’t home. So I didn’t have to explain anything. I just said I had a few people over and we were al behaving ourselves.
My father, I couldn’t help but note, usual y checked the news every ve minutes on his phone. He’d probably even seen the headline on the Post
site, and the photos. He simply didn’t recognize his own son.
Later that night, after a marathon of John Hughes movies, I kept Boomer, So a, Priya, Yoh
out a dry-erase board from her home o ce.
“Before you leave,” I told them, “I would like to conduct a brief symposium on love.”
I took out a red marker—I mean, why not?—and wrote the word love on the board.
“Here we have it,” I said. “Love.” For good measure, I drew a heart around it. Not the ventricled kind. The made-up kind.
“It exists in this pristine state, upholding its ideals. But then … along come words.”
I wrote words over and over again, al around the dry erase board, including over the word love.
“And feelings.”
I wrote feelings in the same way, crisscrossing it on top of everything I’d already writ en.
“And expectations. And history. And thoughts. Help me out here, Boomer.”