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We wrote each of these three words at least twenty times each.
The result?
Pure il egibility. Not only was love gone, but you couldn’t make out anything else, either.
“This,” I said, holding up the board, “is what we’re up against.”
Priya looked disturbed—more by me than by what I was saying. So a stil looked amused. Yoh
Boomer, pen stil in hand, was trying to work something out.
Boomer, pen stil in hand, was trying to work something out.
He raised his hand.
“Yes, Boomer?” I asked.
“You’re saying that either you’re in love or you’re not. And if you are, it becomes like this.”
“Something to that e ect.”
“But what if it’s not a yes-or-no question?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I mean, what if love isn’t a yes-or-no question? It’s not either you’re in love or you’re not. I mean, aren’t there di erent levels? And maybe these
things, like words and expectations and whatever, don’t go on top of the love. Maybe it’s like a map, and they al have their own place, and then
when you see it from the sky—whoa.”
I looked at the board. “I think your map is cleaner than mine,” I said. “But isn’t this what the col ision of the right two people at the right time
looks like? I mean, it’s a mess.”
So a chuckled.
“What?” I asked her.
“Right person, right time is the wrong concept, Dash,” she said.
“Total y,” Boomer agreed.
“What does she mean by that?” I asked him.
“What I mean,” So a said, “is that when people say right person, wrong time, or wrong person, right time, it’s usual y a cop-out. They think that
fate is playing with them. That we’re al just participants in this romantic reality show that God gets a kick out of watching. But the universe
doesn’t decide what’s right or not right. You do. Yes, you can theorize until you’re blue in the face whether something might have worked at
another time, or with someone else. But you know what that leaves you?”
“Blue in the face?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“You have the notebook, right?” Dov chimed in.
“I real y hope you didn’t lose it,” Yoh
“Yes,” I said.
“So what are you waiting for?” So a asked.
“You al to leave?” I said.
“Good,” she said. “You now have your writing assignment. Because you know what? It’s up to you, not fate.”
I stil didn’t know what to write. I fel asleep with the notebook next to me, both of us staring at the ceiling.
December 31st
The next morning, over breakfast, I had my grand idea.
I cal ed Boomer immediately.
“I need a favor,” I told him.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Is your aunt in town?”
“My aunt.”
I told him my idea.
“You want to go on a date with my aunt?” he asked.
I told him my idea again.
“Oh,” he said. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
I didn’t want to give too much away. Al I wrote is the time and the place to meet. When the hour dawned decent, I headed over to Mrs. Basil
E.’s. I found her outside, taking Boris around the block.
“Your parents have let you run free?” Mrs. Basil E. inquired.
“So to speak,” I said.
I o ered her the notebook.
“Assuming she’s up for the next adventure,” I said.
“You know what they say,” Mrs. Basil E. o ered. “Dul ness is the spice of life. Which is why we must always use other spices.”
She went to take the notebook, but Boris beat her to it.
“Bad girl!” she chided.
“I’m pret y sure Boris is a boy,” I said.
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Basil E. assured me. “I just like to keep him confused.”
Then she and Boris headed o with my future.
When Lily arrived at ve o’clock, I could tel she was a lit le bit disappointed.
“Oh, look,” she said, gazing out at the Rockefel er Center ice rink. “Skaters. Mil ions of them. Wearing sweaters from al fty states.”
My nerves were whirling to see her. Because, real y, this was our rst shot at a semi-normal conversation, assuming no dogs or mothers
intervened. And I wasn’t as good at semi-normal conversations as I was at ones that were writ en down, or adrenalized in a surreal moment. I
intervened. And I wasn’t as good at semi-normal conversations as I was at ones that were writ en down, or adrenalized in a surreal moment. I
wanted to like her, and I wanted her to like me, and that was more want than I’d saddled myself with in many a moon.
It’s up to you, not fate.
True. But it was also up to Lily.
That was the trickiest part.
I pretended to be hurt by her unenthusiastic reaction to my cliché destination. “You don’t want to hit the ice?” I said, pouting. “I thought it
would be so romantic. Like in a movie. With Prometheus watching over us. Because, you know, what’s more t ing than Prometheus over an ice
rink? I’m sure that’s why he stole the re for us in the rst place—so we could make ice rinks. And then, when we’re done skating on that tra c
jam of an ice rink, we could go to Times Square and be surrounded by two mil ion people without any bathrooms for the next seven hours.
C’mon. You know you want to.”
It was fu
she couldn’t hide at the thought of us being not-at-al -alone in a crowd.
“Or …,” I said. “We could go with Plan B.”
“Plan B,” she said immediately.
“Do you like to be surprised, or would you rather anticipate?”
“Oh,” she said. “De nitely surprised.”
We started walking away from Prometheus in his ring. After about three steps, Lily stopped.
“You know what,” she said. “That was a total lie. I would much rather anticipate.”
So I told her.
She slapped me on the arm.
“Yeah, right,” she said.
“Yeah,” I told her. “Right.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying … but say it again.”
So I said it again. And this time I took a key out of my pocket and dangled it in front of her eyes.
Boomer’s aunt is famous. I’m not going to name names, but it’s a name everyone knows. She has her own magazine. Practical y her own cable
network. Her own line of housewares at a major chain store. Her kitchen studio is world famous. And I happened to have the key for it in my
hand.
I turned on al the lights, and there we were: in the center of the most glamorous baking palace in al of New York City.
“Now, what do you want to make?” I asked Lily.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “We can actual y touch things.”
“This isn’t the NBC tour,” I assured her. “Look. Supplies. You are an ace baker, so you deserve ace raw material.”
There were copper pots and pans of al sizes. Every sweet and/or salty and/or sour ingredient that U.S. Customs would al ow.
Lily could hardly contain her glee. After a split second more of reticence, she started opening drawers, sizing up her options.
“That’s the secret closet,” I said, pointing to an out-of-the-way door.
Lily went right over and opened it.
“Whoa!” she cried.
It had been the most magical place for me and Boomer growing up. Now it was like I was eight again, and Lily was eight again. We both stood,
awed supplicants in front of the bounty before us.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many boxes of Rice Krispies,” Lily said.
“And don’t forget the marshmal ows and the mix-ins. There’s every kind of marshmal ow, and every kind of mix-in.”
Yes, for al of the oral arrangements Boomer’s aunt got just right, and al the wine tours given in her name, her favorite food just happened to
be the Rice Krispie treat, and her goal in life was to perfect the recipe.
I explained this to Lily.
“Wel , let’s get to it,” she said.
Rice Krispies are designed to be a clean food to make—no our, no sifting, no baking.