Dash & Lily's Book of Dares
Page 20
Moving. Change.
Except I wasn’t thinking about that.
* * *
I dodged Bloomingdale’s, walking straight toward FAO Schwarz, where I realized what Snarl had meant by “payback.” A line down the street outside the store greeted me—a line just to get into the store! I had to wait twenty minutes just to reach the door.
But no mat er what, I love Christmas, really really really I do, don’t care if I am sardined in between two million panicky Christmas shoppers, nope, don’t care at all, I loved every moment of the experience once I got inside—the jingle bells playing from the speakers, the heart-racing excitement at seeing all the colorful toys and games in such a larger-than-life set ing. Aisle after aisle and oor after oor of dense funfun experience. I mean, Snarl must know me well already, perhaps on some psychic level, if he’d sent me to FAO Schwarz, only the mecca of everything that was Great and Beautiful about the holidays. Snarl must love Christmas as much as me, I decided.
I went to the information counter. “Where will I find the Make Your Own Muppet Workshop?” I asked.
“Sorry,” the counter person said. “The Muppet Workshop is closed for the holidays. We needed the space for the Coll ation action gure displays.”
“There are action figures for paper and staplers?” I asked. How had I not known to include these on my list to Santa?
“Yup. Just a hint: You might have bet er luck nding the Fredericos and the Dantes at O ce Max on Third Ave. They sold out here the rst day they went on sale. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“But please,” I said. “There has to be a Muppet workshop here today. The Moleskine said so.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind,” I sighed.
I worked my way past the Candy Shoppe and Ice Cream Parlor and Barbie Gall ery, upstairs past all the boy toys of guns and Lego warlands, through the mazes of people and products, until I nally landed in the Coll ation corner. “Please,” I said to the salesclerk. “Is there a Muppet workshop here?”
“Hardly,” she spat. “That’s in April.” She said this with all the contempt of Well, duh, who doesn’t know that?
“Sorry!” I said. I hoped someone’s parents sent her to Fiji next Christmas.
I was about to give up and leave the store, my belief in the Moleskine defeated, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw a girl who looked college age, dressed like Hermione Pot er. I assumed she was a store employee.
“Are you the girl looking for the Muppet workshop?” she asked.
“I am?” I said. Don’t know why I said it like a question, other than I wasn’t sure I wanted Hermione knowing my business. I’ve always resented Hermione, because I wanted to be her so badly and she never seemed to appreciate as much as I thought she should that she got to be her. She got to live at Hogwarts and be friends with Harry and kiss Ron, which was supposed to happen to me.
“Come with me,” Hermione demanded. Since it would be dumb not to do what a smarty like Hermione instructed, I let her guide me to the farthest, darkest corner of the store, where the stu no one cared about anymore, like Silly Put y and Boggle games, was. She stopped us at a giant rack of stu ed gira es and tapped on the wall behind the animals. Suddenly the wall opened, because it was in fact a door camouflaged by the giraf es (giraf e-o-flaged?–must OED that term).
I followed Hermione inside to a small closet-like room where a worktable with Muppet heads and parts (eyes, noses, glasses, shirts, hair, etc.) was set up. A teenage boy who looked like a human Chihuahua—excitably compact yet larger than life—sat at a card table, apparently waiting for me.
“You’re HER!” he said, pointing to me. “You don’t look at all like I expected even if I didn’t really imagine how you’d look!” His voice even sounded like a Chihuahua’s, quivery and hyperactive at the same time, but somehow endearing.
My mother always taught me it was impolite to point.
Since she was in Fiji on her own covert mission and wouldn’t be here to scold, I pointed back at the boy. “I’m ME!” I said.
Hermione shushed us. “Please lower your voices and be discreet! I can only let you have the room for fteen minutes.” She inspected me suspiciously. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“Of course not!” I said.
“Don’t try anything. Think of this closet as an airline lavatory. Go about your business, but know that smoke detectors and other devices are monitoring.”
The boy said, “Terrorist alert! Terrorist alert!”
“Shut up, Boomer,” Hermione said. “Don’t scare her.”
“You don’t know me well enough to call me Boomer,” Boomer (apparently) said. “My name’s John.”
“My instructions said Boomer, Boomer,” said Hermione.
“Boomer,” I interrupted. “Why am I here?”
“Do you have a notebook to return to someone?” he asked.
“I might. What’s his name?” I asked.
“Forbidden information!” Boomer said.
“Really?” I sighed.
“Really!” he said.
I looked to Hermione, hoping to invoke some girl power solidarity. She shook her head at me. “Nuh-uh,” she said. “Not get ing it out of me.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?” I asked.
“It’s the Make Your Own Muppet point!” Boomer said. “Designed just for you. Your special friend. Arranged this for you.” My day had been seriously suck so far, and despite the seemingly good intentions, I wasn’t sure I felt like playing. I’ve never desired a My day had been seriously suck so far, and despite the seemingly good intentions, I wasn’t sure I felt like playing. I’ve never desired a cigaret e in my life, but suddenly I wanted to light one up, if only to set of the alarm that might get me out of this situation.
Except I wasn’t thinking about that.
* * *
I dodged Bloomingdale’s, walking straight toward FAO Schwarz, where I realized what Snarl had meant by “payback.” A line down the street outside the store greeted me—a line just to get into the store! I had to wait twenty minutes just to reach the door.
But no mat er what, I love Christmas, really really really I do, don’t care if I am sardined in between two million panicky Christmas shoppers, nope, don’t care at all, I loved every moment of the experience once I got inside—the jingle bells playing from the speakers, the heart-racing excitement at seeing all the colorful toys and games in such a larger-than-life set ing. Aisle after aisle and oor after oor of dense funfun experience. I mean, Snarl must know me well already, perhaps on some psychic level, if he’d sent me to FAO Schwarz, only the mecca of everything that was Great and Beautiful about the holidays. Snarl must love Christmas as much as me, I decided.
I went to the information counter. “Where will I find the Make Your Own Muppet Workshop?” I asked.
“Sorry,” the counter person said. “The Muppet Workshop is closed for the holidays. We needed the space for the Coll ation action gure displays.”
“There are action figures for paper and staplers?” I asked. How had I not known to include these on my list to Santa?
“Yup. Just a hint: You might have bet er luck nding the Fredericos and the Dantes at O ce Max on Third Ave. They sold out here the rst day they went on sale. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“But please,” I said. “There has to be a Muppet workshop here today. The Moleskine said so.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind,” I sighed.
I worked my way past the Candy Shoppe and Ice Cream Parlor and Barbie Gall ery, upstairs past all the boy toys of guns and Lego warlands, through the mazes of people and products, until I nally landed in the Coll ation corner. “Please,” I said to the salesclerk. “Is there a Muppet workshop here?”
“Hardly,” she spat. “That’s in April.” She said this with all the contempt of Well, duh, who doesn’t know that?
“Sorry!” I said. I hoped someone’s parents sent her to Fiji next Christmas.
I was about to give up and leave the store, my belief in the Moleskine defeated, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw a girl who looked college age, dressed like Hermione Pot er. I assumed she was a store employee.
“Are you the girl looking for the Muppet workshop?” she asked.
“I am?” I said. Don’t know why I said it like a question, other than I wasn’t sure I wanted Hermione knowing my business. I’ve always resented Hermione, because I wanted to be her so badly and she never seemed to appreciate as much as I thought she should that she got to be her. She got to live at Hogwarts and be friends with Harry and kiss Ron, which was supposed to happen to me.
“Come with me,” Hermione demanded. Since it would be dumb not to do what a smarty like Hermione instructed, I let her guide me to the farthest, darkest corner of the store, where the stu no one cared about anymore, like Silly Put y and Boggle games, was. She stopped us at a giant rack of stu ed gira es and tapped on the wall behind the animals. Suddenly the wall opened, because it was in fact a door camouflaged by the giraf es (giraf e-o-flaged?–must OED that term).
I followed Hermione inside to a small closet-like room where a worktable with Muppet heads and parts (eyes, noses, glasses, shirts, hair, etc.) was set up. A teenage boy who looked like a human Chihuahua—excitably compact yet larger than life—sat at a card table, apparently waiting for me.
“You’re HER!” he said, pointing to me. “You don’t look at all like I expected even if I didn’t really imagine how you’d look!” His voice even sounded like a Chihuahua’s, quivery and hyperactive at the same time, but somehow endearing.
My mother always taught me it was impolite to point.
Since she was in Fiji on her own covert mission and wouldn’t be here to scold, I pointed back at the boy. “I’m ME!” I said.
Hermione shushed us. “Please lower your voices and be discreet! I can only let you have the room for fteen minutes.” She inspected me suspiciously. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“Of course not!” I said.
“Don’t try anything. Think of this closet as an airline lavatory. Go about your business, but know that smoke detectors and other devices are monitoring.”
The boy said, “Terrorist alert! Terrorist alert!”
“Shut up, Boomer,” Hermione said. “Don’t scare her.”
“You don’t know me well enough to call me Boomer,” Boomer (apparently) said. “My name’s John.”
“My instructions said Boomer, Boomer,” said Hermione.
“Boomer,” I interrupted. “Why am I here?”
“Do you have a notebook to return to someone?” he asked.
“I might. What’s his name?” I asked.
“Forbidden information!” Boomer said.
“Really?” I sighed.
“Really!” he said.
I looked to Hermione, hoping to invoke some girl power solidarity. She shook her head at me. “Nuh-uh,” she said. “Not get ing it out of me.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?” I asked.
“It’s the Make Your Own Muppet point!” Boomer said. “Designed just for you. Your special friend. Arranged this for you.” My day had been seriously suck so far, and despite the seemingly good intentions, I wasn’t sure I felt like playing. I’ve never desired a My day had been seriously suck so far, and despite the seemingly good intentions, I wasn’t sure I felt like playing. I’ve never desired a cigaret e in my life, but suddenly I wanted to light one up, if only to set of the alarm that might get me out of this situation.
