Dash & Lily's Book of Dares
Page 28
“What does he look like?” I asked her, once again.
“You’ll have to nd out for yourself,” she said. Aside from being snarly, Snarl must not be a total monster, because if he was, no way would Mrs. Basil E. have signed on as an accessory to the latest instal ment.
Into the kitchen we went.
Mrs. Basil E. and I cooked and sang till six while workers around us did the same, preparing the grand house for its grand feast. I kept wanting to shriek, WHAT IF HE DOESN’T RETURN THE NOTEBOOK? But I didn’t. Because my great-aunt didn’t seem too concerned. Like she had faith in him, and so should I.
Finally, at seven that night—perhaps the looooongest wait of my life ever—the Dyker Heights contingent of the family arrived. Uncle Carmine and his wife and their massive brood came in loaded with presents.
I didn’t bother to open mine. Uncle Carmine still thinks I’m eight and gives me American Girl doll accessories. Which I still love, by the way, but it’s not exactly like there’s a mystery about what’s inside his wrapped gift boxes for me. So I asked him, “Do you have it?” Uncle Carmine said, “It’ll cost you.” He turned his cheek to me. I gave his cheek a Christmas kiss. The toll paid, he pulled the red notebook from his goody bag of presents and handed it to me.
Suddenly I didn’t see how I could survive one more second without absorbing the latest contents in the notebook. I needed to be alone.
“Bye, everyone!” I chirped.
“Lily!” Mrs. Basil E. scolded. “You can’t possibly think you’re leaving.”
“I forgot to tell you I’m not really talking to anyone today! I’m more or less on strike! So I wouldn’t be very good company! And since Langston’s sick at home, I should probably check on him.” I threw her a kiss from my hand. “Mwahhh!” She shook her head. “That child,” she said to Carmine. “Kooky.” She threw her hands up in the air before throwing me back an air kiss.
“What should I tell the caroling friends you invited here to dinner tonight?”
“Tell them merry Christmas!” I called out as I left.
Langston was asleep again when I got home. I llled his water glass and left some Tylenols by his bed and went to my own room to read the notebook in private.
At last I had it—the Christmas present I’d wanted all along, but hadn’t realized. His words.
I felt a sense of longing for him such as I’ve never experienced in my lifetime for any person, or even for any pet.
It seemed weird to me that he’d spent his Christmas alone … and had seemed to like it. He hadn’t seemed to think anyone should feel sorry for him about that, either.
I had spent my Christmas mostly alone for the first time in my life, too.
I had felt rather sorry for myself.
But it hadn’t been so terrible, actually.
In the future, I decided I would tackle the solitude thing more enthusiastically, so long as solitude meant I could also walk in the park and pet a few dogs and pass them treats.
What did you get for Christmas? he asked me in the notebook.
I wrote:
We didn’t do presents this year at Christmas. We’re saving it for New Year’s. (Long story. Maybe you’d like to hear it in person sometime?) But I couldn’t concentrate on writing in the notebook. I wanted to live inside it, not write in it.
But I couldn’t concentrate on writing in the notebook. I wanted to live inside it, not write in it.
What kind of girl did Snarl think I was, sending me to a music club in the middle of the night?
My parents would never let me go.
But they weren’t here to say no.
I returned to the notebook. I liked what you said, my nameless new friend. Are we that? Friends? I hope so. Only for a friend would I consider going out at TWO IN THE MORNING on Christmas night—or any night, for that mat er. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, so much as … I don’t really go out that much. In that teenager kind of way. Is that okay?
I’m not sure how this Being a Teenager thing is supposed to work. Is there an instruction manual? I think I have the moody muscle installed, but I don’t ex it that often. More times I feel so llled with LOVE for the people I know—and even more so for the dogs I walk in Tompkins Square Park—that I feel like I could well up like a giant ball oon and y away. Yes, that much love. But other teenagers?
Historically, I haven’t always related so much. In seventh grade, my parents made me join my school’s soccer team to force me to socialize with other girls my age. It turns out I was pret y good at soccer, but not so great at the socializing part. Don’t worry—it’s not like I am a complete freak of nature that nobody talks to. It’s more like the other girls talk to me, but after a while they’ll sort of look at me like,
“HUH? What did she just say?” Then they go o into their groups, where I’m pret y sure they speak a secret language of popularity, and I go back to kicking the ball by myself and having imaginary conversations with my favorite dogs and literary characters. Everyone wins.
I don’t mind being the odd girl out; it’s kind of a relief, maybe. In the language of soccer, however, I am highly uent. That’s what I like about sports. No mat er if everyone playing the game speaks completely di erent languages, on the eld, or the court, wherever they are playing, the language of moves and passes and scores is all the same. Universal.
Do you like sports? I don’t imagine you being the sporty type. I KNOW! Your name is Beckham, isn’t it?
“You’ll have to nd out for yourself,” she said. Aside from being snarly, Snarl must not be a total monster, because if he was, no way would Mrs. Basil E. have signed on as an accessory to the latest instal ment.
Into the kitchen we went.
Mrs. Basil E. and I cooked and sang till six while workers around us did the same, preparing the grand house for its grand feast. I kept wanting to shriek, WHAT IF HE DOESN’T RETURN THE NOTEBOOK? But I didn’t. Because my great-aunt didn’t seem too concerned. Like she had faith in him, and so should I.
Finally, at seven that night—perhaps the looooongest wait of my life ever—the Dyker Heights contingent of the family arrived. Uncle Carmine and his wife and their massive brood came in loaded with presents.
I didn’t bother to open mine. Uncle Carmine still thinks I’m eight and gives me American Girl doll accessories. Which I still love, by the way, but it’s not exactly like there’s a mystery about what’s inside his wrapped gift boxes for me. So I asked him, “Do you have it?” Uncle Carmine said, “It’ll cost you.” He turned his cheek to me. I gave his cheek a Christmas kiss. The toll paid, he pulled the red notebook from his goody bag of presents and handed it to me.
Suddenly I didn’t see how I could survive one more second without absorbing the latest contents in the notebook. I needed to be alone.
“Bye, everyone!” I chirped.
“Lily!” Mrs. Basil E. scolded. “You can’t possibly think you’re leaving.”
“I forgot to tell you I’m not really talking to anyone today! I’m more or less on strike! So I wouldn’t be very good company! And since Langston’s sick at home, I should probably check on him.” I threw her a kiss from my hand. “Mwahhh!” She shook her head. “That child,” she said to Carmine. “Kooky.” She threw her hands up in the air before throwing me back an air kiss.
“What should I tell the caroling friends you invited here to dinner tonight?”
“Tell them merry Christmas!” I called out as I left.
Langston was asleep again when I got home. I llled his water glass and left some Tylenols by his bed and went to my own room to read the notebook in private.
At last I had it—the Christmas present I’d wanted all along, but hadn’t realized. His words.
I felt a sense of longing for him such as I’ve never experienced in my lifetime for any person, or even for any pet.
It seemed weird to me that he’d spent his Christmas alone … and had seemed to like it. He hadn’t seemed to think anyone should feel sorry for him about that, either.
I had spent my Christmas mostly alone for the first time in my life, too.
I had felt rather sorry for myself.
But it hadn’t been so terrible, actually.
In the future, I decided I would tackle the solitude thing more enthusiastically, so long as solitude meant I could also walk in the park and pet a few dogs and pass them treats.
What did you get for Christmas? he asked me in the notebook.
I wrote:
We didn’t do presents this year at Christmas. We’re saving it for New Year’s. (Long story. Maybe you’d like to hear it in person sometime?) But I couldn’t concentrate on writing in the notebook. I wanted to live inside it, not write in it.
But I couldn’t concentrate on writing in the notebook. I wanted to live inside it, not write in it.
What kind of girl did Snarl think I was, sending me to a music club in the middle of the night?
My parents would never let me go.
But they weren’t here to say no.
I returned to the notebook. I liked what you said, my nameless new friend. Are we that? Friends? I hope so. Only for a friend would I consider going out at TWO IN THE MORNING on Christmas night—or any night, for that mat er. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, so much as … I don’t really go out that much. In that teenager kind of way. Is that okay?
I’m not sure how this Being a Teenager thing is supposed to work. Is there an instruction manual? I think I have the moody muscle installed, but I don’t ex it that often. More times I feel so llled with LOVE for the people I know—and even more so for the dogs I walk in Tompkins Square Park—that I feel like I could well up like a giant ball oon and y away. Yes, that much love. But other teenagers?
Historically, I haven’t always related so much. In seventh grade, my parents made me join my school’s soccer team to force me to socialize with other girls my age. It turns out I was pret y good at soccer, but not so great at the socializing part. Don’t worry—it’s not like I am a complete freak of nature that nobody talks to. It’s more like the other girls talk to me, but after a while they’ll sort of look at me like,
“HUH? What did she just say?” Then they go o into their groups, where I’m pret y sure they speak a secret language of popularity, and I go back to kicking the ball by myself and having imaginary conversations with my favorite dogs and literary characters. Everyone wins.
I don’t mind being the odd girl out; it’s kind of a relief, maybe. In the language of soccer, however, I am highly uent. That’s what I like about sports. No mat er if everyone playing the game speaks completely di erent languages, on the eld, or the court, wherever they are playing, the language of moves and passes and scores is all the same. Universal.
Do you like sports? I don’t imagine you being the sporty type. I KNOW! Your name is Beckham, isn’t it?
