Dash & Lily's Book of Dares
Page 25
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The Nutcracker House was not hard to nd—the nutcracker soldiers held sentry at least fteen feet into the sky as the Rat King threatened the festivities and Clara danced through the night. I looked for a scroll in her hand, or a card on the top of one of the light-strung presents.
Then I saw it on the ground—a light-dappled walnut the size of a basketball that had been cracked open just far enough to reach into.
The note I found inside was brief and clear.
Tell me what you see.
So I sat on the curb and told her about the contradictions, about the waste and the joy. Then I told her that I preferred the quiet demonstrations of a well-stocked bookshelf to the voltage of this particular street. Not that one was wrong and the other was right—it was just a mat er of preference. I told her that I was glad Christmas was over, and then I told her why. I looked around some more, tried to see everything, just so I could tell it to her. The yawn of a three-year-old, tired despite his happiness. The elderly couple from the train who’d nally completed the walk to the block—I imagined they’d been doing this for years, and that they saw both the houses in front of them and all the houses from the past. I imagined each of their sentences started with the phrase Remember the time.
Then I told her what I didn’t see. Namely, that I didn’t see her.
You could be standing a few feet away—Clara’s dance partner, or across the street taking a picture of Rudolph before he takes ight. I could have sat next to you on the subway, or brushed beside you as we went through the turnstiles. But whether or not you are here, you are here
—because these words are for you, and they wouldn’t exist if you weren’t here in some way. This notebook is a strange instrument—the player doesn’t know the music until it’s being played.
I know you want to know my name. But if I told you my name, even just the rst name, you’d be able to go online and nd all of these inaccurate, incomplete depictions of me. (If my name were John or Michael, this would not be a problem.) And even if you swore up and down that you wouldn’t check, the temptation would always be there. So I’d like to remain at that one delicate remove, so you can get to know me without the distraction of other people’s noise. I hope that’s okay.
The next assignment on the do (or don’t) list is time sensitive—meaning, it would be best if you did it this very evening. Because at this club that changes names every month or so (I gave her the address), there is an all-nighter that is about to start. The theme (seasonally appropriate) is the Seventh Night of Hanukkah. The opener is some “jew re” band (Ezekial? Ariel?), and at about two in the morning, this g*y Jewish dancepop/indie/punk band called Silly Rabbi, Tricks Are for Yids will go on. Between the opener and the main act, look for the writing on the stall.
An all-nighter at a club wasn’t exactly my scene, so I knew I had a phone call or two to make before the plan would be complete. I quickly slipped the Moleskine into the walnut and took Snarly Muppet out of my backpack.
“Watch over this, will you?” I asked it.
And then I left it there, a small sentry among the nutcrackers.
eight
(Lily)
December 25th
I decided to give myself a Christmas present this year. I decided to spend the day only speaking to animals (real and stu ed), select humans as necessary so long as they weren’t my parents or Langston, and a Snarl in a red Moleskine notebook—if he returned it to me.
When I was old enough to read and write, my parents gave me an eraser board that I kept in my room at all times. The idea was that when frustrated, I, Lily, should write down words on the board to express my feelings instead of let ing she-devil Shrilly express them through shrieking. It was supposed to be a therapeutic tool.
I brought the eraser board out of retirement on Christmas morning when my parents phoned in for a video chat. I almost didn’t recognize them on the computer screen. The betrayers looked so healthy, tan, and relaxed. Completely not Christmasy.
“Merry Christmas, Lily darling!” Mom said. She was sit ing on the balcony of their cabana or whatever it was, and I could see the ocean lapping behind her. She looked ten years younger than when she left Manhat an a week earlier.
Dad’s glowing face wormed onto the screen next to Mom’s, blocking my ocean view.
“Merry Christmas, Lily darling!” he said.
I scribbled onto the eraser board and held it up to the computer screen for them to see: Merry Christmas to you, too.
Mom and Dad both frowned at the sight of the eraser board.
“Uh-oh,” Mom said.
“Uh-oh,” Dad said. “Is Lily Bear feeling a bit unset led today? Even though we’ve been preparing you for our anniversary trip since last Christmas, and you assured us you would feel okay having just this one Christmas without us?” I erased my last statement and replaced it with: Langston told me about the boarding school job.
Their faces fell.
“Put Langston on!” Mom demanded.
I wrote, He’s sick in bed. Asleep right now.
Dad said, “What’s his temperature?”
101.
Mom’s peeved face turned concerned. “Poor baby. On Christmas Day, too. It’s just as well we all agreed not to open presents until we get home on New Year’s Day. It wouldn’t be any fun with him sick in bed, now would it?” I shook my head. Are you moving to Fiji?
Dad said, “We haven’t decided anything. We’ll talk about it as a family when we get home.” Rapidly, my hands erased and re-scribbled.
Then I saw it on the ground—a light-dappled walnut the size of a basketball that had been cracked open just far enough to reach into.
The note I found inside was brief and clear.
Tell me what you see.
So I sat on the curb and told her about the contradictions, about the waste and the joy. Then I told her that I preferred the quiet demonstrations of a well-stocked bookshelf to the voltage of this particular street. Not that one was wrong and the other was right—it was just a mat er of preference. I told her that I was glad Christmas was over, and then I told her why. I looked around some more, tried to see everything, just so I could tell it to her. The yawn of a three-year-old, tired despite his happiness. The elderly couple from the train who’d nally completed the walk to the block—I imagined they’d been doing this for years, and that they saw both the houses in front of them and all the houses from the past. I imagined each of their sentences started with the phrase Remember the time.
Then I told her what I didn’t see. Namely, that I didn’t see her.
You could be standing a few feet away—Clara’s dance partner, or across the street taking a picture of Rudolph before he takes ight. I could have sat next to you on the subway, or brushed beside you as we went through the turnstiles. But whether or not you are here, you are here
—because these words are for you, and they wouldn’t exist if you weren’t here in some way. This notebook is a strange instrument—the player doesn’t know the music until it’s being played.
I know you want to know my name. But if I told you my name, even just the rst name, you’d be able to go online and nd all of these inaccurate, incomplete depictions of me. (If my name were John or Michael, this would not be a problem.) And even if you swore up and down that you wouldn’t check, the temptation would always be there. So I’d like to remain at that one delicate remove, so you can get to know me without the distraction of other people’s noise. I hope that’s okay.
The next assignment on the do (or don’t) list is time sensitive—meaning, it would be best if you did it this very evening. Because at this club that changes names every month or so (I gave her the address), there is an all-nighter that is about to start. The theme (seasonally appropriate) is the Seventh Night of Hanukkah. The opener is some “jew re” band (Ezekial? Ariel?), and at about two in the morning, this g*y Jewish dancepop/indie/punk band called Silly Rabbi, Tricks Are for Yids will go on. Between the opener and the main act, look for the writing on the stall.
An all-nighter at a club wasn’t exactly my scene, so I knew I had a phone call or two to make before the plan would be complete. I quickly slipped the Moleskine into the walnut and took Snarly Muppet out of my backpack.
“Watch over this, will you?” I asked it.
And then I left it there, a small sentry among the nutcrackers.
eight
(Lily)
December 25th
I decided to give myself a Christmas present this year. I decided to spend the day only speaking to animals (real and stu ed), select humans as necessary so long as they weren’t my parents or Langston, and a Snarl in a red Moleskine notebook—if he returned it to me.
When I was old enough to read and write, my parents gave me an eraser board that I kept in my room at all times. The idea was that when frustrated, I, Lily, should write down words on the board to express my feelings instead of let ing she-devil Shrilly express them through shrieking. It was supposed to be a therapeutic tool.
I brought the eraser board out of retirement on Christmas morning when my parents phoned in for a video chat. I almost didn’t recognize them on the computer screen. The betrayers looked so healthy, tan, and relaxed. Completely not Christmasy.
“Merry Christmas, Lily darling!” Mom said. She was sit ing on the balcony of their cabana or whatever it was, and I could see the ocean lapping behind her. She looked ten years younger than when she left Manhat an a week earlier.
Dad’s glowing face wormed onto the screen next to Mom’s, blocking my ocean view.
“Merry Christmas, Lily darling!” he said.
I scribbled onto the eraser board and held it up to the computer screen for them to see: Merry Christmas to you, too.
Mom and Dad both frowned at the sight of the eraser board.
“Uh-oh,” Mom said.
“Uh-oh,” Dad said. “Is Lily Bear feeling a bit unset led today? Even though we’ve been preparing you for our anniversary trip since last Christmas, and you assured us you would feel okay having just this one Christmas without us?” I erased my last statement and replaced it with: Langston told me about the boarding school job.
Their faces fell.
“Put Langston on!” Mom demanded.
I wrote, He’s sick in bed. Asleep right now.
Dad said, “What’s his temperature?”
101.
Mom’s peeved face turned concerned. “Poor baby. On Christmas Day, too. It’s just as well we all agreed not to open presents until we get home on New Year’s Day. It wouldn’t be any fun with him sick in bed, now would it?” I shook my head. Are you moving to Fiji?
Dad said, “We haven’t decided anything. We’ll talk about it as a family when we get home.” Rapidly, my hands erased and re-scribbled.
