Dash & Lily's Book of Dares
Page 55
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“Oh, dear. You heard about the crimson alert?”
“Who didn’t?” I said.
He must not have seen my posted sign yet. Could I take it down before he reached that tree?
I tugged on Boris’s leash to turn us in the opposite direction, away from the Washington Square arch and toward downtown. For some unknown reason, the direction change calmed Boris down, and he switched from his full-on gall op to a mild trot.
Logically, based on what I knew of boys generally and speci cally of Dash, I would have expected Dash to bolt in the opposite direction at this point.
Instead, he asked, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can I come with?”
Seriously?
I said, “That’d be awesome. Where do you think we should go?”
“Let’s just wander and see what happens,” Dash said.
seventeen
–Dash–
December 29th
It was rather awkward, insofar as we were both teetering between the possibility of something and the possibility of nothing.
“So which way should we go?” Lily asked.
“I don’t know—which way do you want to go?”
“Either way.”
“You sure?”
She was de nitely more at ractive sober, as most people are. She had a winsome quality now—but smartly winsome, not vacuously winsome.
“We could go to the High Line,” I said.
“Not with Boris.”
Ah, Boris. He seemed to be losing patience with us.
“Is there a certain dog-walking route you take?” I asked.
“Yes. But we don’t have to take it.”
Stasis. Total stasis. Her sneaking peeks at me. Me sneaking peeks at her. Teeter teeter teeter.
Finally, one of us was decisive.
And it wasn’t me or Lily.
It was as if a dog-whistle orchestra had suddenly struck up the 1812 Overture. Or a parade of squirrels had marched into the other side of Washington Square Park and started to rub themselves with oil. Whatever the provocation, Boris was o like a shot. Lily was caught o balance, dragged onto a sleety patch, and knocked from her footing entirely. The bag of poop went ying in the air. Much to my deep delight, as Lily fell, she let out a raucous “MOTHERSUCKER!”—a curse I had not heretofore heard.
She landed gracelessly, but without injury. The bag of poop narrowly missed popping her on the temple. Meanwhile, she had let go of Boris’s leash, which I foolishly grabbed for and caught. Now I was the one who had the sensation of water-ski ng over pavement.
“Stop him!” Lily yelled, as if there were some but on I could press that would shut the dog down. Instead, I simply added worthless ball ast as he charged forth.
It was clear he had a target in mind. He was storming toward a group of mothers, stroll ers, and kids. With horror, I saw he’d zeroed in on the most vulnerable prey around—a kid wearing an eye patch, chomping on an oat bar.
“No, Boris. No!” I cried.
But Boris was going to go his own way, whether I was on board or not. The kid saw him coming and unleashed a shriek that was, frankly, more appropriate to a girl half his age. Before his mother could whisk him out of harm’s way, Boris had barreled into him and knocked him down, pulling me in his wake.
“I’m so sorry,” I said as I tried to pull Boris to a stop. It was like playing tug-of-war with a garden party of NFll linebackers.
“It’s him!” the boy squealed. “IT’S THE ATTACKER!”
“Are you sure?” a woman I could only assume was his mother asked.
The boy lifted his eye patch, revealing a perfectly good eye.
“It’s him. I swear,” he said.
Another woman came over with what looked like a wanted poster with my face on it.
“CRIMSON ALERT!” she yelled into the air. “WE ARE UPGRADING FROM MANGO!”
Another mother, about to take her baby out of its stroller, let go in order to blow a whistle—four short bursts, which I had to imagine corresponded to crimson.
The whistle blowing was not a wise idea. Boris heard it, turned, and charged.
The woman jumped out of the way. The stroller could not. I ung myself to the ground, trying to make myself as heavy as possible. Boris, confused, crashed right into the stroller, dislodging the baby inside. In slow motion, I saw it fly up, a shocked expression on its docile face.
I wanted to close my eyes. There was no way I could get to the baby in time. We were all paralyzed. Even Boris stopped to watch.
In the corner of my eye: movement. A cry. Then the most magni cent sight: Lily ying through the air. Hair streaming. Arms outstretched.
Entirely unaware of how she looked, only aware of what she was doing. A ying leap. An honest, bona de ying leap. There wasn’t any panic on her face. Only determination. She got herself under that baby, and she caught it. As soon as it landed in her arms, it started to wail.
“My God,” I murmured. I had never seen anything so transfixing.
I thought the crowd would break into applause. But then Lily, recovering from her flying leap, took a few extra steps, and a mother behind me yelled, “Child stealer! Stop her!”
Mothers and other bystanders all had their cell phones out. Some in the mommy circle were arguing over who would send out the crimson alert and who would call the police. Lily, meanwhile, was still in her golden moment, unaware of the fuss. She was holding on to the baby, trying to calm it down after its traumatic flight.
trying to calm it down after its traumatic flight.
“Who didn’t?” I said.
He must not have seen my posted sign yet. Could I take it down before he reached that tree?
I tugged on Boris’s leash to turn us in the opposite direction, away from the Washington Square arch and toward downtown. For some unknown reason, the direction change calmed Boris down, and he switched from his full-on gall op to a mild trot.
Logically, based on what I knew of boys generally and speci cally of Dash, I would have expected Dash to bolt in the opposite direction at this point.
Instead, he asked, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can I come with?”
Seriously?
I said, “That’d be awesome. Where do you think we should go?”
“Let’s just wander and see what happens,” Dash said.
seventeen
–Dash–
December 29th
It was rather awkward, insofar as we were both teetering between the possibility of something and the possibility of nothing.
“So which way should we go?” Lily asked.
“I don’t know—which way do you want to go?”
“Either way.”
“You sure?”
She was de nitely more at ractive sober, as most people are. She had a winsome quality now—but smartly winsome, not vacuously winsome.
“We could go to the High Line,” I said.
“Not with Boris.”
Ah, Boris. He seemed to be losing patience with us.
“Is there a certain dog-walking route you take?” I asked.
“Yes. But we don’t have to take it.”
Stasis. Total stasis. Her sneaking peeks at me. Me sneaking peeks at her. Teeter teeter teeter.
Finally, one of us was decisive.
And it wasn’t me or Lily.
It was as if a dog-whistle orchestra had suddenly struck up the 1812 Overture. Or a parade of squirrels had marched into the other side of Washington Square Park and started to rub themselves with oil. Whatever the provocation, Boris was o like a shot. Lily was caught o balance, dragged onto a sleety patch, and knocked from her footing entirely. The bag of poop went ying in the air. Much to my deep delight, as Lily fell, she let out a raucous “MOTHERSUCKER!”—a curse I had not heretofore heard.
She landed gracelessly, but without injury. The bag of poop narrowly missed popping her on the temple. Meanwhile, she had let go of Boris’s leash, which I foolishly grabbed for and caught. Now I was the one who had the sensation of water-ski ng over pavement.
“Stop him!” Lily yelled, as if there were some but on I could press that would shut the dog down. Instead, I simply added worthless ball ast as he charged forth.
It was clear he had a target in mind. He was storming toward a group of mothers, stroll ers, and kids. With horror, I saw he’d zeroed in on the most vulnerable prey around—a kid wearing an eye patch, chomping on an oat bar.
“No, Boris. No!” I cried.
But Boris was going to go his own way, whether I was on board or not. The kid saw him coming and unleashed a shriek that was, frankly, more appropriate to a girl half his age. Before his mother could whisk him out of harm’s way, Boris had barreled into him and knocked him down, pulling me in his wake.
“I’m so sorry,” I said as I tried to pull Boris to a stop. It was like playing tug-of-war with a garden party of NFll linebackers.
“It’s him!” the boy squealed. “IT’S THE ATTACKER!”
“Are you sure?” a woman I could only assume was his mother asked.
The boy lifted his eye patch, revealing a perfectly good eye.
“It’s him. I swear,” he said.
Another woman came over with what looked like a wanted poster with my face on it.
“CRIMSON ALERT!” she yelled into the air. “WE ARE UPGRADING FROM MANGO!”
Another mother, about to take her baby out of its stroller, let go in order to blow a whistle—four short bursts, which I had to imagine corresponded to crimson.
The whistle blowing was not a wise idea. Boris heard it, turned, and charged.
The woman jumped out of the way. The stroller could not. I ung myself to the ground, trying to make myself as heavy as possible. Boris, confused, crashed right into the stroller, dislodging the baby inside. In slow motion, I saw it fly up, a shocked expression on its docile face.
I wanted to close my eyes. There was no way I could get to the baby in time. We were all paralyzed. Even Boris stopped to watch.
In the corner of my eye: movement. A cry. Then the most magni cent sight: Lily ying through the air. Hair streaming. Arms outstretched.
Entirely unaware of how she looked, only aware of what she was doing. A ying leap. An honest, bona de ying leap. There wasn’t any panic on her face. Only determination. She got herself under that baby, and she caught it. As soon as it landed in her arms, it started to wail.
“My God,” I murmured. I had never seen anything so transfixing.
I thought the crowd would break into applause. But then Lily, recovering from her flying leap, took a few extra steps, and a mother behind me yelled, “Child stealer! Stop her!”
Mothers and other bystanders all had their cell phones out. Some in the mommy circle were arguing over who would send out the crimson alert and who would call the police. Lily, meanwhile, was still in her golden moment, unaware of the fuss. She was holding on to the baby, trying to calm it down after its traumatic flight.
trying to calm it down after its traumatic flight.
