I got up from my seat and went outside the movie theater to get some peace and quiet in the lobby so I could nally read the notebook.
But two mommies returning from taking their toddlers to the pot y accosted me before I could dig in.
“I just love your boots. They’re adorable!”
“Where did you get that hat? Adorable!”
“I AM NOT ADORABLE!” I shrieked. “I’M JUST A LILY!”
The mommies stepped back. One of them said, “Lily, please tell your mommy to get you an Adderal prescription,” as the other tsk-tsk’d.
They quickly hustled their tykes back into the cinema and away from the Shrieking Lily.
I found a hiding place behind a huge, standing cardboard cutout advertisement for Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. I sat down cross-legged behind the cutout and opened the notebook. Finally.
His words made me so sad.
But they made me especially glad I’d got en up at four that morning to make him cookies. Mom and I had been making the dough all month and storing it in the freezer, so all I’d had to do was thaw out the various avors, place them in the cookie press, and bake. Voilà! I made a cornucopia tin of spritz cookies in all the available avors (a strong a rmation of faith that Snarl would be worthy of such e orts): chocolate snow ake, eggnog, gingerbread, lebkuchen spice, mint kiss, and pumpkin. I’d decorated the spritz cookies with appropriate sprinkles and candies according to each one’s flavor and wrapped a bow around the cookie tin.
I took out my headphones and tuned my iPod to Handel’s Messiah so I could concentrate on writing. I resisted the urge to mock-conduct with the pen in my hand. Instead, I answered Mystery Boy’s question.
My only bad Christmas was the year I was six.
That was the year that my pet gerbil died in a horrible incident at show-and-tell at school about a week before Christmas break.
I know, I know, it sounds funny. It wasn’t. It was actually a gruesome massacre.
I’m sorry, but despite your DON’T request, I must leave out the horrific details. The memory is still that vivid and upset ing to me.
The part that really scarred me—separate from the guilt and loss of my pet, of course—was that I earned a nickname after the incident. I had screamed like heck when it happened, but my rage, and grief, were so big, and real, even to such a lit le person, that I couldn’t make had screamed like heck when it happened, but my rage, and grief, were so big, and real, even to such a lit le person, that I couldn’t make myself STOP screaming. Anyone at school who tried to touch or talk to me, I just screamed. It was like basic instinct. I couldn’t help myself.
That was the week I became known at school as Shrilly. That name would stay with me through elementary and middle school, until my parents finally moved me to a private school for high school.
But that particular Christmas was my rst week as Shrilly. That holiday, I mourned not only the loss of my gerbil but also that bizarre kind of innocence that kids have, believing they can always fit in.
That was the Christmas I nally understood what I’d heard family members whisper in worry about me: that I was too sensitive, too delicate. Dif erent.
It was the Christmas I realized Shrilly was the reason I didn’t get invited to birthday parties, or why I always got picked last for teams.
It was the Christmas I realized I was the weird girl.
When I nished writing my answer, I stood up. I realized I had no idea what Mystery Boy had meant by telling me to leave the notebook behind Mama’s behind. Was I supposed to leave it on the stage in front of the screen showing the movie?
I looked over to the concession stand, wondering if I should ask for help. The popcorn looked especially yummy, so I went to get some, nearly knocking over the cardboard cutout in my hungry stomach’s sudden urgency. That’s when I saw it: Mama’s behind. I was already behind it. The cardboard cutout was a picture of the black man playing fat Mama, whose rear end was particularly huge.
I wrote new instructions into the notebook and placed it behind Mama’s behind, where no one would likely see it except for the one who came looking for it. I left the red Moleskine along with the box of cookies and a tourist postcard that had been stuck to a piece of gum on the floor in the movie theater. The postcard was from Madame Tussauds, my favorite Times Square tourist trap.
I wrote on the postcard:
What do you want for Christmas?
No, really, don’t be a smart aleck. What do you really really really supercalifragiwant?
Please leave information about that, along with the notebook, with the security lady watching over Honest Abe.*
Thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Lily
*PS Don’t worry, I promise the security guard won’t try to feel you up like Uncle Sall at Macy’s might have. I assure you that wasn’t sexual so much as he’s genuinely just a huggy kind of person.
PPS What is your name?
five
–Dash–
December 23rd
The doorbel rang at around noon, just when Gramma Got Run Over should have been get ing out. So my rst (admit edly irrational) thought was that somehow Lily had tracked me down. Her uncle in the CIA had run my ngerprints, and they were here to arrest me for impersonating someone worthy of Lily’s interest. I took a practice run for the perp walk as I headed over to the peephole. Then I peeped, and instead of finding a girl or the CIA, I saw Boomer shifting from side to side.
“Boomer,” I said.
“I’m out here!” he called back.
Boomer. Short for Boomerang. A nickname given to him not for his propensity to rebound after being thrown, but for his temperamental resemblance to the kind of dog who chases after said boomerang, time after time after time. He also happened to be my oldest friend—old in terms of how long we’d known each other, certainly not in maturity. We had a pre-Christmas ritual dating back to when we were seven of going to the movies together on the twenty-third. Boomer’s tastes hadn’t changed much since then, so I was pret y sure which movie he was going to choose.