Instead, I was looking around the room and thinking: Of all the places I’ve been, this is the one that seems the most like a place that a red notebook would take me.
“Dash,” the old woman said. A simple statement, like she was holding my name in her hand, holding it out to me like I’d held out her boot.
“Yes?” I said.
“Yes?” she echoed.
“Do you think it’s time?” I asked.
She got up from her chair and said, “Let me make a phone call.”
twelve
(Lily)
December 26th
“Do you still kill gerbils?” I asked Edgar Thibaud.
We were standing outside the brownstone apartment building of some girl he goes to school with who was having a party that night.
From the street, we could see the party through the living room window. The scene looked very polite. No wild noises that one would expect to come from a teenager’s party boomed down to the street. We could see two parental types wandering through the living room, of ering juice boxes and Mountain Dews on silver trays, which may have explained the lack of noise, and the open curtains.
“This party’s gonna suck,” Edgar Thibaud said. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Do you still kill gerbils, Edgar Thibaud?” If he gave me a sarcastic answer back, our newly discovered truce would end as abruptly as it had started.
“Lily,” Edgar Thibaud said, oozing sincerity. He took my hand in his. My hand, now oozing sweat, quivered from his touch. “I’m so sorry about your gerbil. Truly. I would never knowingly harm a sentient being.” His lips placed a contrite peck on my knuckles.
I happen to know that Edgar Thibaud graduated from killing gerbils in rst grade to becoming one of those fourth-grade boys who use magnifying glasses to direct the sun to fry worms and other random insects in all eyways.
It is possibly true what Grandpa’s buddies have repeatedly told me: Teenage boys cannot be trusted. Their intentions are not pure.
This must be part of Mother Nature’s master plan—making these boys so irresistibly cute, in such a naughty way, that the purity of their intentions becomes irrelevant.
“Where would you rather go instead?” I asked Edgar. “I have to be home by nine or my grandpa will freak.” I’d lied to Grandpa a second time. I’d told him an emergency holiday soccer practice had been convened because our team was on a massive losing streak. Only because he was moping over that Mabel lady did he fall for it.
Edgar Thibaud answered in a baby voice. “Gwanpaah won’t wet wit le Wily stay up wate?”
“Are you being mean?”
“No,” he said, his face turning serious. “I salute you and your curfews, Lily. With apologies for the brief and unnecessary foray into baby talk. If you have to be home by nine, that probably only leaves us enough time for a movie. Have you seen Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer?”
“No,” I said.
I’m get ing good at this lying.
* * *
I am trying to embrace danger.
Once again, I found myself locked in a bathroom, communing with Snarl. The movie theater’s bathroom was a bit cleaner than the previous night’s music club’s, and the evening show meant the cinema wasn’t brimming with toddlers. But once again, life and action brimmed all around me, yet all I wanted to do was write in a red notebook.
Danger comes in many forms, I suppose. For some people, it might be jumping o a bridge or climbing impossible mountains. For others, it could be a tawdry love a air or telling o a mean-looking bus driver because he doesn’t like to stop for noisy teenagers. It could be cheating at cards or eating a peanut even though you’re all ergic.
For me, danger might be get ing out from under the protective cloak of my family and venturing into the world more on my own, even though I don’t know what—or who—awaits me. I wish you were part of this plan. But are you dangerous? Somehow I doubt it. I’m scared you’re just a figment of my imagination.
I think it’s time to experience life outside the notebook.
Edgar Thibaud whooped with laughter at fat Gramma on the screen as I returned to my seat. The movie was so stupid I had no choice but to xate my stare away from the screen and onto Edgar Thibaud’s biceps. He has some kind of magical muscle arms—not too bulky, not too skimpy. They’re cut just right. I was rather mesmerized.
The hand at ached to the end of Edgar’s arm decided to get frisky. His eyes never left the screen, but his hand discreetly landed on my thigh, while Edgar’s mouth continued to gu aw over the macabre massacre that was befalling Gramma on the screen as the reindeer’s tusks once again ran her over.
I couldn’t believe the boldness of the maneuver. (Reindeer’s and Edgar’s.) I was all for danger, but we hadn’t even kissed yet. (I mean, me and Edgar, not me and Reindeer. I love animals, but not that much.)
I’ve waited all my life for that first kiss. I wasn’t going to ruin it by allowing whole bases to be skipped.
“Ruf ruf ,” I barked at Edgar Thibaud as his hand drew circles over the embroidered poodle on my poodle skirt. I returned his hand to the armrest, the bet er perch from which I could return to admiring his bicep.
In the backseat of the cab home, I let Edgar unbut on my sweater and take it of me. I pulled my skirt down myself.
I was wearing my soccer shorts and shirt underneath the sweater and skirt in case Grandpa was waiting for me when I got home. I took a water bot le from my purse and wet my face and hair so I’d appear sweaty.