The meter on the cab read $6.50 and 8:55 p.m. as we pulled up to the curb in front of my building.
Edgar leaned into me. I knew it could be about to happen.
I don’t delude myself that the rst real kiss I experience will lead to a happily ever after. I don’t believe in any of that Prince Charming nonsense. I also don’t delude myself that I’d wish for it to happen in the backseat of a smelly taxi.
Edgar whispered in my ear, “Do you have money for your half of the fare? I’m kind of broke and won’t have enough for the driver to drop me of after you otherwise.” His index finger quickly brushed across my neck.
I shoved him away, even though I longed for more of his touch. But not in a taxi, for goodness’ sake!
I gave Edgar Thibaud five dollars, and a million silent curses.
Edgar’s mouth moved thisclose to mine. “I’ll get the fare next time,” he murmured. I turned my cheek to him.
“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you, Lily?” Edgar Thibaud said.
I ignored his sleek bicep peeking at me from under his snug sweater.
“You did kill my gerbil,” I reminded him.
“I love a hunt, Lily.”
“Good.”
I stepped out of the cab and shut the door.
“Just like that reindeer loved a hunt!” Edgar called out to me from the window as the cab moved toward its next destination.
December 27th
Where ARE you?
It seemed I was destined to commune by notebook with Snarl most frequently while I was lodged in bathrooms.
This day’s bathroom was at an Irish pub on East Eleventh Street in Alphabet City. It was one of those pubs that are more family places during the day and become watering holes at night. I was there during the day, so Grandpa could relax.
I hadn’t wanted to lie to Grandpa again, so I’d told him the truth—that I was meeting my Christmas caroling group for a reunion. We were going to sing “Happy Birthday” to angry Aryn, the vegan riot grrrl, whose twenty-first birthday was December 27.
I didn’t mention the part to Grandpa about how I’d texted Edgar Thibaud to meet me there, too. Grandpa hadn’t asked me whether Edgar Thibaud would be at the birthday party; therefore, I had not lied to him.
Since it was Aryn’s twenty- rst birthday, my caroling troupe had taken up drinking songs instead of traditional Christmas hymns to usher in her legal drinking age. The group was on its fourth round of beers by the time I arrived. And Mary McGregor / Well, she was a pret y whore, they sang. Edgar had yet to appear. When I heard the dirty words being sung, I quickly excused myself to the bathroom and opened the familiar red notebook to write a new entry.
But what was there left to say?
I still wore the one boot and one sneaker, just in case Snarl should nd me, but if I was going to face danger head-on, I probably had to acknowledge that in forget ing to return the red notebook, I’d blown it with Snarl. I’d have to set le on the brand of danger Edgar Thibaud of ered as my most promising consolation prize.
My phone rang, displaying a photo of a certain house in Dyker Heights decked out in celestial orbit Christmas lights. I answered. “Happy two days after Christmas, Uncle Carmine.” I realized I’d taken the notebook back from him on Christmas Day, and yet never asked him for any clues about Snarl. “Did you ever get a look at the boy who returned the red notebook at your house?”
“I might have, Lily bear,” Uncle Carmine said. “But that’s not what I called to talk to you about. I heard your grandpa came back from Florida early and that things didn’t go so well down there. Is this true?”
“True. Now, about that boy …”
“I didn’t get any information about him, sweetheart. Although the kid did do a curious thing. You know the giant nutcracker we place on the lawn, near the fifteen-foot red soldier?”
“Lieutenant Clif ord Dog? Sure.”
“Well, when your mystery friend left behind the red notebook, he also deposited something else. The most but -ugly puppet I’ve ever seen.”
Snarl couldn’t have. Did he?
“Did it look like an early Beatle who’d got en a makeover for a Muppet movie?” Uncle Carmine said, “You could say that. A really bad makeover.”
Another call rang on my cell, this time displaying my favorite picture of Mrs. Basil E. sit ing in the grand library of her brownstone, legs crossed, drinking from a teacup. What could Great-aunt Ida want to discuss right now? She probably also wanted to talk about Grandpa, when I had much more important things on my mind—like that I’d just learned Snarly Muppet, whom I had personally, lovingly, crafted for Snarl, had been recklessly abandoned by him inside a nutcracker!
I ignored Mrs. Basil E.’s phone call and said to Uncle Carmine, “Yeah. Grandpa. Depressed. Please visit him and tell him to stop asking me where I’m going all the time. And could you return the beautiful puppet to me next time you come into the city?” where I’m going all the time. And could you return the beautiful puppet to me next time you come into the city?”
“ ‘I love you, yeah yeah yeah,’ ” Uncle Carmine responded.
“I’m very busy,” I told Uncle Carmine.
“ ‘She’s got a ticket to ride,’ ” Uncle Carmine sang. “ ‘But she don’t care!’ ”
“Call Grandpa. He’ll be glad to hear from you. Mwah and goodbye.” I couldn’t help but add one last thing. “ ‘Good day, sunshine,’ ” I sang to Uncle Carmine.