“ ‘I feel good in a special way,’ ” he answered.
And with that, our call ended. I saw that Mrs. Basil E. had left me a voice mail, but I didn’t feel like listening. I needed to mourn the end of the notebook, and of idealizing a Snarl who’d tossed aside my Snarly. Time to move on with my life.
I wrote a final entry in the notebook and closed it, perhaps for good.
I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep.
The party had moved to a garden table outside, at the back of the pub. The late-December day had nally turned appropriately wintry and chilly, and the group huddled now with hot toddies as their drinks of choice.
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, they sang. It was an especially nice song to sing—a soft, sweet one that matched the feeling in the air like when snow’s about to fall and the world feels quieter, and lovelier. Content.
Edgar Thibaud had arrived and joined the group while I was in the bathroom. As they sang “White Christmas,” he placed his st to his mouth and made a beat box of sound with it, rapping in “Go … snow … snow that Mary MacGregor ho,” over the carolers’ song. When he saw me approach the table, Edgar transitioned to join the carolers in their song, improvising, “Just like the Lily-white one I used to know …” When the song ended, angry Aryn said, “Hey, Lily. Your chauvinist, imperialist friend Edgar Thibaud?”
“Yes?” I asked, about to cover my ears with the red pom-poms on my hat in expectation of an epithet-laden rant from Aryn about one Edgar Thibaud.
“He’s got a decent baritone. For a man.”
Shee’nah, Antwon, Roberta, and Melvin raised their glasses to Edgar Thibaud. “To Edgar!” They clinked.
Aryn raised her glass. “It’s my birthday!”
The group raised glasses again. “To Aryn!”
Edgar Thibaud did the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday.” As he sang “Happy birthday to you! Happy bi i i rrrrrrthdayyyy …,” Edgar closed his eyes, nodded aimlessly, and placed his hands on the table to pretend he was a blind guy playing piano.
Aryn was surely wasted by this point, because the political incorrectness of such a performance normally should have made her insane.
Instead, she bell owed, “I want my birthday to be a national holiday.” She stood up on her chair and announced to everyone within earshot,
“Everybody, I give you the day of today!”
It seemed silly to remind her that most people already had the day of , since it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s.
“What are you drinking?” I asked Aryn.
“A candy cane!” she told me. “Try some!”
Since I was irting with danger, I took a sip of her drink. It did taste like a candy cane … only bet er! I could understand why my carolers had made a habit of passing the peppermint schnapps flask when we’d made our rounds in the weeks before Christmas.
Tasty.
I looked over to Edgar. He was taking a picture with his cell phone of my feet: one part majoret e boot, one part sneaker. “I’m sending out an all points bulletin to find your other boot,” Edgar said. He hit Send on the picture like he was a regular Gossip Girl.
The carolers laughed. “To Lily’s boot!” Glasses again clinked.
I wanted more Tasty. And Dangerous.
“I want to toast, too,” I said. “Who wants to let me sip their hot toddy?” As I reached over for Melvin’s glass, the red notebook fell out of my purse, which was still slung over my shoulder.
I left the notebook on the floor.
Why bother?
“Lil-eee! Lil-eee!” the group—and by now, the whole bar—cheered.
I danced on the table and sang out a punkier-than-Beatles line o’ lyric, gesturing a de ant st in the air: “ ‘It’s! Been! A! Long! Cold!
Lonely! Winter!’ ”
“ ‘Here comes the sun,’ ” sang back dozens of bar voices.
All it had taken was three sips of peppermint schnapps, four hot toddy sips, and ve sips of Shee’nah’s drink of choice, the Shirley Temple
—not!—to turn me into a veritable party girl. I felt changed already.
Since Christmas, so much had happened, all started by the notebook I’d decided to leave discarded on the barroom oor. I was now a girl
—no, a woman—transformed.
I had become a liar. A Lily bear who irted with a gerbil killer. A Mary MacGregor who after only six random sippies unbut oned the top two pearl but ons on her sweater to allow a glimpse of her cle**age.
But the real Lily—the way-too-tipsy-and-needing-to-nap-and/or-barf sixteen-year-old one—was also way out of her element in this birthday-party-turned-full-on-bash with party girl Lily at its center.
Winter’s early darkness had fall en; it was only six o’clock, but dark outside, and if I didn’t get home soon, Grandpa would come looking for me. But if I did go home, Grandpa would know I was mildly … mildly … inebriated. Even if I hadn’t ordered or been knowingly served for me. But if I did go home, Grandpa would know I was mildly … mildly … inebriated. Even if I hadn’t ordered or been knowingly served alcohol in the pub—I had only taken sips of others’ drinks. Grandpa might also find out about Edgar Thibaud. What to do?
A new group of people arrived in the bar and I knew I had to stop singing and dancing on the table before they, too, joined the party. I was in way over my head already.
The clock was running out. I jumped o my chair and pulled Edgar over to a secluded corner in the outdoor garden. I wanted him to explain how he was going to get me home, and not in trouble.