I placed the dictionary back on the shelf, next to a hardcover edition of Contemporary Poets, as Mrs. Basil E., who is keen on reference books, returned to the parlor with a silver tray bearing a pot of what smelled like very strong cof ee.
“What have we learned, Lily?” Mrs. Basil E. asked me as she poured me a cup.
“Taking too many sips of other people’s drinks can lead to disastrous consequences.”
“Obviously,” she said imperiously. “But more importantly?”
“Don’t mix drinks. If you’re going to sip peppermint schnapps, only sip peppermint schnapps.”
“Thank you.”
Her calm observation was what I appreciated best about that small degree of separation between a parent or grandparent and a great-aunt.
The lat er could react sensibly, pragmatically, to the situation, without the complete and wholly unnecessary hysteria that would have befal en the former.
“What did you tell Grandpa?” I asked.
“That you came over last night to have dinner with me, but I asked you to stay over to shovel the snow from my sidewalk in the morning.
Which is entirely true, even if you slept through dinner.”
“Snow?” I pulled back the heavy brocade drapery and looked out the front window to the street.
SNOW! ! ! ! ! ! !
I had forgot en about the previous evening’s promise of snow. And darned if I hadn’t slept through it, conked out on too many sips and too many hopes—dashed (so to speak). All my own fault.
The morning’s view onto the street of Gramercy town houses was blanketed with snow, at least two inches deep—not a lot, but enough for a good snowman. The accumulation still appeared gloriously new, the street a blanket of white, with cot ony tufts heaped on cars and sidewalk railings. The snow had yet to lose its luster to multiple foot tramplings, yellow dog markings, and the scars of engine fumes.
My clut ered brain formed a vague idea.
“May I build a snowman in the back garden?” I asked Mrs. Basil E.
“You may. Once you shovel my front sidewalk. Good thing you got my other boot returned to you, eh?” I sat down opposite my great-aunt and took a sip of cof ee.
“Do pancakes come with this cof ee?” I asked.
“I wasn’t sure whether you’d be hungry.”
“Starving!”
“I thought you might have woken up with a headache.”
“I did! But the good kind!” My head was pounding, but it was a light, giddy tap in my temples as opposed to a thunderous roar across my whole head. For sure some pancakes doused in maple syrup would do the job of relieving the headache, and the hunger. Since I’d skipped dinner the previous night, I had lots of eating to make up.
Despite the minor headache and hungry tummy, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction.
I had done it. I had embraced danger.
The experience might have been an epic disaster, but it was still … an experience.
Cool.
“Dash,” I murmured over a heaping pile of pancakes. “Dash Dash Dash.” I needed to absorb his name while the pancakes absorbed the but er and syrup. As it was, I could barely recall what he looked like; my memory’s image of him was shrouded in a champagne-colored mist, sweet and woozy, unclear. I remembered that he was on the tall side, his hair looked neat and freshly combed, he wore regular jeans and a sweet and woozy, unclear. I remembered that he was on the tall side, his hair looked neat and freshly combed, he wore regular jeans and a peacoat, possibly vintage, and he smelled like boy, but in the nice and not gross way.
Also he had the bluest eyes ever, and long black lashes almost like a girl’s.
“Dash, short for Dashiell,” Mrs. Basil E. said, passing me a glass of OJ.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked.
“Precisely.”
“I guess it’s not going to be true love between him and me,” I realized.
“True love? Pish posh. A concept manufactured by Holl ywood.”
“Ha-ha. You said pish posh.”
“Mish mosh,” she added.
“Put a kibosh on that nosh.”
“Enough, Lily.”
I sighed. “So I guess I blew it with him?”
Mrs. Basil E. said, “I think it will be hard to recover from that rst impression you made on him. But I’d also say if anyone deserves a second chance, it’s you.”
“But how do I get him to give me a second chance?”
“You’ll figure something out. I have faith in you.”
“You like him,” I teased.
Mrs. Basil E. pronounced, “I nd young Dashiel to be not contemptible, for a specimen of teenage male. His persnicketiness is not nearly as delightful as he’d have one believe, but he has his own charm nonetheless. Articulate to a fault, perhaps—but a forgivable and, dare I say, an admirable misdemeanor.”
I had no idea what she just said.
“So he’s worth a second shot, then?”
“The more apt question, my dear, is: Are you?”
She had a good point.
Just as much, if not more than, a hero as that stapler in Coll ation, Dash had not only brought me my other boot when my toes were wanting to turn frostbit en, he’d placed that boot on me when I’d passed out, and he’d made sure I got home safely. What had I done for him, except probably dashed his hopes, too?
I hoped I’d apologized to him.
I texted that rascal of a gerbil killer, Edgar Thibaud.