Basil E.’s. I found her outside, taking Boris around the block.
“Your parents have let you run free?” Mrs. Basil E. inquired.
“So to speak,” I said.
I of ered her the notebook.
“Assuming she’s up for the next adventure,” I said.
“You know what they say,” Mrs. Basil E. of ered. “Dull ness is the spice of life. Which is why we must always use other spices.” She went to take the notebook, but Boris beat her to it.
“Bad girl!” she chided.
“I’m pret y sure Boris is a boy,” I said.
“I’m pret y sure Boris is a boy,” I said.
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Basil E. assured me. “I just like to keep him confused.” Then she and Boris headed of with my future.
When Lily arrived at five o’clock, I could tell she was a lit le bit disappointed.
“Oh, look,” she said, gazing out at the Rockefeller Center ice rink. “Skaters. millions of them. Wearing sweaters from all fifty states.” My nerves were whirling to see her. Because, really, this was our rst shot at a semi-normal conversation, assuming no dogs or mothers intervened. And I wasn’t as good at semi-normal conversations as I was at ones that were writ en down, or adrenalized in a surreal moment. I wanted to like her, and I wanted her to like me, and that was more want than I’d saddled myself with in many a moon.
It’s up to you, not fate.
True. But it was also up to Lily.
That was the trickiest part.
I pretended to be hurt by her unenthusiastic reaction to my cliché destination. “You don’t want to hit the ice?” I said, pouting. “I thought it would be so romantic. Like in a movie. With Prometheus watching over us. Because, you know, what’s more t ing than Prometheus over an ice rink? I’m sure that’s why he stole the re for us in the rst place—so we could make ice rinks. And then, when we’re done skating on that tra c jam of an ice rink, we could go to Times Square and be surrounded by two million people without any bathrooms for the next seven hours. C’mon. You know you want to.”
It was funny. She clearly hadn’t known what to dress for, so she’d given up and just dressed for herself. I admired that. As well as the revulsion she couldn’t hide at the thought of us being not-at-all-alone in a crowd.
“Or …,” I said. “We could go with Plan B.”
“Plan B,” she said immediately.
“Do you like to be surprised, or would you rather anticipate?”
“Oh,” she said. “Definitely surprised.”
We started walking away from Prometheus in his ring. After about three steps, Lily stopped.
“You know what,” she said. “That was a total lie. I would much rather anticipate.” So I told her.
She slapped me on the arm.
“Yeah, right,” she said.
“Yeah,” I told her. “Right.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying … but say it again.”
So I said it again. And this time I took a key out of my pocket and dangled it in front of her eyes.
Boomer’s aunt is famous. I’m not going to name names, but it’s a name everyone knows. She has her own magazine. Practically her own cable network. Her own line of housewares at a major chain store. Her kitchen studio is world famous. And I happened to have the key for it in my hand.
I turned on all the lights, and there we were: in the center of the most glamorous baking palace in all of New York City.
“Now, what do you want to make?” I asked Lily.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “We can actually touch things.”
“This isn’t the NBC tour,” I assured her. “Look. Supplies. You are an ace baker, so you deserve ace raw material.” There were copper pots and pans of all sizes. Every sweet and/or salty and/or sour ingredient that U.S. Customs would allow.
Lily could hardly contain her glee. After a split second more of reticence, she started opening drawers, sizing up her options.
“That’s the secret closet,” I said, pointing to an out-of-the-way door.
Lily went right over and opened it.
“Whoa!” she cried.
It had been the most magical place for me and Boomer growing up. Now it was like I was eight again, and Lily was eight again. We both stood, awed supplicants in front of the bounty before us.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many boxes of Rice Krispies,” Lily said.
“And don’t forget the marshmal ows and the mix-ins. There’s every kind of marshmal ow, and every kind of mix-in.” Yes, for all of the oral arrangements Boomer’s aunt got just right, and all the wine tours given in her name, her favorite food just happened to be the Rice Krispie treat, and her goal in life was to perfect the recipe.
I explained this to Lily.
“Well, let’s get to it,” she said.
Rice Krispies are designed to be a clean food to make—no flour, no sifting, no baking.
And yet Lily and I made the mother of all messes.
Partly, it was the trial and error with the mix-ins—everything from peanut but er cups to dried cherries to one ill-advised foray into potato chips. I let Lily take the lead, and she in turn let her inner-baking freak out. Before I knew it, marshmal ows were melting everywhere, cereal boxes were toppled, and Rice Krispies were finding their way into our hair, our shoes, and—I had no doubt—our underwear.