Grandpa didn’t look me in the eyes. “You’re grounded,” was all he said. Then he stood up, grabbed on to his cane, and hobbled away from me.
Seeing his back turn on me was the worst punishment I could have imagined. The one that tore my heart.
—
When I was reunited with my phone in the new temporary prison that was my room, I saw the text from Dash. Welcome back. I missed you.
I missed you, too, I answered.
I fell asleep clutching my phone, with my dog and Grandpa’s cat keeping me warm. I wished the warmth had come from Dash-in-the-flesh holding me tight, and not Dash texting loud but saying nothing.
Thursday, December 18th
Edgar Thibaud was sitting at his usual table in Tompkins Square Park when I walked by with that day’s collection of dogs. He was playing chess with the park champion, an older gentleman named Cyril who has Rastafarian dreadlocks, matted with strands of gray hair, and who wears a beret he won off Edgar during a tournament last spring.
Edgar said, “?’Sup, Lily? Where’ve ya been? Haven’t seen you here or at the senior center this week.”
“The park’s not the same without you and your dogs,” said Cyril, contemplating a row of rooks on the chessboard.
“Smells better without those poop machines, though,” said Edgar. He eyed Boris accusingly. “Yeah, I’m looking at you, buddy.”
I never know with Edgar whether I want to strangle him or try to rehabilitate him.
“Don’t speak to my dog rudely, please,” I told Edgar. Boris barked in agreement.
“Are you coming to my party tonight?” Edgar asked me.
“What party?” I asked.
“My annual Christmas-sweater party.”
“You have an annual Christmas-sweater party?”
“Now I do. Parents are in Hong Kong, house to myself, Christmas-sweater collection just returned from dry cleaners. A party’s in order.”
“Can I bring Dash?” I asked Edgar.
“Do you have to?”
“Kind of.”
Edgar sighed. “I guess. Bring whomever you want. BYOB.”
“What’s BYOB?” I asked.
“Bring Your Own Boob!” said Cyril with a laugh.
“Believe me, she will,” said Edgar. “The boob’s name is Dash. But tell him to bring his own beer.”
“I don’t think Dash drinks beer.”
“Of course he doesn’t. God forbid he actually have fun sometime.”
—
“She was such a good girl before she met you,” Langston told Dash, who’d come to my house to pick me up for the party. I was grounded, but Langston was in charge during my parents’ absence. Not only was there a solid tradition of everything going wrong when Langston was in charge, but Langston also owed me for all the years when he was in high school and I covered for him when he broke curfew or snuck in boyfriends to spend the night.
“Says the man who suggested the red notebook last Christmas, leading Lily on her path to fallen woman,” said Dash.
Langston looked at me and pointed at Dash. “Now that is quality sarcasm.” He looked at Dash. “Have her home by midnight and spend the night if you want to.”
Dash’s and my faces both reddened, and we hastened out the door. “Take good care of Boris,” I said to my brother.
Once we were down on the street, Dash took my hand in his and we began walking. “So, Edgar Thibaud?” he said. “Seriously?” He didn’t say, Because I had better plans. Because tonight is the night I was going to finally surprise you with a date to see Corgi & Bess. I rented the whole theater out just for us, and our center seats are covered in rose petals, and there’s a donut tower cake with chocolate dripping down its sides there that I ordered for just us to enjoy. Just us! The ENTIRE donut cake!
I said, “Edgar has to work at Grandpa’s senior center. I see him in the park all the time when I’m dog-walking. He practically lives there.”
“You’re friends?”
“I guess?” I said.
“I’m confused why you never mentioned it.” He didn’t say, I’m outraged you never mentioned your friendship with Edgar! It makes me CRAZY to think of you hanging out with him. Everyone knows Edgar Thibaud is a world-class dawg in designer argyle, and I might have to, like, challenge him to a dual for your affection!
“Does it matter?” I asked. Please. Let it matter!
Dash shrugged. “Guess not.” Boys never say what you want them to. It’s probably the only lesson I’ve learned in life. “But we could go to your aunt’s instead. Mrs. Basil E. texted me to invite us to come over for dinner and play Cards Against Humanity after with her and Grandpa and—”
“You text with my great-aunt?”
“Yes. Does it matter?”
I shrugged. “Guess not.” Then: “Cards Against Humanity is such a rude game.” Mrs. Basil E. had never invited me to play that game with her before.
“I know. That’s why I love it.”
—
Finally. Good Lily was behind me.
Hello, Naughty Lily. You’re fun.