“Sure is! I hired Jacques Torres Chocolate to cater the party with hot chocolates and regular chocolates and chocolate chip cookies and—”
“People are going to be in a diabetic coma by the time they leave.”
“Hopefully! That’s how we know it’s a good party. Mrs. Basil E. always says, ‘The worse people feel the next day, the better the party.’?”
Dash smiled. Then frowned. “This must have cost a lot of money.”
“Only the catering. And the talent. It’s my pleasure.”
I don’t like to brag, but I’m quite wealthy. Not through my pauper academic parents, but because of my dog-walking business. My bank account has five numerals in it (barely), and that’s before the decimal point. The money is supposed to be my college fund. I’d rather spend it on Christmas.
“The talent?” Dash said.
“You’ll see,” I said. I handed him his pair of skates. “Let’s lace up.”
“True confession. I’m not a very good skater.”
“But you’re part Canadian!”
“My love for Arcade Fire is all I got from the Canada gene.”
I put my own skates on, then helped Dash with his. He stood up, wobbling, and I held on to him as we approached the rink. “You’re not going to believe the view,” I promised him.
I took his hand and led him to the rink. He really was a very bad skater. Overcautious, nervous, wobbly, until we reached the edge, and he saw the view. The Manhattan skyline to the north, co-headlined by the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, and to the west, the Hudson River and New Jersey (whatever). Below us, the High Line. “Incredible,” said Dash. “Even if the height kind of makes me want to throw up.”
“Merry Christmas,” I told him.
We barely had time for another kiss and to skate the loop of the rink before the talent arrived. They were there earlier than I’d originally planned, because the weather had turned from very cold to freezing, and drizzling, which meant freezing rain might be next, so I’d texted the entertainers to start immediately after Dash’s arrival.
Edgar Thibaud skated to the middle of the rink like a pro hockey player. I’d hired him to emcee. He held up celebratory sparklers in each of his hands and announced, “Ladies, gentlemen, distinguished librarians. Please join me in welcoming…the Rawkettes!”
The Rawkettes are a punk rock dance troupe started by my great-uncle Carmine’s dancer granddaughter, who decided to take all the experience from her failed Rockette auditions and use it to turn her stage act into a sideline more commensurate with her talent. The dancers in her group are also sci-fi fangirls, so for a while they were called the Spockettes and wore blue Rockette costumes designed like Starfleet uniforms, but after a lack of bookings, they recently changed their name to the Rawkettes, to try a new direction. This skate party was their first booking in their latest incarnation. Possibly their first booking ever.
“Is that Kerry-cousin?” Dash asked me as she took center stage with her troupe, all of them wearing “punk” outfits that looked more Ziggy Stardust than Sid Vicious. Lots of bright face glitter and gold-lamé 1970s-era pantsuits. I couldn’t wait to commend Mrs. Basil E. Dash was indeed so worthy of receiving the List! He recognized and also knew to call Great-Uncle Carmine’s granddaughter “Kerry-cousin,” to distinguish her in our family language from “Carrie-aunt” and “Kharie-neighbor,” and Cary Grant, whose name needs no quotations, and whose movies everyone adores.
“It is!” I said.
Edgar cued the music, and Kerry-cousin and her troupe began their dance interpretation of one of Dash’s favorite songs—“Calamity Song” by the Decemberists. Not a band I particularly like, except during the month of December, but I do like how their lyrics make no sense. Hetty Green / Queen of supply-side bonhomie bone-drab.
Dash looked at me like, No! and I looked at him like, Oh, heck yes!
It was amazing. All of Dash’s favorite things in one place. The High Line! Librarians! Hot chocolate! The Decemberists!
And then the rain really started to fall—in mean, icy pellets. “Now!” I beseeched Kerry-cousin. I wanted the Rawkettes to hurry the night’s grand finale before the rain did it for them. And so, holding Santa-present satchels, the Rawkettes skated around the rink, weaving in and out of librarians, and me and Dash, and Sofia and Boomer, and Edgar, throwing glitter into the air from inside their satchels. I’d wanted the night to end with an explosion of crystal color on the ice.
And for a moment, it was indeed a magical world of color, just like at Disneyland. The ice twinkled in pinks, greens, purples, golds, and silvers. But too quickly, I realized: The glitter shouldn’t have been twinkling. The sprays of glitter should have been more iridescent, like soft snow flurries.
Why was everyone suddenly falling down? Was it the freezing rain, or the glitter?