by Rachel Cohn
Grandpa said, “Agreed. Lily, tell me. What do you think you want to do with your life?”
That was such a big question and there were so many answers. I wanted to be with Dash. I wanted to be in service to others somehow. But above all, I knew: “I want to work with dogs, Grandpa. Maybe become a veterinarian?”
I didn’t think I really wanted to be a veterinarian, but it sounded very cool and like something a non-schmuck, totally responsible and mature person would state as a career desire.
Grandpa said, “I believe you’ll need an undergraduate degree for that.”
“Or a dog entrepreneur,” I said. “Dog-walking, dog crafts. That doesn’t require a degree.”
“But a business education sure would help,” said Grandpa.
Langston said, “Do you want to go to dog school in England because of Dash or because it’s the right school for you?”
“Maybe both?” I said. Maybe neither, I realized. This morning, I thought I was so clear on what I wanted. Now, this family ambush had me so confused. I had me so confused.
“I’ve tolerated this Dash long enough. I won’t have you moving to England for him,” said Grandpa. “I see why your mother is so angry.”
“It’s not your decision or hers to make,” I said. And finally, I said what I should have said to them all a very long time ago. “Dash is not someone who should be tolerated. You tolerate mediocre pizza or the subway running late, not people who are precious. Dash is here to stay. He’s the love of my life. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable because you’re not ready for your Lily Bear to fly the coop, but it’s a fact. And you should feel lucky I have someone like him for a boyfriend. Because he’s good, and kind, and funny, and wonderful. And he loves me for who I am, not for who he wants me to be, like you’re doing right now.”
There was a long silence.
Then, Grandpa said, “How about this, Lily? Don’t close the door on college—a proper college, not a Reddit whatsit—until you get home and we discuss it as a family. Will you do that for me? And I’ll promise not just to tolerate Dash, but accept him. I eventually did it for your father. I guess I can do it for Dash too.”
Grandpa looked so old but not at all frail, and I knew this was a battle I would not win by making a unilateral decision. There was agency—and there was family agency. I cared about both. “I will,” I said.
“Thank you, Lily Bear. Merry Christmas,” he said, and blew me a kiss from his side of the world.
“Call Mom,” Langston said. “Put her out of her misery.”
“I will,” I promised. I would. Later.
I took the remote from Mark’s hand to end the call. Before I could power off, Mark said, “She thinks she’s staying at a …” but I pressed the Off button before he could really rat me out. The rat.
I needed to apologize to Dash. Making out with him would be the best way to make up and would make me not sorry at all for what a jerk I’d been.
But my phone would not cooperate with my heart’s desire. After I left Mark’s, I tried texting Dash. I’m so sorry. Where are you? Every text I sent him bounced back as undeliverable. I tried tinkering with my phone settings. Same error messages. Yet I was able to receive texts from Sofia and Boomer.
From Sofia: I don’t know what happened, but I trust that you’re right and Dash is wrong. Forgive him and come join us before Boomer and I take off for Barcelona!
From Boomer: Where are you, Lily? Did a pack of dogs abduct you? If they did, where did they take you because I definitely want to see the doghouse for abductions?
Then I got a text from both Sofia and Boomer. You should be here.
Where are you? I texted Dash again. Undeliverable again.
I was about to text Sofia and Boomer back since Dash’s and my phones were clearly not talking to each other, when I got a text from Azra Khatun. I have an extra ticket for Hyde Park Winter Wonderland tonight. Want to join me?
I may have been the reason Christmas got canceled in New York, but in London, I was ready for it. I maybe never needed it more. Yes! I answered. I made a quick stop to drop off my backpack at the hotel, then recalibrated my destination to Hyde Park, and promptly forgot to answer Sofia and Boomer.
Finally! FINALLY! CHRISTMAAAAAAAASSSSSS!
“I’m so glad you could come,” said Azra as we strolled the most epic winter wonderland ever. In an annual tradition perhaps designed to make me fall in love with London even more, the city’s version (to my mind) of New York’s Central Park—Hyde Park—was converted into a winter wonderland for the holidays. There were fairground rides lit with twinkling fairy lights, a Santa’s grotto where elves and the fake fat man himself held residence, an actual ice slide for the kiddos to freeze themselves silly on, quaint Christmas markets, a circus, a huge outdoor ice rink, and a faux-Bavarian Village with music, food, and merriment. It was like Disneyland for Christmas. I was in heaven. I couldn’t decide which attraction I wanted to experience most; I was so content just to walk and experience the spectacle. Cheers to you, London! Azra added, “I’m surprised you weren’t with Dash, though?”
“I’m surprised, too,” I said. “We had a little fight. My fault. I keep trying to text him, but it keeps bouncing back.”
“It’s like the universe knows when couples need a break, I guess.”
If Dash knew how badly I wanted him to accompany me to the wonderland’s screening of Love Actually, one of his most hated movies, our relationship could turn rockier. I said, “Hopefully it’s just a temporary break. I definitely plan to make up with him. Hard.” I wanted to buy him a beautiful sweater. He wore them so well, but I enjoyed ripping them off him even more.
Azra laughed. I was in awe of her. She knew about places like Hyde Park Winter Wonderland, and she could stroll that huge park wearing skinny jeans and high-heeled shoes like it was nothing. I wouldn’t last one block in shoes that chic and pointy. “I’ll miss that,” Azra said. “The making up. I broke up with Olivier this morning.”
I stopped walking. “Seriously?”
She kept walking like she wasn’t perched on five-inch daggers. “Seriously. That’s why I had the extra ticket for tonight.”
“What happened?”
“I just decided I didn’t want to be in a relationship with him anymore. We’ve been more or less together for nearly two years but suddenly, this morning, I woke up and thought, I’m done.”
“Just like that?”
“It had been building for a while. Us going to Oxford together wasn’t the best idea. We both could have used more space. What finally did it, though, was we were talking on the phone late last night, as we often do, and he was talking about his aunt who is very proudly antifeminist. He was telling me how this aunt loved me because she said I wasn’t one of those young ‘woke’ feminists. And I said to Olivier, ‘But I am a feminist. I don’t know if I’d describe myself as ‘woke,’ but I try to be aware and respectful of others,’ and he cut me off and said, ‘You can be empowered and woke but if you wear a hijab, you’re not a feminist.’ And I realized, does he even know me at all? I told him, ‘Wearing a hijab is exactly what makes me a feminist. It’s freedom of choice. My choice. It’s a modesty that expresses humility and respect. It’s a reminder of my community. It’s a reminder to believe in myself and what I stand for. What’s more feminist than that?’ ”
“Like self-esteem based on your relationship with God?” I asked her.
Now she stopped walking. “Yes! I let it go when I talked to Olivier last night, but I was bothered. I barely slept. And this morning, after I showered and put on my scarf, I knew. It was over.”
“Are you sad?”
“Yes. And relieved. He’s a lot of work, that Olivier. He’s hypercompetitive, a bit pretentious. We’re about to go into a new year and I don’t feel like carrying that energy of his into it.”
“Are your parents happy?”
“They were surprised and tried very hard to disguise their glee.”
I spied
the entrance to the Bavarian Village nearby. “I think you need some delicious German treats. How about some lebkuchen cookies, my treat?”
“And a mocktail to go with them, please.”
We headed in that direction. I said, “I don’t know how you walk in those shoes. Do your feet hurt?”
“No. A girl I went to boarding school with, who did some modeling, taught me how to walk in heels. I’ve just been texting with her, actually. Your Dash’s ex, Sofia—”
“You know Sofia?”
“Yes!”
“You never mentioned you knew her before.”
“It never came up before. Does it matter?”
It really didn’t matter, and it was silly of me to feel jealous, once again, of perfect Sofia, whose skill set I’d now learned included modeling, and not only wearing high heels but mentoring others in how to do so. “Nah,” I said. “Was she perfect back then, too?”
“She was naughty! She had a Swiss boyfriend that she used to sneak out and see after curfew. She wouldn’t get back to our dorm until, like, four in the morning. I was such a proper girl and I was so scandalized and impressed. Then her family moved to New York and she dumped him. But the poor fellow. I don’t think she told him she was moving, because he would come to the dorms in the middle of the night and stand outside yodeling for her!”
“Yodeling ironically or for real?”
“We honestly never knew.”
Somehow this story made me like Sofia. And reminded me I still hadn’t answered Sofia’s and Boomer’s texts. But I was too distracted and delighted to bother with texts now. Azra and I had walked inside the Bavarian Village, which was strung with lights and filled with people laughing, drinking, and eating, and there, before us, was my Holy Grail of Christmas: a carol-oke bar for singing Christmas carols!
A waitress dressed in Bavarian costume approached us holding a tray shaped like a long ski, with container holes that had—“Shotski?” she asked us.
Azra said, “I don’t drink. Lily?”
“Sure, why not?” I said. The legal drinking age in England was eighteen. Enjoying this drink now could be like time-traveling to my twenty-first birthday in New York. The party would be legendary and could start now.
“Five quid,” the waitress said, and handed me a shot glass filled with a Scotch-colored liquid from the ski tray.
I gave the waitress a £5 note and took the glass. I didn’t sip it but drank it just as instructed—as a shot. And it felt like one—a shot directly to my heart, warming my body and reminding me what this Christmas had been missing for me all along. SONGS!
Three, four, five shotskis later? I don’t know, I lost count. I was the star of carol-oke and had a crowd of merrymakers joining me, with Azra laughing on the sidelines. I was perched center stage with a giant screen behind me broadcasting my face to the whole park as a new song came onto the carol-oke monitor. I sang aloud into the microphone.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year …
Before I could sing the next line, the microphone was grabbed from my hand. By Dash. Looking not happy at all, but scrumptious in his favorite old pea coat.
“Is it?” Dash asked the crowd.
twelve
December 22nd
It was, frankly, time for Hyde Park to go back to being Jekyll. Because the holidays had brought out its most festive beast from within.
At first, the state of Lily’s sobriety or lack thereof wasn’t entirely clear. Because, truth be told, Lily was a girl who could get completely drunk on caroling, no liquor needed. All it took were a few jingling chords for her Little Drummer Girl to take over the beat, and after that, it was all goodwill hunting. When she got into that zone, all I could do was step aside and give in to the sheer harmonious delight of it. Did I stop to observe the irony of a group of people loudly asking Do you hear what I hear when their voices would clearly drown out any other sound? Sure. Did I think the proper answer to the question Do they know it’s Christmas after all? was “Don’t you think it’s problematic that you’re rating their problems on a scale of a holiday that many of them don’t even celebrate? Don’t you think the lyric And there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmastime is possibly the most ridiculous piece of condescending, colonialist crap that has ever been committed to vinyl?!” It’s possible that thought has crossed my mind once or twice. But did I keep those thoughts inside and let the music fill the night without my commentary? Yes. Because I appreciated the spirit in which it was being sung.
So after I saw Boomer and Sofia off … after I made my way to Hyde Park amidst people wearing plush antlers without any sense of shame … after I found Lily by hearing her voice take a solo on “Santa Baby” … at first, I was inclined to hold off on any humbug. I wasn’t even peeved that the screen behind her would soon be showing a certain holiday “classic” (its title should really be Love … Actually Not).
No, what Scrooged me over was the fact that as Lily was out in front, giving a new song her all with a proclamation of the “hap-happiest season,” there were three drunk Santas behind her, elbowing the more earnest carolers out of the way and pretending to grab Lily’s ass.
Now, I knew there was no way I was going to be able to take on three drunk Santa bros without having to be carried away on a sleigh, so the best I could do was move Lily to safety while providing my own ass for them to ogle.
“Is it?” I said, taking the mic. “Is it really the most wonderful time of year when anyone can slap on a beard and cater to his own monstrous jolliness? So appropriate that Santa lives where he does, because so many of you Santas live and die by your own poles. Did you really need another excuse to act like drunken jerks? Did you have to create one more white-male myth where it’s the old white guy judging everyone and dispensing all the gifts? We all know who really buys those gifts, and that is a pretty strong argument for it being Mother Christmas in charge, no? Also, didn’t you get the memo that you’re supposed to be aiming for nice, not naughty? I’m not supposed to be able to smell the Christmas spirit on your breath, you jolly Saint Nickheads.”
“Get off the stage!” one of the Santas hollered.
“No, sir.” I turned to the more earnest carolers. “I think the stage should belong to the people who want to sing, not the people who want to dick around. Can I get an amen?”
“Amen!” the carolers yelled. Except, since they were British, it came out sounding like, “Why, yes, I think so, amen.”
The drunk Santas held fast, refusing to relinquish their positions.
“There’s only one thing to do,” I whispered to Lily. “You have to deploy ‘Silent Night.’ ”
She looked at me blankly. I realized that, since she’d been oblivious to the simulated groping, it looked to her like I was randomly picking a fight with Santa(s).
“Okay, then,” I said. And then, seeing no other way out of it, I began to sing… .
Silent night, holy night …
There were a few hiccups, but soon the earnest carolers were with me. The carol-oke machine was off. It was just us, singing into the night.
All is calm, all is bright …
There are many wonderful things about “Silent Night.” Somehow it calms everyone down like the divinest form of lullaby. Almost everyone knows the words, and because it’s quiet, you feel less self-conscious singing along. It feels timeless, but it also links to all of the other times you’ve heard it in your life. And, in this particular case, it is a song that it is impossible to be a raging jerk within. If you’re not part of the harmony, you have to cede the stage. As we moved into the first verse, the drunk Santas were disarmed.
I put the mic down—“Silent Night” doesn’t need any soloists. And as soon as I did, the earnest carolers gathered around me and Lily.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
The crowd hushed. It felt like the entire city hushed. A few people turned on the flashlights on their phones and waved them in the air like light
ers. Others waved lighters. The song was spinning its own magnificent constellations.
It would have been impossible to not be moved by it.
Lily, though, was more than moved. She was shaken. It was at that moment I realized she was, in fact, intoxicated by more than just the caroling. It wasn’t that tears had formed in her eyes; no, she was completely sing-sobbing, or sob-singing. This is what can happen when a song creates such a caesura; in the calmest pause, other emotions can surface. Especially if you’ve been drinking. The song unlocks the depths. The breath becomes the sob.
But we sang on, because the choir and the congregation were the same body right now, and that body was going to carry us to the final notes. The bad Santas had slunk away, and all that was left was the voices of the rest of us.
When it was over, there was a brief pause, the length of a good exhalation. Then there was a rousing cheer, and people started hugging and smiling. I hugged Lily close, but she would not stop crying.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I ruined Christmas,” she said. “I ruined everybody’s Christmas.”
“No, you didn’t,” I assured her.
“My family hates me.”
“No, they don’t.”
As we walked off the makeshift stage, Azra was waiting in the makeshift wings. Solo.
“What happened to your posh male accessory?” I asked. Then, seeing the expression on her face, I had to ask, “Has there been an Olivier twist?”
“Too soon,” Lily mumbled to me.
“Too late,” Azra said, followed by a sigh. “Olivier and I are no longer together.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Well,” Azra said, “neither did I.”
“It’s just so sad,” Lily told me.
“How many has she had?” I asked Azra.
“Plenty,” Azra replied. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I’m fine,” Lily said. “I can walk. I can do math in my head. Test me. Ask me the square root of something.”
