The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily

by Rachel Cohn

  “I’ll never find it,” Edgar Thibaud whined. “Come help me.”

  “I’ll send you a link. I have to get to school.” I sighed. “Even though I don’t wanna go.”

  “So don’t,” Edgar said, and hung up on me.

  For once, Edgar was right. I was always such a good girl. I got good grades and I tried to take care of everyone and I never missed class or soccer practice or dog-walking appointments or SAT-prep class or volunteer work. I ate a lot of carbs like pizza and bagels but threw vegetables on them when I remembered, and if enough cheese was involved. I didn’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or do anything too naughty with Dash. I never even said the f-word.

  “FUCK!” I yelled. Wow, that felt good. So I said it again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Boris placed his paws over his ears again and refused to look at me.

  I sent a quick message to that afternoon’s dog-walking clients that I was sick and couldn’t tend to their dogs today, along with the contact info for my dog-walking subs. Then I threw my phone on my bed so no one could text or email or call or FaceTime or tag me so I could be whoever I wanted to be today, without distraction or electronic intervention. I hastily left the apartment before I lost my courage to wander the city phoneless, like in olden days.

  —

  I had no plan for where I’d go, so I just walked. Roaming the streets of Manhattan on foot has always been one of my favorite ways to find inspiration. There’s so much to see and smell (not all of it pleasant, except this time of year, which smells of roasted cashews, crisp air, and gingerbread lattes). It was impossible not to feel exhilarated on a day like today, so sunny and warm, which was annoying for December, but also helpful since I was outside walking and the stores were decorated for the holidays and there was a palpable sense of cheer among my fellow pedestrians.

  Truth: There wasn’t actually a palpable sense of cheer, but I decided to pretend there was, in hopes the holiday cheer would seep into my troubled soul.

  “Don’t be such a coddled bird,” Langston had said to me this morning after I burst into tears when he said he was moving and I said I wasn’t ready for him to go, especially if that meant my parents thought their eldest leaving the nest opened the door for them to kidnap their youngest to Connecticut. Hah! Coddled bird. It was the name Langston sometimes teased me with, because of the framed picture on our living room mantelpiece picturing Grandpa holding five-year-old me in front of that year’s Christmas tree, with his sister, Mrs. Basil E., on one side of us, and his twin brothers, Great-Uncle Sal and Great-Uncle Carmine, standing on his other side. In the photo, the siblings are holding beers, their mouths open but not about to drink, because they were serenading their little girl with a Christmas carol. Whenever Langston gets annoyed with our relatives for babying me too much (because I am the youngest of all the grandchildren and, I’m told, the most delightful), he’ll look at that picture of the four siblings serenading their baby girl and, to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” will sing out, “Four coddle birds” instead of “four calling birds.” Who even knows what the fudge—I mean, fuck!—calling birds are.

  I know I am an overprotected, coddled bird, but I’d like to evolve past that. I mean, not to the extent that I don’t get generous birthday cash, but a certain amount of independence would be healthy.

  I’d walked so far west from the East Village that I’d reached Seventh Avenue and Fourteenth. The universe had obviously landed me at the 1 train station for a reason. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. I hopped the 1 downtown and took it to the end of the line at South Ferry, where I got onto the Staten Island Ferry.

  Grandpa isn’t one of just four coddle bird siblings. They also have one rogue tribesman: Great-Uncle Rocco, their other brother, who no one talks to except when they have to, because he’s not very nice, and he lives in that outer, outer borough known as Staten Island. He might as well live in Connecticut for how far away Staten Island felt. Nobody likes Great-Uncle Rocco, and the feeling is mutual. I always made it my mission to like him, because somebody has to like the people no one else likes or the world would just be hopeless. And the best way to extract holiday cheer, I’ve found, is to spend some time with the most curmudgeonly person you know, and their grump can’t help but force you into feeling good, because it gives you perspective and balance. Maybe that’s why I love—I mean, very much like—Dash so much.

  Maybe I should have corralled Dash for Lily’s Day Off, but everything we did together lately seemed to lead to disaster. A lone, rogue trip to Staten Island was probably a safer bet.

  My mom calls the Staten Island Ferry “the poor-woman’s cruise,” and I could see why. For just the cost of a MetroCard swipe, travel grandeur was achieved. As the boat pushed forward, I marveled at the convergence of rivers and city skyline, and felt my mood immediately brighten. I waved hello to the Statue of Liberty and, as always, worried about Lady Liberty. Her arm must get so tired. I wish she could switch arms sometimes to give the one holding up the torch some relief. Her torch arm is probably way buff, though. Don’t mess with her, bad guys.

  I was surprised how much I reveled in the aloneness of the day. I so rarely spend time with just myself. The coddle birds who coddled me were probably right. I was delightful, at least on a day like today, with no phone to trap me, no responsibilities, alone with my thoughts and the wonder of the water. It was almost Christmas! I could feel the organic inklings of excitement as I remembered one of the poems Mom used to read to us at this time of year, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

  The holiest of all holidays are those

  Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;

  The secret anniversaries of the heart,

  When the full river of feeling overflows;—

  The happy days unclouded to their close;

  The sudden joys that out of darkness start

  As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart

  Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

  White as the gleam of a receding sail,

  White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,

  White as the whitest lily on a stream,

  These tender memories are;—a fairy tale

  Of some enchanted land we know not where,

  But lovely as a landscape in a dream.

  Once the ferry docked on Staten Island, I took the S62 bus to the island’s most important destination, Joe & Pat’s, for a most perfect slice of pizza, just as Grandpa taught me. Then I walked over to the gas station on the corner, which is also an auto body shop. Uncle Rocco owns the business. I’ve caught Grandpa and Mrs. Basil E. reading the Yelp reviews of Uncle Rocco’s and laughing. “Crook” is the most common word used in the reviews, but customers also proclaim they won’t go anywhere else, because no other shop does as good a job, even if Uncle Rocco price-gouges them.

  Uncle Rocco was sitting on a chair outside the auto body shop, wearing a mechanic’s uniform and smoking a cigar, despite the regulatory signs on the gas pumps stating that smoking was not allowed on the property. “Hi, Uncle Rocco!” I said. His face scrunched, trying to recognize me.

  Even though it was warm, I hadn’t been able to resist wearing my favorite red winter hat with the red pom-poms dangling from the ears. I think that’s how Uncle Rocco finally placed my face, because I always wear that hat on the one day of the year the family sees him, November 29, when Grandpa and his siblings go to visit their mother’s grave in Staten Island, on the anniversary of her death. Thanksgiving followed by that annual cemetery trip are what usually kick off the Christmas season for me, but we hadn’t made the journey this year. No one even remembered.

  Uncle Rocco frowned. “Did someone die?” he asked me.

  “No, but Grandpa had a tough year,” I said.

  “Hmmph,” Uncle Rocco said. “There any other reason you’re here?”

  “No.”

  “Then be on your way. I don’t give discounts, if you’re needing a gas fill-up.”

  “I don’t!” I said,
exhilarated. “Merry Christmas!”

  Finally. The season had begun.

  I headed back toward the S62 bus stop to take me back to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal but was overwhelmed by the smell of ginger, cinnamon, and sugary goodness at a corner storefront. The store’s windows were papered over and there was a FOR LEASE sign on the door. There was no actual bakery business, but the door was open, and I couldn’t resist going in. The smell demanded it.

  Inside, there were probably a dozen long metal tables, each containing gingerbread houses in various stages of preparation. Half-built churches. Castles needing roofs. Little fairy houses needing retaining walls. On the supply table, there were piles of bags of gumdrops, M&M’s, candy canes and peppermint candies, bottles of food coloring, boxes of graham crackers, bowls of icing, and architectural tools my hands ached to use: pliers, paintbrushes, cardboard cutouts. It was heaven. I have no idea what I want to do with my life, but one thing I do know is that I wouldn’t mind dedicating it to the pursuit of competitive gingerbread house–making. (The guidance counselor at my high school has informed me this is not a viable option. Dream killer. I’ll prove him wrong!)

  A young woman wearing a white baker’s apron stood over a table of gingerbread cookies, holding a frosting bag with a pointed tip. She saw me and breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God! Career Services said they were sending somebody yesterday, but nobody showed up and they swore someone would show up today. You’re the student from Pratt?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Sure, why not.

  She handed me an apron. “What’s your name?”

  I don’t know why, but I said, “Jana.” I paused, and then realized how much better my new false identity could be with one simple change. “With an h,” I added.

  “Okay, Jahna-with-an-h,” she said. “I’m Missoula. But everyone calls me Miss.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “Miss.” She scanned all the tables. “I don’t know where to start you. I only have this space till tomorrow and I have to get all these orders done by then. I’ve been working here round the clock all week, even sleeping here.” She pointed to a futon at the corner of the room. I never realized gingerbread-house makers had to be such workaholics. I reconsidered it as a career and chose it as a sideline hobby instead of a lifetime pursuit.

  “What can I do?” Could I put this experience on my future college applications?

  “What’s your major?”

  “Food art,” I said. God, Jahna was so cool.

  “Fantastic,” said Miss. “Can you do church duty first? That table over there needs its stained-glass windows painted in. I already drew the outlines, you just need to paint in the lines.”

  “Yes!” I squealed, and then realized: Jahna would never squeal. “I mean, whatever. Sure.”

  “Might be an all-nighter,” said Miss.

  “No problem,” I said. Jahna was a starving student and could use the day’s work for her train trip back home to Vermont for the holidays. Jahna was definitely from Vermont. But she might have done a junior year abroad in France, which is why she could be so effortlessly casual and sophisticated when she wasn’t squealing like an idiot tween girl who just went to Disneyland for the first time. (Lily did that, and continues to do it every time she rewatches the video of her first time entering the Magic Kingdom.) Lily didn’t have to worry about staying for the late night Jahna promised, because surely the real Pratt student would show up and relieve Jahna of duty, and they’d all have a laugh about missed communication, and ohmygod, I didn’t realize you signed up for the job. Go ahead, you finish up, I’ll just head home now.

  Miss said, “Love your outfit, bee-tee-double-u.” It took me a second to realize she meant “btw.” “Is it vintage?”

  I looked down at my school uniform. Fudgsicles. “Tee-why,” said Jahna, for “ty.” “And why-ee-ess yes!”

  After that, I discovered Miss was not much of a talker. She was a doer. A frosting-spreading, gumdrop-placing, gingerbread house–making work machine. The most I got out of her was that she was a freelance baker who’d gotten in over her head this year with custom gingerbread house orders. That was fine. I felt very Dash-reading-a-book about the whole experience, enjoying the feeling of aloneness while doing something I loved. An afternoon of decorating gingerbread houses was about as perfect a day as I could imagine.

  The real Pratt student still hadn’t shown up by dinnertime, and I was hungry. I excused myself to get more Joe & Pat’s pizza, and considered just skipping out on the rest of the job, because my family was probably starting to wonder where I was. I finished my pizza and bought some extra slices to bring back to Miss. The pizza would help cushion the blow when Jahna announced she had to quit for the night.

  Miss was sitting slumped on the floor when I returned, exhausted. I handed her the pizza box. “You’re an angel, Jahna,” she said. “You literally saved me today.” She wolfed down a slice and then said, “Wanna see the back room? That’s where I really need the help. The real moneymakers are back there.”

  “Oui!” Jahna said. “J’adore les moneymakers.” Lily really needed to get home, but Jahna was extremely curious to know what was back there. Maybe Jahna should minor in French. It would open her up to so many diverse career opportunities after she graduated Pratt. She could study at Le Cordon Bleu. Oui, oui, oui!

  Miss said, “You did such a beautiful job on the churches. You’re not religious or anything, are you? Because I don’t want you to be offended by what’s in the back. The gingerbread cookies back there are, you know, rated X. Full-frontal men, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “No problem,” I said. “It’s not like I’m a virgin, ha-ha!” Lily was the virgin. Jahna had had a mad love affair with her eighteenth-century French lit professor during her junior year abroad. It was all very secret, and Jahna regretted it now because he was two decades older than her, but, wow, the sex had been le amazing. And the champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries après l’amour.

  Jahna may have been le whatever about what she saw in the back room, but Lily was wide-eyed shocked. “Rated X” was no exaggeration. My eyes had never, ever wanted to see gingerbread men and women in such various acts of…

  “They’re Kama Sutra cookies,” said Miss. “All the major positions.”

  “I knew that,” Jahna said, too quickly.

  “They even have their own orgy den!” said Miss, laughing. She pointed to a completed gingerbread house decorated to look like a naughty gentlemen’s club, with the words LIVE NUDES spelled out in white frosting on the roof, and Red Hots candies lining the sides to look like red lights.

  Lily gulped, but Jahna said, “Awesome. Great work on the cutouts.” I’m not going to lie. The gingerbread couples seemed very much in love, and they made me wish to experience the kind of passionate pleasure that was on their faces. Someday.

  I couldn’t wait to go home and find my phone, call Dash, and forget all the awkwardness lately. See him. Touch him. Sprinkle him in ginger and cinnamon and sugar, then smell him, and kiss him.

  “Right?” said Miss. “It took me weeks to weld the cookie cutouts to just the right degrees of positions.”

  “You make it look so easy,” said Jahna.

  “Thank you! You’ve worked so hard all day. You deserve the truly fun task now.” She handed me a bag of blue frosting, and then pointed to several trays of undecorated gingerbread females. “Are these the girls who work in the gentlemen’s club?” Jahna asked Miss knowingly.

  “Hardly!” said Miss. “These girls are royalty.” She lifted a piece of paper covering a drawing tacked to the wall behind the trays, showing voluptuous girls with long, braided hair doing unspeakable things. “Make ’em look like this. Princesses.”

  “Not Elsa and Anna!” Lily cried out. Lily wanted to go home so badly right now and never, ever watch Frozen again until these drawings had been obliterated from her memory.

  “Right?” said Miss again. “I know, bestsellers!”
>
  This was the time for Lily to bail, oh-bee-vee-ess. Obvs, I really missed my phone. And home. And Mommy. But then Miss said, “Want to taste Magic Mike?”

  “Um, yes,” said Jahna.

  Miss winked at me. “This one’s the special batch.”

  I took a bite of Magic Mike, and, man, was that boy delicious. He tasted a little different than I expected.

  “What’s the special ingredient?” I asked.

  “Right?” Miss said again.

  Jahna probably knew what the special ingredient was, but Lily didn’t. Jahna nodded knowingly again and said “Awesome” again.

  I ate the cookie, and it was so good I had to have another, and then one more.

  And then I was so relaxed and happy, I forgot the desire to leave. Suddenly I was really hungry for more pizza, and maybe some brownies, and it seemed to me that Elsa and Anna were really reaching their full artistic potential in Miss’s gingerbread cookie drawings, and who was Jahna to deny them because Lily was such a Disney-loving virgin prude?

  Jahna went to work.

  Wednesday, December 17th

  Jahna woke up on the futon when the sun burst through a hole in the papered windows of the store work space, but it was Lily who saw the clock on the wall and panicked. 11:15 a.m. FUDGE, FUDGE, FUDGE!

  Miss was asleep on the floor.

  I had no memory of falling asleep last night and no time to find out why I never made it home.

  I bolted out the door and ran all the way to the ferry terminal. Knowing the level of crisis, I didn’t even stop for a bagel. I didn’t know what I feared more—how much trouble I was going to be in or that my family had gone totally Home Alone and hadn’t even noticed I was gone.

  The answer to both questions was on a TV monitor in the ferry waiting area. The TV was tuned to the NY1 channel. The sound was off, but on the screen I saw my picture, in which I was wearing my red pom-pom hat, followed by a cell phone video of a certain incident from last year. The headline running across the screen announced, “Teen Baby-Catcher Is Missing.”