The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily

by Rachel Cohn

  My father called.

  How strange for him to be concerned, I thought.

  But when I picked up—fool, I!—I found that his call had nothing to do with Lily.

  “Leeza just wanted me to confirm that you’ll be with us for Christmas,” he said. “She has to confirm the reservation, and has been on my case about the head count.”

  This was the first time I’d heard of the reservation, or the plans.

  “Dad, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I told him. “And can’t you just text me like everyone else’s parents do?”

  “I’m sure I told you. Didn’t I?”

  “Maybe you were going to before you ran away from Lily’s party?”

  I knew I was crossing the line, but I didn’t care. For once, I wanted to be the one making the lines.

  “Watch your tone, Dash.”

  “I got it from you, Dad,” I replied.

  Then I hung up.

  It should have felt good, but it didn’t feel good. It wasn’t going to end anything. It was only going to piss him off more.

  My girlfriend is missing, I should have been able to tell him.

  What can I do to help? he should have been able to ask.

  But we were both so fundamentally incapable.

  At least I’d learned the lesson that friends can make up for the failings of your family. Between third and fourth period, Sofia and Boomer stopped me in the halls, and I was grateful for it.

  “We heard the news,” Sofia said. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “If you want,” Boomer offered, “I can talk to that girl Amber in my chem class and see if she can put out an alert.”

  “I don’t think it works that way,” Sofia said. “But it’s a nice thought.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Boomer said. Then he looked at me and his face fell. “Not that I’m taking any pleasure in this. I’m not, I swear.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” I assured him. “I think she just needed some space.”

  “So maybe she’s at the planetarium!”

  “I see your logic there, my friend. I’ll text her brother and ask him to check.”

  This made Boomer happy. Then, worried again that he seemed too happy, he tried to get more serious again. It wasn’t a look he wore well. Finally he said, “It’s time for English—I better get going!” and hopped down the hall.

  Sofia turned and watched him go. I begrudgingly admitted to myself that it was sweet, the way she did it.

  I wondered if I did the same thing with Lily. And then I wondered if it was the kind of thing you’d even notice when you were doing it, or if it was one of those breathing-level things you did without realizing.

  “She went to Staten Island,” I told Sofia. “I tried to find her, but I didn’t make it beyond the ferry.”

  “Most people don’t,” Sofia consoled. “Unless they live in Staten Island.”

  I had once been Sofia’s boyfriend. Now I wanted to ask her if I’d been a good one, if even though she and I hadn’t worked out, she believed that I could work out with someone. I just couldn’t find a way to ask the question.

  But Sofia must have known anyway. Because she looked at me and said, “Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing—it’s not about you. It’s about her. And you have to let it be about her. Sometimes we don’t want to be found right away. If we step away, it’s because we need to be found on our own terms.”

  “You didn’t disappear,” I pointed out.

  “Maybe I did,” she replied. “Maybe I do.”

  The bell rang then.

  “She’s not leaving you,” Sofia told me before she went. “If she was leaving you, you’d know.”

  But I wasn’t sure what I knew. Or what I noticed.

  —

  Finally, a little before noon, Langston texted.

  Found her. Safe and sound.

  I knew she didn’t have her phone yet, unless Langston had brought it with him. (I hadn’t thought to ask.) But I texted her right away anyway, figuring she’d get the message whenever she got back home.

  Welcome back, I said. I missed you.

  Then I waited for her reply.

  Wednesday, December 17th

  I don’t know why, but I wasn’t at all surprised when I stepped onto the boat and saw my brother already on it, waiting for me.

  Langston pulled me to him for a hug, but it was equal parts throttle. “Don’t ever give us a scare like that again,” he said.

  As the ferry pulled out from the dock, returning us to Manhattan, my brother got our parents on his phone for a FaceTime call.

  “Where were you?” Mom shrieked. She looked like she hadn’t slept all night.

  “I needed a time-out,” I said. I’m not proud to report I then went into full lying mode. I don’t know what it is about being a teenager, but lying seems to be necessitated with the hormonal territory. All these people in your life expecting you to act like an adult, and then getting mad when you take a stab at independence. “I went to Uncle Rocco’s panic room. I fell asleep and it was so dark in there, I didn’t wake up till half an hour ago. Sorry to have worried you.”

  There was precedent for the lie. On many an annual trip to Staten Island to visit the family burial plots, I was known to take time-outs from family fights with Uncle Rocco and hide in the Cold War bunker built into a secret basement at his auto body shop, two blocks away from the cemetery.

  What was I supposed to say? I’m feeling lost and confused and didn’t feel like going to school, so I went to Staten Island, and took on a new identity there. Still with me? Jahna—you’d like her, she’s much cooler than me—got lured into an enchanting gingerbread house–making operation that turned a little strange after eating a few Magic Mike cookies. Then Jahna became a naughty, Frozen-themed gingerbread-decorating machine who passed out from whatever secret ingredient made Mike’s cookies so magical, and she woke up as boring old Lily again less than an hour ago.

  The lie would merely relegate me to “Lily’s being an oddball again and should we put her back into therapy?” territory. The truth would probably send me immediately to a rehab facility.

  “Don’t ever, ever do that again,” said Dad. “I think you aged us a decade last night.”

  I looked at my mom’s face, and I could see her anger and fatigue, but I also sensed something else: calm. “I was worried,” Mom said. “But somehow I trusted you were okay. I felt it. When my mother died, and when my cousin Lawrence was in that terrible car accident, when Grandpa fell, I knew before I even got the calls that something was terribly wrong. I didn’t have that instinct last night. As panicked as I was, I felt sure you were fine, wherever you were.”

  It probably wasn’t the time to nitpick, but I did anyway. “Do we not think alerting NY1 wasn’t a little over the top?” I said.

  Dad said, “They have a soft spot for you. They got a sweet ratings spike from the baby-catching incident.”

  I pointed out, “That’s not a soft spot. That’s opportunism.”

  Mom said, “We waited until sunrise, but when we still hadn’t heard from you, we thought alerting them might smoke you out from wherever you were hiding. And we were right. Uncle Rocco saw the report, and called to say he’d seen you on the island yesterday.”

  “Too much,” I said.

  “I hardly think you’re in a position to criticize,” said Mom.

  “We’ll talk about it when you get home,” said Dad. “Family meeting.”

  I said, “I’m sorry. Really.”

  Their faces disappeared from Langston’s phone as he ended the call. Langston said, “I’ve ridden this ferry back and forth five times, waiting for you.”

  It was like he wanted me to say “Thanks.” I didn’t. I was so mad at him for being ready to move out of our family home. I wanted to be happy for his happiness with Benny, but I was so sad for me. They were ready. I wasn’t.

  When I didn’t say anything, Langston added, “Dash came with me for th
e first few ferry trips. He was really worried, too.”

  “Oh,” was all I said. Dash’s so-called worry was just like Dash’s Christmas tree gift. He acted like he wanted to be there for me, and then he prematurely abandoned ship. Cold, impassable. Why did he have to be so handsome and caring, but not in love?

  Dash was such a complication in my life. I had more pressing concerns. Like, where would I be sent to live if my family home was being broken apart?

  “He’s a decent guy,” said Langston, causing my head to do a near-360-degree headspin of shock.

  “So you like Dash now?” I said, incredulous.

  “I tolerate Dash now,” said Langston.

  Everything I knew about the world was spun on its axis, and I was confused, and scared, but admittedly intrigued by the mystery and excitement of the new directions my life could possibly be going in. I said, “I tolerate that you and Benny might be happy together in your new apartment that I don’t approve of but will support anyway.”

  “That’s how I feel about you dating Dash.” Pause. “He really cares about you.”

  I thought, That’s the problem. I love. Dash cares. It hurt.

  “Then why isn’t he here now?” I said.

  “He had to get to school. Apparently Dash takes school more seriously than you have the last couple days.” My brother looked at me slyly and then asked, “So where were you, really?”

  “At a gingerbread house–making orgy.”

  Langston said, “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Lily. If you don’t want to tell me, just don’t.”

  —

  We returned home as Mom and Dad were frantically preparing to leave for a weeklong trip to Connecticut, for Dad’s school’s holiday party and to close out the academic semester at his job. They were also going so that Mom could see and experience the headmaster’s quarters for herself, with the expectation that they might move to the boarding school’s grounds in the new year.

  The family meeting was over in a New York minute.

  Academic punishment: Because I’d skipped school, the school’s policy was that I wouldn’t be allowed to make up the work from the two days of school I’d missed, and my grades would reflect the consequences. Also, I was suspended for the last two days of school till the holiday, which I didn’t understand at all, because that “punishment” was more like a present. Two more days off! So what if I couldn’t make up the schoolwork? I could use that time to bake cookies and walk dogs and make Christmas presents, and do lots more interesting stuff than being at school.

  Parental punishment: Except for dog-walking duties, I was grounded till Christmas.

  I’ve never been grounded before. I didn’t even know what it meant, technically. I didn’t think my parents did either, because they issued the proclamation just before leaving town, effectively rendering their punishment unenforceable. (I didn’t bring up that small point.)

  Honestly, I didn’t feel that bad about giving my parents a sleepless night. I was a Manhattan girl. The Connecticut-considering deserters deserved the worry.

  Grandpa, however, didn’t. He said, “I’m staying at my sister’s for a while. Too much commotion here. You don’t have to bother with taking me to doctor appointments anymore.”

  “I like doing that, Grandpa!” I said.

  He used his cane to lift the bottom of his pant leg, revealing a bruise on his shin. “See that?” he asked me, pointing to it with his cane.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You didn’t show up for your volunteer shift at the rehab center is what happened! Sadie in room 506 was so angry not to have you reading to her today that she actually kicked me.”

  “Sorry, Grandpa.”

  “And I lost big guessing at Wheel of Fortune without my good-luck charm sitting beside me.”

  “Sorry, Grandpa.”

  “I hate Wheel of Fortune! The only thing that makes it tolerable to watch with all those old fuddy-duddies is having you there to watch it with us.”

  “Sorry, Grandpa.”

  What kind of monster was I?

  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 practica
lly 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.

  Naughty Lily wore a short black skirt with black leggings and thigh-high black boots, and a cropped—yes, cropped—Christmas sweater, red and gold and green with two auspiciously placed glitter ornament decorations sewn across the very tight chest.

  “Did Langston see you wearing that?” Dash asked when I took my coat off, right after he rang the doorbell to Edgar Thibaud’s townhouse.

  “Do you like it?” I asked, trying to sound sexy but sounding more desperately shrill. (Naughty Lily would need more practice to acquire sexy voice tones. Her innate Shrilly refuses to die.)

  “I guess I’m happy you’re finally feeling the Christmas spirit,” said Dash.

  “What’s your sweater?” I asked him.

  He opened his coat, revealing…a plain green polo sweater with a white oxford shirt peeking out from the collar.

  “That’s not really a Christmas sweater,” I said.

  “You’re not looking carefully enough.” He pulled the oxford collar out from its tuck in the sweater’s neck. I looked more closely and saw a quote from A Christmas Carol written in alternating red and gold ink in Dash’s handwriting across the bottom edge of the collar. Marley was dead: to begin with.