The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily

by Rachel Cohn

  The door opened as my face peered into Dash’s neck. From the other side of the door, Edgar announced, “Lovebirds PDA’ing already? The eggnog hasn’t even been served yet.”

  Dash pulled away from me and closed his coat. “I don’t PDA, Edgar.”

  Edgar winked at Dash. “Of course you don’t. Welcome, party animal.” He eyed me up and down and said, “Loving your sweater, Lillers.”

  Edgar wore a sweater picturing Jesus wearing a birthday hat in the shape of a slice of upside-down pepperoni pizza and the words BIRTHDAY BOY written across the Chosen One’s chest, which Edgar had paired with pink-and-gray argyle pants and black-and-white saddle shoes. It’s impossible to overstate how grossly mismatched his outfit was, kind of like Edgar in his own house.

  His parents are, like, the 1 percent of the 1 percent, hedge fund managers with bazillions of bucks and no time to spend on their son. Mrs. Basil E. also lives in a townhouse, but hers is musty and arty and sort of falling apart. Very welcoming. Edgar’s is like an architectural magazine showpiece, with severe, minimalist furniture and million-dollar pieces of art on the walls. Very intimidating and cold.

  “ ‘Lillers’?” Dash whispered in my ear as we walked up the marble stairs to the second level. “Please.”

  “Your friends arrived ahead of you,” said Edgar. “Fun kids. They’ve already hit the eggnog, as you can see.”

  And there in the center of the drawing room were Boomer and Sofia, wearing matching Christmas goose sweaters, dirty-dancing as a hip-hop song blasted from invisible speakers. They were laughing and kissing as they butt-shimmied nearly to the ground, then knocked butts, their ease and joy in each other readily apparent. I wished Dash and I could be like them. Twerking for the sake of the twerk, and not caring who watched, because they were too wrapped up—literally—in each other.

  “Eggnog?” Edgar asked Dash. “It’s spiked with Father’s vintage Jack Daniel’s Sinatra Century Limited Edition.”

  “Yes, please!” said Naughty Lily. I looked at my Young Blue Eyes—Dashiell—hoping we could imbibe some naughtiness together. Clink our frothy glasses and then share a Sinatra Century Limited Edition–flavored kiss. Or twenty.

  “No thank you,” said Dash. Shoo be do be DARN.

  In a baby voice, Edgar asked Dash, “Would wittle boy wike some pwain yogurt instead?”

  Dash touched the side of his nose and asked Edgar, “Jack Frost nipping at your nose?”

  His nose wasn’t running that I could tell, but Edgar fell for the bait and pulled a handkerchief from his argyle pants pocket and blew into it. Then he said, “You guys in for Spin the Dreidel later? Winners get to make out in my parents’ bedroom, under the Motherwell. Ha-ha, get it?”

  Our host went to find his eggnog decanter as Dash and I inspected the room. The party was in full swing, yes—but there were only about a dozen people there, a totally mismatched collection of people. Me, Dash, twerking Boomer and Sofia, Cyril doing the hustle with Isabella Fontana, a retired cookbook editor who’s one of my dog-walking clients and really should have been more mindful of her recent hip replacement surgery, and some samba-dancing, drunk Korean party kids whom I recognized from Edgar’s ramen-emergency FaceTime call, which had precipitated my soul-searching journey to Staten Island. The partygoers ranged in age from about seventeen to seventy, and wore sweaters with snowmen, angels, Santas, elves, reindeer, and Christmas cats. Edgar stood against the wall, in front of the party table with an ice sculpture of two kissing geese as its centerpiece, admiring the odd collection of mismatched people and their mismatched sweaters. He’d never looked more alone to me than in his own house. A prince with no kingdom.

  “I’d rather go somewhere private,” said Dash to me. “Where we could talk. I have something important to tell you.”

  That’s when I knew. Dash was going to break up with me. He was finally going to break our awkward impasse.

  “Let’s dance?” I asked him, wanting to hold on to him one last time.

  An R&B version of “Let It Snow” started playing, as the singer crooned, Ohhhh, come over here and help me trim the tree / I wanna wrap you up.

  “Please?” I asked Dash. I wanted to remember this last moment, wrapped up in him.

  He stood so tall and stiff, uncomfortable. But then Boomer and Sofia came over and led us to the center of the room. They began a slow dance, and then, following their lead, Dash placed his arms around my waist, and I placed mine on his shoulders, and we danced.

  I was giddy. I knew Dash hated it, and I loved him for going along with it anyway. My heart actually surged with joy as I pressed my body closer to his, and I thought I could feel his heart beating against mine. He felt so good, and I never wanted to let go. I had to tell him I loved him—just take the risk, just get over my insecurities and doubts about the impossibility of it all—before it was too late.

  “I have something to tell you,” I whispered into Dash’s ear.

  “I have something to tell you, too,” he said.

  I had to tell him. I had to.

  And just as I was about to, I saw Dash make a momentary glance at twerking Sofia, giving her the look I always wished he’d direct at me. Pure want. I try not to be jealous of effortlessly gorgeous Sofia and the fact that she and Dash used to be a couple; I don’t always succeed.

  So I said it first. “I think we should break up.”

  Thursday, December 18th

  And I said, “No.”

  Wednesday, December 17th

  When I didn’t hear back from Lily after her mysterious return from Staten Island, I went back over all the texts I’d exchanged with Langston, and one name popped out:

  Edgar Thibaud.

  Why had Langston asked me about him?

  What was he to Lily?

  I knew they had an unsavory history. I knew he’d tried to hijack her affections when my own affections for her had been new.

  Most of all, I knew he was King Asshole.

  I suppose I could have asked Langston—but our newfound respect was only a day old, and I didn’t particularly want to test it.

  Lily had let slip at some point that Thibaud had been sentenced to community service at the place where her grandfather had gone for rehab. So after school, I decided to go to the source.

  Thursday, December 18th

  “What do you mean, no?” Lily asked. “What do you care?”

  She tried to pull away.

  I held on.

  Wednesday, December 17th

  Thibaud had a way of making the professionals as forgetful as their patients. Every nurse had a different answer when I asked for his whereabouts. None of the answers were correct.

  Finally, a Smirking Sadie with a bright pink walking stick took pity on me.

  “You looking for the troublemaker?” she rasped.

  I had no doubt I was, and told her so.

  “Well, then, look in the custodian’s closet between 36A and 36B. He’s usually dodging work there. But be careful—he’s a wobbly pair of dentures, that one. Don’t let him out if you don’t want him giving you the slip.”

  The way Smirking Sadie said this, she almost sounded jilted.

  I skirted around the wheelchairs, and a whole lot of people watching Wheel of Fortune, to find the closet she was talking about. Once I got there, I didn’t know whether to knock. Then I heard the sounds coming from inside and knew it had to be Thibaud.

  I plunged in.

  What I saw was disturbing in the extreme. Thibaud was watching porn on his phone, featuring two women, a horse, and a man who looked uncannily like Donald Trump. At the same time, he was smoking a cigarette, tipping the ashes down into a bedpan. His feet were on the custodian’s desk.

  “Surely this breaks a limit for simultaneous vices!” I announced in my most authoritarian tone. Thibaud startled, jumping up and switching off his phone.

  “What the—!” he yelled. Then he saw it was me, and didn’t seem quite as freaked out. “Oh. Dash. What, did you think your m
issing girlfriend was in here with me?”

  I didn’t like his insinuation, and told him so. Then I added, “Plus, she’s no longer missing.”

  “Have you seen her?” he challenged. Then, before I could bluff, he extinguished his cigarette in the bedpan and said, “I thought not.”

  Before I could edgewise a word into his skull, he opened the door and pushed out into the hallway. I followed on his heels.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” I said. But he did, pushing into the TV room, completely ignoring me.

  “Does anybody need anything?” he asked the old people there.

  “A vowel! I need a vowel!” a blue-haired lady cried out, gesturing to the TV.

  the screen said.

  “Love caster!” the blue-haired lady trilled.

  “Love master!” a man in a wheelchair called out.

  “Love washer!” a man in gray corduroy called out.

  The man in the wheelchair was offended. “What the hell’s a love washer?”

  “Heh heh,” the corduroy man laughed. “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Why are you texting Lily?” I asked Thibaud. “What is she to you?”

  “Why are you asking me and not her?” he shot back.

  “Long canter!” the blue-haired lady shrieked.

  “Lone cantor!” the man in the wheelchair insisted.

  “Lone manger!” the corduroy man coughed.

  Thibaud turned on me and spat, “You are a miserable excuse for a boyfriend! You are, like, the safety school of boyfriends. You are the beige of boyfriends. You are the plain yogurt of boyfriends.”

  “Did Lily tell you that?”

  “Of course!” he replied with a bright smile.

  Thursday, December 18th

  I couldn’t believe she’d said it. And I couldn’t believe she’d meant it.

  I think we should break up.

  I was confused.

  I was upset.

  I was angry.

  “You’re getting it wrong,” I told her. “You’re getting everything wrong.”

  Wednesday, December 17th

  Thibaud’s smile was too bright. I knew he was lying.

  “Leave her alone!” I warned. “Just leave Lily alone.”

  “Or what? You’ll strangle me with your vocabulary? You’ll punch me with your mighty wit?”

  The room had fallen deathly silent. I looked at the screen.

  Jesus.

  “Challenge him to a duel!” the man in the wheelchair groused at me.

  “Yeah!” the corduroy man choked out. “Nail that weaselly bastard. He always steals my goddamn applesauce!”

  “Fine,” I told them. Then I turned to Thibaud and said, “I challenge you to a duel.”

  Thursday, December 18th

  “How can you say that?” Lily yelled. Everyone was watching us. Then, nonsensically, she added, “That’s not even a Christmas sweater!”

  Wednesday, December 17th

  “And how do you suggest we duel?” Thibaud said, unimpressed.

  I looked back to the old men.

  “Get the pistols,” Mr. Corduroy said. “Vera, GET THE PISTOLS!”

  The blue-haired lady nodded and then slowly—very slowly—rose from her chair. Then she slowly—verrrrrry slowly—walked over to a chest in the corner that was meant to be used by visiting great-grandchildren. Then, verrrrr­rrrrr­rrrrr­ry slowly, she dug to the bottom and pulled out a pair of water pistols.

  Then she went to the kitchenette and filled them with tomato juice.

  “Stains more,” she explained.

  We were handed the pistols. Wheelchair guy guarded the door.

  “Ten paces,” the cougher told us.

  Solemnly, we placed ourselves back-to-back.

  The blue-haired lady began to count.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  We stepped farther and farther apart.

  Six. Seven. Eight.

  I was doing this for Lily.

  Nine.

  I was not going to waste my shot.

  Ten.

  I pivoted. Got him in my sights. Pulled the trigger at the same time he pulled his.

  We both…trickled.

  Someone had forgotten to give our pistols their Viagra.

  “ARRRRRRR!” Thibaud yelled, storming toward me.

  “Ahhhhhhh!” I yelled, running away.

  I pushed past Wheelchair Guy, into the hallway.

  Smirking Sadie was out a-strolling, and she let out a yelp when she saw me plunging pistol-forward. I wanted Thibaud to shoot while we were on the run, to vac8 all his V8. But he was saving it for closer range.

  I was not going to be his quarry.

  “In the name of all that’s good and Lily!” I proclaimed, copping my best Young Han Solo pose and blasting away.

  This time the trigger cocked, and the TJ flew forth.

  Unfortunately, by proclaiming my attack, I’d given Thibaud time to dodge.

  “Not so fast, milquetoast!” he growled. I feinted left, rocked right. He missed.

  At this point, an orderly named Caleb saw the Bloody Mary flying through the air and screamed bloody murder at us. Thibaud went for another shot. I blocked it with an errant cafeteria tray. But this blocked my own shot, so I had to drop it.

  Thibaud raised his pistol again. Ran forward. And slipped on the puddles we’d made.

  From somewhere in the darkest depths of my soul, I unearthed the phrase, “Sugar, you’re going down!”

  Thibaud screamed. Caleb the orderly screamed. Smirking Sadie called out, “Vera, you really gotta see this!”

  I aimed. He writhed. I fired.

  Eye of the bull.

  As he was drenched, I slipped and I slid. He grabbed at my legs. I wobbled and fell.

  I made sure to land on him.

  “Seriously, though,” I said once our breath returned from being knocked out, “I’ve vanquished you.”

  “Okay, you got me,” Thibaud conceded. “What do I have to do?”

  “You,” I grunted, “have to throw us a party.”

  Thursday, December 18th

  “You’re not seeing what’s in front of you,” I told her. “First of all, this is a Christmas sweater. Just because it’s not showy—just because it doesn’t have tinsel or lights or a big bad reindeer on it—that doesn’t mean it’s not a Christmas sweater. The truth doesn’t have to advertise itself. All the truth needs to be is true.”

  Lily looked so lost. “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

  Finally I was able to tell her what I’d been going to tell her all along.

  “Lily,” I said, “this is an intervention.”

  “An intervention?” Lily asked, thoroughly confused.

  “A Divine intervention!” Boomer cried. “But not in the Pink Flamingos sense!”

  “What Boomer means,” I said, “is that we’re all here for you. Well, I think a few of Thibaud’s friends came for the beer. But the rest of us wanted to show you a good time. No—scratch that. We didn’t want to show you a good time—we wanted you to feel a good time. And I thought you were having a good time, which—and correct me if I’m wrong here—doesn’t feel like the right lead-in for breaking up with me.”

  I looked at Sofia for confirmation that I was doing this right. She gave me a little nod.

  Lily turned to Thibaud. “You were in on this?”

  Thibaud tried to brush it off. “You could say I was pistol-whipped into doing it. But whatever. As I read once in a bathroom stall, For a good time, call Edgar. How could your quote-boyfriend-unquote resist?”

  “If you don’t take those quotes out, next time we’ll duel with rapiers!” I threatened, perhaps a little overconfident of my rapier talents.

  “You dueled?” Lily asked.

  “Yes. And if we do it again, it will be—”

  “DON’T SAY IT!” Thibaud screamed.

  “—a dual duel,” I completed, with satisfaction.

  “Dash!” Boomer cri
ed. “Not the point!”

  I turned to Lily. “Yes. That’s not the point. The point is that I really don’t want you to break up with me. In fact, what I’d like is for us to do the opposite of break up with each other.”

  “Break into each other!” Boomer offered.

  Both Lily and I shivered in horror at this wording. I figured that was a good sign.

  Friday, December 19th

  We met in the park to wrest the afternoon into the shape of a stroll. I’d had to go to school. She’d had to sneak out from being grounded.

  We walked down to the duck pond at the bottom of the park. Remembering the author who’d brought us together (in some way), I was going to remark to her that I always wondered where the ducks went when winter came. Because there weren’t supposed to be any ducks, not at this time of year.

  But this time, there was a swan. A single swan.

  Thursday, December 18th

  I looked at my watch. “Curfew’s coming,” I pointed out. Then I smiled. “But there’s always time for one more dance, right?”

  Leave it to Thibaud to cue up the season’s stupidest new song, an R&B jam called “Santa Can’t Feel His Face.”

  Too much snow, girl

  And Santa can’t feel his face

  Wind’s full of blow, girl

  And Santa can’t feel his face

  Thibaud grinned—one should never leave the details to the devil. But I wasn’t going to be deterred. I wrapped my arms around Lily—and her sweater was so tight that I felt I was touching her, no protective layer. Body music finding its groove.

  “This song is the worst!” Lily said.

  “There’s no one I’d rather share it with than you!” I swore.

  Snow down the chimney

  White Christmas of your dreams

  And Santa can’t feel his face

  But he’s still on the ride