The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(30)
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 cried. “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
Friday, December 19th
“Do you see that?” I said. But of course Lily saw the swan. Carefully, we approached. It was now cold enough for us to wear gloves. Now I took her gloved hand in mine.
“What is it doing here?” she asked.
“A little lost?” I offered. “Or maybe it just wanted to see the Bergdorf windows like everyone else on Fifth Avenue.”
The swan saw us. It glided across the surface of the unfrozen pond, beholding us with a cold curiosity.
Lily disengaged her hand so she could take a picture.
But before she could, it began to sing.
Thursday, December 18th
The song ended. I still held on. At least for an extra moment. Then it was awkward, since Thibaud was stranding us without a new song.
“I take it back,” Lily said.
But the thing was: She didn’t sound certain.
I let her take it back anyway.
The only problem with taking something back?
It’s still inside there somewhere.
Friday, December 19th
The swan began to sing, and it wasn’t a honk or a squawk or a dirge. It had a tune. It was something between a lament and a hosanna.
When it was done, I applauded. Because I was wearing gloves, it didn’t make much of a sound.
Lily looked concerned.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s going to die. It sings a beautiful song…and then it dies.”
“That’s just a phrase,” I assured her.
The swan went back to ignoring us. It went back to swimming. It stayed afloat.
Saturday, December 20th
The next morning, Lily went missing again.