Dash & Lily's Book of Dares

by Rachel Cohn

  “She didn’t answer.”

  “Well, I’m not there now. I’m gone, Thibaud. I’ve left.”

  “You sound sad, Dash.”

  “One of the failures of cellular communication is that tiredness often comes across as sadness. But I appreciate your concern.”

  “We’re still here, if you want to come back.”

  “I’m told there’s no going back. So I’m choosing forward.”

  I hung up then. The exhaustion of living was just too much for me to talk any longer. At least to Thibaud. And, yes, there was sadness in that. And anger. And confusion. And disappointment. All exhausting.

  I kept walking. It wasn’t too cold for December 27, and all the holiday-week visitors were out in force. I remembered where Sofia had said her family was staying—the Belvedere, on Forty-eighth Street—and walked in that direction. Times Square sent its glow into the air, blocks before it actually began, and I walked heavily into the light. The tourists still crowded into a thronging pulse, but now that Christmas was over, I wasn’t as repelled. Especially in Times Square, everyone was enraptured by the simple act of being here. For every exhausted soul like myself, there were at least three whose faces were lifted in absurd wonder at the neon brightness. As much as I wanted to have the hardest of hearts, such plaintive joy made me feel what a leaky, human vessel it really was.

  When I got to the Belvedere, I found the house phone and asked to be connected to Sofia’s room. It rang six times before an anonymous voice mail picked up. I returned the receiver to its cradle and went to sit on one of the couches in the lobby. I wasn’t waiting, per se—I simply didn’t know where else to go. The lobby was full of hustling and bustling—guests negotiating each other after negotiating the city, some about to plunge back in. Parents dragged vacation-tired children. Couples sniped about what they’d done or hadn’t done. Other couples held hands like teenagers, even when they hadn’t been teenagers for over half a century. Christmas music no longer wafted in the air, which allowed a more genuine tenderness to bloom. Or maybe that was just in me. Maybe everything I saw was all in me.

  I wanted to write it down. I wanted to share it with Lily, even if Lily was really just the idea I’d created of Lily, the concept of Lily. I went to the small gift shop off the lobby and bought six postcards and a pen. Then I sat back down and let my thoughts flow out. Not directed to her this time. Not directed at all. It would be just like water, or blood. It would go wherever it was meant to go.

  Postcard 1: Greetings from New York!

  Having grown up here, I always wonder what it would be like to see this city as a tourist. Is it ever a disappointment? I have to believe that New York always lives up to its reputation. The buildings really are that tall. The lights really are that bright. There’s truly a story on every corner. But it still might be a shock. To realize you are just one story walking among millions. To not feel the bright lights even as they fill the air. To see the tall buildings and only feel a deep longing for the stars.

  Postcard 2: I’m a Broadway Baby!

  Why is it so much easier to talk to a stranger? Why do we feel we need that disconnect in order to connect? If I wrote “Dear Sofia” or “Dear Boomer” or “Dear Lily’s Great-Aunt” at the top of this postcard, wouldn’t that change the words that followed? Of course it would. But the question is: When I wrote “Dear Lily,” was that just a version of “Dear Myself”? I know it was more than that. But it was also less than that, too.

  Postcard 3: The Statue of Liberty

  For thee I sing. What a remarkable phrase.

  “Dash?”

  I looked up and found Sofia there, holding a Playbill from Hedda Gabler.

  “Hi, Sofia. What a small world!”

  “Dash—”

  “I mean, small in the sense that right at this moment, I’d be happy if it only had the two of us in it. And I mean that in a strictly conversational sense.”

  “I always appreciate your strictness.”

  I looked around the lobby for a sign of her parents. “Mom and Dad leave you alone?” I asked.

  “They went for a drink. I decided to come back.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  I didn’t stand up. She didn’t sit down next to me. We just looked at each other and saw each other for a moment, and then held it for another moment, and another moment. There didn’t seem to be any question about what was going to happen. There didn’t seem to be any doubt about where this was going. We didn’t even need to say it.

  fourteen

  (Lily)

  December 28th

  Fan•ci•fulfan(t)si-fәladj (ca. 1627) 1. marked by fancy or unrestrained imagination rather than by reason and experience.

  According to Mrs. Basil E., fanciful is the adjective for which Snarl—I mean Dash—feels the most longing. Certainly it explained why he’d answered the call of the red notebook at the Strand to begin with and played along, for a while, until he discovered that the real Lily, as opposed to his imagined one, would turn him less fanciful and more dour (3. gloomy, sullen).

  What a waste.

  Although, fanciful’s origin circa 1627 made me still love the word, even if I’d ruined its applicability to my connection with Snarl. (I mean DASH!) Like, I could totally see Mrs. Mary Poppencock returning home to her cobblestone hut with the thatched roof in Thamesburyshire, Jolly Olde England, and saying to her husband, “Good sir Bruce, would it not be wonderful to have a roof that doesn’t leak when it rains on our green shires, and stuff?” And Sir Bruce Poppencock would have been like, “I say, missus, you’re very fanciful with your ideas today.” To which Mrs. P. responded, “Why, Master P., you’ve made up a word! What year is it? I do believe it’s circa 1627! Let’s carve the year—we think—on a stone so no one forgets. Fanciful! Dear man, you are a genius. I’m so glad my father forced me to marry you and allow you to impregnate me every year.”

  I placed the dictionary back on the shelf, next to a hardcover edition of Contemporary Poets, as Mrs. Basil E., who is keen on reference books, returned to the parlor with a silver tray bearing a pot of what smelled like very strong coffee.

  “What have we learned, Lily?” Mrs. Basil E. asked me as she poured me a cup.

  “Taking too many sips of other people’s drinks can lead to disastrous consequences.”

  “Obviously,” she said imperiously. “But more importantly?”

  “Don’t mix drinks. If you’re going to sip peppermint schnapps, only sip peppermint schnapps.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her calm observation was what I appreciated best about that small degree of separation between a parent or grandparent and a great-aunt. The latter could react sensibly, pragmatically, to the situation, without the complete and wholly unnecessary hysteria that would have befallen the former.

  “What did you tell Grandpa?” I asked.

  “That you came over last night to have dinner with me, but I asked you to stay over to shovel the snow from my sidewalk in the morning. Which is entirely true, even if you slept through dinner.”

  “Snow?” I pulled back the heavy brocade drapery and looked out the front window to the street.

  SNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I had forgotten about the previous evening’s promise of snow. And darned if I hadn’t slept through it, conked out on too many sips and too many hopes—dashed (so to speak). All my own fault.

  The morning’s view onto the street of Gramercy town houses was blanketed with snow, at least two inches deep—not a lot, but enough for a good snowman. The accumulation still appeared gloriously new, the street a blanket of white, with cottony tufts heaped on cars and sidewalk railings. The snow had yet to lose its luster to multiple foot tramplings, yellow dog markings, and the scars of engine fumes.

  My cluttered brain formed a vague idea.

  “May I build a snowman in the back garden?” I asked Mrs. Basil E.

  “You may. Once you shovel my front sidewalk. Good thing you got my oth
er boot returned to you, eh?”

  I sat down opposite my great-aunt and took a sip of coffee.

  “Do pancakes come with this coffee?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t sure whether you’d be hungry.”

  “Starving!”

  “I thought you might have woken up with a headache.”

  “I did! But the good kind!” My head was pounding, but it was a light, giddy tap in my temples as opposed to a thunderous roar across my whole head. For sure some pancakes doused in maple syrup would do the job of relieving the headache, and the hunger. Since I’d skipped dinner the previous night, I had lots of eating to make up.

  Despite the minor headache and hungry tummy, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction.

  I had done it. I had embraced danger.

  The experience might have been an epic disaster, but it was still … an experience.

  Cool.

  “Dash,” I murmured over a heaping pile of pancakes. “Dash Dash Dash.” I needed to absorb his name while the pancakes absorbed the butter and syrup. As it was, I could barely recall what he looked like; my memory’s image of him was shrouded in a champagne-colored mist, sweet and woozy, unclear. I remembered that he was on the tall side, his hair looked neat and freshly combed, he wore regular jeans and a peacoat, possibly vintage, and he smelled like boy, but in the nice and not gross way.

  Also he had the bluest eyes ever, and long black lashes almost like a girl’s.

  “Dash, short for Dashiell,” Mrs. Basil E. said, passing me a glass of OJ.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked.

  “Precisely.”

  “I guess it’s not going to be true love between him and me,” I realized.

  “True love? Pish posh. A concept manufactured by Hollywood.”

  “Ha-ha. You said pish posh.”

  “Mish mosh,” she added.

  “Put a kibosh on that nosh.”

  “Enough, Lily.”

  I sighed. “So I guess I blew it with him?”

  Mrs. Basil E. said, “I think it will be hard to recover from that first impression you made on him. But I’d also say if anyone deserves a second chance, it’s you.”

  “But how do I get him to give me a second chance?”

  “You’ll figure something out. I have faith in you.”

  “You like him,” I teased.

  Mrs. Basil E. pronounced, “I find young Dashiell to be not contemptible, for a specimen of teenage male. His persnicketiness is not nearly as delightful as he’d have one believe, but he has his own charm nonetheless. Articulate to a fault, perhaps—but a forgivable and, dare I say, an admirable misdemeanor.”

  I had no idea what she just said.

  “So he’s worth a second shot, then?”

  “The more apt question, my dear, is: Are you?”

  She had a good point.

  Just as much, if not more than, a hero as that stapler in Collation, Dash had not only brought me my other boot when my toes were wanting to turn frostbitten, he’d placed that boot on me when I’d passed out, and he’d made sure I got home safely. What had I done for him, except probably dashed his hopes, too?

  I hoped I’d apologized to him.

  I texted that rascal of a gerbil killer, Edgar Thibaud.

  Where can I find Dash?

  R U a stalker?

  Possibly.

  Awesome. His mom’s place is at E Ninth & University.

  Which building?

  A good stalker doesn’t need to ask.

  I did want to ask Edgar: Did we kiss last night?

  I licked my morning lips. My mouth felt very full and untouched by luscious matter other than pancakes and syrup.

  Wanna get wasted again tonight?

  From Edgar Thibaud.

  Suddenly I recalled Edgar hitting on Aryn as Dash had helped my unfortunately wasted self out of the pub.

  1. No. Retiring from that game. 2. And especially not with you. Regards, Lily

  The snow crunched beneath my boots as I made my way home that afternoon. East Ninth Street at University Place was a not totally inconvenient stop between Mrs. Basil E.’s in Gramercy Park and my apartment in the East Village, and I reveled in the winter’s walk along the way. I love snow for the same reason I love Christmas: It brings people together while time stands still. Cozy couples lazily meandered the streets and children trudged sleds and dogs chased snowballs. No one seemed to be in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day, with each other, whenever and however it happened.

  There were four different apartment buildings at each corner of East Ninth and University. I approached the first one and asked the doorman, “Does Dash live here?”

  “Why? Who wants to know?”

  “I’d like to know, please.”

  “No Dash lives here that I know of.”

  “Then why did you ask who wanted to know?”

  “Why are you asking for Dash if you don’t know where he lives?”

  I took a spare Baggie of lebkuchen spice cookies out of my bag and handed it to the doorman. “I think you could use some of these,” I said. “Merry December 28.”

  I walked across the block to the next building. There was no uniformed doorman, but a man sat behind a desk in the lobby as some elderly people using walkers strolled the hallway behind him. “Hello!” I greeted him. “I’m wondering if Dash lives here?”

  “Is Dash an eighty-year-old retired cabaret singer?”

  “I’m pretty sure not.”

  “Then no Dash here, kiddo. This is a nursing home.”

  “Do any blind people live here?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  I handed him my card. “Because I would like to read to them. For my college applications. Also, I like old people.”

  “How generous of you. I’ll hold on to this just in case I hear of anything.” He glanced down at my card. “Nice to meet you, Lily Dogwalker.”

  “You too!”

  I crossed the street to the third building. A doorman was outside shoveling snow. “Hi! Would you like some help?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Union rules. No help.”

  I gave the doorman one of the Starbucks gift cards one of my dog-walking clients had gifted me with before Christmas. “Have a coffee on me on your break, sir.”

  “Thanks! Now whaddya want?”

  “Does Dash live here?”

  “Dash. Dash who?”

  “Not sure of his last name. Teenage boy, on the tall side, dreamy blue eyes. Peacoat. Shops at the Strand near here, so maybe he carries bags from there?”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Seems sort of … snarly?”

  “Oh, that kid. Sure. Lives at that building.”

  The doorman pointed to the building on the fourth corner.

  I walked over to that building.

  “Hi,” I said to the doorman, who was reading a copy of the New Yorker. “Dash lives here, right?”

  The doorman looked up from his magazine. “16E? Mom’s a shrink?”

  “Right,” I said. Sure, why not?

  The doorman tucked the magazine into a drawer. “He went out about an hour ago. Want to leave a message for him?”

  I took a package from my bag. “Could I leave this for him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I handed the doorman my card also. He glanced at it. “No pets allowed in this building,” he said.

  “That’s tragic,” I said.

  No wonder Dash was so snarly.

  The package I’d left for Dash contained a gift box of English breakfast tea and the red notebook.

  Dear Dash:

  Meeting you through this notebook meant a lot to me. Especially this Christmas.

  But I know I botched its magic, big-time.

  I’m so sorry.

  What I’m sorry about is not being a tipsy idiot when you found me. I’m sorry about that, obviously, but more so
rry that my stupidity caused us to lose a great opportunity. I don’t imagine you would have met me and fallen crazy in love with me, but I would like to think that if you’d had a chance to meet me under different circumstances, something just as nice could have happened.

  We could have become friends.

  Game over. I get that.

  But if you ever want a (sober) new Lily friend, I’m your girl.

  I feel like you may be a special and kind person. And I would like to make it my business to know special and kind people. Especially if they are boys my age.

  Thank you for being a real stapler of a hero guy.

  There is a snowman in the garden at my great-aunt’s house who’d like to meet you. If you dare.

  Regards,

  Lily

  PS I’m not going to hold it against you that you associate with Edgar Thibaud, and I hope you will extend me the same courtesy.

  Below my dare, I’d stapled my Lily Dogwalker business card. I didn’t hold out hope that Dash would take me up on the snowman offer, or try to call me ever, but I figured if he did want to get directly in touch with me again, the least I could do was not make him go through several of my relatives.

  After my last entry in the notebook, I’d cut out and pasted a section of a page I’d photocopied of the Contemporary Poets reference book in Mrs. Basil E.’s parlor library.

  Strand, Mark

  [Blah blah blah biographical information, crossed out with Sharpie pen.]

  We are reading the story of our lives

  As though we were in it,

  As though we had written it.

  fifteen

  –Dash–

  December 28th

  I woke up next to Sofia. At some point in the night, she’d turned away from me, but she’d let one hand linger, reaching back to rest on my own hand. A border of sunlight ringed the curtains of the hotel room, signaling morning. I felt her hand, felt our breathing. I felt lucky, grateful. The sound of traffic climbed from the street, mingled with parts of conversations. I looked at her neck, brushed back her hair to kiss it. She stirred. I wondered.