Once you have given your book to Mark,
please return this book to the shelf
where you found it.
If you do all these things,
you very well might hear from me.
Thank you.
Lily
Suddenly, for the rst time that I could recall, I was looking forward to winter break, and I was relieved that I was not, in fact, being shipped out to Sweden the next morning.
I didn’t want to think too hard about which book to leave—if I started to second-guess, it would only lead to third-guessing and fourth-guessing, and I would never leave the Strand. So I chose a book rather impulsively, and instead of leaving my email address inside, I decided to leave something else. I gured it would take a lit le time for Mark (my new friend at the information desk) to give the book to Lily, so I would have a slight head start. I handed it to him without a word; he nodded and put it in a drawer.
I knew the next step was for me to return the red notebook, to give someone else a chance of nding it. Instead, I kept it. And, furthermore, I moved to the register to buy the copies of French Pianism and Fat Hoochie Prom Queen currently in my hands.
Two, I decided, could play this game.
two
(Lily)
December 21st
I love Christmas.
I love everything about it: the lights, the cheer, the big family gatherings, the cookies, the presents piled high around the tree, the goodwil to all. I know it’s technically goodwil to all men, but in my mind, I drop the men because that feels segregationist/elitist/sexist/generally bad ist. Goodwil shouldn’t be just for men. It should also apply to women and children, and all animals, even the yucky ones like subway rats. I’d even extend the goodwil not just to living creatures but to the dearly departed, and if we include them, we might as well include the undead, those supposedly mythic beings like vampires, and if they’re in, then so are elves, fairies, and gnomes. Heck, since we’re already being so generous in our big group hug, why not also embrace those supposedly inanimate objects like dolls and stu ed animals (special shout-out to my Ariel mermaid, who presides over the shabby chic ower power pillow on my bed—love you, girl!). I’m sure Santa would agree. Goodwil to all.
I love Christmas so much that this year I’ve organized my own caroling society. Just because I live in the gentri ed bohemia of the East village does not mean I consider myself too cool and sophisticated for caroling. To the contrary. I feel so strongly about it that when my own family members chose to disband our caroling group this year because everyone was “traveling” or was “too busy” or “has a life” or “thought you would have grown out of it by now, Lily,” I did some old-fashioned problem solving. I made my own yer and put it up in cafés around my street.
Hark!
You there, closet caroler!
Care to herald some holiday song?
Really? Me too! Let’s talk.*
Yours sincerely, Lily
*No creeps need apply; my grandpa knows
everyone in the neighborhood and you wil
incur much shunning should you be anything
less than sincere in your response. **
Thx again, yours most truly, Lily
**Sorry to be so cynical, but this is New York.
That flyer was how I formed my Christmas caroling troupe this year. There’s me, Melvin (computer guy), Roberta (retired high school choir teacher), Shee’nah (cross-dressing part-time choreographer/part-time waiter) and his boi Antwon (assistant manager at Home Depot), angry Aryn (vegan riot grrrl NYU lm student), and Mark (my cousin—because he owes Grandpa a favor and that’s the one Grandpa called in). The carolers call me Third-Verse Lily because I’m the only one who remembers past the second verse of any Christmas song. Besides Aryn (who doesn’t care), I’m also the only one not of legal drinking age, so with the amount of hot chocolate laced with peppermint liquor that my merry caroling troupe passes round from Roberta’s flask, it’s no surprise I’m the only one who remembers the third verse.
Truly He taught us to love one another.
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in His name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
Hall elujah, third verse!
In all honesty, I should admit I have researched much of the scientific evidence refuting G-d’s existence, as a result of which I suspect I am a true believer in him the way I am in Santa. But I will unhesitatingly, and joyfully, O-Holy-Night his name between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, with the mutual understanding that as of Christmas Day, once the presents are opened, my relationship with him goes on hiatus until I camp out for best viewing of the Macy’s parade the following year.
I would like to be the person who stands outside Macy’s during the holiday season wearing a cute red out t and ringing a bell to chime in donations for the Salvation Army, but Mom said no. She said those bell people are possibly religious freaks, and we are holiday-only lapsed Catholics who support homosexuality and a woman’s right to choose. We do not stand outside Macy’s begging for money. We don’t even shop at Macy’s.
I may go begging for change at Macy’s simply as a form of protest. For the rst time in, like, the history of ever—that is, all of my sixteen years—our family is spending Christmas apart. My parents abandoned me and my brother for Fiji, where they’re celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. When they got married, my parents were poor graduate students who couldn’t a ord a proper honeymoon vacation, so they’ve gone all out for their silver anniversary. It seems to me that wedding anniversaries are meant for their children to celebrate with they’ve gone all out for their silver anniversary. It seems to me that wedding anniversaries are meant for their children to celebrate with them, but apparently I am the minority opinion on this one. According to everyone besides me, if my brother and I tag along on their vacation, it won’t be as “romantic.” I don’t see what’s so “romantic” about spending a week in a tropical paradise with your spouse whom you’ve already seen almost every day for the past quarter century. I can’t imagine anyone ever wanting to be alone with me that much.