feel very much like a community. You could imagine everyone taking out their lights on the same day and having a block party while they put

them al up. The children walked around trans xed by the sights, as if their neighbors had suddenly become purveyors of an exquisite magic.

There was as much conversation swirling around as there was light—none of it involved me, but I was glad to have it around.

The Nutcracker House was not hard to nd—the nutcracker soldiers held sentry at least fteen feet into the sky as the Rat King threatened the

festivities and Clara danced through the night. I looked for a scrol in her hand, or a card on the top of one of the light-strung presents. Then I saw

it on the ground—a light-dappled walnut the size of a basketbal that had been cracked open just far enough to reach into.

The note I found inside was brief and clear.

Tel me what you see.

So I sat on the curb and told her about the contradictions, about the waste and the joy. Then I told her that I preferred the quiet demonstrations

of a wel -stocked bookshelf to the voltage of this particular street. Not that one was wrong and the other was right—it was just a mat er of

preference. I told her that I was glad Christmas was over, and then I told her why. I looked around some more, tried to see everything, just so I

could tel it to her. The yawn of a three-year-old, tired despite his happiness. The elderly couple from the train who’d nal y completed the walk

to the block—I imagined they’d been doing this for years, and that they saw both the houses in front of them and al the houses from the past. I

imagined each of their sentences started with the phrase Remember the time.

Then I told her what I didn’t see. Namely, that I didn’t see her.

You could be standing a few feet away—Clara’s dance partner, or across the street taking a picture of Rudolph before he takes ight. I could have

sat next to you on the subway, or brushed beside you as we went through the turnstiles. But whether or not you are here, you are here—because

these words are for you, and they wouldn’t exist if you weren’t here in some way. This notebook is a strange instrument—the player doesn’t know

the music until it’s being played.

I know you want to know my name. But if I told you my name, even just the rst name, you’d be able to go online and nd al of these

inaccurate, incomplete depictions of me. (If my name were John or Michael, this would not be a problem.) And even if you swore up and down

that you wouldn’t check, the temptation would always be there. So I’d like to remain at that one delicate remove, so you can get to know me

without the distraction of other people’s noise. I hope that’s okay.

The next assignment on the do (or don’t) list is time sensitive—meaning, it would be best if you did it this very evening. Because at this club that

changes names every month or so (I gave her the address), there is an al -nighter that is about to start. The theme (seasonal y appropriate) is the

Seventh Night of Hanukkah. The opener is some “jew re” band (Ezekial? Ariel?), and at about two in the morning, this gay Jewish

dancepop/indie/punk band cal ed Sil y Rabbi, Tricks Are for Yids wil go on. Between the opener and the main act, look for the writing on the

stal .

An al -nighter at a club wasn’t exactly my scene, so I knew I had a phone cal or two to make before the plan would be complete. I quickly

slipped the Moleskine into the walnut and took Snarly Muppet out of my backpack.

“Watch over this, wil you?” I asked it.

And then I left it there, a smal sentry among the nutcrackers.

eight

(Lily)

December 25th

I decided to give myself a Christmas present this year. I decided to spend the day only speaking to animals (real and stu ed), select humans as

necessary so long as they weren’t my parents or Langston, and a Snarl in a red Moleskine notebook—if he returned it to me.

When I was old enough to read and write, my parents gave me an eraser board that I kept in my room at al times. The idea was that when

frustrated, I, Lily, should write down words on the board to express my feelings instead of let ing she-devil Shril y express them through shrieking.

It was supposed to be a therapeutic tool.

I brought the eraser board out of retirement on Christmas morning when my parents phoned in for a video chat. I almost didn’t recognize them

on the computer screen. The betrayers looked so healthy, tan, and relaxed. Completely not Christmasy.

“Merry Christmas, Lily darling!” Mom said. She was sit ing on the balcony of their cabana or whatever it was, and I could see the ocean lapping

behind her. She looked ten years younger than when she left Manhat an a week earlier.

Dad’s glowing face wormed onto the screen next to Mom’s, blocking my ocean view.

“Merry Christmas, Lily darling!” he said.

I scribbled onto the eraser board and held it up to the computer screen for them to see: Merry Christmas to you, too.

Mom and Dad both frowned at the sight of the eraser board.

“Uh-oh,” Mom said.

“Uh-oh,” Dad said. “Is Lily Bear feeling a bit unset led today? Even though we’ve been preparing you for our anniversary trip since last

Christmas, and you assured us you would feel okay having just this one Christmas without us?”

I erased my last statement and replaced it with: Langston told me about the boarding school job.

Their faces fel .

“Put Langston on!” Mom demanded.

I wrote, He’s sick in bed. Asleep right now.

Dad said, “What’s his temperature?”

101.

Mom’s peeved face turned concerned. “Poor baby. On Christmas Day, too. It’s just as wel we al agreed not to open presents until we get home

on New Year’s Day. It wouldn’t be any fun with him sick in bed, now would it?”

I shook my head. Are you moving to Fiji?

Dad said, “We haven’t decided anything. We’l talk about it as a family when we get home.”

Rapidly, my hands erased and re-scribbled.

It makes me UPSET that you didn’t tel me.

Mom said, “I’m sorry, Lily bear. We didn’t want to make you upset before there was anything to real y be upset about.”

SHOULD I BE UPSET?

My hand started to feel tired from the erasing and writing. I almost wished my voice wasn’t being so obstinate.

Dad said, “It’s Christmas. Of course you shouldn’t be upset. We’l make this decision as a family—”

Mom interrupted him. “There’s some chicken soup in the freezer! You can thaw it for Langston in the microwave.”

I started to write: Langston deserves to be sick. But I erased that and wrote, Okay. I’l make him some.

Mom said, “If his temperature goes up any more, I’m going to need you to take him to the doctor. Can you do that, Lily?”

My voice broke free. “Of course I can do that!” I snapped. Geez, how old did they think I was? Eleven?

The eraser board, and my conviction, were both mad at my voice’s betrayal.

Dad said, “I’m sorry this Christmas is turning out not so swel , sweetheart. I promise you we’l make it up to you on New Year’s Day. You take

good care of Langston today and then have a nice Christmas dinner at Great-aunt Ida’s tonight. That wil make you feel bet er, right?”

My silence returned in the form of my head nodding up and down.

Mom said, “What have you been doing with your time, dear?”

I had no desire to tel her about the notebook. Not because I was UPSET about Fiji. But because it, and he, seemed to be the best part of

Christmas so far. I wanted to keep them al for myself.

I heard a moan from my brother’s room. “Lil l l l l l l yyyy …”

For the sake of expediency, I typed a message to my parents rather than speak or write it on the eraser board.