Museum of Art of New York. When we were kids, our Mrs. Basil E. used to take Langston and me on museum adventures on school holidays when
our parents had to work. The days always ended with a trip for giant ice cream sundaes. How great is a great-aunt who lets her niece and nephew
have ice cream for dinner? Truly great, in my opinion.
Great-aunt Ida/Mrs. Basil E. wrapped me in a giant Christmas hug when I arrived at her apartment. I loved how she always smel s like lipstick and
classy perfume. She always wears a proper ladies’ suit, too, even on Christmas Day, when she should be lounging around in her pj’s.
“Hel o, Lily bear,” Mrs. Basil E. said. “I see you found my old majoret e boots from my high school days at Washington Irving High.”
I leaned into her for another hug. I love her hugs. “Yes.” I nodded into her shoulder, grateful for it. “I found them in our old dress-up-clothes
trunk. At rst they were too big on me, but I put on a thick pair of socks over my tights, so they’re comfy now. They’re my new favorite boots.”
“I like the gold tinsel you added to the tassels,” she said. “Are you going to let me go anytime before New Year’s?”
“I like the gold tinsel you added to the tassels,” she said. “Are you going to let me go anytime before New Year’s?”
Reluctantly, I released my arms from around her.
“Now please take my boots o ,” she said. “I don’t want the taps on the soles scratching my wood oors.”
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
Mrs. Basil E.’s tradition is to have tons of people over for Christmas dinner, and enough food for a ton more.
“The usual,” she said.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Right this way,” she said, turning toward the kitchen.
But I didn’t fol ow her.
She turned around. “Yes, Lily?” she asked.
“Did he return the notebook?”
“Not yet, dear. But I’m sure he wil .”
“What does he look like?” I asked her, once again.
“You’l have to nd out for yourself,” she said. Aside from being snarly, Snarl must not be a total monster, because if he was, no way would Mrs.
Basil E. have signed on as an accessory to the latest instal ment.
Into the kitchen we went.
Mrs. Basil E. and I cooked and sang til six while workers around us did the same, preparing the grand house for its grand feast. I kept wanting to
shriek, WHAT IF HE DOESN’T RETURN THE NOTEBOOK? But I didn’t. Because my great-aunt didn’t seem too concerned. Like she had faith in
him, and so should I.
Final y, at seven that night—perhaps the looooongest wait of my life ever—the Dyker Heights contingent of the family arrived. Uncle Carmine
and his wife and their massive brood came in loaded with presents.
I didn’t bother to open mine. Uncle Carmine stil thinks I’m eight and gives me American Girl dol accessories. Which I stil love, by the way, but
it’s not exactly like there’s a mystery about what’s inside his wrapped gift boxes for me. So I asked him, “Do you have it?”
Uncle Carmine said, “It’l cost you.” He turned his cheek to me. I gave his cheek a Christmas kiss. The tol paid, he pul ed the red notebook from
his goody bag of presents and handed it to me.
Suddenly I didn’t see how I could survive one more second without absorbing the latest contents in the notebook. I needed to be alone.
“Bye, everyone!” I chirped.
“Lily!” Mrs. Basil E. scolded. “You can’t possibly think you’re leaving.”
“I forgot to tel you I’m not real y talking to anyone today! I’m more or less on strike! So I wouldn’t be very good company! And since Langston’s
sick at home, I should probably check on him.” I threw her a kiss from my hand. “Mwahhh!”
She shook her head. “That child,” she said to Carmine. “Kooky.” She threw her hands up in the air before throwing me back an air kiss. “What
should I tel the caroling friends you invited here to dinner tonight?”
“Tel them merry Christmas!” I cal ed out as I left.
Langston was asleep again when I got home. I l ed his water glass and left some Tylenols by his bed and went to my own room to read the
notebook in private.
At last I had it—the Christmas present I’d wanted al along, but hadn’t realized. His words.
I felt a sense of longing for him such as I’ve never experienced in my lifetime for any person, or even for any pet.
It seemed weird to me that he’d spent his Christmas alone … and had seemed to like it. He hadn’t seemed to think anyone should feel sorry for
him about that, either.
I had spent my Christmas mostly alone for the rst time in my life, too.
I had felt rather sorry for myself.
But it hadn’t been so terrible, actual y.
In the future, I decided I would tackle the solitude thing more enthusiastical y, so long as solitude meant I could also walk in the park and pet a
few dogs and pass them treats.
What did you get for Christmas? he asked me in the notebook.
I wrote:
We didn’t do presents this year at Christmas. We’re saving it for New Year’s. (Long story. Maybe you’d like to hear it in person sometime?)
But I couldn’t concentrate on writing in the notebook. I wanted to live inside it, not write in it.
What kind of girl did Snarl think I was, sending me to a music club in the middle of the night?
My parents would never let me go.
But they weren’t here to say no.
I returned to the notebook. I liked what you said, my nameless new friend. Are we that? Friends? I hope so. Only for a friend would I consider
going out at TWO IN THE MORNING on Christmas night—or any night, for that mat er. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, so much as … I don’t
real y go out that much. In that teenager kind of way. Is that okay?
I’m not sure how this Being a Teenager thing is supposed to work. Is there an instruction manual? I think I have the moody muscle instal ed, but
I don’t ex it that often. More times I feel so l ed with LOVE for the people I know—and even more so for the dogs I walk in Tompkins Square
Park—that I feel like I could wel up like a giant bal oon and y away. Yes, that much love. But other teenagers? Historical y, I haven’t always
related so much. In seventh grade, my parents made me join my school’s soccer team to force me to socialize with other girls my age. It turns out I
was pret y good at soccer, but not so great at the socializing part. Don’t worry—it’s not like I am a complete freak of nature that nobody talks to.
It’s more like the other girls talk to me, but after a while they’l sort of look at me like, “HUH? What did she just say?” Then they go o into their
groups, where I’m pret y sure they speak a secret language of popularity, and I go back to kicking the bal by myself and having imaginary
conversations with my favorite dogs and literary characters. Everyone wins.
I don’t mind being the odd girl out; it’s kind of a relief, maybe. In the language of soccer, however, I am highly uent. That’s what I like about
I don’t mind being the odd girl out; it’s kind of a relief, maybe. In the language of soccer, however, I am highly uent. That’s what I like about
sports. No mat er if everyone playing the game speaks completely di erent languages, on the eld, or the court, wherever they are playing, the
language of moves and passes and scores is al the same. Universal.
Do you like sports? I don’t imagine you being the sporty type. I KNOW! Your name is Beckham, isn’t it?
I’m not sure you wil get this notebook back tonight. I’m not sure I can accept your latest mission. It’s only because my parents are away that I
can even consider it. I’ve never been to a late-night music club before. And going out by myself in the middle of the night, in the middle of Manhat an? Wow. You must have a lot of faith in me. Which I appreciate. Even if I’m not sure I share it.