I stopped writing so I could take a nap. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to accept Snarl’s task, but if I did, I’d need to rest rst.

I dreamt about Snarl. In my dream, Snarl’s face was Eminem’s, and he was singing “My name is …” over and over while holding up the red

notebook to reveal a new page displaying di erent names.

My name is … Ypsilanti.

My name is … Ezekiel.

My name is … Mandela.

My name is … Yao Ming.

At one in the morning, my alarm went o .

Snarl had in ltrated my subconscious. The dream was obviously a sign: he was too enticing too resist.

I checked in with Langston (passed out cold), then put on my best Christmas party frock, a gold-colored crushed velvet mini-dress. I was

surprised to discover I’d developed more boobage and hippage since I wore the dress the previous Christmas, but decided not to care how snug it

was. The club would probably be dark. Who’d notice me? I completed the out t with red tights and Mrs. Basil E.’s majoret e boots with the gold-

tinseled tassels. I put my red knit hat with the poms-poms dangling from the ears on my head but pul ed out some strands of blond hair from the

front to cover one of my eyes so I could look a lit le mysterious for once. I whistled to hail a cab.

Snarl must have had me under some kind of spel because sneaking out in the middle of the night, on Christmas night no less, to a dive club on

the Lower East Side was about the last dare that pre-notebook Lily ever would have taken on. But somehow, knowing the Moleskine was tucked

away in my bag, containing our thoughts and clues, our imprints to each other, somehow that made me feel safe, like I could have this adventure

and not get lost and not cal my brother to save me. I could do this on my own, and not freak out that I had no idea what waited for me on the

other side of this night.

“Merry Christmas. Tel me something that’s a drag.”

The bouncer she-man’s request at the door to the club would have confused me before Thanksgiving, but because of meeting Shee’nah through

my caroling group a few weeks ago, I understood the system.

Shee’nah, who is a proud member of this “new now next wave of fabulosity” in the downtown club scene, had explained the drag-on ladies as

being “not quite drag queens, not quite dragons, there for you to drag your woes to.”

And so, to a very large, very gold-lamé-dress-wearing club bouncer who had a dragon’s mask on her head, I whined, “I didn’t get any presents for

Christmas.”

“Sister, this is a Hanukkah show. Who cares about your Christmas presents? Come on, do me bet er. What’s your drag?”

“There may or may not be a person of unknowable name and face inside that club who may or may not be looking for me.”

“Bored.”

The door did not budge open.

I leaned into the drag-on lady and whispered, “I’ve never been kissed. In that certain way.”

Drag-on lady’s eyes widened. “Seriously? With those boobs?”

Gosh! Ex-squeamish me?

I covered my chest with my hands, ready to bolt.

“You are serious!” the drag-on lady said, nal y opening the door to me. “Get in there already! And mazel tov!”

I kept my arms covering my chest as I entered the club. Inside, al I could see was screaming-thrashing-moshing crazy people. It smel ed like beer

and puke. It was as close an approximation to hel as I could imagine. Immediately I wished to return outside and pass the night chat ing with the

drag-on lady, and hearing everyone else’s tales of woe at the door.

Was Snarl playing some kind of cosmic joke on me, sending me to such a dump?

I was scared, frankly.

If I’d ever been intimidated trying to make conversation with a posse of lip-glossed sixteen-year-old girls at school, they were child’s play in

comparison to the formidable group of club folks.

Meet [dramatic drumrol , please] the punky hipsters.

I was easily the youngest person there, and the only person there by herself, so far as I could tel . And for a Hanukkah party, no one was dressed

appropriately. I seemed to be the only person there dressed festively. Everyone else was in skinny jeans and crappy T-shirts. Like teenage girls, the

hipsters congregated in cooler-than-you packs, wearing bored expressions on their faces, but unlike the teenage girls I knew, I didn’t think any of

them wanted to ask to copy my math homework or play soccer. The hipsters’ sneers in my direction immediately dismissed me as Not One of

Them. I can’t say I wasn’t grateful about that.

I wanted to go home to the safety of my bed and to my stu ed animals and to my people I’d known my whole life. I had nothing to say to

anybody, and fervently prayed that no one there would have anything to say to me. I was starting to hate Snarl for throwing me into this lion’s den.

The worst punch I’d swung him was Madame Tussauds. But wax people don’t pass judgment and say to each other “What is that girl wearing? Are

there taps on her boots?” when I walk by. I don’t think.

Ah, but … the music. When the band of young Hasidic punk boys took the stage—a guitar player, a bass player, some horns, some violins, and,

strangely, no drummer—and let loose their explosion of sounds, then I understood Snarl’s master plan.

The band played a style I’d heard before, when one of my cousins married a Jewish musician. At their wedding reception, a klezmer band

played, which Langston told me was like a kind of Jewish punk-jazz fusion. The music at this club was like if you mixed the horah dance with

Green Day playing a Mardi Gras parade? The guitar and bass provided the sound’s foundation, while the horns ri ed with the violins, and the band

Green Day playing a Mardi Gras parade? The guitar and bass provided the sound’s foundation, while the horns ri ed with the violins, and the band

members’ voices laughed and wept and sang al at once.

It was clown insane. I loved it. My arms removed themselves from protecting my chest. I needed to move! I danced my tuchus o , not caring

what anyone thought. I twirled in the middle of the mosh, thrashed my hair around, and jumped like I was on a pogo stick. I tapped my boot taps

on the oor like I was part of the music, too, not caring what anyone thought.

Apparently, the wildly dancing hipsters thought the same as me about the music, dancing around me like we were in a punk horah dance.

Maybe klezmer music was a universal language, like soccer. I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed myself.

I realized that Snarl had given me what I asked for as a Christmas present. Hope and belief. I’d always hoped but never believed that I could

have such an adventure on my own. That I could own it. And love it. But it had happened. The notebook had made it so.

I was sad when the band’s set ended, but also glad. My heart rate needed to come down. And it needed to nd its next message.

While the opening band left the stage, I went to the bathroom, as instructed.

May I just say, if I ever have to return to that bathroom in my lifetime, I’m bringing a bot le of Clorox.

I took a paper towel from the sink and placed it on the toilet to sit down on; no way would I use that toilet. There was writing al over the stal

wal —trails of gra ti and quotes, messages to lovers and friends, to exes and enemies. It was almost like a wailing wal —the punked-out place to

puke out your heart. If it wasn’t so lthy and smel y, it could almost have doubled as a museum art instal ation—so many words and feelings, so

many diverse styles of scribbling, with messages writ en in Magic Marker, di erent-colored pens, eyeliner, nail polish, glit er pens, and Sharpies.

I related most to this scrawled line:

BECAUSE I’M SO UNCOOL AND SO AFRAID