Dash & Lily's Book of Dares (5 page)

“Make me,” I replied.

The whole line was paying attention now. Kids’ eyes were wide with fear. Most of the dads and some of the moms were getting ready to jump me if I tried anything.

“I need security,” the elf said, but I couldn’t tell who he was talking to.

I walked forward, knocking his shoulder with my thigh. I was almost at Santa when I felt a tug on my ass—the elf had grabbed the back pocket of my jeans and was trying to pull me back.

“Get. Off. Of. Me,” I said, kicking back.

“You’re NAUGHTY!” the elf screamed. “Very NAUGHTY!”

We’d caught Santa’s attention. He gave me the once-over, then chuckled out, “Ho ho ho! What seems to be the problem?”

“Lily sent me,” I said.

From somewhere behind the beard, he figured it out. Meanwhile, the elf was about to pull down my pants.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Get off of him, Desmond!”

The elf let go.

“I’m calling security,” he insisted.

“If you do,” Santa murmured, “you’ll be back to folding hand towels so fast you won’t even have time to take the bells off your boots or your balls out of your elfy boxer briefs.”

It was a very good thing that the elf wasn’t packing any of his toy-carving tools at that point, because it might have been a very different day at Macy’s if he had.

“Well, well, well,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, little boy.”

This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around.

“I’m not really a little boy,” I pointed out.

“Get on my lap, then,
big boy
.”

I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his belly. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his crotch.

“Ho ho ho!” he chortled.

I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it.

“Have you been a good little boy this year?” he asked.

I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes.

He actually wobbled with joy.

“Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?”

I thought it was obvious.

“A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.”

“So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a little something for you”—he shifted a little in his seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’ll have to rub Santa’s belly.”

“What?” I asked.

He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.”

I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat.

“You know you want it,” he whispered.

The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was.

Fuck off, Lily. You can’t intimidate me
.

I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, fleshy, hairy … and his belly was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hell!” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa. And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pulling some of his white belly hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped off his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The letter was in my hand, damp but intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.

I ran. I bobbed. I weaved. I propelled myself through the tourists until I was safe in menswear, sheltered in a changing room. I dried my hand and the envelope on a purple velour tracksuit that someone had left behind, then opened it to reveal Lily’s next words.

8. That’s the spirit!
Now, all I want for Christmas
(or December 22nd)
is your best Christmas memory
.
I also want my red notebook back
,
so leave it, with your memory included
,
in my stocking on the second floor
.

I opened to the first available blank page in the Moleskine and started to write.

My best Christmas was when I was eight. My parents had just split up, and they told me I was really lucky, because this year I was going to get two Christmases instead of one. They called it Australian Christmas, because I would get presents at my mom’s place one evening and at my dad’s place the next morning, and it would be okay because they would both be Christmas Day in Australia. This sounded great to me, and I honestly felt lucky. Two Christmases! They went all out, too. Full dinners, all the relatives from each side at each Christmas. They must have split my Christmas list down the middle, because I got everything I wanted, and no duplication. Then my father, on the second night, made the big mistake. I was up late, way too late, and everyone else had gone home. He was drinking something brown-gold—probably brandy—and he pulled me to his side and asked me if I liked having two Christmases. I told him yes, and he told me again how lucky I was. Then he asked me if there was anything else I wanted
.

I told him I wanted Mom to be with us, too. And he didn’t blink. He said he’d see what he could do. And I believed him. I believed I was lucky, and I believed two Christmases were better than one, and I believed even though Santa wasn’t real, my parents could still perform magic. So that’s why it was my best Christmas. Because it was the last one when I really believed
.

Ask a question, get the answer. I figured if Lily couldn’t understand that, there wasn’t any reason to continue.

I found the spot on the second floor where they were selling the personalized Christmas stockings, making a wide berth
around the Santa stand and all of the security guards. Sure enough, there was a hook of Lily stockings, right before
LINAS
and
LIVINIA
. I’d leave the red notebook there …

… but first I had to go to the AMC to buy Lily a ticket to the next day’s 10 a.m. showing of
Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer
.

four
(Lily)

December 23rd

I have never gone to a movie by myself. Usually when I see a movie, it’s with my grandpa, or my brother and parents, or lots of cousins. The best is when we all go at once, like an army of interrelated popcorn zombies who laugh the same laughs and gasp the same gasps and aren’t so germ-phobic with each other that we won’t share a ginormous Coke with one straw. Family is useful like that.

I planned to insist that Langston and Benny accompany me to the 10 a.m. showing of
Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer
. I figured it was their responsibility to take me, since they started this whole thing. I woke them up promptly at 8 a.m. to let them know and to give them enough time to figure out their ironic T-shirts and tousled I-don’t-care-but-actually-I-care-too-much hairstyles before we headed out for the day.

Only Langston threw his pillow at me when I tried to get him up. He didn’t budge from bed.

“Get out of my room, Lily!” he grumbled. “Go to the movies by yourself!”

Benny rolled over and looked at the clock next to Langston’s bed. “
Ay, mamacita
, it’s what o’clock in the morning? Eight?
Merde merde merde
, and during Christmas break, when it’s like the law to sleep in till noon?
Ay, mamacita
… GO BACK TO SLEEP!” Benny rolled over onto his stomach and placed his pillow over his head to get started right away, I guess, on dreaming in Spanglish.

I was pretty tired myself, since I’d gotten up at 4 a.m. to make my mystery snarly friend a special present. I wouldn’t have minded taking a nap on the floor next to Langston like when we were kids, but I suspected if I suggested such a thing on this particular morning, in this particular company, Langston would repeat his standby refrain:

“Did you hear me, Lily? GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”

He actually did say that. I wasn’t imagining he might say it.

“But I’m not allowed to go to the movies by myself,” I reminded Langston. At least, that was the rule when I was eight. Mom and Dad had never clarified whether the rule had been amended as I’d aged.

“Of course you’re allowed to go to the movies by yourself. And even if you’re not, I’m in charge while Mom and Dad are gone, and I hereby authorize you. And the sooner you leave my room, the sooner your curfew gets bumped from eleven p.m. to midnight.”

“My curfew is ten p.m. and I’m not allowed to be outside alone late at night.”

“Guess what? Your new curfew is no curfew, and you can stay out as long as you want, with whomever you want, or be alone, I don’t care, just make sure your phone is turned on so
I can call you to make sure you’re still alive. And feel free to get wasted drunk and fool around with boys and—”

“LA LA LA LA LA,” I said, my hands over my ears to block out Langston’s dirty talk. I turned around to step out of his room but leaned back in to ask, “What are we making for pre–Christmas Eve dinner? I was thinking we could roast some chestnuts and—”

“GET OUT!” Langston and Benny both yelled.

So much for day before the day before Christmas Eve cheer. When we were little, the Christmas countdown began a week in advance and always started with either Langston or me greeting each other at breakfast by saying, “Good morning! And happy day before the day before the day before the day before Christmas!” And so on until the real day.

I wondered what kind of monsters lurked in theaters to prey on people sitting by themselves because their brothers wouldn’t get out of bed to take them to the movies. I figured I’d better get mean real fast so I could be prepared for any dangerous scenario. I got dressed, wrapped my special present, then stood in front of the bathroom mirror, where I practiced making scary faces that would ward off any movie monsters preying upon single-seated persons.

As I practiced my meanest face—tongue wagging out, nose crinkled, eyes at a most hateful glare—I saw Benny standing behind me in the bathroom hallway. “Why are you making kitten faces in the mirror?” he asked, yawning.

“They’re
mean
faces!” I said.

Benny said, “Look, that
outfit
you’re wearing is gonna scare
papi
off more than your mean kitten face.
What
are you wearing, Little Miss
Quinceañera
Gone Batshit?”

I looked down at my outfit: oxford uniform school shirt tucked into a knee-length lime-green felt material skirt with a reindeer embroidered on it, candy-cane-colored swirled stockings, and beat-up Chucks on my feet.

“What’s the matter with my outfit?” I asked, smiling upside down into a …
^*
shudder
^*
… frown. “I think my outfit is very festive for the day before the day before Christmas. And for a movie about a reindeer. Anyway, I thought you went back to sleep.”

“Bathroom break.” Benny inspected me head to toe. “No,” he said. “The shoes don’t work. If you’re gonna go with that outfit, you might as well go
all
out. C’mon.”

He took my hand and dragged me to the closet in my room. He perused through the heaps of Converse sneakers. “You don’t got no other types of shoes?” he said.

“Only in our old dress-up-clothes trunk,” I said, joking.

“Perfect,” he said.

Benny darted over to the old trunk in the corner of my room, pulling out tulle tutus, yards of muumuus, #1 FAN baseball caps, fireman hats, princess slippers, platform shoes, and an alarming number of Crocs, until finally he grabbed for our Great-aunt Ida’s retired tasseled majorette boots, with taps still on the toes and heels. “These fit you?” Benny asked.

I tried them on. “A little big, but I guess.” The boots spiced up my candy-cane-colored stockings nicely. I liked.

“Awesome. They’ll go great with your winter hat.”

My winter head-warming accessory of choice is a vintage red knit hat with pom-poms dangling down from the ears. It’s “vintage” in the sense of being a hat I made for my fourth-grade school Christmas pageant production of
A Christmas
Carol(ing) A-go-go
, the Dickens-inspired disco musical I had to heavily lobby our school principal to allow to be staged. Some people are so rigidly secular.

My outfit complete, I walked outside toward the subway. I almost returned inside to change my shoes from the majorette boots to my old familiar Chucks, but the tapping noises from my feet hitting the pavement were comfortingly festive, so I didn’t, even though the boots were too big and my feet kept almost walking right out of them. (
These boots were made for … slipping out of … la la la … ha ha ha
.)

I had to acknowledge that despite my excitement to follow the trail of mystery snarl, any boy who left me a ticket to see
Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer
would unlikely turn out to be a keeper. The title, quite simply, offended me. Langston says I should have a better sense of humor about these things, but I don’t see what’s so funny about the idea of a reindeer going after one of our senior friends. It is a known fact that reindeers are herbivores who subsist on plant life and shun meat, so I hardly think they’d be gunning for someone’s gramma. It upset me to think about a reindeer harming Gramma, because we all know that if that happened in the real world and not in the movies, then the Wildlife Service would go hunting for that reindeer and do away with the poor antlered guy when it was probably Gramma’s fault getting in his way like that! She always forgets to wear her glasses and osteoporosis hunches her walk and slows her down. She’s like a walking bull’s-eye for dear ol’ Bambi!