“Hi, Priya,” I said.

She looked at the books I was holding—a red Moleskine, French Pianism, Fat Hoochie Prom Queen, and, open to a rather graphic drawing of two men doing something I had heretofore not known to be possible, The Joy of Gay Sex (third edition).

Apprising the situation, I figured some explanation was in order.

“It’s for a paper I’m doing,” I said, my voice rife with fake intellectual assurance. “On French pianism and its effects. You’d be amazed at how far-reaching French pianism is.”

Priya, bless her, looked like she regretted ever saying my name.

“Are you around for break?” she asked.

If I’d admitted I was, she might have been forthcoming with an invitation to an eggnog party or a group excursion to the holiday film Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, featuring a black comedian playing all of the roles, except for that of a female Rudolph, who was, one assumed, the love interest. Because I withered under the glare of an actual invitation, I was a firm believer in preventative prevarication—in other words, lying early in order to free myself later on.

“I leave tomorrow for Sweden,” I replied.

“Sweden?”

I did not (and do not) look in any way Swedish, so a family holiday was out of the question. By way of explanation, I simply said, “I love Sweden in December. The days are short … the nights are long … and the design completely lacks ornament.”

Priya nodded. “Sounds fun.”

We stood there. I knew that according to the rules of conversation, it was now my turn. But I also knew that refusal to conform to these rules might result in Priya’s departure, which I very much wanted.

After thirty seconds, she could stand it no longer.

“Well, I gotta go,” she said.

“Happy Hanukkah,” I said. Because I always liked to say the wrong holiday, just to see how the other person would react.

Priya took it in stride. “Have fun in Sweden,” she said. And was gone.

I rearranged my books so the red journal was on top again. I turned to the next page.

The fact that you are willing to stand there
in the Strand with The Joy of Gay Sex
bodes well for our future.

However, if you already own this book
or would find it useful in your life,
I am afraid our time together
must end here.
This girl can only go boy-girl,
so if you’re into

boy-boy, I completely support that,
but don’t see where I’d fit into the picture.

Now, one last book.
4. What the Living Do, by Marie Howe
23/1/8
24/5/9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

I headed immediately to the poetry section, completely intrigued. Who was this strange reader of Marie Howe who’d summoned me? It seemed too convenient that we should both know about the same poet. Really, most people in my circle didn’t know any poets at all. I tried to remember talking about Marie Howe with someone—anyone—but came up blank. Only Sofia, probably, and this wasn’t Sofia’s handwriting. (Plus, she was in Spain.)

I checked the Hs. Nothing. I went through the whole poetry section. Nothing. I was about to scream in frustration when I saw it—at the very top of the bookshelf, at least twelve feet from the floor. A slight corner peeking out—but I knew from its slimness and dark plum color that it was the book I was looking for. I pulled over a ladder and made the perilous climb. It was a dusty ascent, the out-of-reach heights clouded with disinterest, making the air harder to breathe. Finally, I had the volume in my hand. I couldn’t wait—I quickly turned to pages 23 and 24 and found the seven words I needed.

for the pure thrill of unreluctant desire

I nearly fell off the ladder.

Are you going to be playing for the pure thrill of unreluctant desire?

I was, to put it mildly, aroused by the phrasing.

Carefully, I stepped back down. When I hit the floor again, I retrieved the red Moleskine and turned the page.

So here we are.
Now it’s up to you,
what we do (or don’t) do.

If you are interested in continuing this conversation,
please choose a book, any book, and
leave a slip of paper with your email address inside of it.
Give it to Mark, at the information desk.

If you ask Mark any questions about me,
he will not pass on your book.
So no questions.

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 first 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 figured it would take a little 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 finding 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 goodwill to all. I know it’s technically goodwill to all men, but in my mind, I drop the men because that feels segregationist/elitist/sexist/generally bad ist. Goodwill 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 goodwill 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 stuffed animals (special shout-out to my Ariel mermaid, who presides over the shabby chic flower power pillow on my bed—love you, girl!). I’m sure Santa would agree. Goodwill to all.

I love Christmas so much that this year I’ve organized my own caroling society. Just because I live in the gentrified 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 flyer 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 will
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 film 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!
Hallelujah, 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 outfit 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 first 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 afford 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 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.

My brother, Langston, said, “Lily, you don’t understand because you’ve never been in love. If you had a boyfriend, you’d understand.” Langston has a new boyfriend and all I understand from that is a sorry state of co-dependence.

And it’s not entirely true that I’ve never been in love. I had a pet gerbil in first grade, Spazzy, whom I loved passionately. I will never stop blaming myself for bringing Spazzy to show-and-tell at school, where Edgar Thibaud let open his cage when I wasn’t looking and Spazzy met Jessica Rodriguez’s cat Tiger and, well, the rest is history. Goodwill to Spazzy up in gerbil heaven. Sorry sorry sorry. I stopped eating meat the day of the massacre, as penance for Spazzy. I’ve been a vegetarian since age six, all for the love of a gerbil.

Since I was eight, I have been in literary love with the character Sport from Harriet the Spy. I’ve kept my own Harriet-style journal—red Moleskine notebooks that Grandpa buys me at the Strand—since I first read that book, only I don’t write mean observations about people in my journals like Harriet sometimes did. Mostly I draw pictures in it and write memorable quotes or passages from books I’ve read, or recipe ideas, or little stories I make up when I’m bored. I want to be able to show grown-up Sport that I’ve tried my darnedest not to make sport out of writing mean gossip and stuff.

Langston has been in love. Twice. His first big romance ended so badly that he had to leave Boston after his freshman year of college and move back home till his heart could heal; the breakup was that bad. I hope I never love someone so much that they could hurt me the way Langston was hurt, so wounded all he could do was cry and mope around the house and ask me to make him peanut butter and banana sandwiches with the crusts cut off, then play Boggle with him, which of course I always did, because I usually do whatever Langston wants me to do. Langston eventually recovered and now he’s in love again. I think this new one’s okay. Their first date was at the symphony. How mean can a guy be who likes Mozart? I hope, at least.