Dash And Lily's Book Of Dares: the sparkling prequel to Twelves Days of Dash and Lily. David Levithan
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have to render it in the beauty pageant spelling of world peas. I could play the boo-hoo orphan card and wish for my whole family to be together, but that was the last thing I wanted, especially at this late date.
Soon Collation was upon us. Parts of it were funny, and I certainly appreciated the irony of a film distributed by Disney bemoaning corporate culture. But the love story was lacking. After all the marginally feminist Disney heroines of the early to mid-nineties, this heroine was literally a blank piece of paper. Granted, she could fold herself into a paper airplane in order to take her stapler boyfriend on a romantic glide around a magical conference room, and her final rock-paper-scissors showdown with the hapless janitor showed brio of a sort … but I couldn’t fall for her the way that Boomer and the stapler and most of the kids and parents in the audience were falling for her.
I wondered if what I really wanted for Christmas was to find someone who’d be the piece of paper to my stapler. Or, wait, why couldn’t I be the piece of paper? Maybe it was a stapler I was after. Or the poor mouse pad, who was clearly in love with the stapler but couldn’t get him to give her a second look. All I’d managed to date so far was a series of pencil sharpeners, with the exception of Sofia, who was more like a pleasant eraser.
I figured the only way for me to really find the meaning of my own personal Christmas needs was to leg on over to Madame Tussauds. Because what better barometer could there be than a throng of tourists taking photos of wax statues of public figures?
I knew Boomer would be game for a field trip, so after the stapler and the piece of paper were safely frolicking over the end credits (to the dulcet tones of Celine Dion piping “You Supply My Love”), I shanghaied him from the lobby to Forty-second Street.
“Why are there so many people out here?” Boomer asked as we bobbed and weaved roughly forward.
“Christmas shopping,” I explained.
“Already? Isn’t it early to be returning things?”
I really had no sense of how his mind worked.
The only time I had ever been in Madame Tussauds was the previous year, when three friends and I had tried to collect the world record for most suggestive posings with wax statues of B-list celebrities and historical figures. To be honest, it gave me the heebie-jeebies to go down on so many wax figures—especially Nicholas Cage, who already gave me the heebie-jeebies in real life. But my friend Mona wanted it to be a part of her senior project. The guards didn’t seem to mind, as long as there was no physical contact. Which made me expound upon one of my earlier theories, that Madame Tussaud had been a true madam, and had started her whole operation with a waxwork whorehouse somewhere near Paris, Texas. Mona loved this theory, but we could find no proof, and thus it did not transform into true scholarship.
A wax replica of Morgan Freeman was guarding the entrance, and I wondered if this was some kind of cosmic payback—that every time an actor with a modicum of talent sold his soul to be in a big Hollywood action picture of no redeeming social value, his sellout visage was struck in wax and placed outside Madame Tussauds. Or maybe the people at Madame Tussauds figured that everyone loved Morgan Freeman, so who wouldn’t want to pose with him for a quick snapshot before stepping inside?
Weirdly, the next two wax figures were Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, confirming my sellout theory, and also making me wonder whether Madame Tussauds was deliberately keeping all the black statues in the lobby. Very strange. Boomer didn’t seem to notice this. Instead, he was acting as if he were having real celebrity sightings, exclaiming with glee every time he saw someone—”Wow, it’s Halle Berry!”
I wanted to scream bloody murder over the price of admission—I made a note to tell Lily that the next time she wanted me to fork over twenty-five bucks to see a wax statue of Honest Abe, she should slip some cash into the journal to cover my expenses.
Inside, it was a total freak show. When I’d visited before, it had been nearly empty. But clearly the holidays had caused a lot of family-time desperation, so there were all sorts of crowds around the unlikeliest of figures. I mean, was Uma Thurman really worth jostling for? Jon Bon Jovi?
To be honest, the whole place depressed me. The wax figures were lifelike, for sure. But, hell, you say wax and I think melt. There’s some kind of permanence to a real statue. Not here. And not only because of the wax. You had to know that in some corner of this building, there was a closet full of discarded statues, the people whose spotlight had come and gone. Like the members of *NSYNC whose initials weren’t JT; or all the Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls. Were people really buddying up to the Seinfeld sculpture anymore? Did Keanu Reeves ever stop by his own statue, just to remember when people cared?
“Look, Miley Cyrus!” Boomer called, and at least a dozen preteen girls followed him over to gawk at this poor girl frozen in an awkward (if lucrative) adolescence. It didn’t even look like Miley Cyrus—there was something a little off, so it looked like Miley Cyrus’s backwater cousin Riley, dressing up and trying to pretend to be Miley. Behind her, the Jonas Brothers were frozen mid-jam. Didn’t they have to know that the Closet of Forgotten Statues would call to them someday?
Of course, before I found Honest Abe, I needed to figure out what I wanted for Christmas.
A pony.
An unlimited MetroCard.
A promise that Lily’s uncle Sal would never be allowed to work around children again.
A swank lime-green couch.
A new thinking cap.
It seemed I was incapable of coming up with a serious answer. What I really wanted for Christmas was for Christmas to go away. Maybe Lily would understand this … but maybe she wouldn’t. I’d seen even the hardest-edge girls go soft for Santa. I couldn’t fault her for believing, because I had to imagine it was nice to have that illusion still intact. Not the belief in Santa, but the believe that a single holiday could usher in goodwill toward man.
“Dash?”
I looked up, and there was Priya, with at least two younger brothers in tow.
“Hey, Priya.”
“Is this her?” Boomer asked, somehow diverting his attention long enough from the Jackie Chan display to make it awkward for me.
“No, this is Priya,” I said. “Priya, this is my friend Boomer.”
“I thought you were in Sweden,” Priya said. I couldn’t tell if she was irritated at me or irritated at the way one of her brothers was stretching out her sleeve.
“You were in Sweden?” Boomer asked.
“No,” I said. “The trip got called off at the last minute. Because of the political unrest.”
“In Sweden?” Priya seemed skeptical.
“Yeah—isn’t it strange how the Times isn’t covering it? Half the country’s on strike because of that thing the crown prince said about Pippi Longstocking. Which means no meatballs for Christmas, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s so sad!” Boomer said.
“Well, if you’re around,” Priya said, “I’m having people over the day after Christmas. Sofia will be there.”
“Sofia?”
“You know she’s back in town, right? For the holidays.”
I swear, it looked like Priya was enjoying this. Even her pipsqueak brothers seemed to be enjoying this.
“Of course I knew,” I lied. “I just—well, I thought I was going to be in Sweden. You know how it is.”
“It starts at six. Feel free to bring your friend here.” The brothers started to tug on her again. “I’ll see you then, I hope.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Sofia.”
I hadn’t meant to say that last word aloud. I wasn’t even sure Priya heard it, she was