“Absolutely. You should go for it with him,” I say, mustering false enthusiasm as I try to return to being her dating tutor, even though I might be a candidate for a split personality study since we just kissed, and now I’m telling her to go all-out for another guy. Maybe I caught some new strain of her babble-around-someone-I’m-into virus with that kiss.
“You think so?” she asks, with an inquisitive tilt of her head.
“Definitely. He might be the man of your dreams.” Yup. A full-blown case of it.
She shoots me a skeptical look, then shrugs. “Would you meet me after I go out with him, so I can tell you everything while it’s fresh in my mind?” she asks, placing her palms together. I’m about to say no, when she adds, “After all, I did 1919 White Sox for you.”
“Then you made me look like a rock star in front of my fans just now,” I say, still on autopilot. But even though I’m reluctant, I did sign up to help her, so this is, evidently, the drill. “Let me know where and when.”
“I’ll text you,” she says, then heads up the steps, and I watch as she unlocks the door to her building, turns around, and waves to me through the glass.
Then she’s gone, taking with her the best and strangest first kiss I’ve ever had.
I return to my home on Seventy-Third, a fourth-floor apartment with exposed brick walls and a huge window sporting a view of the park. As the door shuts behind me with a faint click, I ask myself if it even counts as a first kiss if you don’t know if it was real or just a dare?
I don’t think it lasted more than fifteen seconds, but those fifteen seconds echo inside me, and I can still feel the imprint of her lips on mine. I can still smell her sweet scent when I breathe in. I can still hear her soft gasp in my ears.
I wish I knew if she was in her apartment, lingering on those fifteen seconds, too.
But I can’t know, and I won’t know.
I do the one thing that’s been a constant my whole life. The one thing that never frustrates me, and that always centers me. I toe off my shoes, flop down on my cushy gray couch by the big bay window, and grab my notebook. I have another episode to work on, and even though I don’t do all the writing and animating anymore, the ideas and the storylines are mine.
But as I put the pencil to paper, I find I’m not in the mood to problem-solve for a cartoon hero. Instead, I just draw. Freestyle. Whatever comes to mind.
The trouble is when I finish, it’s a caricature of a certain redhead in Daisy Dukes and high heels, working under the hood of a car. I give the drawing the evil eye, and toss it on the coffee table. Me and my fucking imagination, getting away from me once again.
A text arrives from her a minute later, and I wish I didn’t feel a spark of possibility when I see her name.
The spark is doused coldly as I read the message.
Coffee with Jason Saturday afternoon. Meet afterward?
It’s official. It was a kiss on a dare, and it absolutely doesn't count. In fact, it’s as if it never happened, so I file it away in the not-gonna-happen-again drawer, then I tell her yes. After that, I finally write back to Spencer, making plans to see him this weekend. Perfect. That’ll knock his sister right out of my solar system.
8
“What if a Great Dane mated with a chipmunk?”
I roll my eyes at the question my brother poses the next morning as we crunch across a pile of fallen leaves on the path in Central Park. Autumn has coasted into New York City, and the colors are gorgeous. For a moment, I study a cranberry-red leaf that has drifted to the ground, picturing how I’d use that color in an animation. This is something I’ve always done; it’s second nature for me to think about color, shades, and all the permutations they can take.
“Would the Great Dane have a fluffy tail, or would the chipmunk have crazy long legs?” Wyatt continues.
“Dude, you know that’s not how this works,” I say to my brother as the Min Pin mix I’m walking tugs on the end of the leash in hot pursuit of a squirrel.
“Or a squirrel and a Min Pin,” Wyatt suggests, waving an arm at the critter.
“Again, you’re getting away from the focus of the dog mash-ups game,” I remind him as the long-haired, white-and-brown teacup Chihuahua he’s walking tries to chase the tail of my dog. Well, not my dog, but the one I’m walking for a local animal rescue, Little Friends, that specializes in finding homes for small apartment-friendly dogs. We both volunteer there.
“Iguana and a terrier,” he suggests, trying once more, then his furry friend balances on her two front legs, lifts her rear, legs and all, and pees on the grass.
“Handstand piss!” my brother shouts, doing a little victory shuffle by the tree.
I high-five him with my non-leash hand, because that is a serious win in our other dog game—dog bingo. We’re multitaskers. We can play two games at once. “Ten points. Nice work,” I say, but I’m competitive as hell with my little brother, and even though we’re almost done with the walk, I’ve still got a chance to beat him. “But not if a fire truck drives by and mine howls.”
He shoots me a doubtful look as we make our way out of the park. “Yeah, don’t bank on that. That’s both the unicorn and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in dog bingo.”
“Someday I’ll get it, though,” I say, since dogs howling, especially tiny dogs like these two, is kind of fucking adorable, and that’s why it’s fifty points on our scorecard of random, unplanned canine activities. That’s our version of car bingo, which we’ve played since we were kids. Points are also awarded to dog yoga poses, in honor of our dad, who’s the most laidback guy you’ll ever meet. I credit that to him being a yoga teacher, and to my mom keeping him well fed with her cupcakes. And no, I mean cupcakes literally, because I’m not even going there or thinking about that.