Page 8 of A Very Snowed In New Year
She finally looks up from her e-book and pouts at me.
I don’t love guilt-tripping her with my impending departure, but time is of the essence.
She puts her iPad to sleep and sets it down, adjusts her eyeglasses, then rests her elbows on her knees and taps her fingers together pensively. “You may ask your question,” she says, like a little blonde mafia boss.
“Much appreciated. I was just wondering, hypothetically… Do you know whathypotheticallymeans?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “I do have a basic understanding of the concept of imagining the possibility of something that is not reality, yes.”
Such a little turd. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to for a second. Hypothetically, if you had your email address on the inside cover of your private diary, lost your diary in public, and then some stranger found it…how would you want them to return it to you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “In this hypothetical scenario, am I old enough to have a real email account?”
I see where this is going. In two moves, she’s going to try to get me to convince our parents that she’s mature enough to have an email and a Pinterest account. Not falling for it. “Okay, how about this. Say you find a journal that clearly belongs to a girl and there’s a note on the inside cover that saysIf found, please do not read contents and contact…and then an email address. But you don’t know who the person is and you don’t want to use your own email account to contact them?—”
“Because hypothetically I’myouand I’m about to become a world-famous movie star? Why don’t you just ask me whatyoushould do? Or is this some sort of elaborate acting exercise?”
“Fine, I’m asking you for advice on whatIshould do because I found a girl’s private diary that she left in a cab and from glancing at two pages of this notebook, she seems like exactly the kind of girl who might freak out if she knew the male star ofRiders of Storm and Fireis emailing her.”
“Why is it always so hard for you to ask your eleven-year-old sister for advice, Holden?” she says, grinning and loving this way too much. It’s fine. At least this is taking her mind off of how much she’s going to miss me. “Oh my God, you think you’re being a hero, don’t you? Why are you making such a big deal out of this? You just create a new email account, like FoundYourJournal at Gmail dot com. Tell her you’ll mail it to her if she’ll give you a mailing address she’s comfortable giving you, or if she’s underage ask her if she has a legal guardian you should contact about this. And just don’t tell her your real name. Like, don’t hide your name in an obvious way, because that’s creepy. Use your middle name.
“And PS: I know people who’ve lost things in taxi cabs, and they’ve actually been returned to them. You just need to know the medallion number and which garage the car belongs to, so it probably would have been better if you’d just let the driver take it to their lost and found, but whatever. Is there anything elseyou need help with?” She’s trying so hard not to look smug, and she is failing miserably.
“That is very helpful—thank you.”
“No problem. Just don’t say anything creepy that might scare her.”
“Well, that’s why I’m asking you…see, I realize how it might sound weird.”
“Would you like me to write the email for you?”
“No, I can write it.”
“Are you sure? Even though you’re about to become a world-famous movie star? Shouldn’t you have your agent ask the studio to have your PA do this for you?”
“My PA doesn’t start working for me until I get to set in a few days.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and stares at the Christmas tree.
“Hey.” I give her knee a nudge.
“What?”
“You wanna talk about how much you’re going to miss me? Because even though I’ll be busy, you can text or call me any time and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, all right?”
She continues staring at the Christmas tree, silently, stoically, for about thirty seconds, then shrugs her shoulders, picks up her iPad, and starts reading again. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, then. Well, if I feel like talking to you I’m gonna text you, okay?”
“Uh-huh.” She sniffles.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not—shut up—I’m probably getting a cold, so you should stay away from me.”
“What are you reading?”
“A book.”
