To be honest, the whole place depressed me. The wax gures 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 lit le o , 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 Forgot en 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 Sall 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 goodwil 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 at ention 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 of 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 whisked away so fast by the running tugs on her clothing.

“I liked Sofia,” Boomer said.

“Yeah,” I told him. “So did I.”

“Yeah,” I told him. “So did I.”

It seemed a lit le strange to have two run-ins with Priya while on my Lily chase—but I had to dismiss it as coincidence. I didn’t see how she or So a could possibly t into what Lily was doing. Sure, it could be one big practical joke, but the thing about So a and her friends was that while they were always practical, they were never jokers.

Naturally, the next consideration was: Did I want So a for Christmas? Wrapped in a bow. Under the tree. Telling me how frickin’ great I was.

No. Not really.

I’d liked her, sure. We’d been a good couple, insofar as that our friends—well, her friends more than mine—had created this mold of what a couple should be, and we t into it just ne. We were the fourth couple tacked onto the quadruple date. We were good board game partners. We could text each other to sleep at night. She’d only been in New York for three years, so I got to explain all kinds of pop cultural references to her, while she’d tell me stories about Spain. We’d made it to third base, but got stuck there. Like we knew the catcher would tag us out if we tried to head home.

I’d been relieved (a lit le) when she’d told me she had to move back to Spain. We’d pledged we’d keep in touch, and that had worked for about a month. Now I read the updates on her online profile and she read mine, and that’s what we were to each other.

I wanted to want something more than Sofia for Christmas.

And was that Lily? I couldn’t really tell. For sure, the last thing I was going to write to her was All I want for Christmas is you.

“What do I want for Christmas?” I asked Angelina Jolie. Her full lips didn’t part with an answer.

“What do I want for Christmas?” I asked Charlize Theron. I even added, “Hey, nice dress,” but she still didn’t reply. I leaned over her cle**age and asked, “Are they real?” She didn’t make a move to slap me.