Lola and the Boy Next Door

chapter twenty-three

I like to try new things. Like when I went vegan my freshman year. It only lasted three days, because I missed cheddar, but I tried it. And I’m constantly trying on hats in stores. They’re the one item I can’t make work for me, but I keep trying, because I’m positive that someday I’ll find the right one. Maybe it’ll be a vintage cloche dripping with faux peonies, or maybe it’ll be a Stetson laced with a red bandanna.

I’ll find it. I just have to keep trying them on.

So it annoys me when Lindsey suggests I’m not trying hard enough to find something to curl my hair. My fake hair. She’s balancing chemistry equations while I borrow her parents’ handheld steamer to bend my white hair into the appropriately sized curls. Later, I’ll spray-glue them to my Marie Antoinette wig. But first I need to curl the stupid curls.

“Don’t you have anything bigger? Or smaller?” I gesture to the cylindrical shapes—pens, markers, glassware, even a monocular spy scope—spread before me. None of them is the right size.

She flips a textbook page. “Got me. It’s your wig. Try harder.”

I search her room, but I know I won’t find anything. Her bedroom is so well ordered that I would have already seen it if she had it. Lindsey’s walls are painted classic Nancy Drew–spine yellow. Her complete collection of the novels is lined up in neat rows across the top shelves of her bookcase and below them, alphabetical by author, are titles like History’s Greatest Spies, Detecting for Dummies, and The Tao of Crime Fighting. Beside her bed are meticulously organized magazine holders with four years’ worth of back issues of Eye Spy Intelligence Magazine and a dozen Spy Gear catalogs tabbed with sticky notes marking wishlist items.

But her room is devoid of any further cylindrical objects.

“And in the closest race of the night, New York senator Joseph Wasserstein is still fighting to hold on to his seat,” the toupee-d newsman says. It’s Election Day, and since the Lims don’t get cable, every channel is filled with boring coverage. The only reason the television is on is to drown out the sound of Mrs. Lim blasting Neil Diamond. He’s this superold pop singer who wears sequined shirts. Even the sparkles aren’t enough to sway me, though I’d never tell her that. When she’s not cooking killer Korean barbecue at the restaurant, she blogs for his secondlargest fansite.

I point at the newsman. “I bet that guy could help me. Does he seriously think that rug on his head looks real?” It switches to a clip of Senator Wasserstein and his family waiting for the final tallies. His wife has that perfectly coiffed hair and that toothy political smile, but his teenage son looks uncomfortable and out of place. He’s actually kinda cute. I say so, and Lindsey looks up at the screen. “God. You are so predictable.”

“What?”

“He looks miserable. You only like guys who look pissed off.”

“That’s not true.” I turn off the television, and Neil’s vibrato shakes the floor.

Lindsey laughs. “Yeah, Max is known for his charming smile.”

I frown.Two Sundays have passed, and we didn’t have brunch on either one. Max called the morning after Halloween and told me he wouldn’t be coming—that day or any Sunday after. I can’t blame him for being tired of the scrutiny. I told my parents that he had more shows scheduled, and they’re still too frazzled by Norah to inquire further. Truthfully, I hope my parents will just sort of forget that brunch was ever a requirement.

I’ve been seeing Max at odd times—before a weekend shift at the theater, during a dinner break, and once at his apartment after school. My parents thought I was at Lindsey’s. But I’ve seen a lot of Cricket. It only took him one more night to finish the panniers, plus an afternoon at my house with final fittings. They’re gigantic and amazing. It’s like wearing the framework of a horizontal skyscraper.

And I’ve finished the stays, so I’m working on the best part now: the gown itself. Cricket helped measure and cut the fabric. It turns out that not only is he handy because of his math and science skills, but he also knows a little about sewing because of Calliope’s costumes, which are in constant need of repair.

I’ve only had one more run-in with Calliope, another beforeschool incident, although this was accidental. She actually ran into me when she was leaving her house and didn’t see me coming. At least, I think it was accidental. “You just can’t stay away, can you?” she grumbled, before jogging away.

“I LIVE HERE!” I said, rubbing my bruised arm.

She ignored me.

But since Cricket and I have been busy with my project, it’s been easier to be friends. There was only one awkward moment, when he came over the first time. I hadn’t thought to clean up my room, and there was a hot pink bra thrown on the center of my floor. He turned the same shade of magenta when he saw it.

To be fair, I did, too.

Cricket. Wait a second.

I know EXACTLY what I need to curl my wig. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Lindsey, and I pop downstairs, where Mrs. Lim is at the family computer. I raise my voice above Neil’s. “Where do you keep the broom?” Then I add, “I didn’t break anything.”

“In there.” She gives a distracted gesture to the hall closet. “Troll on the message board. He’s saying Wayne Newton is better than Neil Diamond. Do you believe?”

“Totally ridiculous.” I grab the broom. It actually looks just like the one Cricket used to collect my binder. I race upstairs and thrust the handle at Lindsey. “Aha! The perfect circumference.”

She smiles. “And plenty of room for us to steam multiple strands at once. Nice.”

“You’re gonna help?”

“Of course.” And thank goodness she does, because it turns out to be a horrible, time-consuming job. “You’re lucky I love you, Lola.”

Another strand slips to the carpet before curling, and I stifle a scream. She laughs in an exhausted, slaphappy way, and it makes me laugh, too. “This really is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had,” I say.

“Not one of the worst. The worst.” Her strand slips to the floor. “AHH!” she says, and we topple over with laughter. “Let’s hope Cricket is right, and ‘the beauty will be worth the effort.’”

It’s like being hit by a train. “When did he say that?”

Lindsey’s laughter fades. “Oh. Um. Sunday afternoon.”

“Sunday? This last Sunday?You talked to Cricket on Sunday?”

She keeps her eyes on a new strand of white hair. “Yeah, um, we went out.”

I drop the broom. “WHAT?”

“Not like that,” she says quickly. “I mean, we hung out in a group. As friends.”

My brain is fizzing and popping. “What group? Who?”

“He called to see if I wanted to go bowling with him and Calliope. And . . . with Charlie. You were at work, so you were busy. That’s why we didn’t ask.”

I’ve lost the ability to speak. She lifts my side of the broom and puts it into my hands. I take it numbly. “I told them about Charlie at Scare Francisco, after you left to meet Max,” she continues. “I don’t know why. It just spilled out. Maybe I was bummed you were with Max again, and I was alone.”

Guilt. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“Anyway, Cricket thought it’d be a good idea if I hung out with Charlie as friends first, in a group. You know. To make it easier.”

THAT WAS MY IDEA. MINE!

“So we went bowling, and . . . we had a fun time.”

I’m not sure what hurts more: that she hadn’t mentioned this until now, that she hung out with Cricket without me, that she hung out with Calliope at all, or that Cricket came up with the same brilliant idea that I did and got to take credit for it.

Okay, so my idea was a double date, and obviously Cricket isn’t dating his sister. BUT STILL. It seems to have worked. And I wasn’t there. And I’m supposed to be the best friend. “Oh. That’s . . . that’s great, Lindsey.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. But I didn’t know how you’d feel about me hanging out with the twins, and I really wanted to go. And you were busy. You’ve been busy a lot in the last few months.”

Since you met Max. She might as well have said it. I look back at my work. “No, I’m glad you went. I’m glad you had a nice time with Charlie.” Half of that is true.

“I had a nice time with the twins, too,” she says cautiously. “Once Calliope relaxes, she’s kinda fun. She’s under an insane amount of pressure.”

“Hmph. So people tell me.”

“Honestly, Lo, I don’t think she’s the mean girl she once was. She’s just protective.”

I glare at her. “Her brother is in college. I think he can handle himself.”

“And he does speak his mind now. However strangely it might come out,” she adds. “You know that he never hurt you on purpose. And when you’re not around, he asks a hundred questions about you. About Max, too. He likes you. He’s always liked you, remember?”

I stop steaming curls.

“And I don’t want you to bite my head off for saying this,” she says rapidly, “but it’s pretty clear you like Cricket Bell, too.”

It’s like something is caught in my throat. I swallow. “And why do you think that?”

She takes the steamer from me. “Because anyone with the power of observation can see you’re still crazy about him.”

I’m setting the dinner table when I discover a newspaper clipping tucked under the corner of my place mat. Andy strikes again. It’s an article about an increase in STDs among teenagers. I shove it into the recycle bin. Do my parents know I’m having sex?

I know Max slept with many girls—many women—before me. But he’s been tested. He’s clean. Still, these mystery women haunt me. I picture Max in dark corners of bars, in his apartment, in beds across the city with glamorous succubi, intoxicated and infatuated. Max assures me the truth is far less exciting. I almost believe him.

It doesn’t help that tonight, a night I have off from work, Amphetamine has a gig at the Honey Pot, a burlesque club that I’m not old enough to get into. I’m trying not to let it bother me. I know burlesque is an art, but it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel young. I hate feeling young.

But there are many things troubling me tonight.

It’s Friday. Will Cricket come home this weekend?

Lindsey’s words have been looping inside my head all week. How is it possible for me to feel this way? To be interested in Cricket and still be concerned about my relationship with Max? I want things to be okay with my boyfriend, I do. It’s supposed to be simple. I don’t want another complication. I don’t want to be interested in Cricket.

During dinner, Andy and Nathan exchange worried looks over the veggie potpie. “Anything wrong, Lo?” Andy finally asks. “You seem distracted.”

I tear my eyes from the window in our kitchen, from which I can barely see the Bell family’s front porch. “Huh? Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

My parents look at me doubtfully as Norah comes in and sits at the table. “That was Chrysanthemum Bean, the one with the duck voice. She’s coming over early tomorrow for a reading before buying her weekly scratch-offs.”

Nathan winces and grinds more pepper on top of his potpie. And grinds. And grinds.

Andy shifts in his seat. He’s always complaining that Nathan ruins his meals by adding too much pepper.

“Christ. Stop it, would you?” Norah says to her brother. “You’re raising his blood pressure. You’re raising MY blood pressure.”

“It’s fine,” Andy says sharply. Even though I can see it’s killing him.

We haven’t had a relaxed meal since she—and her clients, none of whom should be spending their limited finances on tea-leaf readings or lottery scratch-offs—arrived. I turn away in time to catch a lanky figure running up the steps next door. And I sit up so fast that everyone stops bickering to see what’s caused the disturbance. Cricket pats his pockets for his house key. His pants are tighter than usual. And the moment I notice this is the same moment that I’m knocked over by the truth of my feelings.

Lust.

He locates his key just as the front door opens. Calliope lets him inside. I sink back down in my chair. I didn’t even realize that I’d partially risen out of it. Andy clears his throat. “Cricket looks good.”

My face flames.

“I wonder if he has a girlfriend?” he asks. “Do you know?”

“No,” I mumble.

Nathan laughs. “I remember when you two used to accidentally run into each other on walks—”

Andy cuts Nathan a quick look, and Nathan shuts his mouth. Norah smirks. So it’s true, our embarrassing crush was obvious to everyone. Fantastic.

I stand. “I’m going upstairs. I have homework.”

“On a Friday night?” Andy asks as Nathan says, “Dishes first.”

I take my plates to the sink. Will Cricket eat dinner with his family or go straight to his bedroom? I’m scrubbing the dishes so hard that I slice myself with a paring knife. I hiss under my breath.

“Are you okay?” All three ask at the same time.

“I cut myself. Not bad, though.”

“Be careful,” Nathan says.

Parents are excellent at stating the obvious. But I slow down and finish without further incident. The dishwasher is chugging as I race upstairs and burst into my room. My shoulders sag. His light is off.

Calm down, it’s only Cricket.

I busy myself by sewing pleats into my Marie Antoinette dress. Twenty minutes pass. Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty.

What is he doing?

The Bells’ downstairs lights are on, so for all I know, the entire family could be parked in front of the television watching eight hours of . . . something. Whatever. I can’t concentrate, and now I’m angry. Angry at Cricket for not being here and angry at myself for caring. I wash off my makeup, remove my contacts, change into my pajamas—careful to close my curtains first—and flop into bed.

The clock reads 9:37. Max’s band hasn’t even started playing yet.

Just when I thought I couldn’t feel like a bigger loser.

I toss and turn as images flash through my mind: Cricket, Max, burlesque dancers sitting in oyster shells. I’m finally drifting into a restless sleep when there’s a faint plink against my window. My eyes shoot open. Did I dream it?

Plink, my window says again.

I leap out of bed and pull aside my curtains. Cricket Bell sits on his windowsill, feet swinging against his house. Something tiny is in one hand and the other is poised to throw something else. I open my window and a thousand bottled emotions explode inside of me at the full sight of him.

I like Cricket. Like that.

Again.

He lowers his hand. “I didn’t have any pebbles.”

My heart is stuck in my throat. I swallow. “What were you throwing?” I squint, but I can’t make it out.

“Put on your glasses and see.”

When I come back, he holds it up. He’s smiling.

I smile back, self-conscious. “What are you doing with a box of toothpicks?”

“Making party trays of cubed cheese,” he says with a straight face. “Why was your light off?”

“I was sleeping.”

“It’s not even ten-thirty.” His legs stop swinging. “No hot date?”

I don’t want to go there. “You know”—I point at his legs—“if you stretch those out, I bet they could touch my house.”

He tries. They fall a few feet short, and I smile again. “They looked long enough.”

“Ah, yes. Cricket and his monstrously long legs. His monstrously long body.”

I laugh, and his eyes twinkle back. “Our houses just need to be closer together,” I say. “Your proportions are perfect.”

He releases his legs and stares at me carefully. The moment lasts so long that I have to look away. Cricket once said he thought my body was perfect, too. I blush at the memory and for revealing something unintentionally. At last, he speaks. “This isn’t working for me.” He throws his legs inside and disappears into his room, out of view.

I’m startled. “Cricket?”

I hear him rustling around. “Five minutes. Take a bathroom break or something.”

It’s not a bad idea. I’m not sure how much he can see in the darkness, but a little makeup wouldn’t hurt. I’m raising the mascara wand to my lashes when I’m struck by how . . . not smart this is. Applying makeup. For someone who isn’t my boyfriend. I settle for just a cherry-flavored lip gloss, but as soon as the scent hits me, I’m shaking.

Cherry flavored. Tea leaves. First love.

I return to my bedroom, wiping the gloss off on my hand, as there’s a CLANG against my window. And then I see what he’s about to do. “Oh God! No, Cricket, don’t!”

“It’ll hold my weight. Just grab onto that side, okay? Just in case?”

I clutch it tightly. He’s removed one of his closet shelves, the thick wire kind that’s coated in a white plastic, and he’s using it as a bridge between our bedrooms.

“Careful!” I shout too loudly, and the bridge shakes.

But he smiles. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

And he does. Cricket scoots across quickly, right to where I’m holding it. His face is against mine. “You can let go now,” he whispers.

My hands throb from gripping it so hard. I step back, allowing him room to enter. He slides down, and his legs brush against mine lengthwise. My body jolts. It’s the first time we’ve touched in ages. He’s so tall that his heart beats against my cheek.

His heart.

I falter backward. “What were you thinking?” I hiss, feeling all kinds of anxious. “You could have fallen and broken your neck.”

“I thought it’d be easier to talk face-to-face.” He keeps his voice low.

“We could’ve met on the sidewalk, gone for another walk.”

He hesitates. “Should I go back?”

“No! I mean . . . no. You’re already here.”

A knock on my door startles us even farther apart. “Lola?” Nathan says. “I heard a crash. Are you all right?”

My eyes widen in panic. My parents will KILL me if they find an unexpected boy in my room. Even if it is Cricket! I push him on the floor behind my bed, where he can’t be seen from my door. I jump in and pray Nathan doesn’t question the sound of bedsprings. “I fell out of bed,” I say groggily. “I was exhausted. I was having a nightmare.”

“A nightmare?” The door opens, and Nathan peeks his head in. “It’s been a long time since you’ve had one of those. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, it was . . . stupid. A wolverine was chasing me. Or a werewolf. I dunno, you know how dreams are. I’m fine now.” Pleeeeease go away. The longer my dad stands there, the more likely he is to see the bridge.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You were so distant at dinner, and then when you cut yourself—”

“I’m fine, Dad. Good night.”

He pauses and then, resigned, begins to shut the door. “Good night. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And he’s almost gone, when . . . “Why are you wearing your glasses in bed?”

“I—I am?” I fumble and pat my face. “Oh. Wow. I must have been more tired than I thought.”

Nathan frowns. “I’m worried about you, Lo. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

I really don’t want to have this conversation in front of Cricket. “Dad—”

“Is it Norah? I know things haven’t been easy since she got here, but—”

“I’m fine, Dad. Good night.”

“Is it Max? Or Cricket? You turned strange when you saw him tonight, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you when I said—”

“Good night, Dad.”

PLEASE STOP TALKING.

He sighs. “Okay, Lola-doodle. But take off your glasses. I don’t want you to crush them.” I set them on my bedside table, and he leaves. Cricket waits until the footsteps hit the landing below. His head pops up beside my own, and even though I know he’s there, it makes me jump.

“My dad was talking about . . .” I struggle for a nonincriminating answer. “I saw you come home, and it was at the same time Norah was telling us about this awful client. I must have been making a terrible face.”

I hate myself.

He’s quiet.

“So . . . now what?” I ask.

Cricket turns away from me. He leans his back against the side of my bed. “If you want me to go, I will.”

Sadness. Desire. An ache inside of me so strong that I don’t know how I believed it had ever left. I stare at the back of his head, and it’s like the oxygen has disappeared from my room. My heart has turned to water. I’m drowning.

“No,” I whisper at last. “You just got here.”

I want to touch him again. I have to touch him again. If I don’t touch him again, I’ll die. I reach toward his hair. He won’t even notice. But just as my fingertips are about to make contact, he turns around.

And his head jerks backward as I nearly poke out an eye.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” I whisper.

“What are you doing?” But he grins as he lunges to poke out mine. I grab his finger, and then—just like that—I’m holding on to him. My hand is wrapped around his index finger. But he zeros in on my rainbow Band-Aid. “Is that where you cut yourself?”

“It was nothing.” I let go of him, self-conscious again. “I was doing the dishes.”

He watches me wring my hands. “Cool nails,” he finally says.

They’re black with a pink stripe down the center of each nail. And then . . . I know how I can touch him. “Hey. Let me paint yours.” I’m already getting up for my favorite dark blue polish. Somehow, I know he won’t protest.

I carry it to the floor, where he’s still leaning against my bed. He sits up straight. “Will this hurt?” he asks.

“Badly.” I shake the bottle. “But try to keep your screams low, I don’t want Nathan coming back.”

Cricket smiles as I reach for my chemistry textbook. “Put this on your lap, I’ll need a steady surface. Now place your hands on it.” We’re close to each other, much closer than we’ve been while working on my dress. “I’m going to take your left hand now.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

Cricket holds it up slightly. Tonight the back of his hand has a star drawn on it. I wonder what it means as I slide my hand underneath his fingers. His hand twitches violently. “You’ll have to hold it steady,” I say. But I’m smiling. Contact.

I paint his nails Opening Night blue by the light of the moon. Our grips relax as I focus on my work. Slow, careful strokes. We don’t talk. My skin and his skin. Only a book between my hand and his lap. I feel him watch me the entire time—not my hands, but my face—and his gaze burns like an African sun.

When I finish, I lift my eyes to his. He stares back. The moon moves across the sky. Her beams hit his eyelashes, and I’m struck anew that I’m alone, in the dark, with a boy who once shattered my heart. Who would kiss me, if I didn’t have a boyfriend. Who I would kiss, if I didn’t have a boyfriend.

Who I want to kiss anyway.

I bite my bottom lip. He’s hypnotized. I lean forward, moving the curves of my body into the slender shadow of his. The air between us is physically hot, painfully so. He glances down my shirt. It is very, very close to his line of vision.

I part my lips.

And then he’s stumbling away. “I want to,” he croaks. “You know I want to.”

He tests the bridge for firmness and springs onto it. Cricket Bell doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see the tears spilling down my face. The only thing he leaves behind is a smudge of blue polish on my window frame.