Lola and the Boy Next Door

  The question is too painful, either way, to consider.

  My parents are worried, but they’ve been leaving me alone so that I can heal. As if it were possible to ever heal from heartbreak.

  It’s around midnight—not quite Friday, not quite Saturday—and the moon is full again. Traditionally, farmers called the December full moon the Cold Moon or the Long Nights Moon. Both feel appropriate tonight. I opened my window to better absorb her coldness and longness, to use it feed it to my own, but it was a dumb mistake. I’m freezing. And I had another long shift at the theater, and I’m exhausted, and I can’t find the energy to shut it.

  But I can’t sleep.

  The silk fabric of my Marie Antoinette gown, draped across my sewing table, shimmers with a pale blue glow in the moonlight. It’s so close to completion. The winter formal is still a month and a half away, there was plenty of time.

  It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m not going.

  And I don’t even care about not having a date. It’s the idea of showing up in something so ridiculous, that’s what hurts. Max was right. The dance is stupid. My classmates wouldn’t be impressed by my dress; they’d be merciless. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at its folds when a yellow light flicks on outside my window.

  “Lola?” A call through the night.

  I close my eyes. I can’t speak.

  “I know you’re in there. I’m coming over, okay?”

  I stiffen as the CLUNK of his closet-bridge hits my window. He called out to me once more last weekend, but I pretended that I didn’t hear him. I listen to the creak of his weight against the bridge, and a moment later, he drops quietly onto my floor. “Lola?” Cricket is on his knees at the side of my bed. I feel it. “I’m here,” he whispers. “You can talk to me or not talk to me, but I’m here.”

  I close my eyes tighter.

  “St. Clair told me what happened. With Max.” Cricket waits for me to say something. When I don’t, he continues. “I’m—I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I was angry. I told Cal about that night in your bedroom, and she went ballistic. She said she’d warned you to stay away from me, and we got into this huge fight. I was angry with her for talking behind my back, and I was angry with you for not telling me. Like . . . you didn’t think I could handle it.”

  I cringe and curl into a ball. Why didn’t I tell him? Because I didn’t want him to realize that her accusations were true? Because I was afraid that he’d listen to her words over mine? I’m such a jerk. As fearful of Calliope as she is of me.

  “But . . . this is coming out backward.” I hear him shift on his knees, agitated. “What I was trying to say—what I was getting at—is that I’ve been thinking a lot about everything, and I’m not actually angry with you at all. I’m angry with myself. I’m the one who keeps climbing in your window. I’m the one who can’t stay away. All of this weirdness is my fault.”

  “Cricket. This is not your fault.” It comes out in a croak.

  He’s silent. I open my eyes, and he’s watching me. I watch him back. “The moon is bright tonight,” he says at last.

  “But it’s cold.” The tears have found me again. They fall.

  Cricket reaches out and brushes my neck. He traces upward, along my jaw, and then my cheek. I close my eyes at the unbearable sensation of his thumb drying my tears. He presses down gently. I turn my head, and it becomes cradled in his hand. He holds the weight for several minutes.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I talked with Calliope,” I whisper.

  He pulls away, carefully, and I notice another star drawn on the back of his hand. “I’m only upset that she spoke with you in the first place. It wasn’t any of her business.”

  “She was just worried about you.” As the words spill out, I realize that I believe them. “And she had every right to be worried. I’m not exactly a good person.”

  “That’s not true,” he says. “Why would you say that?”

  “I was a terrible girlfriend to Max.”

  There’s a long pause. “Did you love him?” he asks quietly.

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  Cricket looks unhappy. “And do you still love him?” he asks. But before I can answer, he says in one great breath, “Forget it, I don’t want to know.” And suddenly Cricket Bell is inside my bed, and his torso is flattening against mine, and his pelvis is pressing against mine, and his lips are moving toward mine.

  My senses are detonating. I’ve wanted him for so long.

  And I need to wait a little longer.

  I slide my hand between our mouths, just in time. His lips are soft against my palm. I slowly, slowly remove it. “No, I don’t love Max anymore. But I don’t want to give you this broken, empty me. I want you to have me when I’m full, when I can give something back to you. I don’t have much to give right now.”

  Cricket’s limbs are still, but his chest is pounding hard against my own. “But you’ll want me someday? That feeling you once had for me . . . that hasn’t left either?”

  Our hearts beat the same wild rhythm. They’re playing the same song.

  “It never left,” I say.

  Cricket stays through the night. And even though we don’t talk anymore, and even though we don’t do anything more than talk, it’s what I need. The calming presence of a body I trust. And when we fall asleep, we sleep heavily.

  In fact, we sleep so heavily that we don’t see the sun rise.

  We don’t hear the coffeepot brewing downstairs.

  And we don’t hear Nathan until he’s right above us.

  chapter twenty-seven

  Nathan grabs Cricket by the shoulders and throws him off my bed. Cricket scrambles into a corner while I flounder for my closest eyeglasses. My skin is on fire.

  “What the hell is going on in here? Did he sneak in while—” Nathan cuts himself off. He’s noticed the bridge. He stalks up to Cricket, who shrinks so low that he almost becomes Nathan’s height. “So you’ve been climbing into my daughter’s bedroom for how long now? Days? Weeks? Months?”

  Cricket is so mortified he can hardly speak. “No. Oh God, no. Sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Andy runs into the room, sleep disheveled and frenzied. “What’s happening?” He sees Cricket cowering beneath Nathan. “Oh.”

  “Do something!” I tell Andy. “He’ll kill him!”

  Murder flashes across Andy’s face, and I’m reminded of what Max said ages ago, about how much worse it was dealing with two protective fathers. But it disappears, and he takes a tentative step closer to Nathan. “Honey. I want to kill him, too. But let’s talk to Lola first.”

  Nathan is terrifyingly still. He’s so angry that his mouth barely moves. “You. Out.”

  Cricket lunges for the window. Andy’s eyes bulge when he sees the bridge, but all he says is, “The front door, Cricket. Out the front door.”

  Cricket holds up both hands, and in the daylight, it’s the first time I see that there are still scattered shreds of blue paint on his nails. “I just want you to know that we didn’t do anything but talk and sleep—sleep sleep,” he quickly adds. “Like with eyes closed and hands to oneself and dreaming. Innocent dreams. I would never do anything behind your back. I mean, never anything dishonorable. I mean—”

  “Cricket,” I plead.

  He looks at me miserably. “I’m sorry.” And then he tears downstairs and out the front door. Nathan storms out of my room, and the master bedroom door slams shut.

  Andy is silent for a long time. At last, he sighs. “Care to explain why there was a boy in your bed this morning?”

  “We didn’t do anything. You have to believe me! He came over because he knew I was sad. He only wanted to make sure I was okay.”

  “Dolores, that’s how boys take advantage of girls. Or other boys,” he adds. “They attack when your guard is down, when you’re feeling vulnerable.”

  The implication makes me angry. “Cricket would never take advantage of me.”

  “He climbed into yo
ur bed fully aware that you’re hurting over someone else.”

  “And we didn’t do anything but talk.”

  Andy crosses his arms. “How long has this been going on?”

  I tell the truth. I want him to believe me so that he’ll also believe Cricket is innocent. “There was only one other time. But he didn’t stay the night.”

  He closes his eyes. “Was this before or after you broke up with Max?”

  My head sinks into my shoulders. “Before.”

  “And did you tell Max?”

  It sinks farther. “No.”

  “And that didn’t make you wonder if there was something wrong with it?”

  I’m crying. “We’re friends, Dad.”

  Andy looks pained as he sits on the edge of my bed. “Lola. Everyone and their grandmother knows that boy is in love with you. You know that boy is in love with you. But as wrong as it was for him to be here, it’s so much worse for you to have led him on. You had a boyfriend. What were you thinking? You don’t treat someone like that. You shouldn’t have treated either one of them like that.”

  I didn’t know it was possible to feel any worse than I already did.

  “Listen.” The look on Andy’s face means he’d rather eat glass than say what he’s about to say. “I know you’re growing up. And as hard as it is, I have to accept that there are certain . . . things you’re doing. But you’re an intelligent young woman, and we’ve had the talk, and I know—from this point on—you’ll make the right decisions.”

  Oh God. I can’t look at him.

  “But you have to understand this part is difficult for us, especially for Nathan. Norah was your age when she ran away and got pregnant. But you can talk to me. I want you to talk to me.”

  “Okay.” I can barely get the word out.

  “And I don’t want to find a boy in your room again, you hear me?” He waits until I nod before standing. “All right. I’ll talk to Nathan and see what I can do. But don’t for a second think you’re getting out of this easily.”

  “I know.”

  He walks to the door. “Never. Again. Understand?”

  “What . . . what about when I’m married?”

  “We’ll buy a cot. Your husband can sleep on that when he visits.”

  I can’t help it. I let out a tiny snort of laughter. He comes back and hugs me.

  “I’m not kidding,” he says.

  The punishment arrives in the afternoon. I’m grounded through the end of my upcoming winter break from school. Another month of grounding. But, honestly, I don’t even care. It’s the other half of the punishment—the unspoken half—that makes me feel terrible.

  My parents no longer trust me. I have to earn it back.

  Throughout the day, I try to catch Cricket at our windows, but he never goes inside his bedroom. Around three o’clock, I see his figure dart past his kitchen window, so I know he’s still at home. Why is he avoiding me? Is he embarrassed? Is he angry? Did my parents call his parents? I’ll die if they called Mr. and Mrs. Bell, but I can’t ask, because if they haven’t, it might give them the idea.

  I’m a wreck by the time Cricket’s light turns on. It’s just after eight. I throw aside my English homework and run to my window, and he’s already at his. We open them at the same time, and the misty night air explodes . . . with wailing.

  Cricket is holding Aleck’s daughter again.

  “I’m sorry!” he shouts. “She won’t let me put her down!”

  “It’s okay!” I shout back.

  And then I realize something. I slam my window shut. Cricket looks startled, but I hold up a finger and mouth ONE SECOND. I rip out a page from my spiral notebook and scribble on it with a fat purple marker. I hold the message against my window.

  MY PARENTS!!! TALK LATER? WHEN NO BABY!!!

  He looks relieved. And then panicked as he slams his own window shut. The next minute is rife with tension as we wait for my parents to tear into my bedroom. They don’t. But even with our windows closed, I hear Abigail’s cries. Cricket bounces her on his hip, pleading with her, but her face remains contorted in misery.

  Where is Aleck? Or Aleck’s wife? Shouldn’t they be taking care of this?

  Calliope bursts through Cricket’s door. She takes Abigail from him, and Abigail screams harder. Both of the twins wince as Calliope thrusts her back into Cricket’s arms. The baby grows quieter, but she’s still crying. Calliope glances in my direction. She freezes, and I give a weak wave. She scowls.

  Cricket sees her expression and says something that causes her to stalk away. Her bedroom light turns on seconds later. He’s turning back toward me, still bouncing Abigail, when Mrs. Bell enters. I yank my curtains closed. Whatever is going on over there, I don’t want his mom to think I’m spying on it.

  I sit back down with my five-paragraph essay for English, but I can’t concentrate. That familiar, nauseating feeling of guilt. When I saw the Bells in their driveway last week, they were clearly in distress about something. And I never asked Cricket what it was about. He was in my bedroom for an entire night, and I didn’t even think to ask. And he’s always concerned about what’s happening in my life. I’m so selfish.

  A new kind of truth hits me: I’m not worthy of him.

  His light turns off, and the sudden darkness acts as a confirmation of my fears. He’s too good for me. He’s sweet and kind and honest. Cricket Bell has integrity. And I don’t deserve him. But . . . I want him anyway.

  Is it possible to earn someone?

  He doesn’t return for nearly two hours. The moment he’s back, I raise my window again. Cricket raises his. Exhaustion has settled between his brows, and his shoulders are sagging. Even a lock of hair has flopped onto his forehead. I’ve never seen Cricket’s hair fall down. “I’m sorry.” His voice is tired. He keeps it low, conscious that the parental threat has not passed. “For last night. For this morning, for tonight. Your parents didn’t come up, did they? I’m such an id—”

  “Stop, please.You don’t have to apologize.”

  “I know. Our rule.” He’s glum.

  “No. I mean, don’t apologize for last night. Or this morning. I wanted you there.”

  He raises his head. Once again, the intensity of his eyes makes my heart stutter.

  “I—I’m the one who’s sorry,” I continue. “I knew something was going on with your family, and I didn’t ask. It didn’t even cross my mind.”

  “Lola.” His brow deepens farther. “You’re going through a difficult time. I would never expect you to be thinking about my family right now. That would be crazy.”

  Even when I’m in the wrong, he puts me in the right. I don’t deserve him.

  I hesitate.

  Earn him.

  “So . . . what’s going on? Unless you don’t want to tell me. I’d understand.”

  Cricket leans his elbows against his windowsill and looks into the night sky. The star on his left hand has faded from washing, but it’s still there. He waits so long to answer that I wonder if he heard me. A foghorn bleats in the distance. Mist creeps into my room, carrying the scent of eucalyptus. “My brother left his wife last week. Aleck took Abby, and they’re staying here until he figures out what to do next. He’s not in great shape, so we’re kinda taking care of them both right now.”

  “Where’s his wife? Why did he take the baby?”

  “She’s still at their apartment. She’s going through . . . a lifestyle crisis.”

  I wrap my arms around myself. “What does that mean? She’s a lesbian?”

  “No.” Cricket pries his eyes from the sky to glance at me, and I see that he’s uncomfortable. “She’s much younger than Aleck. They married, got pregnant, and now she’s rebelling against it. This new life. She stays out late, parties. Last weekend . . . my brother found out that she’d cheated on him.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I think about Max. About Cricket in my bedroom. “That’s awful.”

  He shrugs and looks away. “It’s why I finally came back.
You know, to help out.”

  “Does that mean you’re still fighting with Calliope?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” Cricket runs his fingers through his dark hair, and the part that had flopped down sticks back up. “Sometimes she makes things so difficult, more than they have to be. But I guess I’m doing the same thing right now.”

  I allow the thought to hang, and my mind returns to Max. It fills with shameful, retired fantasies about our future. “Do you think . . . did Aleck’s wife do that because she got married too young?”

  “No, they got married too wrong. The only person in my family who thought it would last was Aleck, but it was clear she wasn’t the one.”

  The one. There it is again.

  “How did you know? That she wasn’t the one for him?”

  Now he’s staring at his hands, slowing rubbing them together. “They just didn’t have that . . . natural magic.You know? It never seemed easy.”

  My voice grows tiny. “Do you think things have to be easy? For it to work?”

  Cricket’s head shoots up, his eyes bulging as they grasp my meaning. “NO. I mean, yes, but . . . sometimes there are . . . extenuating circumstances. That prevent it from being easy. For a while. But then people overcome those . . . circumstances . . . and . . .”

  “So you believe in second chances?” I bite my lip.

  “Second, third, fourth. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. If the person is right,” he adds.

  “If the person is . . . Lola?”

  This time, he holds my gaze. “Only if the other person is Cricket.”

  chapter twenty-eight

  Cricket isn’t the only thing I have to earn. I have to earn back my parents’ trust.

  I’m a good daughter, I am. I have plenty of faults, but I keep up with my homework, I do my chores, I rarely talk back, and I like them. I’m one of the few people my age who actually cares what her parents think. So I’m dressing like someone responsible (all black, very serious), and I studied like crazy for my finals, and I’m doing whatever they ask. Even when it’s awful. Like taking Heavens to Betsy for her late-night walk when it’s forty degrees outside, which, by the way, I have done every night this week.