Lola and the Boy Next Door

  We gather around my computer. Her music is haunting and romantic. Fraught with drama and strung with tension, it collapses into sorrow, and ends with a powerful crescendo into redemption. It’s beautiful. Calliope is beautiful. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her perform, and I had no idea what she’d become. Or I’d forgotten.

  Or I’d forced myself to forget.

  Calliope moves with passion, grace, and confidence. She’s a prima ballerina. And it’s not only the way she skates—it’s the expressions on her face, which she carries into her arms, hands, fingers. She acts every emotion of the music. She feels every emotion of the music. No wonder Cricket believes in his sister. No wonder he’s sacrificed so much of his own life to see her succeed. She’s extraordinary.

  The clip ends, and everyone is silent. Even Nathan is awed. And I’m filled with the overwhelming sensation of Calliope’s presence—this power, this beauty—in the room.

  And then . . . I’m aware of another presence.

  Cricket stands behind me. The faintest touch of a finger against the back of my silk kimono. I close my eyes. I understand his compulsion, his need to touch. As my parents burst into congratulating Calliope, I slide one hand behind my back. I feel him jerk away in surprise, but I find his hand, and I take it into mine. And I stroke the tender skin down the center of his palm. Just once.

  He doesn’t make a sound. But he is still, so still.

  I let go, and suddenly my hand is in his. He repeats the action back. One finger, slowly, down the center of my palm.

  I cannot stay silent. I gasp.

  It’s the same moment Mrs. Bell explodes into my bedroom, and, thankfully, everyone turns to her and not me. Everyone except for Cricket. The weight of his stare against my body is heavy and intense.

  “What’s the progress?” Mrs. Bell asks.

  Calliope sighs. “We’re just getting started.”

  I spring forward, trying to shake away what has to be the most inappropriate feeling in the world to have when three out of our four parents are present. “Hi, Mrs. Bell,” I say. “It’s good to see you again.”

  She tucks her cropped hair behind her ears and launches into a heated discussion with Calliope. It’s like I don’t even exist, and I’m embarrassed that this hurts. I want her to like me. Cricket speaks for the first time since entering our house. “Mom, isn’t it great that Lola is helping us?” His fingers grasp at his wrists for rubber bands that aren’t there.

  Mrs. Bell looks up, startled at his awkward intrusion, and then scrutinizes me with a severe eye. I make her uncomfortable. She knows how I feel about her son, or how he feels about me. Or both. I wish I were wearing something respectable. My justrolled-out-of-bed look makes me feel trashy.

  This is not how I would choose to represent myself to her.

  Mrs. Bell nods. “It is. Thank you.” And she turns back to Calliope.

  Cricket glances at me in shame, but I give him an encouraging smile. Okay, so we need to work on our parents. We’ll get there. I turn around to grab a notebook, and that’s when I catch Nathan and Andy exchanging a private look. I’m not sure what it means, but, perhaps, it holds some remorse.

  I feel a surge of hope. Strength.

  I step forward to work, and things become crazy. Everyone has an opinion, and Mrs. Bell’s turns out to be even stronger than her daughter’s. The next half hour is hectic as arguments are had, fabric is trod upon, and garments are ripped. I’m trying to measure Calliope when Andy bumps into me, and I crunch against the sharp edge of my desk.

  “OUT,” I say. “Everybody out!”

  They freeze.

  “I’m serious, everyone except Calliope. I can’t work like this.”

  “GO,” Calliope says, and they scatter away. But Cricket lingers behind. I give him a coquettish smile. “You, too.”

  His smile back is dazed.

  Nathan clears his throat from the hallway. “Technically, you aren’t even allowed in my daughter’s room.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Cricket tucks his hands in his pockets. “Call me if you need anything.” He glances at Calliope, but his eyes return to mine. “If either of you need anything.”

  He leaves, and I’m grinning all the way down to my glittery toenail polish as I resume taking her measurements. She picks up an eyelash curler from my desktop and taps it against her hand. “Why isn’t my brother allowed in your room?”

  “Oh. Um, I’m not allowed to have any guys in here.”

  “Please. Did Nathan catch you doing something? NO. Yuck. Don’t tell me.”

  I yank the measuring tape around her waist a little too hard.

  “Ow.”

  I don’t apologize. I finish my work in silence. Calliope clears her throat as I write down the remaining measurements. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s nice of you to do this for me. I know I don’t deserve it.”

  I stop mid-scratch.

  She slams down my eyelash curler. “You were right. I thought he knew, but he didn’t.”

  I’m confused. “Knew what?”

  “That he’s important to our family.” She crosses her arms. “When Cricket was accepted into Berkeley, that was when I decided to return to my old coach. I wanted to move back here so that I could stay close to him. Our parents did, too.”

  It looks like Calliope has more to say, so I wait for her to continue. She lowers herself into my desk chair. “Listen, it’s not a secret that I’ve made my family’s life difficult. There are things that Cricket hasn’t had or experienced because of me. And I haven’t had them either, and I’ve hated it, but it was my choice. He didn’t have a choice. And he’s accepted everything with this . . . exuberance and good nature. It would’ve been impossible for our family to hold it together if we didn’t have Cricket doing the hardest part. Keeping us happy.” She raises her eyes to meet mine. “I want you to know that I feel terrible about what I’ve done to my brother.”

  “Calliope . . . I don’t think . . . Cricket doesn’t feel that way. You know he doesn’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Her voice catches. “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m sure. He loves you. He’s proud of you.”

  She’s silent for a minute. Seeing such a strong person struggle to hold it together is heartbreaking. “My family should tell him more often how remarkable he is.”

  “Yes, he is. And, yes, you should.”

  “He thinks you are, too. He always has.” Calliope looks at me again. “I’m sorry I’ve held that against you.”

  And I’m too astonished by this admission to reply.

  She rests her hand on the ruffled costume beside her. “Just answer this one question. My brother never got over you. Did you ever get over him?”

  I swallow. “There are some people in life that you can’t get over.”

  “Good.” Calliope stands and gives me a grim smile. “But break Cricket’s heart? I’ll break your face.”

  We work together for a half hour, picking out pieces, throwing ideas back and forth. She knows what she wants, but I’m pleased to discover that she respects my opinion. We settle on a design using only her black costumes, and she collects the others to take home.

  “So where’s your dress?” she asks.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What dress?”

  “The Marie Antoinette dress. I saw your binder.”

  “You what?”

  “Cricket was carrying it around at one of my competitions, practically fondling the damn thing. I teased him mercilessly, of course, but . . . it was interesting. You put a lot of work into those pages. He said you’d put a lot of work into the real thing, too.” She looks around my room. “I didn’t think it was possible to hide a giant-ass ball gown, but apparently I was wrong.”

  “Oh. Uh, it’s not in here. I stopped working on it. I’m not going to the dance.”

  “What? WHY?You’ve been working on it for a half a year.”

  “Yeah, but . . . it’s lame, right? To show up alone?”


  She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “So show up with my brother.”

  I’m thrilled by her suggestion—permission!—but I’ve already considered it. “The dance is next weekend. He’ll still be on the other side of the country for Nationals.”

  Nationals are a full week. Practice sessions, acclimation to the ice and rink, interviews with the media, two programs, plus an additional exhibition if she medals. Cricket will be staying with her the entire time for support.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “Besides, it’s stupid anyway.” I stare at the notes for her costume, and I tug on a strand of hair. “You know, big dance. Big dress. What’s the point?”

  “Lola.” Her tone is flat. “It’s not stupid to want to go to a dance. It’s not stupid to want to put on a pretty dress and feel beautiful for a night. And you don’t need a date for that.”

  I’m quiet.

  She shakes her head. “If you don’t go, then you are stupid. And you don’t deserve my brother.”

  chapter thirty-two

  I work all day and night on Calliope’s costume—seamripping the old ones, stitching new pieces together, adding flourishes from my own stashes—only stopping for a quick break at my window around midnight. Cricket joins me. He leans forward, elbows resting against his windowsill. The position looks remarkably insectlike with his long arms and long fingers. It’s cute. Very cute.

  “Thank you for helping my sister,” he says.

  I lean forward, mimicking his position. “I’m happy to.”

  Calliope leans out her window. “STOP FLIRTING AND GET BACK TO WORK.”

  So much for my break.

  “Hey, Cal,” he calls. She looks over as he removes a green rubber band from his wrist and shoots it at her head. It hits her nose with a tight snap and falls between our houses.

  “Really mature.” She slams her window shut.

  He grins at me. “That never gets old.”

  “I knew you wore those for a reason.”

  “What color would you like?”

  I grin back. “Blue. But try not to aim for my face.”

  “I would never.” And he swiftly flicks one into the space beside me.

  It lands on my rug, and I slide it onto my wrist. “You’re good with your fingers.” And I give him a pointed look that means, I am not talking about rubber bands.

  His elbows slide out from underneath him.

  “Good night, Cricket Bell.” I close my curtains, smiling.

  “Good night, Lola Nolan,” he calls out.

  The rubber band is still warm from his skin. I work for the rest of the night, finishing the costume as the moon is setting. I collapse into bed and fall asleep with my other hand clasped around the blue rubber band. And I dream about blue eyes and blue nails and first-kiss lips dusted with blue sugar crystals.

  “Where is it?”

  “Mmph?!” I wake up to the frightening vision of Calliope and her mother hovering above my bed. People have GOT to stop doing this to me.

  “Did you finish? Where is it?” Calliope asks again.

  I glance at my clock. I’ve only been asleep for two hours. I roll out of bed and onto my floor. “Iss in my closet,” I mumble, crawling for the closet door. “Needed to hang it up pretty.”

  Mrs. Bell reaches the closet first. She throws open the door and gasps.

  “What? What is it?” Calliope asks.

  Mrs. Bell takes it out and holds it up for her to see. “Oh, Lola. It’s gorgeous.”

  Calliope grabs it from the hanger and strips down in that way only beautiful, athletic girls can do—without shame and with a crowd. I look away, embarrassed.

  “Ohhh,” she says.

  I look back over. She’s standing before my full-length mirror. The black costume has long, slender, gossamer sleeves—delicate and shimmering and seductive—but they’re almost more like fingerless evening gloves, because they stop at the top of her arms, allowing for an elegant showing of shoulder skin. The body has a skirt to echo this feeling, but the top ends in a halter, and I added a thin layer to peek out from underneath, so it’s multistrapped and sequined and sexy.

  The overall effect is romantic but . . . daring.

  Calliope is in awe. “I was afraid you’d give me something crazy, something Lola. But this is me. This is my song, this is my program.”

  And even with the insult thrown in, I glow with happiness.

  “It’s better than your original,” Mrs. Bell says to Calliope.

  “You really think?” I ask.

  “Yes,” they both say.

  I pick myself up from the floor and inspect the costume. “It could use some altering, here and here”—I point to two loose places—“but . . . yeah. This should work.”

  Mrs. Bell smiles, warm and relieved. “You have a special talent, Lola. Thank you.”

  She likes me! Or at least my sewing skills, but I’ll take it.

  For now.

  There’s a knock on my door, and I let in my parents. They ooh and aah, and Calliope and I are both beaming. I mark the costume for quick alterations, which I can do in an hour. Which I have to do in an hour, because that’s when they leave for the airport. I shoo everyone away, and as I’m stitching, I glance again and again at Cricket’s window. He’s not there. I pray to an invisible moon that I’ll see him before he leaves.

  Sixty-five minutes later, I run into the Bells’ driveway. Calliope and her parents are loading the last suitcases. Aleck is there with Abby on his hip. He looks as sleep-deprived as I feel, but he jokingly offers out Abby’s hand to hold the new costume.

  Calliope does not find the joke funny.

  Aleck and Abby are staying while everyone else goes. The time alone will hopefully force him back into motion, but Andy and I have secret plans to check up on them. Just in case. I’m opening my mouth to ask about Cricket, when he races from the house. “I’m here, I’m here!” He comes to an abrupt halt six inches from me, when he finally notices there’s someone else in the driveway.

  I look up. And up again, until I meet his gaze.

  “Get in the car,” Calliope says. “We’re leaving. Now.”

  “You’re still wearing the rubber band,” he says.

  “I’m still wearing everything you last saw me in.” And then I want to kick myself, because I don’t want it to sound like I forgot I was wearing it. I am very, very aware of wearing his rubber band.

  “CRICKET.” This time, Mr. Bell.

  I’m filled with a hundred things I want to say to Cricket, but I’m conscious of his entire family watching us. So is he. “Um, see you next week?” he asks.

  “Good luck. To your sister. And you. For . . . whatever.”

  “CRICKET!” Everyone in the car.

  “Bye,” we blurt. He’s climbing in when Aleck leans down and whispers something in his ear. Cricket glances at me and turns red. Aleck laughs. Cricket slams his car door, and Mr. Bell is already pulling away. I wave. Cricket holds up his hand in goodbye until the car turns the corner and out of sight.

  “So.” Aleck ducks his head out of reach from Abby’s grabbing hands. “You and my brother, huh?”

  My cheeks flame. “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him your loins were clearly burning, and he should man up and make a move.”

  “You did not!”

  “I did. And if he doesn’t, then I suggest you jump his bones. My brother, in case you haven’t noticed, is kind of an idiot about these things.”

  Cricket has left a new message for me in his window. It’s written in his usual black marker but with one addition—a crayon rubbing of my name, imprinted from the sidewalk corners on Dolores Street.

  The sign reads: GO TO THE DANCE DOLORES

  I am going to the dance.

  “I heard about Calliope,” Norah says on Friday night. “Sixth place?”

  I sigh. “Yep.” In her post-short-program interview, Calliope was quiet but poised. A professional. “I’m disappointed,” she said, ??
?but I’m grateful to have another chance.”

  “That’s a shame,” Norah says.

  “It’s not over yet.” My voice is sharp. “She still has a shot.”

  Norah gives me a wary look. “You think I don’t know that? Nothing is ever over.”

  My family, Lindsey, and I are gathered around the television. Everyone is working on my Marie Antoinette gown. The last few decorative details are all that remain, and I appreciate the help as we wait for Calliope’s long program to begin.

  The ladies’ short program was two nights ago. We saw the end from the beginning, in the moment the camera cut to Calliope’s first position. It was in her eyes and underneath her smile. Fear. The music started, and it was clear that something was wrong.

  It happened so quickly.

  Her most difficult sequences were in the beginning—they usually are, so that a skater has full strength to perform them—and the commentators were in a tizzy over her triple jump, which she hadn’t been landing in practice.

  Calliope landed it, but she fell on the combination.

  The expression on her face—only for a moment, she picked herself up instantly—was terrible. The commentators made pitying noises as she bravely skated to the other end of the rink, but our living room was silent. An entire season’s worth of training. For nothing.

  And then she fell again.

  “It’s not all about talent,” the male commentator said. “It’s also about your head. She’s not been able to do what people have expected of her, and it’s taken its toll.”

  “There’s no greater burden than potential,” the female commenter added.

  But as if Calliope heard them, as if she said enough, determination grew in every twist of her muscles, every push of her skates. She nailed an extra jump and earned additional points. Her last two-thirds were solid. It’s not impossible for her to make the Olympic team, but she’ll need a flawless long program tonight.

  “I can’t watch.” Andy sets down his corner of my Marie Antoinette dress. “What if she doesn’t medal? In Lola’s costume?”