Lola and the Boy Next Door

  “He did.” I speak the words cautiously. She’s waiting for more, but I’m not giving it to her. I don’t even know what more would be. “Nice seeing you again.” I move toward the stairs.

  I’m halfway to my front door when she says, “You look different.”

  “And you look the same.”

  I shut the door, and Nathan is waiting on the other side. “You didn’t call.”

  Oh, no.

  He’s furious. “You were supposed to check in over an hour ago. I called five times, and it went straight to your voice mail. Where have you been?”

  “I forgot. I’m sorry, Dad, I forgot.”

  “Was that Max’s van? Did he get a new car?”

  “You were WATCHING?”

  “I was worried, Lola.”

  “SO YOU DECIDED TO SPY ON ME?”

  “Do you know why guys buy vans? Do you?”

  “TO HOLD THEIR GUITARS AND DRUMS? To go on TOUR?” I storm past him, upstairs and into my bedroom.

  My dad pounds up the stairs behind me. “This conversation isn’t over. We have an agreement when you go out with Max. You check in with us.”

  “What do you think will happen? Why don’t you trust me?” I rip off the pink wig and throw it across my room. “I’m not getting drunk or doing drugs or breaking windows. I’m not her. I’m not Norah.”

  I’ve taken it too far. At the mention of his sister, Nathan’s face grows so hurt and twisted that I know I’ve hit bull’s-eye. I brace for him to tear into me. Instead, he turns without a word. Which, somehow, is worse. But it’s his fault for punishing me for things that I haven’t done, for things SHE’S done.

  How did this day get so awful? When did this happen?

  Cricket.

  His name explodes inside of me like cannon fire. I move toward our windows. His curtains are open. The bags he brought home are still on his floor, but there’s no sign of him. What am I supposed to say the next time we see each other? Why won’t he stop ruining my life?

  Why does he have to ask me out now?

  And Max knows about him. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. Max isn’t the type to keep bringing it up, but he is the type to hold on to it. Save it for when he needs it. Did he believe me when I told him that I love him? That I don’t even like Cricket?

  Yes, he did.

  And I’m in love with Max. So why don’t I know if the other half was a lie?

  I’m not the only one with guy problems. Lindsey has been remarkably distracted this week. She didn’t notice when our math teacher misused the quadratic formula on Monday. Or when Marta Velazquez, the most popular girl in school, forgot to peel the size sticker off her jeans on Tuesday. Her leg said: 12 12 12 12 12. How could Lindsey not notice that when she sat behind it for an entire hour in American history?

  It’s not until Thursday at lunch when Charlie Harrison-Ming walks past us and says, “Hi, Lindsey,” and she stutters her “Hey, Charlie” back, that I realize the issue. And then I realize they’re wearing the exact same red Chucks. Lindsey’s great at solving other people’s problems, but her own? Hopeless.

  “You could say something about the shoes,” I suggest.

  “You’re the clothes girl,” she says miserably. “I sound dumb talking about that stuff.”

  Today I’m wearing cat-eye glasses and a cheetah-print dress I made last spring. I’ve pinned oversize red brooches like bullet wounds to the front of the dress, and I have bloodred ribbons tied up and down my arms and throughout my natural hair. I’m protesting big-game hunting in Africa.

  “You never sound dumb,” I say. “And I’m not the one wearing his sneakers.”

  “I told you, I don’t want to date.” But she doesn’t sound so convinced anymore.

  “I’ll support you no matter what you choose.You know that, right?”

  Lindsey plants her nose inside a hard-boiled detective novel, and our conversation is over. But she’s not reading it. She’s staring through the pages. The look gives me a familiar jolt—the expression on Cricket’s face the last time I saw him. He never came back home last weekend. His curtains are still open, and his bags are still on his floor. I’ve been strangely fascinated by the shoulder bag. It’s an old, brown leather satchel, the kind that should be worn by a university professor or a jungle explorer. I wonder what’s in it. Probably just a toothbrush and a change of underwear.

  Still. It looks lonely. Even the mesh laundry bag is sad, only half full.

  My phone vibrates once against my leg, through the backpack at my feet, signaling a text. Whoops. We’re supposed to have them turned off at school. But who’d text me now, anyway? I bend over to reach for it, and my glasses—a vintage pair that doesn’t fit well—clatter to the cement. They’ve got to be right beneath me, but I can’t see them. I can’t see anything. I hear the loud prattle of a mob of girls heading our way.

  “Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud—”

  Lindsey swipes up my glasses just before the girls hit. They buzz past, a swarm of perfume and laughter. “Did your vision get worse again?”

  I slide them on, and the world comes back into focus. I frown. “Please. It gets worse every year. At this rate, I’ll be blind by twenty.”

  She nods at my glasses. “And how many pairs do you own now?”

  “Only three.” I wish they weren’t so expensive. I order them online for a discount, but they still eat up entire paychecks. My parents pay for my contacts, but I like variety. I’d prefer more variety. I peek at my phone, and I’m thrilled to find the text is from Max: saw two fallen branches in the shape of a heart. thought of you.

  I grin like an idiot.

  “Who was it?” Lindsey asks.

  “Max!” But then I catch the look on her face. I shrug and turn off my phone. “It’s nothing. He saw . . . something.”

  She flips her novel back open. “Oh.”

  And then I have it: the perfect solution to her problem. Charlie is totally interested in her, Lindsey just needs someone there to guide her through those first difficult steps. She needs me there. A double date! I’M A GENIUS! I’m . . . dating Max. Who would never agree to such a thing. I glance at my best friend, who is staring through her mystery novel again. Trying to solve her own mystery. I cradle my phone in my hands and keep my mouth shut.

  And I feel so disloyal to her.

  I have an early shift on Saturday. I closed last night. It feels like I never leave, like I should just get it over with and put my old Disney Princess sleeping bag underneath the seventh-floor concessions counter. When I arrive at the theater, I’m surprised to find St. Clair behind the box office. Anna isn’t scheduled to work today. I’m further surprised when I notice what he’s wearing.

  “What’s with the uniform?” I ask.

  He shrugs. It’s a slow, full-bodied shrug that makes him seem . . . more European. “One of the managers said I spent so much time here, I ought to be working. So I am.”

  “Wait. You got a job here?”

  “Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” He widens his eyes, joking.

  “You. Working?” St. Clair never discusses it, but everyone knows his family is rolling in it. He doesn’t need to work. Nor does he strike me as someone who’d want to.

  “You don’t think I can handle ripping tickets?”

  “My exhausted feet say it’s a little more than that.”

  St. Clair grins, and my heart skips a beat. He really IS attractive. What’s my problem? I must be more tired than I thought. And I’m not interested in Anna’s boyfriend—he’s too short, too cocky—but the fact that I’m noticing him bothers me. I dive into work on another floor to distract myself from increasingly uncomfortable thoughts. But St. Clair approaches me a few hours later, once we’ve calmed down from a rush. “My feet feel dandy,” he says. “In fact, I’m considering forming a dance troupe. Would you be interested?”

  “Oh, bite me.” I’m still irritated. The six people who complained to me about our parking garage didn’t help the s
ituation. “Seriously, why did you get a job?”

  “Because I thought it would build character.” He hops onto my concessions counter. “Because all of my teeth have fallen out, and I can’t afford dentures. Because—”

  “Fine. Whatever. Be a dillhole.”

  “I should be doing something productive, shouldn’t I?” St. Clair hops back down and grabs a broom from the supply closet. “All right, all right. I’m saving for our future.”

  “Our future?” I give him a coy smile. “I’m flattered, really, but that’s unnecessary.”

  He pokes my back with the tip of the broom.

  “And is Anna aware that you’re saving for your future together ?”

  “Of course.” St. Clair sweeps the fallen popcorn around my ankles while I take someone’s Diet Coke–and–soft-pretzel order. When I’m done, he continues. “Do you think I’d get a job and not discuss it with her first?”

  “No. But still, I thought . . . you know . . .” He looks confused, and I’m forced to finish the thought out loud. “I thought you had money.”

  St. Clair bursts out laughing as if I’ve said something foolish. “My father has money. And I’d like to keep him out of my future.”

  “That sounds . . . ominous.”

  The European shrug again. This time, to change the subject. “And it’d be nice to have a bit of spending cash so that I could take her out. We tend to dine mainly in our dormitory cafeterias.” He frowns. “Come to think of it, we’ve always dined mainly in school cafeterias.”

  “In Paris?”

  “In Paris,” he confirms.

  I sigh. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

  “Actually, I’m confident that I do.” St. Clair props the broom against the wall. “So why do you work? To support your unhealthy costuming habit? And what IS your hair about today?”

  “I wanted to see what it’d look like in tiny buns. And then I added the feathers, because they looked like nests.” He’s right. That is why I work. Plus, my parents said when I turned sixteen I had to get a part-time job to learn about responsibility. So I did.

  St. Clair examines my hair closer. “Spectacular.”

  I back away. “Exactly how far into the future are you planning ?”

  “Far.”

  The word hangs between us, loaded with strength and meaning. Max and I talk about running away to Los Angeles and starting a new life together—me designing elaborate costumes by day, him destroying rock clubs by night—but I get the sense that St. Clair’s conversations with Anna are more serious than the ones I have with Max. The thought makes me uneasy. I stare at St. Clair. He’s not that much older than me.

  How can he be so confident?

  “When it’s right, it’s simple,” he says to my unasked question. “Unlike your hair.”

  chapter ten

  The moon is fat, but half of her is missing. A ruler-straight line divides her dark side from her light. She hangs low over the bustling Castro, noticeably earlier than the night before. Autumn is coming. For as long as I can remember, I’ve talked to the moon. Asked her for guidance. There’s something deeply spiritual about her pale glow, her cratered surface, her waxing and waning. She wears a new dress every evening, yet she’s always herself.

  And she’s always there.

  Since my shift was early, I rode the bus and train home. I’m not sure why I’m so relieved to be back in my neighborhood. It’s not like the work itself was hard. But the familiarity of Castro Street comforts me—the glitter in the sidewalks, the chocolate-chip warmth radiating from Hot Cookie, the groups of chattering men, the early Halloween display in the window of Cliff ’s Variety.

  I’m lucky to live in a place that’s doesn’t have to hide what it is. Businesses like the Sausage Factory (restaurant), Spunk (hair salon), and Hand Job (manicures) are clear about the residents, but there’s a genuine sense of love and community. It’s a family. And like a family, everyone knows everyone’s business, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing. I like that the guys at Spike’s Coffee wave as I pass by. I like that the guys at Jeffery’s know Betsy needs the large container of fresh Lamb,Yams & Veggies. I like—

  “LOLA !”

  A stab to my gut. With dread, I turn to find Cricket Bell performing a spin move around an elderly couple entering Delano’s grocery as he’s exiting. He’s carrying a carton of freerange eggs in each hand. “Are you headed home? Do you have a minute?”

  I can’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.Yeah, of course.”

  As he jogs to catch up, I keep moving forward. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, a black vest, and a black tie. He’d look like a waiter, except he’s also wearing his colorful bracelets and rubber bands.

  “Lola, I want to apologize.”

  I freeze.

  “I feel like a jerk, a total ass for . . . for putting you in that situation last week. I’m sorry. I should have asked if you had a boyfriend, I don’t know why I didn’t ask.” His voice is pained. “Of course you’d have a boyfriend.You’ve just always been this cool, gorgeous girl and seeing you again brought up this whole wreck of emotions and . . . I don’t know what to say, but I messed up, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  I’m shocked.

  I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it certainly wasn’t this. Cricket Bell thinks I’m cool and gorgeous. Cricket Bell thinks I’ve always been cool and gorgeous.

  “And I hope this doesn’t make things even weirder,” he continues. “I just want to clear the air. I think you’re amazing, and being your friend that summer was the happiest summer of my life, and . . . I just want to be a part of your life. Again.”

  I can hardly think straight. “Right.”

  “But I’d understand if you don’t want to see me—”

  “No,” I say quickly.

  “No?” He’s nervous. He doesn’t understand how I mean it.

  “I mean . . . we can still hang out.” I proceed carefully. “I’d like that.”

  Cricket droops with relief. “You would?”

  “Yeah.” I’m surprised by how obvious it is. Of course I want him back in my life. He’s always been a part of my life. Even when he was gone, some fragment of his spirit lingered behind. I felt it in the space between our windows.

  “I want you to know that I’ve changed,” he says. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

  His body energetically turns to face mine, and the movement startles me. I trip toward him and smack into his chest, and one of the egg cartons drops from his hand and topples toward the sidewalk. Cricket swiftly grabs it before it lands.

  “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” I say.

  The place where his chest touched mine burns. Every place where his body touched mine feels alive. What kind of guy did he think he was, and who is he now?

  “It’s okay.” He peeks inside the carton. “No harm done. All eggs accounted for.”

  “Here, let me take that.” I reach for a carton, but he holds it above his head. It’s way out of my reach.

  “It’s okay.” He smiles softly. “I have a much better grip on things now.”

  I make for the other carton. “The least I can do is carry one.”

  Cricket starts to lift the other one up, too, but something solemn clouds his eyes. He lowers them and gives one to me. The back of his hand reads: EGGS. “Thanks,” he says.

  I look down. Someone has drawn a game of hopscotch onto the sidewalk in pink chalk. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll need them back, though. My mom was craving deviled eggs, and she asked me to pick those up. Very important mission.”

  Silence.

  This is the moment. Where I either make things permanently awkward or I make genuine on our friendship. I look up—and then up again, until I reach his face—and ask, “How’s college?”

  Cricket closes his eyes. It’s only for a moment, a breath, but it’s enough to show me how thankful he is for my question. He wants to be in my life.

  “Good,” he says
. “It’s . . . good.”

  “I sense a but.”

  He smiles. “But it’s been a while since that whole surroundedby-other-students thing. I guess it takes time to get used to.”

  “You said you were homeschooled? After you moved?”

  “Well, we moved so often that it was easier than enrolling over and over, always taking the same classes. Always being the new kid. We’d done it before, and we didn’t want to do it again. Plus, it allowed us to work around Cal’s schedule.”

  The last sentence sticks to me in an unpleasant way. “What about your schedule?”

  “Ah, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She only has so long to do this. She has to make a run for it while she can.” I must look unconvinced, because he adds, “Another five years, and it’ll be my turn in the family spotlight.”

  “But why can’t it be your turn now, too? Maybe I’m being selfish, because I’m an only child—”

  “No. You’re right.” And I catch the first glimpse of tiredness between his forehead and his eyes. “But our circumstance is different. She has a gift. It wouldn’t be fair for me not to do everything I can to support her.”

  “And what does she do to support you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  Cricket’s expression grows sly. “She does the dishes. Takes out the trash. Leaves the cereal box out for me on weekends.”

  “Sorry.” I look away. “I’m being nosy.”

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind.” But he doesn’t answer my question.

  We walk in silence for a minute, when something strikes me. “Today. Today is your birthday!”

  His face turns away from mine as fast as a reflex.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” But I know the answer before I finish asking the question. Memories of the last time I saw him on his birthday fill me with instant humiliation.

  Cricket fidgets with his bracelets. “Yep. Eighteen.”

  I follow his lead to keep the conversation moving forward. “An adult. Officially.”