Lola and the Boy Next Door (26 page)
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
against my window. My eyes shoot open. Did I dream it?
Plink,
my window says again.
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.
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.”
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.
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!”
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.
heart.
I falter backward. “What were you thinking
?
” I hiss, feeling all kinds of anxious. “You could have fallen and broken your neck.”
?
” 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.
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—”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
chapter twenty-four
L
oooo-laaaa. Beautiful Lola.” Franko’s eyes are red and dilated. As usual.
oooo-laaaa. Beautiful Lola.” Franko’s eyes are red and dilated. As usual.
I dig through the box-office drawers, throwing dry pens and dusty instruction manuals to the floor. “Have you seen the ink cartridges for the tickets?”
“No, but have you seen the popcorn today? It’s so . . . aerodynamically inclined. I think I might’ve eaten some. Do I have kernels in my teeth?”
“No kernels,” I snap.
“I think I have kernels in my teeth. Like, right between my front teeth.” He stands, and his tongue explores his own mouth in a disgusting form of self–French kissing. “The strings are beautiful tonight.”
“Sure. The strings.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t cut one, but if I did, I’d say . . .
that’s a beautiful string.
”
that’s a beautiful string.
”
Seriously, if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m strangling him. My patience is at an all-time low. I wave my arms at St. Clair, who is ripping tickets tonight. There’s no one around, so he strolls over. “For the love of God, you two have to switch jobs,” I say.
“You’re beautiful, St. Clair,” Franko says.
“Everyone is beautiful to you when you’re high.” He sits in Franko’s seat. “Scat.”
Franko lumbers away.
“Thank you,” I say. “I just . . . can’t handle that right now.”
He gives me a full-bodied shrug. “Right now or for the entire month of November?”
“Don’t even,” I warn. But it’s true. Since my complete and total humiliation with Cricket two weeks ago—and his subsequent disappearance from my life—I’ve been extremely unpleasant. I’m hurt, and I’m angry. No, I’m furious, because it’s my stupid fault. I
threw
myself at him. What does he think of me now? Obviously, not much. I’ve called him twice and sent three apology texts, but he’s ignored them all.
threw
myself at him. What does he think of me now? Obviously, not much. I’ve called him twice and sent three apology texts, but he’s ignored them all.
So much for Mr. Nice Guy.
“Mr. Nice Guy?” St. Clair asks. “Who’s that?”
Oh, no. I’m talking out loud again. “Me,” I lie. “Mr. Nice Guy is gone.”
He sighs and checks the clock on the wall. “Fantastic.”
“I’m sorry.” And I mean it. My friends—Lindsey, Anna, and St. Clair—have all been patient with me. More than I deserve. I told Lindsey what happened, but St. Clair, and through him, Anna, must have heard some version of something from Cricket. I’m not sure what. “Thank you for taking Franko’s place. I appreciate it.”
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