Текст книги "Lola and the Boy Next Door"

Автор книги: Stephaie Perkns

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Oh God, I’m going to hell.

I’m crying. “Why are you so convinced I’m ready to cheat on you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve never seen the same you twice. Nothing about you is real.”

His words stop my heart.

Max sees he’s taken it too far. He jerks forward as if a spell has broken. “I didn’t mean that.You know I love the crazy outfits.”

“You always say what you mean,”

I whisper.

He rubs his temples for a long moment. “I’m sorry. Come here.” He wraps his arms around me. I hug him tightly, but it feels as if he’s vanishing. I want to tell him that I’m sorry, too, but I’m scared to tell him the truth. I don’t want to lose him.

When two people are in love, it’s supposed to work. It

has

to work. No matter how difficult the circumstances are. I think about the sweet songs he’s written, the ones he plays in his apartment, the ones for my ears only. I think about our future, when I’m no longer tied to my parents. Costumes by day, rock clubs by night. We’ll both be a success, and it’ll be because of each other.

Our love should make us a success.

Max kisses my neck. My chin. My lips. His kisses are hungry and possessive. Max is the one. We love each other, so he

has

to be the one.

He tears himself away. “This is the real me. Is this the real you?”

I’m dizzy. “This is me.”

But it tastes like fear on my lips. It tastes like another lie.

chapter twenty-two

I’m discussing Max with the moon, but it’s supremely unsatisfying. Her beams are casting an eerie luminescence on Cricket’s window. “Max doesn’t like it when I dress down, but he throws my usual appearance into my face when we fight. I’m never what he needs me to be.”

The moon darkens by cloud cover.

“Okay, I’ve lied to him. But you saw how jealous he gets. It makes me feel like I

have

to. And I shouldn’t have to defend my right to be friends with another guy.”

I wait. The sky remains dark.

“Fine. The you-know-who situation is weird. Maybe . . . Max and Calliope aren’t so far off. But if I’m never given Max’s trust to begin with, how can he expect me to trust him in return? Do you see what I mean? Do you see how confusing it is?” I close my eyes. “Please, tell me. What do I do?”

The light behind my lids softly brightens. I open my eyes. The clouds have moved, and Cricket’s window is illuminated by moonlight.

“You have a sick sense of humor,” I say.

Her beams don’t waver. And without knowing how it happens, I find myself removing a handful of bobby pins from my desk. I chuck them at his panes.

Dink! Dink! Dink dink!

Seven bobby pins later, Cricket opens his window.

“Trick-or-treat,” I say.

“Is something wrong?” He’s sleepy and disoriented. He’s also only wearing his boxer briefs, and his bracelets and rubber bands.

OHMYGOD. HE’S ONLY WEARING BOXER BRIEFS.

“No.”

Cricket rubs his eyes. “No?”

DON’T STARE AT HIS BODY. DO

NOT

STARE AT HIS BODY.

“Did you go anywhere fun tonight? I stayed in and handed out candy. Nathan bought good stuff, name-brand chocolate, not the cheapo mix he usually gets, you know with the Tootsie Pops and Dots and those tiny Tootsie Rolls flavored like lime, I guess you got a lot of kids at your house, too, huh?”

He stares at me blankly. “Did you wake me up . . . to talk about candy?”

“It’s still so hot out, isn’t it?” I blurt. AND THEN I WANT TO DIE.

Because Cricket has turned into stone, having realized the practically naked situation his body is in. Which I am not, not, not looking at. At all.

“Let’s go for a walk!”

My exclamation unfreezes him. He edges out of sight, trying to play it cool. “Now?” he calls from the darkness. “It’s . . . two forty-two in the morning.”

“I could use someone to talk to.”

Cricket pops back up. He has located his pants. He is wearing them.

I blush.

He considers me for a moment, pulls a T-shirt over his head, and then nods. I sneak downstairs, past my parents’ bedroom and Norah’s temporary bedroom, and I reach the street undetected. Cricket is already there. I’m wearing sushi-print pajama bottoms and a white camisole. Seeing him fully dressed again makes me feel

un

dressed, a feeling intensified when I notice him take in my bare skin. We walk up the hill to the corner of our street. Somehow, we both know where we’re going.

The city is silent. The raucous spirit of Halloween has gone to sleep.

We reach the even bigger hill that separates us from Dolores Park. Eighty steps lead to the top. I’ve counted. About twenty up, he stops. “Are you gonna say what’s on your mind, or are you gonna make me guess? Because I’m not good at guessing games. People should say what they mean to say and not make other people stumble around.”

“Sorry.”

He smiles for the first time in ages. “Hey. No apologizing.”

I smile back, but it falters.

His disappears, too. “Is it Max?”

“Yes,” I say quietly.

We walk slowly up the stairs again. “He seemed surprised to see me today. He doesn’t know we hang out, does he?”

The sadness in his voice makes me climb slower. I wrap my arms around myself. “No. He didn’t know.”

Cricket stops. “Are you embarrassed by me?”

“Why would I be embarrassed by you?”

He puts his hands in his pockets. “Because I’m not cool.”

I’m thrown. Cricket isn’t cool in the same sense as Max, but he’s the most

interesting

person I know. He’s kind and intelligent and attractive. And he’s well dressed. Cricket is REALLY well dressed. “How can you think that?”

“Come on. He’s this sexy rock god, and I’m the boy next door. The stupid science geek, who’s spent his life on the sidelines of figure-skating rinks. With his sister.”

“You’re not . . . you’re not a geek, Cricket. And even if you were, what’s wrong with that? And since when is science

stupid

?”

He looks unusually agitated.

“Oh, no,” I say. “Please tell me this isn’t about your great-great-whatever grandfather. Because that doesn’t mean any—”

“It means

everything.

The inheritance that paid for our house, that pays for Calliope’s training, that pays for my college education, that bought everything I’ve ever owned . . . it wasn’t ours. Do you know what happened to Alexander Graham Bell after he became famous? He spent the rest of his life hiding in a remote part of Canada. In shame of what he’d done.”

“So why did he do it?”

Cricket rakes a hand through his hair. “For the same reason everyone makes mistakes. He fell in love.”

“Oh.” That hurts. I’m not even sure why it hurts so much, but it does.

“Her father was wealthy and powerful. Alexander wasn’t. He had

ideas

for the telephone, but he couldn’t get them to work. Her father discovered that someone—Elisha Gray—was about to patent it, so they went to the patent office on the same day as Elisha, copied his idea, turned it in, and claimed they were there first. Alexander became one of the wealthiest men in America and was allowed to marry my great-great-great-grandmother. By the time Elisha realized he’d been had, it was too late.”

I’m astounded. “That’s terrible.”

“History books are filled with lies. Whoever wins the war tells the story.”

“But Alexander was still a smart man. He was still an inventor. You get

that

much honestly. Life isn’t about what you get, it’s about what you DO with what you get.”

“I build things that have no use.” His tone is flat. “It’s just as bad. I should be creating something that makes a difference, something to . . . make up for the past.”

I’m getting angry. “What do you think would happen if I believed genetics played that kind of role in my life? If I believed that because my birth parents made certain decisions, it meant that my life, my dreams were forfeit, too? Do you know what that would do to me? Do you have any idea what it HAS done to me?”

Cricket is devastated. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry—”

“You should be. You have a gift, and you’re doubting it.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “You can’t let that kind of shame dictate who you are.You aren’t your name.Your decisions are your own.”

He stares at me.

I return the stare, and my senses surge. The energy between us ricochets so fiercely that it scares me.

I break our gaze.

We climb the rest of the way to the top, and the entire city stretches before us. The jutting houses, the golden hills, the highrises, the glittering bay. It’s stunning. We sit on an empty slab of asphalt overlooking the view. It’s someone’s driveway, but no one will see us. The eucalyptus tree dangling above us releases its soothing fragrance into the night air.

Cricket inhales, long and slow. He sighs his exhale. “I’ve missed that. Eucalyptus always reminds me of home.”

And I fill with warmth because, even with his second life in Berkeley, he still thinks of this as home. “You know,” I say. “When I was little, my parents were embarrassed by the way I dressed.”

“Really? That’s surprising.”

“They were terrified that people would think THEY were dressing me like that. That THE GAYS were corrupting me with false eyelashes and glitter.”

He laughs.

“But they learned it’s who I am, and they accepted it. And their support gave me some confidence. And then, that summer, you taught me how to accept it for myself. To not worry about what other people said. And then . . . things weren’t bad at all.”

“

I

did?”

“Yeah, you. So I’m telling you this now. I will

never

forget that mechanical bird you made. The one that only sang when you opened its cage door?”

“You remember that?” He’s mystified.

“Or the fifty-step Rube Goldberg machine that sharpened a pencil? Or that insane train of dominoes that took you two weeks to set up, but was over in a minute? It was incredible. Just because something isn’t practical doesn’t mean it’s not worth creating. Sometimes beauty and real-life magic are enough.”

I turn to face him, cross-legged. “It’s like my Marie Antoinette dress. It’s not practical, but . . . for that one moment, arriving at a dance in a beautiful, elaborate dress that no one else is wearing and that everyone will remember? I want that.”

Cricket stares across the city lights toward the bay. “You will. You’ll have it.”

“Not without your help.” I want to give him a friendly shove, but I settle for a verbal jab. “So are you gonna get started on my panniers tomorrow or what?”

“I already started them.” He meets my eyes again. “I stayed in tonight, too. I didn’t just hand out candy.”

I’m touched. “Cricket Bell. You are the nicest guy I know.”

“Yeah.” He snorts. “The nice guy.”

“What?”

“That was what my one-and-only girlfriend said when she broke up with me.”

“Oh.” I’m taken aback. The Girlfriend, at last. “That’s . . . a really,

really

stupid reason.”

Cricket scooches forward, and his knees almost bump mine. Almost. “It’s not uncommon. Nice guys finish last and all.”

There’s a dig at Max amid his self-deprecation, but I ignore it. “Who was she?”

“One of Calliope’s friends. Last year.”

“A figure skater?”

“My social scene doesn’t extend much further.”

The news makes me unhappy. Skaters are

gorgeous.

And

talented.

And, like,

athletically gifted.

I stand, my heart pounding in my ears. “I need to get home.”

He looks at his wrist, but he’s not wearing his watch. “Yeah, I guess it’s really late. Or really early.”

We descend the eighty stairs to our street corner before Cricket unexpectedly halts. “Oh, no. You wanted to talk about Max. Do you—”

“I think we were supposed to talk tonight,” I interrupt him with a glance toward the moon. She’s a waxing gibbous, almost full. “And I thought it was supposed to be about Max, but I was wrong. We needed to talk about you.” I point at my feet.

I’m standing over the word BELL.

It’s imprinted on the grate for Pacific Bell, the phone company. They’re everywhere, on every street. “See?” I say.

“Every time I see Dolores Street, I think of you.” His words rush out. “Dolores Park. Dolores Mission. You’re everywhere in this neighborhood, you

are

this neighborhood.”

I close my eyes. He shouldn’t say things like that, but I don’t want him to stop. It’s become impossible to deny he means something to me. I don’t have the courage to name it. Not yet. But it’s there. I open my eyes, and . . . he’s gone.

He’s walking swiftly up the stairs to his home.

Another vanished spirit on Halloween.

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—”