Текст книги "Lola and the Boy Next Door"

Автор книги: Stephaie Perkns

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

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.

I want my parents to remember that I’m good, so they’ll also remember that Cricket is good. Better than good. He came over to formally apologize to them, though I don’t think it helped. His name is still banned from our household. Even after Mrs. Bell told Andy what was happening with Aleck, and my parents were tut-tutting for the family over dinner, they skipped over Cricket’s name. It was, “Calliope and . . .

hmph.

”

At least Mr. and Mrs. Bell don’t know what happened. My parents didn’t call them. I probably have Andy to thank for that, maybe even Norah. She’s been surprisingly cool about all of this. “Give them time,” she says. “Don’t rush anything.”

Which is what I know I need anyway. Time.

The memory of Max is still bitter and strong. I didn’t realize it was possible to have such an ugly breakup when you were the one who did the breaking up. And I’m pretty sure I’m the one who did the breaking up. At least, I did it first.

And then he did it better.

I feel terrible about how it ended, and I feel terrible for not being honest with him while we were together. I want to apologize. Maybe it would get rid of these bad feelings, and I’d be able to move on. Maybe then it wouldn’t sting whenever my mind summons his name. I’ve left several messages on his voice mail, but he hasn’t called me back. And he’s still gone from the city. I even went to Amoeba to ask Johnny.

Max’s last words haunt me.

Am

I nothing to him? Already?

I’m not ready for Cricket, and his hands are full anyway. With Aleck too depressed to give Abigail his attention, she’s decided that Cricket is the next best thing. He’s home for winter break—we’re both on winter break—and I rarely see him without Abby hanging from his arms or wrapped around his legs. I recognize that feeling, that

need,

inside of her. I wish there was someone I could hold on to.

Lindsey helps. She calls every day, and we talk about . . . not Max. Not Cricket. Though she did guiltily announce that she’s attending the winter formal. She asked Charlie, and of course he said yes. I’m happy for her.

A person can be sad and happy at the same time.

I’ve moved my Marie Antoinette dress and wig and panniers into Nathan’s office, aka Norah’s room. I don’t like looking at them. Maybe I’ll finish the dress later, for Halloween next year. Lindsey can wear it. But I’m still not going to the dance, and at least I know

that

was the right decision. The last few weeks of school were miserable.

“Who died and turned you Goth?” Marta sneered, turning up her nose at my all-black ensemble. Her friends, the trendiest clique at Harvey Milk Memorial, joined in, and soon everyone was accusing me of being a Goth, which—even though it’s not true—would have been fine. Except then the Goth kids accused me of being a poseur.

“I’m not a Goth. And I’m not in mourning,” I insisted.

At least my new wardrobe helps me blend into my neighborhood. In the winter, the Castro turns into a sea of trendy black clothing. Black helps me disappear, and I don’t want to be seen right now. It’s amazing how clothing affects how people see—or

don’t

see—you. The other day I waited for the bus beside Malcolm from Hot Cookie. He’s served me dozens of rainbow M&M cookies, and we’re always debating the merits of Lady Gaga versus Madonna, but he didn’t recognize me.

It’s odd. Me, the

real

me, and I’m unknown.

The few people who do recognize me always ask if I’m feeling okay. And it’s not that I feel great, but why does everyone assume something is wrong because I’m not costumed? Our usual bank teller went so far as to mention his concern to Nathan. Dad came home worried, and I had to assure him, again and again, that I’m fine.

I am fine.

I’m not fine.

What am I?

The blinking Christmas lights and flickering menorahs in the windows of the houses, hardware store, bars and clubs and restaurants . . . they seem false. Forced. And I’m unnaturally aggravated by the man dressed as sexy Mrs. Claus handing out candy canes in front of the Walgreens and collecting money for charity.

I spend my break working at the theater—I take extra shifts to fill my spare time—and watching Cricket. Throughout the day, I can usually spot him through one of the Bells’ windows, playing with Abigail. Abby has sandy-colored hair like her father and grandfather, but there’s something sweet and pure about her smile that reminds me of her uncle. He bundles her up and takes her on walks every day.

Sometimes, I grab a coat and run after them. I’ve gone with them to the park for the swings, to the library for picture books, and to Spike’s for espresso (Cricket and me) and an organic gingerbread man (Abby). I try to be helpful. I want to earn him, deserve him. He always bursts into a smile when he sees me, but it’s impossible to mistake the silent examination that follows. As if he’s wondering if

now

I’m okay. If today is the day. And I can tell by his expression, always a little confused and sad, that he knows it’s not.

I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. I’ve become his difficult equation face again.

In the evenings, after Abby has gone to bed, I’ll see him tinkering in his bedroom. I can’t tell what he’s making, it must be something small, but the telltale signs of mechanical bits and pieces—including objects opened and stripped for parts—remain scattered about his desk.

That’s

making me happy.

Christmas passes like Thanksgiving, without a bang. I go to work—movie theaters are always packed on Christmas Day—and Anna and St. Clair are both there. They try to cheer me up by playing this game where we get a point every time someone complains about the ticket price or yells at us because a show is sold out. Whoever has the most points at the end of the day gets the unopened bag of gummy lychee candy St. Clair found in theater twelve. It’s not a great prize. But it helps.

The managers bought Santa hats for everyone to wear. Mine is the only one that’s hot pink. I appreciate the thought, but I feel ridiculous.

I get yelled at the most. I win the lychee candy.

New Year’s Day. It’s cold, but the sun is out, so I take Betsy to Dolores Park. She’s sniffing out places on the hillside to leave her mark when I hear a tiny, “O-la!”

It’s Abby. I’m flattered she spoke my name. At one and a half years old, her vocabulary isn’t immense. She tears toward me from the playground. She’s dressed in a tiny purple tutu. Cricket walks in long strides behind her, hands in his pockets, smiling.

I get on my knees to hug Abby, and she collapses into my arms, the way really little kids do. “Hi, you,” I say. She lunges for the turquoise rhinestone barrette in my hair. I’d forgotten to take it out. Norah—NORAH, of all people—snapped it in at breakfast. “It’s the New Year,” she said. “Sparkles won’t kill you today.”

Cricket pulls off Abby before she can rip out the barrette. “All right, all right. Abigail Bell, that’s

enough.

” But he’s grinning at her. She grins back.

“You’ve made quite the new best friend,” I say.

His expression turns to regret. “Children do have questionable taste.”

I laugh. It’s the first time I can remember laughing this week.

“Though she has great taste in hair accessories,” he continues. Betsy rolls onto her stomach for him, and he scratches her belly. His rainbow bracelets and rubber bands shake against her black fur. The back of his entire left hand, including fingers, is crammed with mathematical symbols and calculations. Abby leans over hesitantly to pet my dog. “It’s nice to see you in something sparkly again,” he adds.

My laughter stops, and my cheeks redden. “Oh. It’s stupid, I know. It’s New Year’s, so Norah thought . . .”

Cricket frowns and stands back up. His shadow stretches, tall and slender, out for infinity behind him. “I was being serious. It’s nice to see a little bit of Lola shining through.” The frown turns into a gentle smile. “It gives me hope.”

And I can’t explain it, but I’m on verge of tears. “But I

have

been me. I’ve been trying hard to be me. A better me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “On what planet does Lola Nolan not wear . . . color?”

I gesture at my outfit. “I have this in white, too, you know.”

The joke falls flat. He’s struggling not to say something. Abby bumps into his left leg and grips it with all of her might. He picks her up and sets her on his hip.

“Just say it,” I tell him. “Whatever it is.”

Cricket nods slowly. “Okay.” He collects his thoughts before continuing. He speaks carefully. “Being a good person, or a better person, or whatever it is you’re worried about and trying to fix? It shouldn’t change who you are. It means you become

more

like yourself. But . . . I don’t know this Lola.”

My heart stops. I feel faint. It’s just like what Max used to say.

“What?” Cricket is alarmed. “When did he say that?”

I flush again and look down at the grass. I wish I didn’t talk out loud when I’m distressed. “I haven’t seen him again, if that’s what you mean. But he said . . . before . . . that because I dressed in costume, he didn’t know who I really was.”

Cricket closes his eyes. He’s shaking. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s shaking with

anger.

Abby squirms in his arms. It’s upsetting her. “Lola, do you remember when you told me that I had a gift?”

I gulp. “Yes.”

His eyes open and lock on mine. “You have one, too. And maybe some people think that wearing a costume means you’re trying to hide your real identity, but I think a costume is more truthful than regular clothing could ever be. It actually says something about the person wearing it. I knew that Lola, because she expressed her desires and wishes and dreams for the entire city to see. For

me

to see.”

My heart is beating in my ears, my lungs, my throat.

“I miss that Lola,” he says.

I take a step toward him. His breath catches.

And then he takes a step toward me.

“Ohhhh,” Abby says.

We look down, startled to discover that she’s still on his hip, but she’s pointing into the winter-white sky. San Francisco’s famous flock of wild parrots bursts across Dolores Park in a flurry of green feathers. The air is filled with beating wings and boisterous screeching, and everyone in the park stops to watch the spectacle. The surprising whirl disappears over the buildings as swiftly as it arrived.

I turn back to Abby. The unexpected explosion of color and noise and beauty in her world has left her awed.

chapter twenty-nine

It’s the Sunday night before school resumes, and my parents are on a date. I’m hanging out with Norah. We’re watching a marathon of home decorating shows, rolling our eyes for different reasons. Norah thinks the redesigned houses look bourgeois and, therefore, boring. I think they look boring, too, but only because each designer seems to be working from the same tired manual of modern decorating.

“It’s nice to see you looking like yourself again,” she says during a commercial break.

I’m wearing a blue wig, a ruffled Swiss Heidi dress, and the arms from a glittery golden thrift-store sweater. I’ve cut them off, and I’m using them as glittery golden leg warmers. I snort. “Yeah, I know how much you like the way I dress.”

She keeps her eyes on the television, but that familiar Norah edge returns to her voice. “It’s not how

I

would dress, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you for who you are.”

I keep my eyes on the television, too, but my chest tightens.

“So,” I say a few minutes later as the show recaps what we’ve already seen. “What’s happening with the apartment? Has Ronnie set a move-in date yet?”

“Yep. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

“Oh. That’s really . . . soon.”

She snorts.

Her snort sounds like mine.

“Soon can’t come soon enough. Nathan’s been suffocating me from the moment I arrived.”

And there’s the ungrateful Norah I know. Suddenly her impending departure is welcome. But I only shake my head, and we watch the rest of the episode in discontented silence. Another commercial break begins.

“Do you know the secret to fortune-telling?” she asks, out of the blue.

I sink into the couch cushions. Here we go.

Norah turns to look at me. “The secret is that I don’t read leaves. And palm readers don’t read palms, and tarot readers don’t read cards. We read people. A good fortune-teller reads the person sitting across from them. I study the signs in their leaves, and I use them to give an interpretation of what I know that person wants to hear.” She leans in closer. “People prefer paying when they hear what they want to hear.”

I cringe, sure that I don’t want to hear whatever’s coming next.

“Say a woman comes in,” she continues. “No wedding ring, tight shirt, cleavage up to her chin. Asks about her future. This is a woman who wants me to say that she’s about to meet someone. And, usually, if the shirt is tight enough and with confidence gained from a good fortune, guess what? She’ll probably meet someone. Now, it may not be the

right

someone, but it still means her fortune came true.”

My frown deepens. I stare at the television screen, but the flashing commercials are making it hard to focus. “So . . . when you looked at me, you saw someone who wanted arguments and confusion and partings? And you wanted it to come true?”

“No.” Norah scoots even closer. “You were different. I don’t have many chances to talk to you when you might actually listen to what I have to say. Reading your leaves was an opportunity. I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. I told you what you

needed

to hear.”

I’m confused and hurt. “I needed to hear bad things?”

She places a hand on mine. It’s bony, but somehow it’s also warm. I turn to her, and her gaze is sympathetic. “Your relationship with Max was waning,” she says, using her fortune-teller voice. “And I saw that you had a much more special one waiting right behind it.”

“The cherry. You

did

know how I felt about Cricket back then.”

She removes her hand. “Christ, the mailman knew how you felt about him. And he’s a good kid, Lola. It was stupid of you to get caught with him in bed—you know your parents are strict as hell about that shit—but I know he’s good. They’ll come around to it, too. And I know

you’re

good.”

I’m quiet. She thinks I’m a good person.

“Do you know my biggest regret?” she asks. “That you turned into this bright, beautiful, fascinating person . . . and I can’t take credit for any of it.”

There’s a lump in my throat.

Norah crosses her arms and looks away. “Your fathers piss me off, but they’re great parents. I’m lucky they’re yours.”

“They care about you, too, you know.

I

care about you.”

She’s silent and stiff. I take a chance and, for the first time since I was a little girl, burrow into her side. Her hard shoulders melt against me.

“Come back and visit,” I say. “Once you’ve moved.”

The lights of the commercials flash.

Flash

.

Flash

.

“Okay,” she says.

I’m in my bedroom later that night when my phone rings. It’s Lindsey. “On second thought,” she begins, “maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

“What?” Her unnaturally disturbed tone gives me an instant chill. “Tell me what?”

A long, deep breath. “Max is back.”

The blood drains from my face. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

“I just saw him. My mom and I were shopping in the Mission, and there he was, walking down Valencia.”

“Did he see you? Did you talk to him? What did he look like?”

“No. Hell no. And like he always does.”

I’m stupefied. How long has he been back? Why hasn’t he called? His continued silence means that he must have been telling the truth:

I’m nothing to him anymore.

Lately, I’ve gone several hours—once, an entire day—without thinking of him. This is a fresh dig into my wounds, but somehow . . . the blow isn’t as crushing as I thought it would be. Perhaps I’m becoming okay with being nothing to Max.

“Can you breathe?” Lindsey asks. “Are you breathing?”

“I’m breathing.” And I am. An idea is quickly mushrooming inside of me. “Listen, I have to go. There’s something I need to do.” I grab a faux-fur coat and my wallet, and I’m racing out my door when I hear a faint

plink.

I stop.

Plink,

my window says again.

Plink. Plink.

My heart leaps. I throw open the panes, and Cricket sets down his box of toothpicks. He’s wearing a red scarf and some sort of blue military jacket. And then I notice the leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and this blow

is

crushing. His break is over. He’s going back to Berkeley.

His arms slacken. “You look incredible.”

Oh. Right. It’s been a month since he’s seen me in anything other than black. I give him a shy smile. “Thank you.”

Cricket points at my coat. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I was on my way out.”

“Meet me on the sidewalk first? Would your parents would mind?”

“They’re not home.”

“Okay. See you in a minute?”

I nod and hurry downstairs. “I’ll be back in an hour,” I tell Norah. “There’s something I have to do. Tonight.”

She mutes the television and raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Does this mysterious errand have to do with a certain guy?”

I’m not sure which one she means, but . . . either is correct. “Yeah.”

She studies me for several excruciating seconds. But then she un-mutes the television. “Just get back here before your parents do. I don’t wanna have to explain.”

Cricket is waiting at the bottom of my stairs. His willowy figure looks exquisite in the moonlight. Our gazes are fixed on each other as I walk down the twenty-one steps to my sidewalk. “I’m going back to school,” he says.

I nod at his bag. “I guessed as much.”

“I just wanted to say goodbye. Before I left.”

“Thank you.” I shake my head, flustered. “I mean . . . I’m glad. Not that you’re going. But that you found me before leaving.”

He puts his hands in his pockets. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We’re quiet for a minute. Once more, I smell the faintest trace of bar soap and sweet mechanical oil, and my insides nervously stir.

“So . . . which way?” He gestures in both directions down the sidewalk. “Where are you going?”

I point in the opposite direction from where he’ll go to catch his train. “That way. There’s, uh, some unfinished business I have to attend to.”

Cricket knows, from my hesitation, what I’m talking about. I’m afraid he’ll tell me not to go—or, worse, ask to escort me—but he only pauses. And then he says, “Okay.”

Trust.

“You’ll come home soon?” I ask.

The question makes him smile. “Promise you won’t forget me while I’m gone?”

I smile back. “I promise.”

And as I walk away, I realize that I have no idea how I’ll manage to

stop

thinking about him.

The dread doesn’t hit until I arrive at his apartment and see the familiar brown stucco walls and pink oleander bush. I glance up at Max’s apartment. The light is on and there’s movement behind the curtain. Doubt creeps in like a poisonous fog. Was it wrong of me to come here? Is it selfish for me to want to apologize if he doesn’t want to hear it?

I climb the dark stairwell that leads to his front door. I’m relieved when he opens it, and not Johnny, but my relief is shortlived. Max’s amber eyes glare at me, and the scent of cigarettes is strong. No spearmint tonight.

“I—I heard you were back.”

Max remains silent.

I force myself to hold his stony gaze. “I just I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying, and I’m sorry for the way things ended. I didn’t treat you fairly.”

Nothing.

“Okay. Well. That was it. Bye, Max.”

I’m on the first step back down when he calls out, “Did you sleep with him?”

I stop.

“While we were together,” he adds.

I turn and look him in the eye. “No. And that’s the truth. We didn’t even kiss.”

“Are you sleeping with him now?”

I blush. “God, Max.”

“Are you?”

“

No.

And I’m leaving now.” But I don’t move. This is my last chance to know. “Where have you been for the last month? I called. I wanted to talk with you.”

“I was staying with a friend.”

“Where?”

“Santa Monica.” Something about the way he says it. As if he wants me to ask.

“A . . . girl?”

“A woman. And I

did

sleep with her.” Max slams his door.

chapter thirty

Max has always known what to say—and when to say it—to make it hurt the worst. His words stung, but it only took a moment for me to realize why. It’s not because I care that he’s been with another woman. It’s because I can’t believe that I ever loved him. I viewed Max in such a willfully blind way. How could I have ignored his vindictive side? How could I have committed myself to someone whose knee-jerk reaction was always anger and cruelty?

I apologized. He reacted in his typical fashion. I went to his apartment for absolution, and I got it.

Good riddance.

Winter break comes to an end, and with it, so does my grounding. School resumes. I’m surprised when three of my classmates—three people I don’t know well—approach me the first day and say that they’re happy to see I’m dressing like myself again.

It makes me feel . . . gratified. Appreciated.

Even Lindsey sits taller and prouder, a combination of Charlie and his friends (who have joined us at lunch) and seeing me colorful again. It’s nice to have more people around. The hard part is waiting for the weekend. I miss that

chance

of seeing Cricket at any moment. The pale blue glass of my window looks dull without him on the other side.

Friday is the longest school day in the history of time. I watch the clock with eyeballs like Ping-Pong balls, driving Lindsey crazy. “It’ll come,” she says. “Patience, Ned.” But as the last bell rings, my phone does, too. A text from NAKED TIGER WOMAN:

Not coming home this weekend. Unexpected project. On the first week! This sucks.

My world caves in. But then a second text appears:

I miss you.

And then a third:

I hope that’s ok to say now.

My heart is cartwheeling as I text back:

Miss you, too. Miss you even more this weekend.

!!!!!!!!! = chirping crickets + ringing bells

We text for my entire walk home, and I’m floating like a pink fluffy cloud. I let him go so that he can work, and he protests for several texts, which makes me even happier. Throughout the night, my phone blinks with new messages—about his roommate Dustin’s hideous friends, about being hungry, about not being able to read his own notes. I fill his phone with messages about Norah repacking her boxes, about Andy’s seasonal clementine pie, about accidently leaving my math book in my locker.

In the morning, my parents are taken aback when I wake up early and materialize downstairs while they’re still eating breakfast. Andy examines the calendar. “I thought your shift didn’t start until four.”

“I’d like to go to Berkeley. Just for a few hours before work.”

My parents trade an unsettled glance as Norah shuffles into the room behind me. “Oh, for God’s sake, let her go. She’ll go anyway.”

They give me permission. Hourly phone-call check-ins, but I gladly accept. I’m bouncing out the door when a split-second decision has me returning for something tiny that I keep stashed away in my sock drawer. I slip it into my purse.

I stop by New Seoul Garden, and Lindsey packs a bag of takeout, which causes the entire car—on both of the trains it takes to get to Berkeley—to smell. Whoops. I decide to be brave this time and call him when I reach his dormitory gates, but someone is leaving as I’m arriving, and it’s not necessary. I pass through the landscaped courtyard and the other doors just as easily.

And then I’m at

his

door.

I lift my hand to knock as a girl laughs on the other side. My knuckles land against the wood in a tremble. Is that Jessica? Again?

The door pops open, and . . . it’s Anna.

“Hey, space cowgirl!” She’s already taken in the silver fringe dress and my red cowboy boots. For one nightmarish second, I’m consumed by suspicion, but the door swings back and reveals St. Clair. Of course. He and Cricket are sitting against the side of Cricket’s bed. And then Cricket Bell sees me, and the atmosphere