Текст книги "Lola and the Boy Next Door"

Автор книги: Stephaie Perkns

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

lights up.

My soul lights up in response.

“Hi.” He springs to his feet. “Hi,” he says again.

“I was worried that you wouldn’t have time to eat lunch today.” I hold up the takeout as I notice a spread of empty Chinese boxes on the floor. “Oh.”

Anna gives me a gap-toothed grin. “Don’t worry. He’ll eat what you’ve brought, too.”

“His stomach is quite tall,” St. Clair says.

“And yours is so wee,” Anna says. He shoves her legs from his place on the floor, and she shoves his back. They’re like puppies.

Cricket gestures me forward with both arms. “Here, come in, sit down.”

I glance around. Every surface is covered.

“Uh, hold on,” he says. There’s a mound of school papers spread across the surface of his bed, which he bulldozes aside. “Here. Sit here.”

“We should go,” Anna says. “We just stopped by to feed Cricket and grill him about the Olympics. Did you know they’re in France this year?” She sighs. “I’m dying for a visit.”

Her boyfriend bites a pinkie nail. “And I’m trying to convince her that if Calliope makes the team, we should consider it a sign and take the holiday.”

I smile at Anna. “Lucky you.”

St. Clair turns toward Cricket and points an accusing finger. “I’m counting on you to ensure your sister wins at Nationals next weekend, all right?”

My heart selfishly plummets. Next weekend. More time away from Cricket.

“She only has to get one of the top three spots,” Cricket says. “But I’ll take out an opponent’s kneecap if I have to.”

Anna prods St. Clair’s shoulder. “Come on. Weren’t you gonna show me that thing?”

“What thing?”

She stares at him. He stares back. She cocks her head toward Cricket and me.

“Ah, yes.” St. Clair stands. “That thing.”

They rush out. The door shuts, and St. Clair shouts, “Lola, Cricket wants to show you his thing, too-oo!” They’re laughing as their feet echo down the hall.

Cricket hastily looks away from me and places the carton of Bibimbap in his microwave.

“Oh. I got something beef-y for you,” I say, because he’s heating the vegetarian dish first.

He shrugs and smiles. “I know. I saw.”

I smile, too, and sit on the edge of his bed. “So all three of you are going to France, and I’m staying here? Talk about unfair.” I’m only half kidding.

“You should come.”

I snort. “Yeah, my parents would definitely be cool with that.”

But Cricket looks thoughtful. “You know, Andy loves figure skating. If you had a free ticket, he might bite.”

“And where, exactly, would I find a free ticket?”

He sits beside me. “Courtesy of my great-great-great-grandfather Alexander Graham Bell, the world’s richest liar?”

I stop smiling. “Cricket. I could never accept that.”

He nudges one of my cowboy boots with one of his pointy wingtips. “Think about it.”

My foot tingles from the shoe-on-shoe contact. I nudge his shoe back. He nudges mine. The microwave beeps, and he hesitates, unsure if he should get up. I reach out and take his wrist, over his rubber bands and bracelets. “I’m not that hungry,” I say.

Cricket looks down at my hand.

I slide my index finger underneath a red bracelet. My finger brushes the skin of his inner wrist, and he releases a small sound. His eyes close. I twine my finger in and out of his bracelets, tying myself against him. I close my eyes, too. My finger guides us onto our backs, and we lie beside each other, quietly attached, for several minutes.

“Where’s Dustin?” I finally ask.

“He’ll be back soon. Unfortunately.”

I open my eyes, and he’s staring me. I wonder how long his eyes have been open. “That’s okay,” I say. “I came here to give you a late Christmas present.”

His eyebrows raise.

I smile. “Not

that

kind of present.” I untangle my finger from his wrist and roll over to grab my purse from his floor. I rummage through it until I find the tiny something taken from my sock drawer. “Actually, it’s more like a late birthday present.”

“How . . . belated of you?”

I roll back toward him. “Hold out your hand.”

He’s smiling. He does.

“I’m sure you don’t remember anymore, but several birthdays ago, you needed this.” And I place a tiny wrench into his palm. “Lindsey and I went everywhere to find it, but then . . . I couldn’t give it to you.”

His expression falls. “Lola.”

I close his fingers around the gift. “I threw away your bottle cap, because it killed me to look at. But I never could throw away this. I’ve been waiting to give it to you for two and a half years.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispers.

“I’m almost full,” I say. “Thank you for waiting for me, too.”

chapter thirty-one

The doorbell rings early the next Saturday. It wakes me from a deep slumber, but I immediately fall back asleep. I’m surprised when I’m being shaken awake moments later. “You’re needed downstairs,” Andy says. “Now.”

I sit up. “Norah? She was kicked out already?”

“Calliope. It’s an emergency.”

I tear out of bed. An emergency with Calliope can only mean one thing: an emergency with Cricket. We’ve been texting, so I know he planned to come home before leaving for Nationals. But his light was off when I got back from work last night. I couldn’t tell if he was there. What if he

tried

to come home, and something happened along the way? “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.” I throw on a kimono and race downstairs, where Calliope is pacing our living room. Her normally smooth hair is unwashed and disheveled, and her complexion is puffy and red.

“Is he okay? What happened? Where is he?”

Calliope stops. She cocks her head, muddled and confused. “Who?”

“CRICKET!”

“No.” She’s momentarily thrown. “It’s not Cricket, it’s me. It’s . . . this

.

” Her hands tremble as she holds out a large brown paper bag.

I’m so relieved that nothing is wrong with Cricket—and I’m so upset for thinking that something

was

wrong—that I snatch the bag a bit too harshly. I peer inside. It’s filled with shredded red gauze.

And then I gasp with understanding. “Your costume!”

Calliope bursts into tears. “It’s for my long program.”

I carefully remove one of the shimmering strips of torn fabric. “What happened?”

“Abby. You’d think she was a dog, not a child. When Mom came down for breakfast, she discovered her playing in . . .

this.

I’d left my costume downstairs for cleaning. Who would’ve thought she could rip it?” Calliope’s panic grows. “I didn’t even know she was strong enough. And we’re leaving tomorrow! And my seamstress is out of town, and I know you can’t stand the sight of me, but you’re my only hope. Can you fix it in time?”

As intriguing as it is to be her only hope, there’s no hope to be had. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But I can’t fix this

period.

It’s ruined.”

“But you HAVE to do something. There has to be something you can do!”

I hold up a handful of shreds. “These are barely big enough to blow your nose on. If I sewed them back together—even if I could, which I can’t—it’d look terrible.You wouldn’t be able to compete in it.”

“Why can’t you wear one of your old costumes?” Nathan interrupts.

Andy looks horrified. “She can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Nathan asks. “It’s not the outfit that wins competitions.”

Calliope shudders, and that’s when I remember her second-place curse. She must have already been racked by nerves, and then to add this on top of it? I do feel sorry for her. “No,” she says. The word barely comes out. “I can’t do that.” She turns to me with her entire body, an eerily familiar gesture. “Please.”

I feel helpless. “I’d have to make a new one. There’s no—”

“You could make a new one?” she asks desperately.

“No!” I say. “There’s not enough time.”

“Please,” she says. “Please, Lola.”

I’m feeling frantic. I want her to know that I’m a good person, that I’m not worthless, that I deserve her brother. “Okay. Okay,” I repeat. Everyone stares at me as I stare at the tatters. If only I had bigger pieces to work with. These are so small that they wouldn’t even make a full costume anymore.

It hits me. “About those old costumes—”

Calliope moans.

“No, listen,” I say. “How many do you have?”

She gives me another familiar gesture, the parted mouth and furrowed brow. The difficult equation face. “I don’t know. A lot. A dozen, at least.”

“Bring them over.”

“They don’t all fit anymore! I can’t wear them, I won’t—”

“You won’t have to,” I reassure her. “We’ll use the parts to make something new.”

She’s on the verge of hysterics again. “You’re Frankensteining me?”

But I feel calm now that I have a plan. “I won’t Frankenstein you. I’ll revamp you.”

She’s back in five minutes, and she returns with . . . Cricket. Their arms are piled high with stretchy fabric and sparkly beads. His hair is still sleep-tousled, and he’s not wearing his bracelets. His wrists look naked. Our eyes meet, and his thoughts are just as exposed: gratitude for helping his sister and the unmistakable ache of longing.

The ache is reciprocated.

I lead them upstairs to my bedroom. Cricket hesitates at the bottom, unsure if he’s allowed to go up. Andy gives him a prod on the back, and I’m relieved. “We’ll definitely find something in all of this,” I tell Calliope.

She’s still on edge. “I can’t believe my stupid niece did this to me.”

My facial muscles twinge, but I’d say the same thing if I were in her situation. “Let’s spread out the costumes and see what we have.”

“Spread them out

where

?”

I almost lose my cool, when I look at my floor and realize she has a point. “Oh. Right.” I shove the piles of discarded shoes and clothing into corners, and Andy and Cricket join in. Nathan waits in the doorway, eyeing the situation—and Cricket—warily. When my floor is clear enough, we lay out her costumes.

Everyone stares at the spread. It’s a little overwhelming.

“What’s your music?” Andy asks.

Our heads snap to look at him.

“What?” He shrugs. “We need to know what she’s skating to before Lo can design the right costume. What’s her inspiration?”

Nathan blinks.

I smile. “He’s right. What are you skating to, Calliope?”

“It’s a selection from 1968’s

Romeo and Juliet.

”

“No idea what that sounds like.” I point her to my laptop. “Download it.”

“I can do better than that.” She sits in my chair and types her own name into a search engine. One of the first entries is a video from her last competition. “Watch this.”

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?”

This has been bothering me, too, but I don’t want to make Andy even more nervous, so I give him a shrug. “Then it won’t be my fault. I only made the outfit. She’s the one who has to skate in it.”

The rest of us abandon my dress as the camera cuts to her coach Petro Petrov, an older gentleman with white hair and a grizzled face. He’s talking with her at the edge of the rink. She’s nodding and nodding and nodding. The cameraman can’t get a good shot of her face, but . . . her costume looks

great.

I’m on TV! Sort of!

“You made that in one day?” Norah asks.

Nathan leans over and squeezes my arm. “It’s phenomenal. I’m so proud of you.”

Lindsey grins. “Maybe you should have made my dress.”

We went shopping earlier this week for the dance. I’m the one who found her dress. It’s simple—a flattering cut for her petite figure—and it’s the same shade of red as her Chuck Taylors. She and Charlie have decided to wear their matching shoes.

“You’re going to the dance?” Norah is surprised. “I thought you didn’t date.”

“I don’t,” Lindsey says. “Charlie is merely a friend.”

“A cute friend,” I say. “Whom she hangs out with on a regular basis.”

She smiles. “We’re keeping things casual. My educational agenda comes first.”

The commentators begin rehashing Calliope’s journey. About how it’s a shame someone with such

natural talent

always

chokes.

They criticize her constant switching of coaches and make a bold statement about a misguided strive for perfection. We boo the television. I feel sadness for her again, for having to live with such constant criticism. But also admiration, for continuing to strive. No wonder she’s built such a hard shell.

I’m yearning for the network to show her family, which they didn’t do AT ALL during the short program. Shouldn’t a twin be notable? I called him yesterday, because he’s still too shy to call me. He was understandably stressed, but I got him laughing. And then he was the one who encouraged me to invite Norah today.

“She’s family,” he said. “You should show encouragement whenever you can. People try harder when they know that someone cares about them.”

“Cricket Bell.” I smiled into my phone. “How did you get so wise?”

He laughed again. “Many, many hours of familial observation.”

As if the cameramen heard me . . . HIM. It’s him! Cricket is wearing a gray woolen coat with a striped scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair is dusted with snow and his cheeks are pink; he must have just arrived at the arena. He is winter personified. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The camera cuts to Calliope, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from shouting at the television to go back to Cricket. Petro takes ones of Calliope’s clenched hands, shakes it gently, and then she glides onto the ice to the roar of thousands of spectators, cheering and waving banners. Everyone in my living room holds their breath as we wait for the first clear shot of her expression.

“And would you look at that,” the male commentator says. “Calliope Bell is here to fight!”