Текст книги "Lola and the Boy Next Door"

Автор книги: Stephaie Perkns

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Cricket stared at his feet. “So, um, what did you do tonight?”

“Nothing.” My voice was curt as I threw back his own words. “I didn’t do anything.”

He looked upset. It only made me despise him more, for trying to make

me

feel guilty. “Good night.” I started to close my window.

“Wait!” He yanked at his hair, pulling it taller. “I—I just found out that I’m moving.”

It felt as if I’d been knocked in the skull. I blinked, startled to discover fresh tears. “You’re leaving? Again?”

“Monday.”

“Two DAYS from now?” Why couldn’t I stop crying? I was such an idiot!

“Calliope is going back to her last coach.” He sounded helpless. “It’s not working out here.”

“Is

everything

not working out here?” I blurted. “There’s

nothing

you want to say to me before you leave?”

Cricket’s mouth parted, but it remained silent. His difficult equation face. A full minute passed, maybe two. “At least we have that in common,” I finally said. “There’s nothing I want to say to you either.”

And I slammed my window closed.

chapter seven

“He was doing it right there in the open!” I say. “I’m serious, Charlie was admiring your derriere in chemistry.”

Lindsey brushes it off. “Even if he was, which I sincerely doubt, you know my policy. No guys—”

“Until graduation. I just thought that since it was Charlie . . . and since his eyes

did

follow you across the room . . .”

“No.” And she takes a ferocious bite of her almond-butterand-jelly sandwich to end the conversation. I hold up my hands in a gesture of peace. I know better than to keep arguing, even if she has had a silent crush on Charlie Harrison-Ming ever since he won twice as many points as her in last year’s Quiz Bowl.

Our first week as juniors at Harvey Milk Memorial High has been as expected. The same boring classes, the same nasty mean girls, and the same perverted jerks. At least Lindsey and I have lunch together. That helps.

“Hey, Cleopatra. Wanna take a ride down my Nile?”

Speaking of jerks. Gregory Figson bumps knuckles with a muscled friend. I’m wearing a long black wig with straight bangs, a white dress I made from a bedsheet, chunky golden jewelry, and—of course—ancient Egyptian eyes drawn in kohl.

“No,” I say flatly.

Gregory grabs his chest with both hands. “Nice pyramids,” he says, and they swagger away, laughing.

“Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more disgusting.” I set down my veggie burger, appetite eliminated.

“And as if I needed another reason to wait,” Lindsey says. “High school boys are morons.”

“Which is why I don’t date high school boys. I date men.”

Lindsey rolls her eyes. Her main reason for waiting to date is that she believes it’ll get in the way of her agenda.

Agenda

is her term, not mine. She thinks guys are a distraction from her educational goals, so she doesn’t want to date until she’s firmly settled in post-high-school life. I respect her decision, even though I’d rather wear sweatpants in public than give up my boyfriend.

Or give up my first opportunity to attend the winter formal. It’s for upperclassmen only, and it’s still months away, but I’m thrilled about my Marie Antoinette dress, which I’ve already started collecting materials for. Shimmering silk dupioni and crisp taffeta. Smooth satin ribbon. Delicate ostrich feathers and ornate crystal jewelry. I’ve never attempted a project this complex, this huge, and it’ll take my entire autumn to create.

I decide to begin when I get home. It’s Friday, and for once I don’t have to work. Also, Amphetamine is playing in a club tonight that doesn’t accept anyone under twenty-one. And won’t allow Max to sneak me in.

From everything I’ve read online, I need to start with the undergarments.

I’ve already bought a ton of fabric for the dress, but the costume still has to be built from the inside out so that when I take the measurements for the actual gown, I can take them over the bulky stays (an eighteenth-century word for corset) and the giant panniers (the oval-shaped hoop skirts Marie and her ladies wore) .

I search for hours for instructions on making historically accurate panniers and come up with zilch. Unless I want to make them with hula hoops, and I don’t, I’ll have to go to the library for more research. Searching for stays brings more success. The diagrams and instructions are overwhelming, but I print out several pages and begin taking measurements and creating a pattern.

I’ve been sewing for three years, and I’m pretty decent. I started with the small stuff, like everyone does—hemming, A-line skirts, pillowcases—but quickly moved on to bigger items, each more complex than the last. I’m not interested in making what’s easy.

I’m interested in making what’s beautiful.

I lose myself in the process: tracing out patterns on tissue paper, fitting them together, retracing, and refitting. Nonsewers don’t realize how much problem solving goes into garment making, and beginners often quit in frustration. But I enjoy the puzzle. If I looked at this dress as one massive

thing,

it would be too overwhelming. No one could create such a gown. But by breaking it into tiny, individual steps, it becomes something I can achieve.

When my room finally grows too dark, I’m forced to rise from the floor and plug in my twinkle lights. I stretch my sore muscles and stare at my window.

Will he come home this weekend?

The idea fills me with unease. I don’t understand why he’s been asking Andy and St. Clair questions about me. There are only three possible solutions, each more improbable than the last. Maybe he’s not making friends at school and, for some twisted reason, has decided I’d make a decent pal again. I mean, he’s come home for the last two weekends. Obviously no one is interesting enough to keep him in Berkeley. Or maybe he feels bad about how things ended between us, and he’s trying to make up for it. Clear his conscience.

Or . . . maybe . . . he likes me. In that other way.

I was fine before he came back, perfectly happy without this complication. It would’ve been better if he’d ignored me. Calliope and I haven’t talked yet; there’s no reason why Cricket and I should have to either. I drift toward my window, and I’m surprised to discover striped curtains hanging in his room.

And then his light turns on.

I yank my curtains closed. My heart pounds as I back against the wall. Through the gap between curtain fabrics, I watch a silhouette that is undeniably Cricket Bell toss two bags to his floor—one shoulder bag and one laundry bag. He moves toward our windows, and dread lurches inside of me. What if he calls my name?

There’s a sudden brightness as he pulls back his own curtains. His body changes from a dark shadow into a fully fleshed human. I slink back farther. He pauses there, and then startles as another figure enters his room. I can barely hear the sound of a girl talking. Calliope.

I can’t hide forever. My curtains are thick, and I need to trust them. I take a deep breath and step away, but I trip backward over my project and tear a pattern. I curse. Laughter comes from next door, and for one panicked second, I think they’ve witnessed my clumsy maneuver. But it’s paranoia talking. Whatever they’re laughing about has nothing to do with me. I hate that they can still get to me like that.

I know what I need. I call him, and he picks up just before his voice mail.

“HEY,” Max says.

“Hi! How is it tonight? When are you guys going on?” The club is loud, and I can’t hear his response. “What?”

“[MUFFLE MUFFLE] AFTER ELEVEN [MUFFLE].”

“Oh. Okay.” I don’t have anything to add. “I miss you.”

“[MUFFLE MUFFLE MUFFLE. MUFFLE.]”

“What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you!”

“[MUFFLE MUFFLE] BAD TIME [MUFFLE].”

I assume he’s saying he has to go. “Okay! I’ll see you tomorrow! Bye!” A click on the other end, and he’s gone. I should have texted him. But I don’t want to now, because I don’t want to bother him. He doesn’t like talking before shows.

The call leaves me feeling more cold than comforted. The laughter continues next door, and I resist the urge to throw my sewing shears at Cricket’s window to make them shut up. My phone rings, and I answer eagerly. “Max!”

“I need you to tell Nathan to come get me.”

Not Max.

“Where are you?” I’m already hustling downstairs. Nathan is crashed in front of the television, eyes half closed, watching

Antiques Roadshow

with Heavens to Betsy. “Why can’t you tell him yourself?”

“Because he’s gonna be pissed, and I can’t deal with pissed right now.” The voice is cranky and exhausted.

I stop dead in my tracks. “Not again.”

“Landlord changed my locks, so I was forced to break into my apartment. My

own

apartment. They’re calling it an incident.”

“Incident?” I ask, and Dad’s eyes pop open. I thrust out my phone to him without waiting for a response, disgusted. “Norah needs you to bail her out.”

Nathan swears and grabs my cell. “Where are you? What happened?” He pulls answers from her as he collects his car keys and throws on his shoes. “I’m taking your phone, okay?” he says to me. “Tell Andy where I’m going.” And he’s out the door.

This is not the first time my birth mother has called us from a police station. Norah has a long record, and it’s always for stupid things like shoplifting organic frozen enchiladas or refusing to pay fines from the transit authority. When I was young, the charges were usually public intoxication or disorderly conduct. And believe me, a person has to be pretty darn intoxicated or disorderly to get arrested in this city.

Andy takes the news silently. Our relationship with Norah is hard on everyone, but perhaps it’s hardest on him. She’s neither his sister nor his mother. I know a part of him wishes we could ditch her entirely. A part of me wishes that, too.

When I was little, the Bell twins asked me why I didn’t have a mom. I told them that she was the princess of Pakistan—I’d overheard the name on the news and thought it sounded pretty—and she gave me to my parents, because I was a secret baby with the palace gardener, and her husband, the evil prince, would kill us if he knew I existed.

“So you’re a princess?” Calliope asked.

“No. My mom is a princess.”

“That means you’re a princess, too,” Cricket said, awed.

Calliope narrowed her eyes. “She’s not a princess. There’s no such thing as evil princes or Pakistan.”

“There is, too! And I am!” But I still remember the hot rush of blood I felt when they came back later that afternoon, and I realized I’d been caught.

Calliope crossed her arms. “We know the truth. Our parents told us.”

“Does your mom really not have a house?” Cricket asked. “Is that why you can’t live with her?”

It was one of the most shameful moments of my childhood. So when my classmates began asking, I kept it simple: “I don’t know who she is. I’ve never met her.” I became a regular adoption story, a boring one. Having two fathers isn’t an issue here. But a few years ago, Cricket and I were watching television when he turned to me and unexpectedly asked, “Why do you pretend like you don’t have a mom?”

I squirmed. “Huh?”

Cricket was messing with a paper clip, bending it into a complicated shape. “I mean, she’s okay now. Right?” He meant sober, and she had been for a year. But she was still Norah.

I just

looked

at him.

And I could see him remembering the past. The Bells had heard my screaming birth mother for years, whenever she’d show up wasted and unannounced.

He lowered his eyes and dropped the subject.

I’m grateful that my genetics don’t bother Max. His father is a mean drunk who lives in a dangerous neighborhood of Oakland, and he doesn’t even know where his mother lives. If anything, Norah makes my relationship with Max stronger. We understand each other.

I leave Andy and head back upstairs. Through my window, I notice Calliope has left Cricket’s bedroom. He’s pacing. My torn pattern mocks me. The sumptuous, pale blue fabrics stacked on my sewing table have lost their luster. I touch them gently. They’re still soft. They still hold the promise of something better.

I’m determined to make up for last night. “Today is all about sparkling.”

Heavens to Betsy cocks her head, listening but not understanding. I place a rhinestone barrette in my pale pink wig. I’m also wearing a sequined prom gown that I’ve altered into a minidress, a jean jacket covered in David Bowie pins, and glittery false eyelashes. I scratch behind Betsy’s ears, and then she trots behind me out of my room. We run into Andy on the stairs, carrying up a basket of clean laundry.

“My eyes!” he says. “The glare!”

“

Très

funny.”

“You look like a disco ball.”

I smile and push past. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“When is Max bringing you home?”

“Later!”

Nathan is waiting at the bottom. “When, Dolores? A specific time would be helpful.”

“Your hair is doing the swoopy thing.” I set down my purse to fix it. Nathan and I have the same hair—thick, medium brown, and with a strange wave in the front that never behaves. No one ever doubts that Nathan and I are related. We also share the same wide brown eyes and childish grin. When we allow ourselves to grin. Andy is more slender than Nathan and keeps his prematurely gray hair cropped short. Still, despite his hair and despite his additional nine years on this planet, everyone thinks Andy is younger because he’s the one who’s always smiling. And he wears funny T-shirts.

“When?” Nathan repeats.

“Um, four hours?”

“That’s five-thirty. I’ll expect you home no later.”

I sigh. “Yes, Dad.”

“And three phone-call check-ins.”

“Yes, Dad.”

I don’t know what I did to deserve the world’s strictest parents. I must have been seriously hardcore evil in a past life. It’s not like I’m Norah. Nathan didn’t get home until after midnight. Apparently, her lock was changed because she hasn’t been paying rent, and she caused a scene by smashing in her front window with a neighbor’s deck chair to get back inside. Nathan is going to visit her landlord today to discuss back payments. And that whole broken window situation.

“All right, then.” He nods. “Have a good time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I hear Andy as I’m walking out the front door. “Honey, that threat doesn’t work when you’re gay.”

I laugh all the way down to the sidewalk. My heavy boots, tattooed with swirls of pink glitter to match my wig, leave a trail of fairy dust as I tramp. “You’re like a shooting star,” a voice calls from the porch next door. “Sparkly.”

My cheer is immediately rendered null and void.

Cricket leaps down his stairs and joins me on the sidewalk. “Going somewhere special?” he asks. “You look nice. Sparkly. I already said that, didn’t I?”

“You did, thanks. And I’m just going out for a few hours.” It’s not like he’s earned full truths or explanations. Of course, now I feel ashamed for thinking that, so I add with a shrug, “I might hit up Amoeba Records later.”

Why does he make me feel guilty? I’m not doing anything wrong. I don’t owe him anything. I shake my head—more at myself than at him—and move toward the bus stop. “See ya,” I say. I’m meeting Max in the Upper Haight. He can’t take me, because he’s picking up a surprise first.

A surprise.

I have no idea what it is; it could be a gumball for all I care. The fact that I have a boyfriend who brings me surprises is enough.

I feel Cricket’s stare. A pressure against the back of my neck. Truthfully, I wonder why he’s not following me. I turn around. “What are you doing today?”

He closes the distance between us in three steps. “I’m not doing anything.”

I’m uncomfortable again. “Oh.”

He scratches his cheek, and the writing on his hand instructs him to CARPE DIEM. Seize the day. “I mean, I have some homework. But it won’t take long. Only an hour. Two at the most.”

“Right. Homework.” I’m about to say something else equally awkward when I hear the grunt of my approaching bus. “That’s me!” I sprint away. Cricket shouts something, but I can’t hear it over the blast of exhaust as the bus sags against the curb. I grab a seat next to a bony woman in a paisley smock reading

The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

I glance out the window. He’s still watching me. Our eyes lock, and this time, his smile is shy. For some reason . . . it makes me smile back.

“Ooo,” the woman beside me says. “You’re sparkly.”

chapter eight

I should’ve wished for the gumball.

“It’ll be great for gigs,” Max says, with more animation than usual. “You know how bad it was, loading our stuff into three separate cars. The parking in this city, for one thing. Impossible.”

“Excellent! Right! Exactly!”

It’s a van. Max bought a van. It’s big, and it’s white, and it’s a

van.

As in, it’s not a ’64 Chevy Impala. As in, my boyfriend traded in his car to buy a van.

He walks around it, admiring its . . . what? Wide expanse? “You know we’ve wanted to tour the coast. Craig knows some guys in Portland, Johnny knows some guys in L.A. This is what we needed. We can do it now.”

“Touring! Wow! Great!”

TOURING. Extended periods of time without Max. Sultry, slinky women in other cities flirting with my boyfriend, reminding him of my inexperience. TOURING.

Max stops. “Lola.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re doing the girl thing. Saying you’re happy, when you’re not.” He crosses his arms. The spiderwebs tattooed onto his elbows point at me accusingly.

“I’m happy.”

“You’re pissed, because you think when I leave, I’ll meet someone. Someone older.”

“I’m not angry.” I’m

worried.

And how much do I hate that we’ve had this conversation before, so he knows exactly what I’m thinking? “I’m . . . surprised. I just liked your old car, that’s all. But this is good, too.”

He raises a single brow. “You liked my car?”

“I loved your car.”

“You know.” Max backs me into its side. The metal is cool against my spine. “Vans are good for other things.”

“Other things?”

“Other things.”

Okay. Maybe this whole van situation isn’t a

complete

loss. My hands are in his yellow-white bleached hair, and our lips are smashed against each other, when there’s a loud, rude “Got any change, man?”

We break apart to find a guy in head-to-toe dirty patchwork corduroy glaring at us.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No need to be sorry.” He glowers at me underneath his white-boy dreadlocks. “I’m only fucking starving.”

“ASSHOLE,” Max shouts as the guy slumps off.

San Francisco is positively crawling with homeless. I can’t walk from home to school without running into a dozen. They make me uneasy, because they’re a constant reminder of my origins, but usually I can ignore them. Look past them. Otherwise . . . it’s too exhausting.

But in the Haight, the homeless are passive-aggressive jerks.

I don’t like coming here, but Max has friends who work in the overpriced vintage clothing boutiques, head shops, bookstores, and burrito joints. Despite the psychedelic graffiti and the bohemian window displays, Haight Street—once the mecca of sixties free love—is undeniably rougher and dirtier than the rest of the city.

“Hey. Forget that guy,” Max says.

He sees that I need cheering, so he leads me to the falafel place where we had our first date. Afterward, we wander into a drag shop to try on wigs. He laughs as I pose in an absurd purple beehive. I love his laugh. It’s rare, so whenever I hear it, I know I’ve earned it. He even lets me put one on his head, a blond Marilyn. “Wait till Johnny and Craig see you,” I say, referring to his bandmates.

“I’ll tell them I decided to grow it out.”

“Rogaine works,” I say in my best Max voice.

“Is that another old man joke?” Max laughs again as he tosses back my pale pink wig. “We should go. I told Johnny I’d meet him at three-thirty.”

I tuck my real hair underneath it. “Because you don’t see him enough at home.”

“

You

rarely see him,” Max says.

Johnny Ocampo—Amphetamine’s drummer, Max’s roommate—works at Amoeba Records, the one thing I do love about this neighborhood. Amoeba is a vast concrete haven of rare vinyl, band posters, and endless rows of CDs in color-coded genre tabs. There’s still something to be said for music you can hold in your hands.

“I was only teasing. Besides,” I add, “you never hang out with Lindsey.”

“Come on, Lo. She’s nosy and immature. It’s weird between us.”

His words are true, but . . . ouch. Sometimes lying is the polite thing to do. I frown. “She’s my best friend.”

“I’d just rather spend time with you.” Max takes my hand. “Alone.”

We’re quiet as we enter Amoeba. Johnny, a pudgy but muscled Filipino, is in his usual place behind the information desk, which is raised as if the guys behind it hold the end-all truth about Good Musical Taste and Knowledge. Johnny and Max exchange jerks of the head in acknowledgment as Johnny finishes up with a customer. I wave hello to Johnny and disappear into the merchandise.

I listen mainly to rock, but I browse everything, because I never know when I’ll discover something that I didn’t know I liked. Hip-hop, classical, reggae, punk, opera, electronica. Nothing grabs my attention today, so I wander over to rock. I’m browsing the

P

s and

Q

s, when the small, invisible hairs on the back of my neck rise. I look up.

And there he is.

Cricket Bell is standing front and center, searching for something. Someone. And then his gaze locks onto mine, and his face alights like the stars. He smiles—a full smile that reaches all the way to his eyes—and it’s sweet and pure and hopeful.

And I know what is about to happen.

My palms break into a sweat.

Don’t say it. Oh, please God, don’t say it.

But this traitorous prayer follows:

Say it. Say it.

Cricket weaves easily around the other customers as if we’re the only two people in the store. The music over the loudspeakers changes from a sparse pop song into a swelling rock symphony. My heart pounds faster and faster. How badly I once wished for this moment. How badly I wish it would end now.

How badly I wish it would continue.

He stops before me, tugging at his bracelets. “I—I hoped I’d find you here.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks. NO. This feeling isn’t real. It’s an old emotion, stirred up to torment and confuse me. I hate that. I hate him!

But it’s like I only hate Cricket because I

don’t

hate Cricket. I cut my eyes away, down to the Phoenix album in my hands. “I told you I was coming.”

“I know. And I couldn’t wait any longer, I have to tell you—”

The panic rises, and I grip the French band tighter. “Cricket, please—”

But his words pour forth in a torrent. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’m not the guy I used to be, I’ve changed—”

“Cricket—” I look back up, feeling faint.

His blue eyes are bright. Sincere. Desperate. “Go out with me tonight. Tomorrow night, every ni—” The word cuts off in his throat as he sees something behind me.

Cigarettes and spearmint. I want to die.

“This is Max. My boyfriend. Max, this is Cricket Bell.”

Max jerks his head in a small nod. He heard everything, there’s no way he didn’t.

“Cricket is my neighbor.” I turn to Max. “Was my neighbor. Sort of is again.”

My boyfriend squints, almost imperceptibly, as his mind sorts this information. It’s the exact opposite of Cricket, who is at a complete loss to hide his emotions. His face is stricken, and he’s backing up. I doubt he even realizes he’s doing it.

Max’s expression changes again, just slightly. He’s figured out who Cricket is. He knows Cricket Bell must be related to Calliope Bell.

And he knows that I’ve purposely excluded him from our conversations.

Max places an arm around my shoulders. The gesture probably looks casual to Cricket, but Max’s muscles are strained. He’s jealous. The thought should make me happy, but I only see Cricket’s embarrassment. I wish I didn’t care what he thought.

Does this mean we’re even? Is this what being even feels like?

The air between us is as thick as bay fog. I have to act, so I give Cricket a warm smile. “It was nice running into you. See you later, okay?” And then I lead Max away. I can tell my boyfriend wants to say something, but as usual, he’s keeping his thoughts to himself until they’re formed in the exact way he wants them. We walk stiffly, hand in hand, past his friend at the information desk.

I don’t want to look back, but I can’t help it.

He’s staring at me. Staring

through

me. For the first time ever, Cricket Bell looks small. He’s disappearing right before my eyes.

chapter nine

It’s embarrassing to admit, but whenever Max and I are on a date, I want to stay out longer, walk farther, talk louder, so more people will see us together. I want to run into every classmate who’s ever teased me for wearing pointed elf shoes or beaded moccasins, because I know they’ll take one look at Max with his dark eyebrows, inked arms, and bad attitude and know that I’m doing

something

right.

Usually, I’m bursting with pride. But as we trudge back to his new van, I don’t notice the face of anyone we pass. Because Cricket Bell asked me out.

Cricket Bell asked me out.

What am I supposed to do with that information?

Max unlocks the passenger-side door and holds it open for me. Neither of us has spoken since we left Amoeba. I mumble a thanks and get in. He climbs in the driver’s side, turns the key in the ignition, and then says, “I don’t like him.”

The flatness of his tone makes my stomach turn. “Cricket? Why?”

“I just don’t.”

I can’t reply. I don’t know what I’d say. He doesn’t break the silence again until we pass the Castro Theatre’s landmark neon sign, only blocks from my house. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

I look at my hands. “He’s not important.”

Max waits, jaw tense.

“He just hurt me, that’s all. It was a long time ago. I don’t like talking about him.”

He turns to me, struggling to stay calm. “He hurt you?”

I sink into my seat, wanting anything

but

this conversation. “No. Not like that. We used to be friends, and we had a falling-out, and now he’s back, and I’m running into him everywhere—”

“You’ve run into him before.” He’s staring at the road again. His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.

“Just . . . in the neighborhood. He’s not important, okay, Max?”

“Seems like a glaring omission to me.”

I shake my head. “Cricket means nothing to me, I swear.”

“He wants to take you out

every night,

and you expect me to believe there’s nothing going on?”

“There’s not!”

The van jerks to a halt in front of my house, and Max pounds on the steering wheel. “Tell me the truth, Lola! Why can’t you tell me the truth for once?”

My eyes sting with tears. “I

am

telling the truth.”

He stares at me.

“I love you.” I’m getting desperate. He has to believe me. “I don’t love him, I don’t even like him! I love

you.

”

Max closes his eyes for what feels like an eternity. The muscles in his neck are tense and rigid. At last, they relax. He opens his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I love you, too.”

“And you believe me?” My voice is tiny.

He tilts my chin toward his and answers me with a kiss. His lips press hard against mine. I push back even harder against his. When we break apart, he looks deep into my eyes. “I believe you.”

Max speeds away in his van, the Misfits blasting in a musical cloud of dust behind him. I slump. So much for my day off.

“Who was that?”

I startle at the sharp voice behind me. And then I turn to face her for the first time in two years. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing warm-up clothes.Yet she still manages to look more beautiful than I ever will.

“Hey, Calliope.”

She stares at me as if to say,

Why haven’t you answered my question?

“That was my boyfriend.”

Calliope looks surprised. “Interesting,” she says, after a moment. And I can tell she is, in fact, interested. “Did my brother find you? He went out looking for you.”

“He did.” I speak the words cautiously. She’s waiting for more, but I’m not giving it to her. I don’t even know what

more

would be. “Nice seeing you again.” I move toward the stairs.

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

“And you look the same.”

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

Oh, no.

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

“I forgot. I’m sorry, Dad, I forgot.”

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

“You were WATCHING?”

“I was worried, Lola.”

“SO YOU DECIDED TO SPY ON ME?”

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

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

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

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

her.

I’m not Norah.”

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

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

Cricket.

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

Why does he have to ask me out

now

?

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

Yes, he did.

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

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

an entire hour

in American history?

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