Текст книги "Lola and the Boy Next Door"

Автор книги: Stephaie Perkns

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“You could say something about the shoes,” I suggest.

“You’re the clothes girl,” she says miserably. “I sound dumb talking about that stuff.”

Today I’m wearing cat-eye glasses and a cheetah-print dress I made last spring. I’ve pinned oversize red brooches like bullet wounds to the front of the dress, and I have bloodred ribbons tied up and down my arms and throughout my natural hair. I’m protesting big-game hunting in Africa.

“You never sound dumb,” I say. “And I’m not the one wearing his sneakers.”

“I told you, I don’t want to date.” But she doesn’t sound so convinced anymore.

“I’ll support you no matter what you choose.You know that, right?”

Lindsey plants her nose inside a hard-boiled detective novel, and our conversation is over. But she’s not reading it. She’s staring through the pages. The look gives me a familiar jolt—the expression on Cricket’s face the last time I saw him. He never came back home last weekend. His curtains are still open, and his bags are still on his floor. I’ve been strangely fascinated by the shoulder bag. It’s an old, brown leather satchel, the kind that should be worn by a university professor or a jungle explorer. I wonder what’s in it. Probably just a toothbrush and a change of underwear.

Still. It looks lonely. Even the mesh laundry bag is sad, only half full.

My phone vibrates once against my leg, through the backpack at my feet, signaling a text. Whoops. We’re supposed to have them turned off at school. But who’d text me now, anyway? I bend over to reach for it, and my glasses—a vintage pair that doesn’t fit well—clatter to the cement. They’ve got to be right beneath me, but I can’t see them. I can’t see anything. I hear the loud prattle of a mob of girls heading our way.

“Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud—”

Lindsey swipes up my glasses just before the girls hit. They buzz past, a swarm of perfume and laughter. “Did your vision get worse again?”

I slide them on, and the world comes back into focus. I frown. “Please. It gets worse every year. At this rate, I’ll be blind by twenty.”

She nods at my glasses. “And how many pairs do you own now?”

“Only three.” I wish they weren’t so expensive. I order them online for a discount, but they still eat up entire paychecks. My parents pay for my contacts, but I like variety. I’d prefer

more

variety. I peek at my phone, and I’m thrilled to find the text is from Max:

saw two fallen branches in the shape of a heart. thought of you.

I grin like an idiot.

“Who was it?” Lindsey asks.

“Max!” But then I catch the look on her face. I shrug and turn off my phone. “It’s nothing. He saw . . . something.”

She flips her novel back open. “Oh.”

And then I have it: the perfect solution to her problem. Charlie is totally interested in her, Lindsey just needs someone there to guide her through those first difficult steps. She needs

me

there. A double date! I’M A GENIUS! I’m . . . dating Max. Who would never agree to such a thing. I glance at my best friend, who is staring through her mystery novel again. Trying to solve her own mystery. I cradle my phone in my hands and keep my mouth shut.

And I feel so disloyal to her.

I have an early shift on Saturday. I closed last night. It feels like I never leave, like I should just get it over with and put my old Disney Princess sleeping bag underneath the seventh-floor concessions counter. When I arrive at the theater, I’m surprised to find St. Clair behind the box office. Anna isn’t scheduled to work today. I’m further surprised when I notice what he’s wearing.

“What’s with the uniform?” I ask.

He shrugs. It’s a slow, full-bodied shrug that makes him seem . . . more European. “One of the managers said I spent so much time here, I ought to be working. So I am.”

“Wait. You got a job here?”

“Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” He widens his eyes, joking.

“You. Working?” St. Clair never discusses it, but everyone knows his family is rolling in it. He doesn’t need to work. Nor does he strike me as someone who’d want to.

“You don’t think I can handle ripping tickets?”

“My exhausted feet say it’s a little more than that.”

St. Clair grins, and my heart skips a beat. He really IS attractive. What’s my problem? I must be more tired than I thought. And I’m not interested in Anna’s boyfriend—he’s too short, too cocky—but the fact that I’m noticing him bothers me. I dive into work on another floor to distract myself from increasingly uncomfortable thoughts. But St. Clair approaches me a few hours later, once we’ve calmed down from a rush. “My feet feel dandy,” he says. “In fact, I’m considering forming a dance troupe. Would you be interested?”

“Oh, bite me.” I’m still irritated. The six people who complained to me about our parking garage didn’t help the situation. “Seriously, why did you get a job?”

“Because I thought it would build character.” He hops onto my concessions counter. “Because all of my teeth have fallen out, and I can’t afford dentures. Because—”

“Fine. Whatever. Be a dillhole.”

“I should be doing something productive, shouldn’t I?” St. Clair hops back down and grabs a broom from the supply closet. “All right, all right. I’m saving for our future.”

“Our future?” I give him a coy smile. “I’m flattered, really, but that’s unnecessary.”

He pokes my back with the tip of the broom.

“And is Anna aware that you’re saving for your future together ?”

“Of course.” St. Clair sweeps the fallen popcorn around my ankles while I take someone’s Diet Coke–and–soft-pretzel order. When I’m done, he continues. “Do you think I’d get a job and not discuss it with her first?”

“No. But still, I thought . . . you know . . .” He looks confused, and I’m forced to finish the thought out loud. “I thought you had money.”

St. Clair bursts out laughing as if I’ve said something foolish. “My father has money. And I’d like to keep him out of my future.”

“That sounds . . . ominous.”

The European shrug again. This time, to change the subject. “And it’d be nice to have a bit of spending cash so that I could take her out. We tend to dine mainly in our dormitory cafeterias.” He frowns. “Come to think of it, we’ve

always

dined mainly in school cafeterias.”

“In Paris?”

“In Paris,” he confirms.

I sigh. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“Actually, I’m confident that I do.” St. Clair props the broom against the wall. “So why do

you

work? To support your unhealthy costuming habit? And what IS your hair about today?”

“I wanted to see what it’d look like in tiny buns. And then I added the feathers, because they looked like nests.” He’s right. That

is

why I work. Plus, my parents said when I turned sixteen I had to get a part-time job to learn about responsibility. So I did.

St. Clair examines my hair closer. “Spectacular.”

I back away. “Exactly how far into the future are you planning?”

“Far.”

The word hangs between us, loaded with strength and meaning. Max and I talk about running away to Los Angeles and starting a new life together—me designing elaborate costumes by day, him destroying rock clubs by night—but I get the sense that St. Clair’s conversations with Anna are more serious than the ones I have with Max. The thought makes me uneasy. I stare at St. Clair. He’s not that much older than me.

How can he be so confident?

“When it’s right, it’s simple,” he says to my unasked question. “Unlike your hair.”

chapter ten

The moon is fat, but half of her is missing. A ruler-straight line divides her dark side from her light. She hangs low over the bustling Castro, noticeably earlier than the night before. Autumn is coming. For as long as I can remember, I’ve talked to the moon. Asked her for guidance. There’s something deeply spiritual about her pale glow, her cratered surface, her waxing and waning. She wears a new dress every evening, yet she’s always herself.

And she’s always there.

Since my shift was early, I rode the bus and train home. I’m not sure why I’m so relieved to be back in my neighborhood. It’s not like the work itself was hard. But the familiarity of Castro Street comforts me—the glitter in the sidewalks, the chocolate-chip warmth radiating from Hot Cookie, the groups of chattering men, the early Halloween display in the window of Cliff ’s Variety.

I’m lucky to live in a place that’s doesn’t have to hide what it is. Businesses like the Sausage Factory (restaurant), Spunk (hair salon), and Hand Job (manicures) are clear about the residents, but there’s a genuine sense of love and community. It’s a family. And like a family, everyone knows everyone’s business, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing. I like that the guys at Spike’s Coffee wave as I pass by. I like that the guys at Jeffery’s know Betsy needs the large container of fresh Lamb,Yams & Veggies. I like—

“LOLA !”

A stab to my gut. With dread, I turn to find Cricket Bell performing a spin move around an elderly couple entering Delano’s grocery as he’s exiting. He’s carrying a carton of freerange eggs in each hand. “Are you headed home? Do you have a minute?”

I can’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.Yeah, of course.”

As he jogs to catch up, I keep moving forward. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, a black vest, and a black tie. He’d look like a waiter, except he’s also wearing his colorful bracelets and rubber bands.

“Lola, I want to apologize.”

I freeze.

“I feel like a jerk, a total ass for . . . for putting you in that situation last week. I’m sorry. I should have asked if you had a boyfriend, I don’t know why I didn’t ask.” His voice is pained. “Of course you’d have a boyfriend.You’ve just always been this cool, gorgeous girl and seeing you again brought up this whole wreck of emotions and . . . I don’t know what to say, but I messed up, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

I’m shocked.

I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it certainly wasn’t this. Cricket Bell thinks I’m cool and gorgeous. Cricket Bell thinks I’ve

always

been cool and gorgeous.

“And I hope this doesn’t make things even weirder,” he continues. “I just want to clear the air. I think you’re amazing, and being your friend that summer was the happiest summer of my life, and . . . I just want to be a part of your life. Again.”

I can hardly think straight. “Right.”

“But I’d understand if you don’t want to see me—”

“No,” I say quickly.

“No?” He’s nervous. He doesn’t understand how I mean it.

“I mean . . . we can still hang out.” I proceed carefully. “I’d like that.”

Cricket droops with relief. “You would?”

“Yeah.” I’m surprised by how obvious it is. Of course I want him back in my life. He’s always been a part of my life. Even when he was gone, some fragment of his spirit lingered behind. I felt it in the space between our windows.

“I want you to know that I’ve changed,” he says. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

His body energetically turns to face mine, and the movement startles me. I trip toward him and smack into his chest, and one of the egg cartons drops from his hand and topples toward the sidewalk. Cricket swiftly grabs it before it lands.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” I say.

The place where his chest touched mine

burns.

Every place where his body touched mine feels alive. What kind of guy did he think he was, and who is he now?

“It’s okay.” He peeks inside the carton. “No harm done. All eggs accounted for.”

“Here, let me take that.” I reach for a carton, but he holds it above his head. It’s

way

out of my reach.

“It’s okay.” He smiles softly. “I have a much better grip on things now.”

I make for the other carton. “The least I can do is carry one.”

Cricket starts to lift the other one up, too, but something solemn clouds his eyes. He lowers them and gives one to me. The back of his hand reads: EGGS. “Thanks,” he says.

I look down. Someone has drawn a game of hopscotch onto the sidewalk in pink chalk. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll need them back, though. My mom was craving deviled eggs, and she asked me to pick those up. Very important mission.”

Silence.

This is the moment. Where I either make things permanently awkward or I make genuine on our friendship. I look up—and then up again, until I reach his face—and ask, “How’s college?”

Cricket closes his eyes. It’s only for a moment, a breath, but it’s enough to show me how thankful he is for my question.

He wants to be in my life.

“Good,” he says. “It’s . . . good.”

“I sense a

but.

”

He smiles. “But it’s been a while since that whole surroundedby-other-students thing. I guess it takes time to get used to.”

“You said you were homeschooled? After you moved?”

“Well, we moved so often that it was easier than enrolling over and over, always taking the same classes. Always being the new kid. We’d done it before, and we didn’t want to do it again. Plus, it allowed us to work around Cal’s schedule.”

The last sentence sticks to me in an unpleasant way. “What about your schedule?”

“Ah, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She only has so long to do this. She has to make a run for it while she can.” I must look unconvinced, because he adds, “Another five years, and it’ll be my turn in the family spotlight.”

“But why can’t it be your turn now, too? Maybe I’m being selfish, because I’m an only child—”

“No. You’re right.” And I catch the first glimpse of tiredness between his forehead and his eyes. “But our circumstance is different. She has a gift. It wouldn’t be fair for me not to do everything I can to support her.”

“And what does she do to support you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Cricket’s expression grows sly. “She does the dishes. Takes out the trash. Leaves the cereal box out for me on weekends.”

“Sorry.” I look away. “I’m being nosy.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.” But he doesn’t answer my question.

We walk in silence for a minute, when something strikes me. “Today. Today is your birthday!”

His face turns away from mine as fast as a reflex.

“Why didn’t you say something?” But I know the answer before I finish asking the question. Memories of the last time I saw him on his birthday fill me with instant humiliation.

Cricket fidgets with his bracelets. “Yep. Eighteen.”

I follow his lead to keep the conversation moving forward. “An adult. Officially.”

“It’s true, I feel incredibly mature. Then again, maturity has always been my greatest strength.”

This time, his usual self-deprecation makes me flinch. He

was

always more mature. Except, perhaps, around me. “So . . . you’re here to visit Calliope?” I shake my head as the embarrassment continues. “Of course you are. It’s her birthday, too. I’m just surprised to see you since it’s Saturday night. I assumed you’d be at some party across the bay, chugging beer in the handstand position.”

He scratches the side of his neck. “Cal would never admit this, but it’s been a rough adjustment for her. Me being away while she’s still at home. Not that I wouldn’t have come home tonight otherwise, of course I would. And I actually

did

drop by one of those parties for a minute as a favor to someone, but . . . perhaps you didn’t notice.” Cricket adjusts his tie. “I’m not the kegger type.”

“Me neither.” I don’t have to explain that it’s because of Norah. He knows.

“What about your boyfriend?” His voice betrays a forced cool.

I’m embarrassed he’d assume it, but I can’t deny that Max looks the type. “He isn’t a party guy either. Not really. I mean, he drinks and smokes, but he respects my feelings. He never tries to get me to join him or anything.”

Cricket ducks underneath a pink-flowered branch in our path. Our neighborhood blooms year-round. I walk below it without having to bend. “What do your parents think about you dating someone that old?” he asks.

I wince. “You should know that I’m really tired of having that conversation.”

“Sorry.” But then like he can’t help it, “So, uh . . . how old is he?”

“Twenty-two.” For some reason, admitting this to him feels uncomfortable.

A long pause. “Wow.” The word is slow and heavy.

My heart sinks. I want to be his friend, but on what planet would that work? There’s too much history between us for friendship. We quietly climb our street’s hill until we reach my house. “Bye, Cricket.” I can’t meet his eyes again. “Happy birthday.”

“Lola?”

“Yes?”

“Eggs.” He points. “You have my eggs.”

Oh.

Embarrassed, I hold out the carton. His long fingers reach for it, and I find myself bracing for the physical contact. But it doesn’t come. He takes the carton by its edge. It’s a cautious, deliberate move. It reminds me that I shouldn’t be with him.

And it reminds me that I can’t tell Max.

chapter eleven

The more I think about our conversation, the more frustrated I get. Cricket says he’s changed, but changed

what

? A willingness to speak his mind? To finally say he likes me? Or is there something else? Toward the end of our friendship, he grew so strange and distant until he cut me off completely by not inviting me to that stupid party. Which he still doesn’t want to talk about. And now he wants to be friends again, but then he leaves early the next morning and doesn’t come home for TWO WEEKS?

Whatever.

“Lola can’t play today.” Andy is banging around among his pots and pans, which is why we hadn’t heard Cricket knock on our front door. We left it open to let the heat escape, because our kitchen gets hot when all of the ovens are running. “She’s on pie duty. There was a huge, emergency, last-minute change to an order this morning.”

“

Dad.

He didn’t come over to

play.

”

Cricket holds up a box. “This was delivered to our house. It’s yours.”

Andy looks up.

“Lola’s,” Cricket clarifies. He places it on the floor outside the kitchen while Betsy runs in circles around him. She’s always loved Cricket.

“Thanks.” I say the word cautiously, a warning if he’s listening for it. I set down a bag of flour and move to examine the package. “Cool! It’s the boning for my stays.”

“Stays?”

“Corset,” Andy says distractedly. “Lola, get your butt back in here.”

Cricket reddens. “Oh.”

Point number two for Andy in today’s embarrassment department. Cricket leans over to pet Betsy, who collapses belly-up, and I pretend not to notice his blush. Though I’m not sure he’s earned that particular favor. Or my dog’s belly.

“It’s for a dress,” I explain.

Cricket nods without looking at me. “Pie emergency?” A final rub, and then he enters the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves and removing his bracelets. “Need a hand?”

“Oh, no.” I’m alarmed. “Thanks, but we’ve got it.”

“Grab an apron, they’re in the top drawer there.” Andy points across the room.

“You can’t ask him to help,” I say. “It’s not his job.”

“He didn’t ask.” Cricket ties a long, white apron around his waist. “I volunteered.”

“See?” Andy says. “The boy makes sense. Unlike some teenagers I could mention.”

I narrow my eyes at him. It’s not my fault I’d rather spend my only weekend day off with Lindsey. I had to cancel our plans for sushi and shopping in Japantown. When I asked if she wanted to come over and help, she said, “No thanks, Ned. I’ll make new plans .” And I get that. But if she doesn’t hang out with me, she’ll just stay in and watch a marathon of

CSI

or

Veronica Mars.

Which makes her happy. But still.

“Those pumpkins need to be seeded before I can toss them into the oven. Put the seeds and strings on that pile for compost,” Andy says.

“Pumpkins. Got it.” Cricket washes his hands and grabs the biggest pumpkin.

I resume weighing flour for two dozen crusts. When you bake in large quantities, scales are required, not measuring cups. “Really, we’re okay. I’m sure you have homework.”

“It’s no problem.” Cricket shrugs. “Where’s the other Mr. Nolan?”

Andy closes his eyes. Cricket tenses, realizing he’s said something wrong. “Nathan is with Norah today,” I explain.

“Is . . . everything all right?” he asks.

“Peachy,”

Andy says.

“It’s just some financial stuff.” I hand Cricket our largest knife for slicing open the pumpkins, along with an apologetic look for Andy’s snippiness. Cricket gives me a discreet smile back. He knows my dad isn’t normally like this.

Andy’s voice is the only one we hear for the next hour as he guides us through production. The original order was for six pies total, but now we’re making six of each: classic pumpkin, vegan apple crumble, pear ginger, and sweet potato pecan. I’ve been helping him bake for years, so I’m pretty good in the kitchen. But I’m surprised by how quickly Cricket adapts. Andy explains that baking is actually a science—leavening and acids, proteins and starches—and Cricket

gets

it. Of course he’s a natural. Good chemists are good bakers.

But why is he spending his Saturday making pies when he doesn’t have to? Is it that nice-guy thing? Or does he think by spending time with me, I might fall for him? But he doesn’t even try to flirt. He stays away from me, focused on his work. It’s maddening how someone so easy to read can be so impossible to understand.

When the timer rings at noon, Andy lets out a funny noise of surprise. “We’re making good time. We can do this.” And he smiles for the first time all day.

Cricket and I exchange relieved grins across the counter. Andy flips on the radio to a station that plays classics from the fifties, and the kitchen relaxes. Cricket slices apples with rhythm and precision to the beat of “Peggy Sue,” while Andy and I roll out dough in perfect synchronization.

“We could put this routine on ice and take it to Nationals,” Cricket says.

At the mention of ice, Andy pauses. My dad loves figure skating. It is—and I don’t use this expression lightly—the gayest thing about him. When I was little, he took me to see

Stars on Ice.

We cheered for the skaters with the prettiest spins and we licked blue cotton candy from our fingers and he bought me a program filled with photographs of beautiful people in beautiful costumes. It’s one of my happiest memories. When Calliope started figure skating, I wanted to do it, too. We weren’t friends, but I still thought of her as someone worthy of admiration. Which meant copying.

“This is okay,” I said after my first lesson. “But when do I get a costume?”

Andy pointed at my plain pink leotard. “That IS your costume, until you’re more experienced.”

I lost interest.

My parents were peeved. The lessons were expensive, so they made me finish out the season. Thus, I can state that figure skating is

hard.

Andy talked me into another

Stars on Ice

when I was thirteen, but my daydreams of doing triple axels in sequined skirts were long gone. I still feel bad that I didn’t even try to enjoy it. He’s never asked again.

Andy must have inquired about Calliope, because Cricket is talking about her schedule. “It’s a busy year, because of the Olympics. It just means more: more practices, more promotion, more stress.”

“When will she know if she’s made the Olympic team?” Andy asks.

“If she places in Nationals, she’ll go. That’s in January. Right now she’s working on her new programs, which she’ll take to a few of the early Grand Prix competitions. This year, she’s doing Skate America and Skate Canada. Then it’s Nationals, Olympics, Worlds.” He ticks them off on his fingers.

“Do you go to

all

of those?” I ask.

“Most of them. But I doubt I’ll make it to Canada. It’s during a busy school week.”

“You’ve seen a lot of figure skating.”

Cricket pulls the softened pumpkin flesh from the ovens. “Oh, have I? Is that unusual?” He keeps a straight face, but his eyes spark.

I resist throwing a dish towel at him. “So what’s the deal with her and second place?You said on your first night back—”

“Cal’s been the most talented ladies’ figure skater for years, but she’s never skated two clean programs in a row in a major competition. She’s convinced that she’s cursed. It’s why she’s always switching coaches, and it’s why she’d rather get third than second. When she gets third, at least she’s happy to have placed. But second. That’s too close to first.”

I’ve stopped working again.

“Second hurts.” He stares at me for a moment before lowering his head back to the pumpkins.

Andy has been rolling piecrusts slowly, following our conversation with interest. He sets down his rolling pin and dusts the flour from his PRAISE CHEESES! shirt. “What have you been up to, Cricket? What are you studying at Berkeley?”

“Mechanical engineering. Not very cool, is it?”

“But it’s perfect for you,” I say.

He laughs to himself. “Of course it is.”

“I

meant,

it’s perfect because you’ve always built, you know, mechanical things. Contraptions and robots and—”

“Automaton,” he corrects. “It’s like a robot but completely useless.”

The negative tone that’s crept into his voice is disconcerting. It’s a rare thing from Cricket Bell. But before I can say anything, he shakes it off with a smile. “But you’re right. It suits me.”

“I’ve never seen anyone do what you can do,” Andy says. “And from such a young age. I’ll never forget when you fixed our toaster with that coat hanger when you were, what, five years old?Your parents must be so proud of you.”

Cricket shrugs uncomfortably. “I guess.”

Andy’s head tilts. He studies Cricket for a long moment.

Cricket has returned to work, and it reminds me to return to mine. I begin mashing sweet potatoes. The repetition is actually soothing. As much as I hate losing a day off, I love my father’s business. He stumbled into it accidentally when he baked a classic cherry pie with a lattice top for a dinner party, and everyone freaked out. They’d never tasted a homemade piecrust before.

Someone there asked him to make one for another party, and then someone at

that

party asked him to make several for another. It was a business in the blink of an eye. Nathan jokingly called it City Pie Guy, and the name stuck. The logo is a retrolooking man with a mustache and a gingham apron, winking and holding out a steaming pie.

As the drop-off hour approaches, we talk less and less. By the time the last pies are out of the oven and into their boxes, Andy is on edge again. We’re all sweating. My dad races outside to open the car doors, and I grab two boxes and run out behind him. We’ve just tucked the pies safely inside when the front door opens.

Andy gasps.

I look up to find Cricket holding six boxes . . . in each hand. And flying down the stairs. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” Andy whispers. I grip his arm in horror, but Cricket bounds easily onto our driveway.

“Ready for these?” he asks.

The pies are still perfectly stacked.

Andy pauses for a moment. And then he bursts into laughter. “Into the car.”

“What?” Cricket asks me as my dad walks away.

“Maybe carry a few less the next time you take a jog down our stairs?”

“Oh.” He grins.

“You’d be an excellent circus juggler.”

He gestures to his legs. “Wouldn’t even have to rent the stilts.”

I notice the opening for a question I’ve had, but I hesitate. “I hope this isn’t rude—”

“Then it definitely is.”

But he’s teasing, so I continue. “Exactly how tall

are

you?”

“Ah, the height question.” Cricket rubs his hands together. There’s a mathematical equation written there today. “Six four.” He grins again. “Not including hair.”

I laugh.

“And being thin makes me look even taller.”

“And your tight pants,” I add.

Cricket makes a startled choking noise.

OH DEAR GOD. WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?

Andy reappears, slaps him on the back, and then we throw ourselves into the welcome distraction of loading the remainder of the pies. I climb into the backseat to keep them steady. Cricket follows in behind me, and even though he doesn’t have to be here, it feels natural that he should come along for the delivery. Our neighborhood’s traffic is predictably sluggish, but Andy speeds the rest of the way to Russian Hill, past views of Alcatraz and cable cars, and into the area of some of the city’s most expensive real estate.

We find parking at the bottom of the famous part of Lombard Street, the steep hill with switchback curves nicknamed “The Crookedest Street in America.” The narrow, zigzag road is paved with red bricks and bursting with vibrant flowers. We grab the pies—I’m amazed when Andy stacks most of them on Cricket’s arms, trusting him—and run to make the delivery two blocks away.

“You’re ten minutes late, Pie Guy.” A harsh woman with slicked-back hair opens the door for us. “Put them in there. Wipe your feet,” she adds to Cricket as he crosses the threshold, blinded by his pies.

He backs up, wipes them, and moves forward.

“Dirt,” she says. “Again.”

I look at her rug. Cricket isn’t tracking in dirt. He repeats the process one more time, and then we set down the boxes beside an array of crystal decanters in her dining room. She’s glaring at Cricket and me as if she doesn’t like what she sees. That teenagers had anything to do with her party. We stand in uneasy silence as she writes Andy a check. He folds it once and places it in his back pocket.

“Thank you.” He glances in our direction before continuing. “And never call me again. Your business isn’t welcome.”

And then he walks away.

The woman is stunned with indignation. Cricket’s eyebrows pop to his forehead, and I’m barely keeping my laughter under control as we file past her and out the door.

“Hag,”

Andy adds, when we join him. “You busted your asses for her.”

Cricket examines himself. “I should have covered my gang tattoos.”

“I wouldn’t let you in my house,” Andy says.

I hug my stomach from laughing so hard.

“Speaking of appearances.” Cricket turns to me. “I’d almost forgotten what you look like.”

The laughter stops dead in my mouth. There wasn’t time for anything fun when Andy woke me up this morning, so I threw on a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. It’s one of Max’s. I’m not wearing makeup, and my hair is hanging loosely. I didn’t think I’d see anyone but my parents today.

“Oh.” I cross my arms. “Uh, yeah. This is me.”

“It’s a rare occurrence to see Lola in the wild,” Andy says.

“I know,” Cricket says. “I haven’t seen the real Lola since my first night back.”

“I like being different.”

“And I like that about you,” Cricket says. “But I like the real you best.”

I’m too self-conscious to reply. The car ride home is unbearable. Andy and Cricket do the talking, while I stare out my window and try not to think about the boy beside me. His body takes up so much room. His long arms, his spindly legs. He has to hunch so that his head won’t hit the ceiling, though his hair still does.