Текст книги "Lola and the Boy Next Door"

Автор книги: Stephaie Perkns

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I turn toward the bar for a bottle of water, but Anna calls out to me again. I head back, feeling irrationally aggravated that they’re here.

“Better?” St. Clair asks, but not in a mean way. He looks concerned.

“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry about all that.”

“No problem.” And I think we’re leaving it at that when he adds, “I understand what it’s like to be ashamed of a parent. My father is not a good man. I don’t talk about him either. Thank you for trusting us.”

His serious tone throws me, and I’m touched by this rare glimpse into his life. Anna squeezes his hand and changes the subject. “I’m looking forward to this.” She nods toward the band onstage. Max’s guitar is slung low as he adjusts something on his amplifier. They’re about to start. “You’ll introduce us to him afterward, right?”

Max has been too busy to come out and say hello. I feel bad about this. I feel bad about

everything

tonight. “Of course. I promise.”

“You neglected to mention that he’s much cooler than us.” Worry has crept into her voice.

St. Clair, back to himself, is clearly ready with a catty reply, and I’m pleased that the moment he opens his mouth is the same moment Amphetamine explodes into their set. His words—all words but my boyfriend’s—are lost.

The intensity radiating from Max mirrors what I feel burning inside of myself. His lyrics are by turn tender and sweet, scathing and cruel. He sings about falling in love and breaking up and running away, and it’s nothing that hasn’t been sung before, but it’s the way he sings it. Every word is saturated in bitter truth.

Johnny and Craig push an aggressive rhythm, and Max attacks his guitar with string-breaking ferocity. The songs become openly malicious, as if even the assembled crowd is to be distrusted, and when it’s time for the acoustic number, his usual soul-searching turns belligerent and cynical. His amber eyes lock with mine across the room, and I’m filled with his vicious attitude. I know it’s wrong, but it only makes me want him more. The crowd is fevered and delirious. It’s the best performance he’s ever given.

And it’s for me.

When it’s over, I turn to my friends for their reaction. Anna and St. Clair look shocked. Impressed but . . . definitely shocked.

“He’s good, Lola. He’s

really

good,” Anna says at last.

“Has he considered therapy?” St. Clair asks, and Anna elbows him in the ribs. “Ow.” I glare at him, and he shrugs. “It was incredible,” he continues. “I’m merely pointing out the presence of untempered rage.”

“How can you—”

“I need the bathroom,” Anna says. “Please don’t kill my boyfriend while I’m gone. And don’t leave until I’ve met Max!”

He’s weaving his way toward us now. People are clapping him on the back and trying to engage him in conversation, but Max’s eyes are only on mine as he brushes past them. My heart beats faster. The dark roots of his bleached hair and his black T-shirt are sweaty. I’m reminded of the night we met, and there’s a flare inside of me that’s near animalistic.

Max stiffens as he reaches for an embrace. He’s noticed St. Clair. Max’s jaw tightens as he sizes him up, but St. Clair slides in an easy introduction. “Étienne St. Clair. My girlfriend Anna”—he points to her retreating figure—“and I work with Lola at the theater. You must be Max.”

My boyfriend relaxes. “Right.” He shakes St. Clair’s outstretched hand, and then he’s already pulling me away. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Max. Yes, I want to be with Max.

“Thanks for coming. Tell Anna bye for me, okay?”

St. Clair looks royally pissed. “Yeah. Sure.”

Max leads me down the block to his van. He opens the door, and I’m surprised to discover it’s still empty. We climb in. “The next band is using Johnny’s drums. I asked the guys to wait a few minutes before loading the rest.”

I slam the door, and we’re on top of each other. I want to forget everything. I kiss him hard. He pushes back harder. It doesn’t take long.

We collapse.

I close my eyes. My temples are still throbbing with the sound of his music. I hear the flick of Max’s lighter, but the smell that greets me isn’t cigarette smoke. It’s sweet and sticky. He nudges me in a silent offer. I refuse. The contact high is enough.

Max drops me off around two in the morning. I forget my wig in his van. I feel like a disaster. Once again, I’m racked with guilt and anger and confusion. I drag myself inside, and my parents are there, as if they’ve been waiting by the door since I left. They probably have. I brace myself for their wrath.

It doesn’t come.

“Thank God.” Andy crumples onto our chaise longue.

My parents are both on the verge of tears, and the sight makes me cry for the hundredth time today, huge embarrassing hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry.”

Nathan embraces me in an iron-tight hug. “Don’t you

ever

do that again.”

I’m shaking. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Dolores.” Nathan leads me upstairs, and Andy trails behind. I’m closing my bedroom door when Nathan says, “You smell like pot. We’ll talk about that tomorrow, too.”

I open my window and look into the night sky. “I need your help.”

The moon is thin, a sliver of a waning crescent. But she’s listening.

It’s four in the morning. I can’t sleep, so I tell her about my last twenty-four hours. “And I don’t know what to do,” I say. “It’s all happening at once, but everything I do seems to be wrong.

What am I supposed to do?

”

Cricket’s window slides open. I dive for my closest pair of glasses so that I can see him. His hair is puffy from sleep, even taller than usual, and his eyes are half shut. “You still talk to the moon?” His question isn’t condescending, it’s curious.

“Pretty dumb, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“Did I wake you up? Did you hear me?”

“I heard you talking, but I didn’t hear what you said.”

I let out a slow exhale of relief. I need to be more careful. It doesn’t escape my attention that it’s nice to know when someone is telling the truth. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “It’s Sunday night, you should be in your dorm.”

Cricket is quiet. He’s deciding how to answer. A car with thumping club music cruises down our street, looking for parking. When the bass fades away, he says, “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I was waiting for your light to come on. I fell asleep.” He sounds guilty.

“Oh.”

“I’ll leave early in the morning.” Cricket glances across his room at a clock. He sighs. “In two hours, actually.”

“Well, I’m here. I made it. Barely.”

He stares at me. It’s so intense that it’s almost invasive. I look down at the alley between our houses, and a stray cat is wandering through Andy’s compost pile. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“I probably shouldn’t have. I’m not the right person for you to talk to.”

“Is that why you called Lindsey?”

He shrugs uncomfortably. “Did you talk with her? Before you left?”

“Yeah.”The cat jumps onto our recycling bin. It looks up, and its haunted eyes flash at me through the darkness. I shiver.

“You’re cold,” Cricket says. “You should go to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Do you feel better?” he blurts. “Did Max help?”

I’m filled with shame. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

We’re silent for several minutes. I turn my head and watch the street, the moon, the street. I feel him watch me, the stars, me. The wind is biting. I want to go inside, but I’m afraid to lose his company. Our friendship is teetering on the verge of extinction again. I don’t know what I want, but I do know that I don’t want to lose him.

“Cricket?”

“Yeah?”

I peel my gaze from the sky to meet his eyes. “Will you come home next weekend?”

He closes them. I get the strangest sense he’s thanking someone.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

chapter sixteen

Nathan wakes me up early so we can talk before school. Also as punishment, I assume. I’ve only had three hours of sleep. As I’m getting dressed, I peek through my curtains and discover that Cricket has left his open. His usual leather satchel and laundry bag are gone.

There’s a pang in the hollow of my chest.

I drag myself downstairs. Andy is awake—he’s never awake this early—and he’s making scrambled eggs. Nathan is checking his email at the table in one of his nicest suits. There’s no sign of Norah. She’s probably on the foldout couch in Nathan’s office.

“Here.” Andy slides a mug of coffee toward me. He doesn’t approve of me drinking coffee, so this is serious. We take seats beside Nathan, and he sets aside his phone.

“Lola, we understand why you left last night,” he says.

I’m shocked. I’m also relieved that I’m Lola, not Dolores.

Nathan continues, “But it doesn’t excuse your behavior. You scared us to death.”

Now that sounds about right.

The lecture I’d expected follows. It’s painful, it’s extensive, and it ends with me receiving a month of grounding. They don’t believe me when I tell them I didn’t smoke the pot, which they know was Max’s, and I can’t convince them otherwise on either point. I get a lengthy side lecture about the hazards of drug use, to which I could just as easily point to the closed office door and say, “Duh.”

But I don’t.

My walk to school is long, my day at school even longer. Lindsey tries to entertain me with stories about the twitchy man her parents hired to help in the restaurant. She’s convinced he has a dark secret like a hidden identity or the knowledge of a government cover-up. But all I can think about is tonight. I don’t have work. I don’t have a date with Max, and I

won’t

have one apart from Sunday brunch—if he’ll even show up anymore—for another month. And . . . no Cricket.

At least the next month will give me plenty of time to work on my dress.

The thought doesn’t cheer me.The stays are progressing faster than expected, and I’ve even started the wig, but the panniers are frustrating. I still can’t find any satisfying instructions. I spend my afternoon doing homework, chatting online with Lindsey, and adding chicken wire to the top of my white base wig. Marie Antoinette wore ENORMOUS wigs. The wire will give it the necessary height without drastically increasing the weight. I’ll cover it later with matching fake hair.

Norah is talking with Andy in the kitchen. They picked up her things today, and the boxes have covered Nathan’s antiques and taken over our entire living room. The cardboard smells like incense and grime. Norah’s voice is weary, and I wince and turn up my music. I still haven’t seen her. I’ll have to soon, but I’m putting it off as long as possible. Until dinner, I guess.

The doorbell rings at six-thirty.

I pause—my pliers on the wire, my ears perked. Cricket?

But then I hear Max’s deep and gravelly voice. My pliers drop, and I’m skidding downstairs.

There’s no way, there’s no way, there’s no way.

Except . . . there he is. He’s even abandoned his usual black T-shirt for a striped button-up. His tattoos poke out of the bottom of his sleeves. And he’s wearing his glasses, of course.

“Max,” I say.

He smiles at me. “Hey.”

Andy looks as surprised as I feel. He’s clueless about what to do next. I throw my arms around Max. He hugs me back tightly but pulls away after only a moment.

“Wanted to make sure you’re surviving,”

he whispers.

I squeeze his hand and don’t let go. I had no idea how much I needed to see him again, to know everything is okay between us. I’m not sure why I thought things would be different, other than last night

felt

different. He’s apologizing to my father. I know it must be killing him to do this. He states his words calmly and briefly.

“Thank you for saying that, Max.” Andy hesitates, despising what he knows has to come next. “Won’t you stay for dinner?”

“Thank you. I’d love to.”

Max knew my parents would be out to get him, and he’s called them on it by showing up tonight. He’s so smart.

“So you’re the boyfriend.”

Max, Andy, and I grow rigid as Norah leans against the door frame between our living room and the kitchen. Even though Nathan is several years older than his sister, Norah looks at least a decade older. In their childhood, she shared the same round face as Nathan and me, but time and substance abuse have left her frail and worn. Her skin hangs as loose as her straggled hair. At least she’s had a shower.

“Max. Meet Norah,” I say.

He nods at her. She stares back, her expression dead.

“You have a

lot

of nerve showing up here.”

Everyone freezes again at the sound of Nathan’s voice. Still holding hands, Max and I turn around. My father sets down his briefcase beside the front door. The muscles in Max’s hand twitch, but he keeps his speech devoid of the emotion I know he feels. “I came to apologize. It was irresponsible for me to take Lola away last night. She was upset, and I wanted to help her. It was the wrong way.”

“Damn straight it was the wrong way.”

“Dad.”

“Nathan,” Andy says quickly. “Let’s talk in the office.”

The wait is unbearable before Nathan removes his glare from Max and follows Andy. The office door shuts. I’m sweating. I let go of Max’s hand and realize my own is shaking. “The worst is over,” he says.

“I’m grounded for a month.”

He pauses. “Shit.”

There’s a rude snort in the kitchen doorway, and I’m about to completely lose it.

“I’m sorry.” Now Max

does

sound pissed off. “I didn’t realize this conversation was any of your business.”

Norah gives a cruel smile. “You’re right. What would I know about a teenage girl running away and getting into trouble with her boyfriend?”

“I didn’t run away,” I protest as Max says, “You’re out of line.”

She strolls into the kitchen and out of sight. “Am I?” she calls out.

I want to die. “I’m so sorry. For all of this.”

“Don’t apologize.” He’s harsh. “I’m not here for them. I’m here for you.”

The office door bangs open, and Nathan marches straight upstairs to their bedroom without looking at us. Andy gives a tense, fake smile. “Dinner in ten minutes.”

Nathan has changed out of his work clothes. He’s trying, but barely. I didn’t know it was possible to pass a dish of vegetarian lasagna with such hostility. “So. Max. How was the show in L.A.? We didn’t realize you’d be back so soon.”

Could this get any worse?

“It was in Santa Monica, and it went well. We’ve booked two more shows there.”

Yes. It

could

get worse.

“Do you plan on doing a lot of touring?” Andy asks. I can’t decide if he sounds hopeful or skeptical.

“We’d like to do more. I don’t want to read meters for the rest of my life.”

“So you think this is a valid career choice?” Nathan asks. “You think it’s reasonable to expect success?”

“OH MY GOD,” I say.

Nathan holds up his hands in apology, but he doesn’t say anything. Max stews silently beside me. Norah stares out the window, no doubt longing to be anywhere but here. I scrape the spinach lasagna across my plate without picking it up.

“I only mentioned the show,” Nathan says a minute later, “because it was unfortunate that it meant you had to miss our trip. We went to Muir Woods with—”

“A picnic basket!” I say.

Nathan gives me a smug expression. It was a test. He was testing

me,

to see if Max knew about the trip with Cricket.

“You didn’t miss anything,” I say. “Besides the food. Of course.”

Max smells the lie, though he doesn’t dare approach it in front of my parents. But I feel the wall build between us.

“Hey, I have an idea,” I say. “Let’s talk about Norah.”

“Lola,” Andy says.

She snaps her head toward me as if coming out of a trance. “What?” And then she blinks. “What are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

“What is that? What are you supposed to be?”

I’m in a dress with rainbow tulle poking out from underneath, and my hair is in two long braids that I’ve gelled with glitter. I glare at her. “Me. I’m

me.

”

Norah frowns her disapproval, and Nathan turns to her. “Enough. Back off.”

“Of course she has the right to complain about my wardrobe.” I gesture to her saggy sweater, the one she’s had forever that’s the color of oatmeal left in the sink. “She’s clearly on the cutting edge of fashion.”

Max smirks.

“O-kaaaay!” Andy jumps up. “Who wants pie?”

“Wait until you see my dress for the winter formal,” I tell Norah. “It’s big and it’s lavish and it’s beautiful, and you’re just going to

love

it.”

Norah jerks her face back toward the window. Like she has any right to feel hurt after attacking me. Max stiffens again, and Nathan can’t resist pouncing upon it. “What will you wear to the dance, Max?”

“He’ll wear a tux,” I snap. “I wouldn’t make him wear a matching costume.”

Max stands. “I gotta go.”

I burst into tears. Nathan looks shamed. Max takes my hand and walks me to the front door. We step outside. I don’t care that I’m grounded. “I’m s-sorry.”

This time he doesn’t tell me not to apologize. “That was messed up, Lola.”

“I know.”

“So tell me, did Nathan approve of Norah’s ‘career choice’ as a fortune-teller?”

I feel sick. “It won’t be that bad on Sunday.”

“Sunday.” Max lifts a dark brow. “Brunch. Right.” He drops my hand and puts his own in his pockets. “So are you serious about that dance?”

I’m startled. I’ve talked about my dress a hundred times before. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, wishing I had something other than my fingers. “What?”

“Lola. I’m twenty-two.” Max reacts quickly to my crushed expression. He reaches for both of my hands this time, and he draws me into and against his body. “But if it makes you happy, I’ll do it. If I can survive these stupid meals, I can survive one stupid dance.”

I hate that it sounds like a punishment.

chapter seventeen

“Ta-da!” St. Clair bursts into the lobby with the flourish of a magician. He’s showing off for Anna as he always does. It’s Thursday, and he isn’t scheduled to work, but of course he’s here anyway. Though tonight is different.

He’s brought someone.

Here’s the thing about Cricket Bell. You can’t NOT notice him when he walks into a room. The first thing that registers is his height, but it’s quickly followed by recognition of his energy. He moves gracefully like his sister, but with an enthusiasm he can’t quite seem to control—the constantly moving body, hands, feet. He’s been subdued the last few times I’ve seen him, but he’s fully revived now.

“Anna,” St. Clair says. “This is Cricket.”

Cricket dwarfs St. Clair. They look like Rocky and Bullwinkle, and the comfortable manner between them makes it appear they’ve been friends just as long. I suppose when one overly kind person and one overly outgoing person become friends, it’s easy like that.

Anna smiles. “We keep missing each other in the dorm. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Cricket says. “I’ve heard nothing but good things. In fact, if I weren’t standing next to your boyfriend, I’d be tempted to ask you out myself.”

She blushes, and St. Clair bounds inside the box office and wrestles her into a hug. “Miiiiiiiiine!” he says. The couple buying tickets from me eyes him warily.

“Cut it out.” Anna pushes him off, laughing. “You’ll get fired. And then I’ll have to support your sorry

arse

for the rest of our lives.”

The rest of their lives.

Why does this always make me uneasy? I’m not bothered that

they’re

happy, am I? He hops into his usual sitting position on the counter, and they’re already laughing about something else. Cricket waits on the other side of the glass, looking amused. I hand the couple their change. “So . . . what are you doing in the city on a weekday?” I ask him.

“I ran into St. Clair an hour ago, and he talked me into coming along. He said we’d see a movie,” he adds loudly.

“RIGHT,” St. Clair says. “That moving-pictures thing. Let’s do it.” But he returns to his conversation with Anna.

Cricket and I exchange smiles. “Come in.” I nod at the box-office door. A man in a fuzzy chartreuse sweater approaches my window, but even that’s not enough to distract me from watching Cricket as he moves toward the door. Those long, easy strides. My chest swells with both heartache and heartbreak. He enters, and I jerk away my gaze.

“Enjoy the show,” I tell the sweater man. Cricket waits behind me while I print tickets for two more people. It’s impossible to concentrate with him standing there. The lobby empties again, and he takes the chair beside me. His hems rise and reveal his socks. Blue and purple stripes. On his left hand is a list: CH 12, SHAMPOO, BOX.

“How are you?” he asks. It’s not a casual question.

I remove my glasses for a moment to rub my tired eyes. “Surviving.”

“But she won’t be there for much longer.” He fidgets with his watch. “Will she?”

“Her credit is shot, and she’s failed the background check for every potential apartment.”

He grimaces. “In other words, she’s not leaving tomorrow.”

“The break-in charges from when she tried to get back inside her apartment aren’t helping either.” I cross my arms. “She wants Nathan to sue to have the charges against her dropped, but he won’t. Not when she was in the wrong.”

Cricket’s frown deepens, and I realize that he doesn’t know about Norah’s recent arrest. I fill him in, because . . . he already knows everything else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice turns to anguish. “Is there anything I can do to help?” There’s a certain restraint in his muscles as he struggles to keep from reaching out to me.

“What’s box?” I blurt.

He’s thrown. “What?”

I point at his hand. “Read chapter twelve and buy shampoo, right? What’s box?”

His right hand absentmindedly covers his left. “Oh. Uh, I need to find one.”

I wait for more.

He looks away, and his body follows him. “And I did. Find one. I’m moving some stuff back into my parents’ house. My room at school is crowded. And my other bedroom is empty. It has lots of space. For things.”

“You . . . you

do

spend a lot of weekends there.”

“Andschoolbreaks andsummers.” The words tumble out, and his face darkens as if shamed by his eagerness. No conversation is safe anymore. St. Clair interrupts with timing so perfect that he must have been listening. “Hey, did you know that

Cricket Bell

is related to

Alexander Graham Bell

?”

“Everyone who knows Cricket knows that,” I say.

“Really?” Anna looks genuinely interested. “That’s cool.”

Cricket rubs his neck. “No, it’s dumb trivia, that’s all.”

“Are you joking?” St. Clair says. “He’s one of the most important inventors in the entire history of the world. Ever! And—”

“It’s nothing,” Cricket interrupts.

I’m taken aback, but then I remember that first night he was home, when I mentioned his middle name and our conversation grew awkward. Something has changed. But what?

“Forgive his enthusiasm.” Anna grins at her boyfriend. “He’s a history nerd.”

I can’t resist bragging. “Cricket happens to be a brilliant inventor himself.”

“I’m not.” Cricket squirms. “I mess around. It’s not a big deal.”

St. Clair looks enraptured. “Just think. You’re the direct descendant of the man who invented”—he pulls out his cell—“this !”

“He didn’t invent that,” Cricket says drily.

“Well, not

this,

” St. Clair says. “But the idea. The first one.”

“No.” This is the most frustrated I’ve ever seen Cricket. “I mean he didn’t invent the telephone. Period.”

The three of us blink at him.

“Anna confused,” Anna says.

“Alexander Graham Bell didn’t invent the telephone, a man named Elisha Gray did. My great-great-great-grandfather stole the idea from him. And Gray wasn’t even the first. There were others, one before Alexander was even born. They just didn’t realize the full implications of what they’d created.”

St. Clair is fascinated. “What do you mean, he stole the idea?”

“I mean, Alexander stole the idea, took credit for it, and made an unbelievable sum of money that shouldn’t have been his.” Cricket is furious now. “My family’s entire legacy is based on a lie.”

Well. That would explain the change.

St. Clair looks guilty for unintentionally goading Cricket into telling us. He opens his mouth to speak, but Cricket shakes his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t let it get to me.”

“When did you learn this?” I ask quietly.

“A couple of years ago. There was a book.”

I don’t like the expression on his face. Further memories of his reluctance to talk about his inventions creep into my mind. “Cricket . . . just because he stole the idea doesn’t mean what

you

do is—”

But he launches toward St. Clair. “Movie?”

Anna and I stare at him in concern, but St. Clair easily takes over again. “Yes, if you ladies no longer require our services, I believe we’re off.” Cricket is already halfway to the door. My heart screams in surprised agony.

He halts. It’s as if he’s physically stopped by something we can’t see. “Will you be here later?” he asks me. “When the movie gets out?”

My throat dries. “I should be here.”

He bites his bottom lip. And then they’re gone.

“He’s so into you,” Anna says.

I rearrange a stack of quarters and try to calm my thumping chest. What just happened? “Cricket’s a nice guy. He’s always been like that.”

“Then he’s always been into you.”

Yes. He has.

Anna whisks out the glass cleaner and sprays a smudge that St. Clair left behind on the window. Her smile fades as she grows deeper in thought. “What’s the matter?” I ask. I’m desperate for a topic change.

“Me? Nothing, I’m fine.”

“No way,” I say. “It’s your turn. Spill it.”

“It’s . . . my family is coming to visit.” She sets down the cleaner, but her hand tightens on the nozzle. “They met Étienne at our graduation last year, and they liked him, but my mom is pretty freaked out by how fast we’re moving. This visit could be

so

uncomfortable.”

I pry the cleaner away from her. “Do you think you’re moving too fast?”

Anna loosens and smiles again, love-struck. “Definitely not.”

“Then you’ll be fine.” I nudge her. “Besides, everyone loves your boyfriend. Maybe your mom has just forgotten how gosh darn

charming

he is.”

She laughs. Another patron comes to my window, and I print his ticket. When he leaves, Anna turns back to me and asks, “What about you? How are things with Max these days?”

I’m struck by a terrible realization. “Oh, no. You wanted to meet him. We left!”

“You had a bad night.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s okay, I swear. Everyone makes mistakes.” Anna stands and grabs her work keys. “The important thing is to not make the same mistake twice.”

My guilt deepens. “I’m sorry about last week. When I came back from dinner late.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I was thinking about.”

“Then what?”

Anna looks at me carefully. “Sometimes a mistake isn’t a what. It’s a who.”

And she goes to rip tickets down the hall, leaving me with thoughts as jumbled as ever. Does she mean Max? Or Cricket? An hour later, Franko wanders in. He’s about thirty, and his hair is unevenly shorn. Like, he has random bald spots.

“Heeeeeey, Lola. Have you seen the thing?”

“What thing?”

“You know . . . the thing with . . . our schedules on it and stuff?”

“You mean our schedule?”

“Yeah. Have you seen it?”

I glance around. “Not in here. Sorry.” But Franko is already sifting through a pile of papers on the counter. He knocks the phone off its hook, and I grab it. “Careful!”

“Did you find it?” Franko spins around as I’m coming up. His elbow jams into my face and knocks my glasses to the floor. “Whoops. I got it, Lola.”

There’s a sickening crunch of plastic.

“FRANKO!” My world has turned into blobs of color and light.

“Whoa. Sorry, Lola. Were those real?”

Anna rushes in. “What? What happened? Oh.” She bends over to pick up what I assume are my glasses. Her voice doesn’t sound promising. “Dude.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“You can’t see?” She holds them closer to my face. Pieces. Many, many pieces.

I moan.

“Sorry,” Franko says again.

“Will you please go back to second-floor concessions?” Anna asks. He leaves. “Do you have another pair? Contacts? Anything?” she asks. I moan again. “Okay, no problem. Your shift is almost over. Your dad will be here soon to pick you up.”

“I was supposed to take Muni.” Of course tonight is the night my parents are busy and leave me to public transportation.

“But you can still take it, right?”

“Anna, you’re two feet away, and I can’t tell if you’re smiling or frowning.”

“Okay . . .” She sits down to think but immediately jumps back up. “Étienne and I will take you home! You’re only a quick detour from my school.”

“You don’t have—”

“It’s not a question,” she interrupts. And I’m relieved to hear her say it. I’m useless for the remainder of my shift. We’re ready to leave when the guys return, and Anna approaches the St. Clair–shaped blob. “We’re taking Lola home.”

“Why? What happened?” the Cricket-shaped blob asks.

I stare toward my shoes as I explain the situation.

“You can’t see me?” St. Clair asks. “You have no idea what I’m doing?”

“Stop it,” Anna says, and they laugh. I don’t know what’s happening. It’s humiliating.

“I’ll take you home,” Cricket says.

St. Clair protests. “Don’t you have—”

“I’m next door. It’s not out of my way.”

I’m ashamed of my own helplessness. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” The sincerity behind this simple statement tugs at me. He’s not teasing me or making me feel bad about it. But Anna sounds worried as she hands me my purse. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

The implied question:

Are you sure you’ll be okay with Cricket?

“I’m fine.” I give her a reassuring smile. “Thanks.” And it’s true until we step outside, and I trip over the sidewalk.

Cricket grabs me.

And I collapse again from the shock of his touch. He lifts me up, and despite the coat between us, my arm is buzzing like a fire alarm. “The sidewalks here are the worst,” he says. “The earthquakes have buckled them into land mines.” Cricket removes his hand. I blink at him, and he cautiously offers his arm.

I hesitate.

And then I take it.

And then we’re so close that I smell him. I

smell

him.

His scent is clean like a bar of soap, but with a sweet hint of mechanical oil. We don’t speak as he leads me across the street to the bus stop. I press against him. Just a little. His other arm jumps, and he lowers it. But then he raises it again, slowly, and his hand comes to rest on top of mine. It scorches. The heat carries a message:

I care about you. I want to be connected to you. Don’t let go.

But then . . . he does.

He sits me on the bus stop’s fold-down seats,

and he lets go,

and he won’t look at me. We wait in agitated silence. The distance between us grows with each passing minute. Will he take my arm again, or will I have to take his? I steal a glance, but, of course, I can’t see his expression. Our bus exhales against the curb, and the door whooshes open.