Lola and the Boy Next Door (29 page)

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Authors: Stephanie Perkins

Tags: #Young-Adult Romance

BOOK: Lola and the Boy Next Door
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I’m a wreck by the time Cricket’s light turns on. It’s just after eight. I throw aside my English homework and run to my window, and he’s already at his. We open them at the same time, and the misty night air explodes . . . with
wailing.
Cricket is holding Aleck’s daughter again.
“I’m sorry!” he shouts. “She won’t let me put her down!”
“It’s okay!” I shout back.
And then I realize something. I slam my window shut. Cricket looks startled, but I hold up a finger and mouth
ONE SECOND.
I rip out a page from my spiral notebook and scribble on it with a fat purple marker. I hold the message against my window.
MY PARENTS!!! TALK LATER? WHEN NO BABY!!!
He looks relieved. And then panicked as he slams his own window shut. The next minute is rife with tension as we wait for my parents to tear into my bedroom. They don’t. But even with our windows closed, I hear Abigail’s cries. Cricket bounces her on his hip, pleading with her, but her face remains contorted in misery.
Where is Aleck? Or Aleck’s wife? Shouldn’t they be taking care of this?
Calliope bursts through Cricket’s door. She takes Abigail from him, and Abigail screams harder. Both of the twins wince as Calliope thrusts her back into Cricket’s arms. The baby grows quieter, but she’s still crying. Calliope glances in my direction. She freezes, and I give a weak wave. She scowls.
Cricket sees her expression and says something that causes her to stalk away. Her bedroom light turns on seconds later. He’s turning back toward me, still bouncing Abigail, when Mrs. Bell enters. I yank my curtains closed. Whatever is going on over there, I don’t want his mom to think I’m spying on it.
I sit back down with my five-paragraph essay for English, but I can’t concentrate. That familiar, nauseating feeling of guilt. When I saw the Bells in their driveway last week, they were clearly in distress about
something.
And I never asked Cricket what it was about. He was in my bedroom for an entire night, and I didn’t even think to ask. And he’s always concerned about what’s happening in my life. I’m so selfish.
A new kind of truth hits me:
I’m not worthy of him.
His light turns off, and the sudden darkness acts as a confirmation of my fears. He’s too good for me. He’s sweet and kind and honest. Cricket Bell has integrity. And I don’t deserve him. But . . . I want him anyway.
Is it possible to earn someone?
He doesn’t return for nearly two hours. The moment he’s back, I raise my window again. Cricket raises his. Exhaustion has settled between his brows, and his shoulders are sagging. Even a lock of hair has flopped onto his forehead. I’ve
never
seen Cricket’s hair fall down. “I’m sorry.” His voice is tired. He keeps it low, conscious that the parental threat has not passed. “For last night. For this morning, for tonight. Your parents didn’t come up, did they? I’m such an id—”
“Stop, please.You don’t have to apologize.”
“I know. Our rule.” He’s glum.
“No. I mean, don’t apologize for last night. Or this morning. I wanted you there.”
He raises his head. Once again, the intensity of his eyes makes my heart stutter.
“I—I’m the one who’s sorry,” I continue. “I knew something was going on with your family, and I didn’t ask. It didn’t even cross my mind.”
“Lola.” His brow deepens farther. “You’re going through a difficult time. I would never expect you to be thinking about my family right now. That would be crazy.”
Even when I’m in the wrong, he puts me in the right.
I don’t deserve him.
I hesitate.
Earn him.
“So . . . what’s going on? Unless you don’t want to tell me. I’d understand.”
Cricket leans his elbows against his windowsill and looks into the night sky. The star on his left hand has faded from washing, but it’s still there. He waits so long to answer that I wonder if he heard me. A foghorn bleats in the distance. Mist creeps into my room, carrying the scent of eucalyptus. “My brother left his wife last week. Aleck took Abby, and they’re staying here until he figures out what to do next. He’s not in great shape, so we’re kinda taking care of them both right now.”
“Where’s his wife? Why did he take the baby?”
“She’s still at their apartment. She’s going through . . . a lifestyle crisis.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “What does that mean? She’s a lesbian?”
“No.” Cricket pries his eyes from the sky to glance at me, and I see that he’s uncomfortable. “She’s much younger than Aleck. They married, got pregnant, and now she’s rebelling against it. This new life. She stays out late, parties. Last weekend . . . my brother found out that she’d cheated on him.”
“I’m so sorry.” I think about Max. About Cricket in my bedroom. “That’s awful.”
He shrugs and looks away. “It’s why I finally came back. You know, to help out.”
“Does that mean you’re still fighting with Calliope?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Cricket runs his fingers through his dark hair, and the part that had flopped down sticks back up. “Sometimes she makes things so difficult, more than they have to be. But I guess I’m doing the same thing right now.”
I allow the thought to hang, and my mind returns to Max. It fills with shameful, retired fantasies about our future. “Do you think . . . did Aleck’s wife do that because she got married too young?”
“No, they got married too
wrong.
The only person in my family who thought it would last was Aleck, but it was clear she wasn’t the one.”
The one.
There it is again.
“How did you know? That she wasn’t the one for him?”
Now he’s staring at his hands, slowing rubbing them together. “They just didn’t have that . . . natural magic.You know? It never seemed easy.”
My voice grows tiny. “Do you think things have to be easy? For it to work?”
Cricket’s head shoots up, his eyes bulging as they grasp my meaning. “NO. I mean, yes, but . . . sometimes there are . . . extenuating circumstances. That prevent it from being easy. For a while. But then people overcome those . . . circumstances . . . and . . .”
“So you believe in second chances?” I bite my lip.
“Second, third, fourth. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. If the person is right,” he adds.
“If the person is . . . Lola?”
This time, he holds my gaze. “Only if the other person is Cricket.”
chapter twenty-eight
 
C
ricket isn’t the only thing I have to earn. I have to earn back my parents’ trust.
I’m a good daughter,
I am.
I have plenty of faults, but I keep up with my homework, I do my chores, I rarely talk back, and I like them. I’m one of the few people my age who actually cares what her parents think. So I’m dressing like someone responsible (all black, very serious), and I studied like crazy for my finals, and I’m doing whatever they ask. Even when it’s awful. Like taking Heavens to Betsy for her late-night walk when it’s forty degrees outside, which, by the way, I have done every night this week.
I want my parents to remember that I’m good, so they’ll also remember that Cricket is good. Better than good. He came over to formally apologize to them, though I don’t think it helped. His name is still banned from our household. Even after Mrs. Bell told Andy what was happening with Aleck, and my parents were tut-tutting for the family over dinner, they skipped over Cricket’s name. It was, “Calliope and . . .
hmph.
”
At least Mr. and Mrs. Bell don’t know what happened. My parents didn’t call them. I probably have Andy to thank for that, maybe even Norah. She’s been surprisingly cool about all of this. “Give them time,” she says. “Don’t rush anything.”
Which is what I know I need anyway. Time.
The memory of Max is still bitter and strong. I didn’t realize it was possible to have such an ugly breakup when you were the one who did the breaking up. And I’m pretty sure I’m the one who did the breaking up. At least, I did it first.
And then he did it better.
I feel terrible about how it ended, and I feel terrible for not being honest with him while we were together. I want to apologize. Maybe it would get rid of these bad feelings, and I’d be able to move on. Maybe then it wouldn’t sting whenever my mind summons his name. I’ve left several messages on his voice mail, but he hasn’t called me back. And he’s still gone from the city. I even went to Amoeba to ask Johnny.
Max’s last words haunt me.
Am
I nothing to him? Already?
I’m not ready for Cricket, and his hands are full anyway. With Aleck too depressed to give Abigail his attention, she’s decided that Cricket is the next best thing. He’s home for winter break—we’re both on winter break—and I rarely see him without Abby hanging from his arms or wrapped around his legs. I recognize that feeling, that
need,
inside of her. I wish there was someone I could hold on to.
Lindsey helps. She calls every day, and we talk about . . . not Max. Not Cricket. Though she did guiltily announce that she’s attending the winter formal. She asked Charlie, and of course he said yes. I’m happy for her.
A person can be sad and happy at the same time.
I’ve moved my Marie Antoinette dress and wig and panniers into Nathan’s office, aka Norah’s room. I don’t like looking at them. Maybe I’ll finish the dress later, for Halloween next year. Lindsey can wear it. But I’m still not going to the dance, and at least I know
that
was the right decision. The last few weeks of school were miserable.
“Who died and turned you Goth?” Marta sneered, turning up her nose at my all-black ensemble. Her friends, the trendiest clique at Harvey Milk Memorial, joined in, and soon everyone was accusing me of being a Goth, which—even though it’s not true—would have been fine. Except then the Goth kids accused me of being a poseur.
“I’m not a Goth. And I’m not in mourning,” I insisted.
At least my new wardrobe helps me blend into my neighborhood. In the winter, the Castro turns into a sea of trendy black clothing. Black helps me disappear, and I don’t want to be seen right now. It’s amazing how clothing affects how people see—or
don’t
see—you. The other day I waited for the bus beside Malcolm from Hot Cookie. He’s served me dozens of rainbow M&M cookies, and we’re always debating the merits of Lady Gaga versus Madonna, but he didn’t recognize me.
It’s odd. Me, the
real
me, and I’m unknown.
The few people who do recognize me always ask if I’m feeling okay. And it’s not that I feel great, but why does everyone assume something is wrong because I’m not costumed? Our usual bank teller went so far as to mention his concern to Nathan. Dad came home worried, and I had to assure him, again and again, that I’m fine.
I am fine.
I’m not fine.
What am I?
The blinking Christmas lights and flickering menorahs in the windows of the houses, hardware store, bars and clubs and restaurants . . . they seem false. Forced. And I’m unnaturally aggravated by the man dressed as sexy Mrs. Claus handing out candy canes in front of the Walgreens and collecting money for charity.
I spend my break working at the theater—I take extra shifts to fill my spare time—and watching Cricket. Throughout the day, I can usually spot him through one of the Bells’ windows, playing with Abigail. Abby has sandy-colored hair like her father and grandfather, but there’s something sweet and pure about her smile that reminds me of her uncle. He bundles her up and takes her on walks every day.
Sometimes, I grab a coat and run after them. I’ve gone with them to the park for the swings, to the library for picture books, and to Spike’s for espresso (Cricket and me) and an organic gingerbread man (Abby). I try to be helpful. I want to earn him, deserve him. He always bursts into a smile when he sees me, but it’s impossible to mistake the silent examination that follows. As if he’s wondering if
now
I’m okay. If today is the day. And I can tell by his expression, always a little confused and sad, that he knows it’s not.
I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. I’ve become his difficult equation face again.
In the evenings, after Abby has gone to bed, I’ll see him tinkering in his bedroom. I can’t tell what he’s making, it must be something small, but the telltale signs of mechanical bits and pieces—including objects opened and stripped for parts—remain scattered about his desk.
That’s
making me happy.
 
Christmas passes like Thanksgiving, without a bang. I go to work—movie theaters are always packed on Christmas Day—and Anna and St. Clair are both there. They try to cheer me up by playing this game where we get a point every time someone complains about the ticket price or yells at us because a show is sold out. Whoever has the most points at the end of the day gets the unopened bag of gummy lychee candy St. Clair found in theater twelve. It’s not a great prize. But it helps.

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