Lola and the Boy Next Door

chapter twelve

“Andy said that?” Lindsey asks. “Kiss of death.”

“I know. As if I’d ever go for him now that my dad wants me to date him.”

“As if you’d ever go for him again, period.”

“Right . . . right.”

There’s a weighty pause on the other end of the line. “Lola Nolan, please tell me you are not thinking about Cricket Bell in that way.”

“Of course I’m not!” And I’m not. I’m definitely not.

“Because he broke your heart. We’ve spent two good years hating him. Remember that sixteen-page letter you buried in my backyard? And the ceremonial tossing of the pink bottle cap into the surf at Ocean Beach?”

Yeah. I remember.

“And your boyfriend? You do remember your boyfriend? Max?”

I frown at his picture beside my bed. His picture frowns back. “Who’s leaving me to go on tour.”

“He’s not leaving you. Stop being such a drama queen, Ned.”

Except he is. Max announced at brunch this morning that Johnny had already secured a show in Southern California. The miracle is that it’s for next Saturday night, so he couldn’t have made it to our next brunch anyway. So there was no need to invent an excuse for canceling it.

“I don’t wanna talk about guys anymore,” I say. “Can’t we just rehash Alias instead?”

There’s only one type of television show that Lindsey and I agree on: shows that involve solving crimes while wearing cool disguises. Alias, Pushing Daisies, Dollhouse, Charlie’s Angels, and The Avengers are our favorites. My best friend is happy to comply, so we don’t talk about ANY guy for the rest of the week. But they’re on my mind.

My boyfriend. Cricket. My boyfriend. Cricket.

How could Andy put me in this position? How could he make up a dumb family outing on the spot like that? And I’m frustrated because since the Bells moved back, every important event seems to happen on weekends. School has always dragged, but it’s nothing compared to now. Endless.

And work? Forget it. I lose count of how many wrong tickets I print, wrong soft drinks I pour, wrong theaters I sweep. Even Anna—my most good-natured supervisor, someone I’ve begun to consider one of my few friends—finally loses it on Saturday when I come back from my dinner break twenty minutes late.

“Where have you been? I’m dying out here.” She gestures with her head toward the packed box-office lobby as she hands someone their change and takes the ticket order of the person behind them.

“I’m sorry, I lost track of time.There’s this thing tomorrow—”

“You did it yesterday, too. You left me hanging. There were, like, sixty people in the lobby with these screaming children and bad hair, and this one lady projectile sneezed all over my window, and it was totally on purpose, and—”

“I’m so sorry, Anna.”

She holds up a hand in panicked frustration, like she doesn’t want to hear any more, and I feel terrible. I went to a Turkish coffee shop down the block for a pick-me-up and ended up lost in my thoughts. I don’t feel picked up at all.

By the time my shift ends and Andy brings me home, the Bell house is dark. Did Cricket come home? His curtains haven’t moved. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, will I be relieved? Or disappointed?

I plan my outfit. If this is going to happen, I need to look better than the last time I saw him, but I can’t look too interesting. I don’t want to encourage him. I choose a red-and-white checked top (cute) with jeans (boring). But by morning I’ve decided it’s hopelessly lame, and I change my shirt twice and my pants three times.

I settle on a similarly checked red-and-white halter dress, which I made from an actual picnic blanket for the last Fourth of July. I add bright red lipstick and tiny ant-shaped earrings for theme, and my big black platform boots because walking will be involved. They’re the sportiest shoes I own. I smooth my dress, erect my posture, and parade downstairs.

No one is there.

“Hello?”

No reply.

My shoulders sag. “What’s the point of a staircase if no one is here to watch my entrance?”

Behind me, a slightly breathless “hi.”

I spin around to find Cricket Bell sitting in my kitchen, and for some reason, the sight of him makes me slightly breathless, too. “I—I didn’t know you were there.”

Cricket stands, almost knocking over his chair in a rare moment of clumsiness. “I was having some tea. Your parents are loading the car. They were giving you three more minutes.” He glances at his watch. “You had thirty seconds left.”

“Oh.”

“It was good entrance,” he says.

Nathan bursts into the room. “There you are! With twenty seconds to spare.” He wraps me in a hug, but quickly pulls away and looks me up and down. “I thought you understood we were going into nature today.”

“Ha ha.”

“A dress? Those boots? Don’t you think you should change into something less—”

“It’s not worth the fight.” Andy pops in his head. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I follow him outside to avoid further chastising from Nathan. Cricket walks several steps behind me. It’s a careful distance.

I wonder if he’s looking at my butt.

WHY DID I JUST THINK THAT? Now my butt feels COLOSSAL. Maybe he’s looking at my legs. Is that better? Or worse? Do I want him looking at me? I hold on to the bottom of my dress as I climb into the backseat and crawl to the other side. I’m sure he’s looking at my butt. He has to be. It’s huge, and it’s right there, and it’s huge.

No. I’m acting crazy.

I glance over, and he smiles at me as he buckles his seat belt. My cheeks grow warm.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

As always, he chats easily with my parents. The more relaxed everyone else gets, the more worked up I am. We’re already approaching the Golden Gate Bridge, so we’ve been driving for . . . fifteen minutes? How can that be?

“Lola, you’re awfully quiet,” Nathan says. “Do you feel okay?”

“Is it motion sickness?” Andy asks. “Because you haven’t had that in years.”

“WE AREN’T EVEN OUT OF THE CITY. IT’S NOT MOTION SICKNESS.”

There’s a shocked silence.

“Maybe it’s motion sickness,” I lie. “Sorry. I have ... a headache, too.” I cannot believe I’m screaming about motion sickness a foot away from Cricket Bell.

Deep breaths. Take deep breaths. I adjust my dress, but the fabric sticks to my leg, and I accidentally flash Cricket my thigh. This time, I catch him looking. His fingers are messing with his bracelets and rubber bands. Our eyes lock.

A rubber band snaps and shoots into the windshield.

Nathan’s and Andy’s heads jolt back in fright, but they laugh when they realize what happened.

Cricket’s body shrinks up in his seat. “Sorry! Sorry.”

And I’m strangely relieved to know that I’m not the only one freaking out.