Lola and the Boy Next Door

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.

Cricket reaches for me.

I look at the yellow glow in the sky that can only be the moon. Thank you.

We climb aboard, and before I can find my Muni pass, he’s paid for my ticket. The bus is empty. It rumbles forward, not waiting for us to sit, and he grabs me tighter. I don’t need to hold on to him, but I do anyway, with both hands. We lower ourselves into a seat. Together. I’m clutching his shirt, and his heart is pounding like a drum.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He peels off my hands and turns toward the aisle. “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” he whispers back.

And I feel like the world’s biggest jerk.

“Right.” I sink as far away from him as possible. “Sorry. No.”

Max’s ghost takes a seat between us. It spreads out its legs territorially. The bus is cold, and the ride to the station is short. This time, I have to take his arm. He leads me robotically. Our trip from Van Ness to the Castro is bleak. The train rocks back and forth through the dark tunnels, and my humiliation grows bigger and bigger with each forced jostle against his shoulder. I need out. NOW. The doors open, and I race through the station and out the turnstile. He’s on my heels. I don’t need him.

I don’t need him, I don’t need him, I don’t need him.

But I trip on the sidewalk again, and his arm is around my waist, and when I pull from his grasp, he only tightens it. There’s a silent struggle between us as I try to wriggle my way out. “For a skinny guy, your arms are like a steel trap,” I hiss.

Cricket bursts into laughter. His grip loosens, and I break away, stumbling forward.

“Oh, come on, Lola.” He’s still laughing. “Let me help you.”

“I’m never going anywhere again without a backup vision plan.”

“I should hope not.”

“And I’m only accepting your help because I don’t want to run into something and accidentally rip this glorious polyester uniform.”

“Understood.”

“And none of this has changed anything between us.” My voice shakes.

“Also understood,” he says softly.

I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

Neither of us moves. He’s leaving it up to me. I tentatively reach for him again. He extends his arm, and I take it. The gesture of one friend helping another. There’s nothing more, because as long as there’s Max, there can’t be anything more. And I love Max.

So that’s that.

“So,” Cricket says, one quiet block later. “Tell me about this famous dress.”

“What dress?”

“The one you’re making the stays for. It sounds important.”

My conversation with Max rushes back in, and I’m embarrassed. Dances are such feminine affairs. I can’t bear to hear scorn from Cricket, too. “It’s for my winter formal,” I say. “And it’s not important.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s . . . just a big dress.”

“Big like a parachute? Big like a circus tent?”

As always, he makes me smile when I’m determined not to. “Big like Marie Antoinette.”

He whistles. “That is big. What are those things called? Hoop skirts?”

“Sort of. In that period, they were called panniers. They went out to the side, rather than around in a perfect circle.”

“Sounds challenging.”

“It is.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Maybe it would be if I had any idea what I was doing. Panniers are these giant, structural contraptions. Making them isn’t sewing; it’s construction. And I have illustrations, but I can’t find decent instructions.”

“Do you want to show me the illustrations?”

My brow creases. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I could figure it out.”

I’m about to say I don’t need his help, when I realize . . . he’s exactly the right person for the job. “Um. Yeah. That’d be nice, thanks.” We’ve reached my steps. I gently squeeze his arm and let go. “I’ve got this part.”

“I’ve taken you this far.” His voice becomes unsteady. “I can take you that much farther.” And he reaches for me one last time.

I brace myself for the contact.

“Cricket!” A call from between our houses, and his arm drops like an anchor. She must have been taking out the trash. Calliope hugs him from behind, and I can’t really see her, but she sounds like she’s about to cry. “Practice was a nightmare. I can’t believe you’re here, you said you couldn’t come. God, it’s good to see you. I’ll make hot cocoa and tell you all—Oh. Lola.”

Cricket is oddly petrified into silence.

“Your very kind brother walked me home from work,” I explain. “My glasses broke, and I’m completely blind.”

She pauses. “Where is it you work again? The movie theater?”

I’m surprised she knows. “Yeah.”

Calliope turns back to Cricket. “You went to the movies? What about that huuuge project due tomorrow? I thought that’s why you couldn’t come home. How strange.”

“Cal—” he says.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.” She stalks away.

I wait until she’s inside. “You have a project due tomorrow?”

He waits a long time before answering. “Yes.”

“You weren’t coming home tonight, were you?”

“No.”

“You came home for me.”

“Yes.”

We’re quiet again. I take his arm. “Then take me home.”