Lola and the Boy Next Door

chapter twenty

“Lola?” Cricket looks astonished. “What are you doing here?”

“I—” Now that I’m standing before his door, my excuses sound ludicrous. Hey, I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by to hang out. Oh! And I wanted to get back that embarrassing binder, which I only lent to you because you were nice enough to offer to make something that would enable me to attend a dance with another guy. “I came to see if you had any ideas for the panniers. I’m . . . in a bit of a time crunch.”

Time crunch? I have never used the phrase time crunch before.

Cricket is still in shock.

“I mean, I came to see you, too. Of course.”

“Well. You found me. Hi.”

“Everything okay?” A girl pops out her head behind him. She’s taller than me, and she’s slender. And she has golden hair in natural waves and a glowing tan that says surfer girl rather than fake-and-bake.

And she looks totally pissed to see me here.

She places a hand possessively on his arm. His sleeve is pushed up so her bare skin is touching his. My stomach plummets. “S-sorry. It was rude of me to show up like this. I’ll see you later, okay?” And then I’m speed-walking down the hall.

“LOLA!”

I stop. I slowly turn around.

He looks bewildered. “Where are you going?”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was in the neighborhood, um, shopping and . . . and of course you’re busy.” Stop freaking out. He can date or make out with or—oh God—sleep with whomever he wants.

“Is it raining?” The girl frowns at my raincoat and rain boots.

“Oh. No. They matched my dress.” I unsnap the coat to expose a pretty dress in the same shade of yellow. Cricket startles like he’s just noticed the girl’s hand. He slides from her grasp and into the hall.

“This is my friend Jessica. We were working on our physics homework. Jess, this is Lola. The one . . . the one I told you about.”

Jessica does not look pleased by this information.

HE TOLD HER ABOUT ME.

“So you came to work on the dress?” he asks.

“It’s not a big deal.” I move toward him. “We can do it later.”

“No! You’re here. You’re never here.” He glances at Jessica. “We’ll finish tomorrow, okay?”

“Right.” She fires me a death glare before storming away.

Cricket doesn’t notice. He opens his door wide. “Come in. How did you find me?”

“St. Cla—OH.”

“What? What is it?”

Two beds. Beside one, a constellation chart, a periodic table, and a desk crowded with papers and wires and small metal objects. Beside the other, more naked fantasy women, a gigantic television, and several gaming consoles.

“You have a roommate.”

“Yeah.” He sounds confused.

“The, um, picture on your door surprised me.”

“NO. No. I prefer my women with . . . fewer carnivorous beasts and less weaponry.” He pauses and smiles. “Naked is okay. What she needs are a golden retriever and a telescope. Maybe then it would do it for me.”

I laugh.

“A squirrel and a laboratory beaker?”

“A bunny rabbit and a flip chart,” I say.

“Only if the flip chart has mathematical equations on it.”

I fake-swoon onto his bed. “Too much, too much!” He’s laughing, but it fades as he watches me toss and turn. He looks pained. I sit up on my elbows. “What’s the matter?”

“You’re in my room,” he says quietly. “You weren’t in my room five minutes ago and now you are.”

I pull myself up the rest of the way, suddenly conscious of both the bed and its lingering scent of bar soap and sweet mechanical oil. I glance at a space close to his head but not quite at it. “I shouldn’t have barged in on you like this. I’m sorry.”

“No. I’m glad you’re here.”

I find the courage to meet his eyes, but he’s not looking at me anymore. He reaches for something on his desk. It’s overflowing with towers of graphing paper and partially completed projects, but there’s one area that’s been cleared of everything. Everything except for my binder. “I did some sketches this weekend in Pennsylvania—”

“Oh, yeah.” I looked up Skate America, and it was held in Reading this year. I ask the polite question. “How did Calliope do?”

“Good, good. First.”

“She broke her second-place streak?”

He looks up. “What? Oh. No. She always gets first in these early seasonal competitions. Not to take anything away from her,” he adds distractedly. Since he’s not bothered by the mention, I gather that he doesn’t know we spoke. Best to keep it that way. “Okay,” he says. “Here’s what I was working on.”

Cricket sits beside me on his bed. He’s in scientist inventor professional mode, so he’s forgotten his self-imposed distance rule. He pulls out a few illustrations that he’d tucked inside, and he’s rambling about materials and circumferences and other things I’m not thinking about, because all I see is how carefully he’s cradling my binder in his lap.

Like it’s fragile. Like it’s important.

“So what do you think?”

“It looks wonderful,” I say. “Thank you.”

“It’ll be big. I mean, you wanted big, right? Will you have enough fabric?”

Oops. I should have been paying closer attention. I study the dimensions. He hands me a calculator so I can punch in my numbers, and I’m surprised at how perfect it is. “Yeah. Wow, I’ll even have the right amount of spare fabric, just in case.”

“I’ll collect the materials tomorrow so I can start it this weekend at my parents’ house. I’ll need . . .” His cheeks turn pink.

I smile. “My measurements?”

“Not all of them.” Now red.

I write down what he needs. “I’m not one of those girls. I don’t mind.”

“You shouldn’t. You’re perfect, you look beautiful.”

The words are out. He’s been so careful.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Cricket sets aside my binder and jolts up. He moves as far away from me as possible without stepping on his roommate’s side. “I’m sorry.” He rubs the back of his head and stares out his window.

“It’s okay. Thank you.”

We’re quiet. It’s grown dark outside.

“You know.” I snap and unsnap my raincoat. “We spend a lot of time apologizing to each other. Maybe we should stop. Maybe we need to try harder to be friends. It’s okay for friends to say things like that without it getting weird.”

Cricket turns back around and looks at me. “Or to show up unannounced.”

“Though if you gave me your number, I wouldn’t have to.”

He smiles, and I pull out my cell and toss it to him. He tosses his to me. We enter our digits into each other’s phone. The act feels official. Cricket throws mine back and says, “I’m listed under ‘Naked Tiger Woman.’”

I laugh. “Are you serious? Because I entered myself as ‘Naked Tiger Lady.’”

“Really?”

I laugh harder. “No. I’m Lola.”

“The one and only.”

I walk his phone to him and place it in his open palm. “That’s a mighty fine compliment coming from you, Cricket Bell.”

His eyebrows rise slowly in a question.

And then the bedroom light flicks on.

“Whoops.” A guy half the height of Cricket and twice as wide tosses a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos onto the other bed. “Sorry, man.”

Cricket springs backward. “This is my roommate, Dustin. Dustin, this is Lola.”

“Huh,” Dustin says. “I thought you were gay.”

“Um,” Cricket says.

“You’re always in the city, and you ignore Heather whenever she comes by.”

Heather? There’s another one?

“Guess I was wrong.” Dustin shakes his head and flops down beside his chips. “Good. Now I don’t have to worry about you looking at my junk anymore.”

I tense. “How do you know he’d be interested in your junk? It’s not like you’re attracted to every girl in the world. Why would he be attracted to every boy?”

“Whoa.” Dustin looks at Cricket. “What’s the deal?”

Cricket throws on a coat. “We should go, Lola.You probably need to catch the train.”

“You don’t go here?” Dustin asks me.

“I attend school in the city.” I slide my binder into my bag.

He looks me up and down. “One of those art students, huh?”

“No. I go to Harvey Milk Memorial.”

“What’s that?”

“A high school,” I say.

Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up. He turns to Cricket. “Is she legal?” His voice is tinged with appreciation and respect.

“Bye, Dustin.” Cricket holds the door open for me.

“IS SHE LEGAL?” he says as Cricket slams the door shut behind us.

Cricket closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. No apologizing. Especially not for him.” We head outside, and I shudder. No wonder Cricket comes home most weekends. “Besides,” I continue, “I’m used to it. I get stuff like that alllll the—”

Cricket has stopped moving.

“—time.” Crud.

“Right. Of course you do.” With excruciating effort, he pushes through Max’s ghost. Always present. Always haunting us. “So what’s the boyfriend doing tonight?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him today.”

“Do you usually talk to him? Every day?”

“Yeah,” I say uncomfortably. I’m losing Cricket. His body is moving physically farther from mine as his mind rebuilds the barrier he built to protect us. “Do you want to get dinner or something?” I blurt. He doesn’t answer. “Forget it, I’m sure you have things to do. Or whatever.”

“No!” And then, with control, “Dinner would be good. Any particular craving?”

“Well . . . Andy gave me money for pizza.”

Cricket tours me through his campus, pointing out the various buildings—all grand and immense and named Something-or-Other Hall—where he takes classes. He tells me about his teachers and the other students, and once again, I’m struck by how strange it is that he has this other life. This life I’m not a part of.

We wind up Telegraph Avenue, the busiest street in downtown Berkeley. It’s the most San Francisco–like place here, with its bead stores, tattoo shops, bookstores, record stores, head shops, and Nepalese imports. But it’s also overrun with street vendors selling cheaply made junk—ugly jewelry, tie-dyed shoelaces, bad art, and Bob Marley’s face on everything. We have to walk through a group of dancing Hare Krishnas in sherbetcolored robes and finger cymbals, and I nearly run smack into a man wearing a fur hat and a cape. He’s draping a supertiny table with velvet for tarot readings, right there on the street. I feel relieved that Norah’s distaste for costumes means at least she doesn’t look like this guy.

There are homeless everywhere. An older man with a weatherhardened face comes out of nowhere, limping and staggering in front of us like a zombie. I instinctively jolt backward and away.

“Hey,” Cricket says gently, and I realize that he caught my reaction. It’s comforting to know he understands why. To know I won’t have to explain, and to know he’s not judging me for it. He smiles. “We’re here.”

Inside Blondie’s, I insist on paying with Andy’s twenty. We sit at a countertop overlooking the street and eat one slice of pesto vegetarian (me) and three slices of beef pepperoni (him). Cricket sips a Cherry Coke. “Nice of Andy to give us dinner money,” he says. “But why pizza?”

“Oh, the pizza place was on the way,” I say. He looks confused. “On the way to Lindsey’s house. They think I’m with Lindsey.”

Cricket sets down his drink. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“No. It was easier than explaining to Andy . . .” I trail off, unsure of what the rest of that sentence is.

“Explaining that you wanted to hang out with me?”

“No. Well, yeah. But I don’t think my parents would mind,” I add quickly.

He’s exasperated. “So why didn’t you tell them? Jeez, Lola. What if something happened to you? No one would know where you were!”

“I told Lindsey I was here.” Well, I told her later. I push the Parmesan shaker away. “You know, you’re starting to sound like my parents.”

Cricket hangs his head and runs his hands through his dark hair. When he looks up again, it’s sticking up even taller and crazier than usual. He stands. “Come on.”

“What?”

“You have to go home.”

“I’m eating. You’re eating.”

“You can’t be here, Lola. I have to take you home.”

“I don’t believe it.You’re serious?”

“YES. I’m not having this on my . . . permanent record.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means if your parents find out you’ve been here without their permission, they won’t like me very much.”

Now I stand. He’s nearly a foot taller, but I try to make him feel as small as possible. “And why are you so concerned about my parents liking you? Is it necessary to remind you—AGAIN—that I have a boyfriend?”

The words are cruel, and I’m horrified as soon as they leave my mouth. Cricket’s blue eyes become startlingly angry. “Then why are you here?”

I’m panicking. “Because you offered to help me.”

“I was helping you, and then you just showed up. In my bedroom! You knew I was coming back next weekend—”

“You didn’t come back last weekend!”

“And now I require your permission to go somewhere? Do you take pleasure in knowing I’m over there . . . pining for you?”

I throw my half-finished slice in the trash and flee. As always, he’s on my heels. He grabs me. “Lola, wait. I don’t know what I’m saying, this conversation is moving too fast. Let’s try again.”

I yank my arm from his grasp and resume my race toward the train station. He’s beside every stride. “I’m going home, Cricket. Like you told me to.”

“Please don’t go.” He’s desperate. “Not like this.”

“You can’t have it both ways, don’t you get it?” I jerk to a halt and sway. I’m talking to myself, not to Cricket.

“I’m trying,” he says. “I’m trying so hard.”

The words shatter my heart. “Yeah,” I say. “Well. Me, too.”

Confusion.

And then . . . “You’re trying? Are you trying in the same way as me?” His words rush out, toppling over each other.

Life would be so much easier if I could say that I’m not interested, that he stands no chance with me. But something about the way Cricket Bell is looking at me—like nothing has ever mattered more to him than my answer—means that I can only speak the truth. “I don’t know. Okay? I look at you, and I think about you, and . . . I don’t know. No one has ever so completely confounded me the way you do.”

His difficult equation face. “So what does that mean?”

“It means we’re right back where we started. And I’m back at the train station. So I’m leaving now.”

“I’ll go with you—”

“No. You won’t.”

Cricket wants to argue. He wants to make sure I get home safely. But he knows if he comes with me, he’ll cross a line that I don’t want crossed. He’ll lose me.

So he says goodbye. And I say goodbye.

And as the train pulls away, I feel like I’ve lost him again anyway.