Lola and the Boy Next Door

chapter thirty-two

I work all day and night on Calliope’s costume—seamripping the old ones, stitching new pieces together, adding flourishes from my own stashes—only stopping for a quick break at my window around midnight. Cricket joins me. He leans forward, elbows resting against his windowsill. The position looks remarkably insectlike with his long arms and long fingers. It’s cute. Very cute.

“Thank you for helping my sister,” he says.

I lean forward, mimicking his position. “I’m happy to.”

Calliope leans out her window. “STOP FLIRTING AND GET BACK TO WORK.”

So much for my break.

“Hey, Cal,” he calls. She looks over as he removes a green rubber band from his wrist and shoots it at her head. It hits her nose with a tight snap and falls between our houses.

“Really mature.” She slams her window shut.

He grins at me. “That never gets old.”

“I knew you wore those for a reason.”

“What color would you like?”

I grin back. “Blue. But try not to aim for my face.”

“I would never.” And he swiftly flicks one into the space beside me.

It lands on my rug, and I slide it onto my wrist. “You’re good with your fingers.” And I give him a pointed look that means, I am not talking about rubber bands.

His elbows slide out from underneath him.

“Good night, Cricket Bell.” I close my curtains, smiling.

“Good night, Lola Nolan,” he calls out.

The rubber band is still warm from his skin. I work for the rest of the night, finishing the costume as the moon is setting. I collapse into bed and fall asleep with my other hand clasped around the blue rubber band. And I dream about blue eyes and blue nails and first-kiss lips dusted with blue sugar crystals.

“Where is it?”

“Mmph?!” I wake up to the frightening vision of Calliope and her mother hovering above my bed. People have GOT to stop doing this to me.

“Did you finish? Where is it?” Calliope asks again.

I glance at my clock. I’ve only been asleep for two hours. I roll out of bed and onto my floor. “Iss in my closet,” I mumble, crawling for the closet door. “Needed to hang it up pretty.”

Mrs. Bell reaches the closet first. She throws open the door and gasps.

“What? What is it?” Calliope asks.

Mrs. Bell takes it out and holds it up for her to see. “Oh, Lola. It’s gorgeous.”

Calliope grabs it from the hanger and strips down in that way only beautiful, athletic girls can do—without shame and with a crowd. I look away, embarrassed.

“Ohhh,” she says.

I look back over. She’s standing before my full-length mirror. The black costume has long, slender, gossamer sleeves—delicate and shimmering and seductive—but they’re almost more like fingerless evening gloves, because they stop at the top of her arms, allowing for an elegant showing of shoulder skin. The body has a skirt to echo this feeling, but the top ends in a halter, and I added a thin layer to peek out from underneath, so it’s multistrapped and sequined and sexy.

The overall effect is romantic but . . . daring.

Calliope is in awe. “I was afraid you’d give me something crazy, something Lola. But this is me. This is my song, this is my program.”

And even with the insult thrown in, I glow with happiness.

“It’s better than your original,” Mrs. Bell says to Calliope.

“You really think?” I ask.

“Yes,” they both say.

I pick myself up from the floor and inspect the costume. “It could use some altering, here and here”—I point to two loose places—“but . . . yeah. This should work.”

Mrs. Bell smiles, warm and relieved. “You have a special talent, Lola. Thank you.”

She likes me! Or at least my sewing skills, but I’ll take it.

For now.

There’s a knock on my door, and I let in my parents. They ooh and aah, and Calliope and I are both beaming. I mark the costume for quick alterations, which I can do in an hour. Which I have to do in an hour, because that’s when they leave for the airport. I shoo everyone away, and as I’m stitching, I glance again and again at Cricket’s window. He’s not there. I pray to an invisible moon that I’ll see him before he leaves.

Sixty-five minutes later, I run into the Bells’ driveway. Calliope and her parents are loading the last suitcases. Aleck is there with Abby on his hip. He looks as sleep-deprived as I feel, but he jokingly offers out Abby’s hand to hold the new costume.

Calliope does not find the joke funny.

Aleck and Abby are staying while everyone else goes. The time alone will hopefully force him back into motion, but Andy and I have secret plans to check up on them. Just in case. I’m opening my mouth to ask about Cricket, when he races from the house. “I’m here, I’m here!” He comes to an abrupt halt six inches from me, when he finally notices there’s someone else in the driveway.

I look up. And up again, until I meet his gaze.

“Get in the car,” Calliope says. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“You’re still wearing the rubber band,” he says.

“I’m still wearing everything you last saw me in.” And then I want to kick myself, because I don’t want it to sound like I forgot I was wearing it. I am very, very aware of wearing his rubber band.

“CRICKET.” This time, Mr. Bell.

I’m filled with a hundred things I want to say to Cricket, but I’m conscious of his entire family watching us. So is he. “Um, see you next week?” he asks.

“Good luck. To your sister. And you. For . . . whatever.”

“CRICKET!” Everyone in the car.

“Bye,” we blurt. He’s climbing in when Aleck leans down and whispers something in his ear. Cricket glances at me and turns red. Aleck laughs. Cricket slams his car door, and Mr. Bell is already pulling away. I wave. Cricket holds up his hand in goodbye until the car turns the corner and out of sight.

“So.” Aleck ducks his head out of reach from Abby’s grabbing hands. “You and my brother, huh?”

My cheeks flame. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him your loins were clearly burning, and he should man up and make a move.”

“You did not!”

“I did. And if he doesn’t, then I suggest you jump his bones. My brother, in case you haven’t noticed, is kind of an idiot about these things.”

Cricket has left a new message for me in his window. It’s written in his usual black marker but with one addition—a crayon rubbing of my name, imprinted from the sidewalk corners on Dolores Street.

The sign reads: GO TO THE DANCE DOLORES

I am going to the dance.

“I heard about Calliope,” Norah says on Friday night. “Sixth place?”

I sigh. “Yep.” In her post-short-program interview, Calliope was quiet but poised. A professional. “I’m disappointed,” she said, “but I’m grateful to have another chance.”

“That’s a shame,” Norah says.

“It’s not over yet.” My voice is sharp. “She still has a shot.”

Norah gives me a wary look. “You think I don’t know that? Nothing is ever over.”

My family, Lindsey, and I are gathered around the television. Everyone is working on my Marie Antoinette gown. The last few decorative details are all that remain, and I appreciate the help as we wait for Calliope’s long program to begin.

The ladies’ short program was two nights ago. We saw the end from the beginning, in the moment the camera cut to Calliope’s first position. It was in her eyes and underneath her smile. Fear. The music started, and it was clear that something was wrong.

It happened so quickly.

Her most difficult sequences were in the beginning—they usually are, so that a skater has full strength to perform them—and the commentators were in a tizzy over her triple jump, which she hadn’t been landing in practice.

Calliope landed it, but she fell on the combination.

The expression on her face—only for a moment, she picked herself up instantly—was terrible. The commentators made pitying noises as she bravely skated to the other end of the rink, but our living room was silent. An entire season’s worth of training. For nothing.

And then she fell again.

“It’s not all about talent,” the male commentator said. “It’s also about your head. She’s not been able to do what people have expected of her, and it’s taken its toll.”

“There’s no greater burden than potential,” the female commenter added.

But as if Calliope heard them, as if she said enough, determination grew in every twist of her muscles, every push of her skates. She nailed an extra jump and earned additional points. Her last two-thirds were solid. It’s not impossible for her to make the Olympic team, but she’ll need a flawless long program tonight.

“I can’t watch.” Andy sets down his corner of my Marie Antoinette dress. “What if she doesn’t medal? In Lola’s costume?”

This has been bothering me, too, but I don’t want to make Andy even more nervous, so I give him a shrug. “Then it won’t be my fault. I only made the outfit. She’s the one who has to skate in it.”

The rest of us abandon my dress as the camera cuts to her coach Petro Petrov, an older gentleman with white hair and a grizzled face. He’s talking with her at the edge of the rink. She’s nodding and nodding and nodding. The cameraman can’t get a good shot of her face, but . . . her costume looks great.

I’m on TV! Sort of!

“You made that in one day?” Norah asks.

Nathan leans over and squeezes my arm. “It’s phenomenal. I’m so proud of you.”

Lindsey grins. “Maybe you should have made my dress.”

We went shopping earlier this week for the dance. I’m the one who found her dress. It’s simple—a flattering cut for her petite figure—and it’s the same shade of red as her Chuck Taylors. She and Charlie have decided to wear their matching shoes.

“You’re going to the dance?” Norah is surprised. “I thought you didn’t date.”

“I don’t,” Lindsey says. “Charlie is merely a friend.”

“A cute friend,” I say. “Whom she hangs out with on a regular basis.”

She smiles. “We’re keeping things casual. My educational agenda comes first.”

The commentators begin rehashing Calliope’s journey. About how it’s a shame someone with such natural talent always chokes. They criticize her constant switching of coaches and make a bold statement about a misguided strive for perfection. We boo the television. I feel sadness for her again, for having to live with such constant criticism. But also admiration, for continuing to strive. No wonder she’s built such a hard shell.

I’m yearning for the network to show her family, which they didn’t do AT ALL during the short program. Shouldn’t a twin be notable? I called him yesterday, because he’s still too shy to call me. He was understandably stressed, but I got him laughing. And then he was the one who encouraged me to invite Norah today.

“She’s family,” he said. “You should show encouragement whenever you can. People try harder when they know that someone cares about them.”

“Cricket Bell.” I smiled into my phone. “How did you get so wise?”

He laughed again. “Many, many hours of familial observation.”

As if the cameramen heard me . . . HIM. It’s him! Cricket is wearing a gray woolen coat with a striped scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair is dusted with snow and his cheeks are pink; he must have just arrived at the arena. He is winter personified. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The camera cuts to Calliope, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from shouting at the television to go back to Cricket. Petro takes ones of Calliope’s clenched hands, shakes it gently, and then she glides onto the ice to the roar of thousands of spectators, cheering and waving banners. Everyone in my living room holds their breath as we wait for the first clear shot of her expression.

“And would you look at that,” the male commentator says. “Calliope Bell is here to fight!”

It’s in the fierceness of her eyes and the strength of her posture as she waits for her music to begin. Her skin is pale, her lips are red, and her dark hair is pulled into a sleek twist. She’s stunning and ferocious. The music starts, and she melts into the romance of it, and she is the song. Calliope is Juliet.

“Opening with a triple lutz/double toe,” the female says. “She fell on this at World’s last year . . .”

She lands it.

“And the triple salchow . . . watch how she leans, let’s see if she can get enough height to finish the rotation . . .”

She lands it.

The commentators drift into a mesmerized hush. Calliope isn’t just landing the jumps, she’s performing them. Her body ripples with intensity and emotion. I imagine young girls across America dreaming of becoming her someday like I once did. A gorgeous spiral sequence leads into a dazzling combination spin. And soon Calliope is punching her arms in triumph, and it’s over.

A flawless long program.

The camera pans across the celebrating crowd. It cuts to her family. The Bell parents are hugging and laughing and crying. And beside them, Calliope’s crazy-haired twin is whooping at the top of his lungs. My heart sings. The camera returns to Calliope, who hollers and fist-pumps the air.

No! Go back to her brother!

The commentators laugh. “Exquisite,” the man says. “Her positions, her extensions. There’s no one like Calliope Bell when she’s on fire.”

“Yes, but will this be enough to overcome her disastrous short program?”

“Well, the curse remains,” he replies. “She couldn’t pull off two clean programs, but talk about redemption. Calliope can hold her head high. This was the best performance of her career.”

She puts on her skate guards and walks to the kiss-and-cry, the appropriately nicknamed area where scores are announced. People are throwing flowers and teddy bears, and she high-fives several people’s hands. Petro puts his arm around her shoulders, and they laugh happily and nervously as they wait for her scores.

They’re announced, and Calliope’s eyes grow as large as saucers.

Calliope Bell is in second place.

And she’s ecstatic to be there.