Lola and the Boy Next Door

Do you believe?”

“Totally ridiculous.” I grab the broom. It actually looks just like the one Cricket used to collect my binder. I race upstairs and thrust the handle at Lindsey. “Aha! The perfect circumference.” She smiles. “And plenty of room for us to steam multiple strands at once. Nice.”

“You’re gonna help?”

“Of course.” And thank goodness she does, because it turns out to be a horrible, time-consuming job. “You’re lucky I love you, Lola.”

Another strand slips to the carpet before curling, and I stifle a scream. She laughs in an exhausted, slaphappy way, and it makes me laugh, too.

“This really is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had,” I say.

“Not one of the worst. The worst.” Her strand slips to the floor.

“AHH!” she says, and we topple over with laughter. “Let’s hope Cricket is right, and ‘the beauty will be worth the effort.’” It’s like being hit by a train. “When did he say that?” Lindsey’s laughter fades. “Oh. Um. Sunday afternoon.”

“Sunday? This last Sunday?You talked to Cricket on Sunday?” She keeps her eyes on a new strand of white hair. “Yeah, um, we went out.”

I drop the broom. “WHAT?”

“Not like that,” she says quickly. “I mean, we hung out in a group. As friends.”

My brain is fizzing and popping. “What group? Who?”

“He called to see if I wanted to go bowling with him and Calliope. And . . . with Charlie. You were at work, so you were busy. That’s why we didn’t ask.”

I’ve lost the ability to speak. She lifts my side of the broom and puts it into my hands. I take it numbly. “I told them about Charlie at Scare Francisco, after you left to meet Max,” she continues. “I don’t know why. It just spilled out. Maybe I was bummed you were with Max again, and I was alone.” Guilt. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“Anyway, Cricket thought it’d be a good idea if I hung out with Charlie as friends first, in a group. You know. To make it easier.”

THAT WAS MY IDEA. MINE!

“So we went bowling, and . . . we had a fun time.” I’m not sure what hurts more: that she hadn’t mentioned this until now, that she hung out with Cricket without me, that she hung out with Calliope at all, or that Cricket came up with the same brilliant idea that I did and got to take credit for it.

Okay, so my idea was a double date, and obviously Cricket isn’t dating his sister. BUT STILL. It seems to have worked. And I wasn’t there. And I’m supposed to be the best friend. “Oh.

That’s . . . that’s great, Lindsey.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. But I didn’t know how you’d feel about me hanging out with the twins, and I really wanted to go. And you

were busy. You’ve been busy a lot in the last few months.” Since you met Max. She might as well have said it. I look back at my work. “No, I’m glad you went. I’m glad you had a nice time with Charlie.”

Half of that is true.

“I had a nice time with the twins, too,” she says cautiously.

“Once Calliope relaxes, she’s kinda fun. She’s under an insane amount of pressure.”

“Hmph. So people tell me.”

“Honestly, Lo, I don’t think she’s the mean girl she once was.

She’s just protective.”

I glare at her. “Her brother is in college. I think he can handle himself.”

“And he does speak his mind now. However strangely it might come out,” she adds. “You know that he never hurt you on purpose. And when you’re not around, he asks a hundred questions about you. About Max, too. He likes you. He’s always liked you, remember?”

I stop steaming curls.

“And I don’t want you to bite my head off for saying this,” she says rapidly, “but it’s pretty clear you like Cricket Bell, too.” It’s like something is caught in my throat. I swallow. “And why do you think that?”

She takes the steamer from me. “Because anyone with the power of observation can see you’re still crazy about him.” I’m setting the dinner table when I discover a newspaper clipping tucked under the corner of my place mat. Andy strikes again. It’s an article about an increase in STDs among teenagers. I shove it into the recycle bin. Do my parents know I’m hav**g s*x?

I know Max slept with many girls—many women—before me.

But he’s been tested. He’s clean. Still, these mystery women haunt me. I picture Max in dark corners of bars, in his apartment, in beds across the city with glamorous succubi, intoxicated and infatuated. Max assures me the truth s far less exciting. I almost believe him.

It doesn’t help that tonight, a night I have off from work, Amphetamine has a gig at the Honey Pot, a burlesque club that I’m not old enough to get into. I’m trying not to let it bother me.

I know burlesque is an art, but it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel young. I hate feeling young.

But there are many things troubling me tonight.

It’s Friday. Will Cricket come home this weekend?

Lindsey’s words have been looping inside my head all week.

How is it possible for me to feel this way? To be interested in Cricket and still be concerned about my relationship with Max?

I want things to be okay with my boyfriend, I do. It’s supposed to be simple. I don’t want another complication. I don’t want to be interested in Cricket.

During dinner, Andy and Nathan exchange worried looks over the veggie potpie. “Anything wrong, Lo?” Andy finally asks.

“You seem distracted.”

I tear my eyes from the window in our kitchen, from which I can barely see the Bell family’s front porch. “Huh? Yeah.

Everything’s fine.”

My parents look at me doubtfully as Norah comes in and sits at the table. “That was Chrysanthemum Bean, the one with the duck voice. She’s coming over early tomorrow for a reading before buying her weekly scratch-offs.”

Nathan winces and grinds more pepper on top of his potpie.

And grinds. And grinds.

Andy shifts in his seat. He’s always complaining that Nathan ruins his meals by adding too much pepper.

“Christ. Stop it, would you?” Norah says to her brother. “You’re raising his blood pressure. You’re raising MY blood pressure.”

“It’s fine,” Andy says sharply. Even though I can see it’s killing him.

We haven’t had a relaxed meal since she—and her clients, none of whom should be spending their limited finances on tea-leaf readings or lottery scratch-offs—arrived. I turn away in time to catch a lanky figure running up the steps next door. And I sit up so fast that everyone stops bickering to see what’s caused the disturbance. Cricket pats his pockets for his house key. His pants are tighter than usual. And the moment I notice this is the same moment that I’m knocked over by the truth of my feelings.

Lust.

He locates his key just as the front door opens. Calliope lets him inside. I sink back down in my chair. I didn’t even realize that I’d partially risen out of it. Andy clears his throat. “Cricket looks good.”

My face flames.

“I wonder if he has a girlfriend?” he asks. “Do you know?”

“No,” I mumble.

Nathan laughs. “I remember when you two used to accidentally run into each other on walks—”

Andy cuts Nathan a quick look, and Nathan shuts his mouth.

Norah smirks. So it’s true, our embarrassing crush was obvious to everyone.

Fantastic.

I stand. “I’m going upstairs. I have homework.”

“On a Friday night?” Andy asks as Nathan says, “Dishes first.” I take my plates to the sink. Will Cricket eat dinner with his family or go straight to his bedroom? I’m scrubbing the dishes so hard that I slice myself with a paring knife. I hiss under my breath.

“Are you okay?” All three ask at the same time.

“I cut myself. Not bad, though.”

“Be careful,” Nathan says.

Parents are excellent at stating the obvious. But I slow down and finish without further incident. The dishwasher is chugging as I race upstairs and burst into my room. My shoulders sag. His light is off.

Calm down, it’s only Cricket.

I busy myself by sewing pleats into my Marie Antoinette dress.

Twenty minutes pass. Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty.

What is he doing?

The Bells’ downstairs lights are on, so for all I know, the entire family could be parked in front of the television watching eight hours of . . . something. Whatever. I can’t concentrate, and now I’m angry. Angry at Cricket for not being here and angry at myself for caring. I wash off my makeup, remove my contacts, change into my pajamas—careful to close my curtains first—

and flop into bed.

The clock reads 9:37. Max’s band hasn’t even started playing yet.

Just when I thought I couldn’t feel like a bigger loser.

I toss and turn as images flash through my mind: Cricket, Max, burlesque dancers sitting in oyster shells. I’m finally drifting into a restless sleep when there’s a faint plink against my window. My eyes shoot open. Did I dream it?

Plink, my window says again.

I leap out of bed and pull aside my curtains. Cricket Bell sits on his windowsill, feet swinging against his house. Something tiny is in one hand and the other is poised to throw something else. I open my window and a thousand bottled emotions explode inside of me at the full sight of him.

I like Cricket. Like that.

Again.

He lowers his hand. “I didn’t have any pebbles.” My heart is stuck in my throat. I swallow. “What were you throwing?” I squint, but I can’t make it out.

“Put on your glasses and see.”

When I come back, he holds it up. He’s smiling.

I smile back, self-conscious. “What are you doing with a box of toothpicks?”

“Making party trays of cubed cheese,” he says with a straight face. “Why was your light off?”

“I was sleeping.”

“It’s not even ten-thirty.” His legs stop swinging. “No hot date?”

I don’t want to go there. “You know”—I point at his legs—“if you stretch those out, I bet they could touch my house.” He tries. They fall a few feet short, and I smile again. “They looked long enough.”

“Ah, yes. Cricket and his monstrously long legs. His monstrously long body.”

I laugh, and his eyes twinkle back. “Our houses just need to be closer together,” I say. “Your proportions are perfect.” He releases his legs and stares at me carefully. The moment lasts so long that I have to look away. Cricket once said he thought my body was perfect, too. I blush at the memory and for revealing something unintentionally. At last, he speaks.

“This isn’t working for me.” He throws his legs inside and disappears into his room, out of view.

I’m startled. “Cricket?”

I hear him rustling around. “Five minutes. Take a bathroom break or something.”