Lola and the Boy Next Door
Page 30It’s not a bad idea. I’m not sure how much he can see in the darkness, but a little makeup wouldn’t hurt. I’m raising the mascara wand to my lashes when I’m struck by how . . . not smart this is. Applying makeup. For someone who isn’t my boyfriend. I settle for just a cherry-flavored lip gloss, but as soon as the scent hits me, I’m shaking.
Cherry flavored. Tea leaves. First love.
I return to my bedroom, wiping the gloss off on my hand, as there’s a CLANG against my window. And then I see what he’s about to do. “Oh God! No, Cricket, don’t!”
“It’ll hold my weight. Just grab onto that side, okay? Just in case?”
I clutch it tightly. He’s removed one of his closet shelves, the thick wire kind that’s coated in a white plastic, and he’s using it as a bridge between
our bedrooms.
“Careful!” I shout too loudly, and the bridge shakes.
But he smiles. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
And he does. Cricket scoots across quickly, right to where I’m holding it. His face is against mine. “You can let go now,” he whispers.
My hands throb from gripping it so hard. I step back, allowing him room to enter. He slides down, and his legs brush against mine lengthwise. My body jolts. It’s the first time we’ve touched in ages. He’s so tall that his heart beats against my cheek.
His heart.
I falter backward. “What were you thinking?” I hiss, feeling all kinds of anxious. “You could have fallen and broken your neck.”
“I thought it’d be easier to talk face-to-face.” He keeps his voice low.
“We could’ve met on the sidewalk, gone for another walk.” He hesitates. “Should I go back?”
“No! I mean . . . no. You’re already here.”
A knock on my door startles us even farther apart. “Lola?” Nathan says. “I heard a crash. Are you all right?” My eyes widen in panic. My parents will KILL me if they find an unexpected boy in my room. Even if it is Cricket! I push him on the floor behind my bed, where he can’t be seen from my door. I jump in and pray Nathan doesn’t question the sound of bedsprings. “I fell out of bed,” I say groggily. “I was exhausted.
I was having a nightmare.”
“A nightmare?” The door opens, and Nathan peeks his head in.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve had one of those. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, it was . . . stupid. A wolverine was chasing me. Or a werewolf. I dunno, you know how dreams are. I’m fine now.” Pleeeeease go away. The I really don’t want to have this conversation in front of Cricket. “Dad—”
“Is it Norah? I know things haven’t been easy since she got here, but—”
“I’m fine, Dad. Good night.”
“Is it Max? Or Cricket? You turned strange when you saw him tonight, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you when I said—”
“Good night, Dad.”
PLEASE STOP TALKING.
His head pops up beside my own, and even though I know he’s there, it makes me jump.
“My dad was talking about . . .” I struggle for a nonincriminating answer. “I saw you come home, and it was at the same time Norah was telling us about this awful client. I must have been making a terrible face.”
I hate myself.
He’s quiet.
“So . . . now what?” I ask.
Cricket turns away from me. He leans his back against the side of my bed. “If you want me to go, I will.”
Sadness. Desire. An ache inside of me so strong that I don’t know how I believed it had ever left. I stare at the back of his head, and it’s like the oxygen has disappeared from my room.
My heart has turned to water. I’m drowning.
“No,” I whisper at last. “You just got here.” I want to touch him again. I have to touch him again. If I don’t touch him again, I’ll die. I reach toward his hair. He won’t even notice. But just as my fingertips are about to make contact, he turns around.
And his head jerks backward as I nearly poke out an eye.
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” I whisper.
“What are you doing?” But he grins as he lunges to poke out mine. I grab his finger, and then—just like that—I’m holding on to him. My hand is wrapped around his index finger. But he zeros in on my rainbow Band-Aid. “Is that where you cut yourself?”
“It was nothing.” I let go of him, self-conscious again. “I was doing the dishes.”
He watches me wring my hands. “Cool nails,” he finally says.
They’re black with a pink stripe down the center of each nail.
And then . . . I know how I can touch him. “Hey. Let me paint yours.” I’m already getting up for my favorite dark blue polish.
Somehow, I know he won’t protest.
I carry it to the floor, where he’s still leaning against my bed.
He sits up straight. “Will this hurt?” he asks.
“Badly.” I shake the bottle. “But try to keep your screams low, I don’t want Nathan coming back.”
Cricket smiles as I reach for my chemistry textbook. “Put this on your lap, I’ll need a steady surface. Now place your hands on it.” We’re close to each other, much closer than we’ve been while working on my dress. “I’m going to take your left hand now.”
He swallows. “Okay.”
Cricket holds it up slightly. Tonight the back of his hand has a star drawn on it. I wonder what it means as I slide my hand underneath his fingers.
His hand twitches violently. “You’ll have to hold it steady,” I say. But I’m smiling. Contact.
Our grips relax as I focus on my work. Slow, careful strokes.
We don’t talk. My skin and his skin. Only a book between my hand and his lap. I feel him watch me the entire time—not my hands, but my face—and his gaze burns like an African sun.
When I finish, I lift my eyes to his. He stares back. The moon moves across the sky. Her beams hit his eyelashes, and I’m struck anew that I’m alone, in the dark, with a boy who once shattered my heart. Who would kiss me, if I didn’t have a boyfriend. Who I would kiss, if I didn’t have a boyfriend.
Who I want to kiss anyway.
I bite my bottom lip. He’s hypnotized. I lean forward, moving the curves of my body into the slender shadow of his. The air between us is physically hot, painfully so. He glances down my shirt. It is very, very close to his line of vision.
I part my lips.
And then he’s stumbling away. “I want to,” he croaks. “You know I want to.”
He tests the bridge for firmness and springs onto it. Cricket Bell doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see the tears spilling down my face. The only thing he leaves behind is a smudge of blue polish on my window frame.
Chapter twenty-four
Loooo-laaaa. Beautiful Lola.” Franko’s eyes are red and dilated.
As usual.
I dig through the box-office drawers, throwing dry pens and dusty instruction manuals to the floor. “Have you seen the ink cartridges for the tickets?”
“No, but have you seen the popcorn today? It’s so . . .
aerodynamically inclined. I think I might’ve eaten some. Do I have kernels in my teeth?”
“No kernels,” I snap.
“I think I have kernels in my teeth. Like, right between my front teeth.” He stands, and his tongue explores his own mouth in a disgusting form of self–French kissing. “The strings are beautiful tonight.”
“Sure. The strings.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t cut one, but if I did, I’d say . . . that’s a beautiful string.”
Seriously, if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m strangling him. My patience is at an all-time low. I wave my arms at St. Clair, who is ripping tickets tonight. There’s no one around, so he strolls over. “For the love of God, you two have to switch jobs,” I say.
“You’re beautiful, St. Clair,” Franko says.
“Everyone is beautiful to you when you’re high.” He sits in Franko’s seat. “Scat.”
Franko lumbers away.
“Thank you,” I say. “I just . . . can’t handle that right now.” He gives me a full-bodied shrug. “Right now or for the entire month of November?”
“Don’t even,” I warn. But it’s true. Since my complete and total humiliation with Cricket two weeks ago—and his subsequent disappearance from my life—I’ve been extremely unpleasant.
Obviously, not much. I’ve called him twice and sent three apology texts, but he’s ignored them all.
So much for Mr. Nice Guy.
“Mr. Nice Guy?” St. Clair asks. “Who’s that?” Oh, no. I’m talking out loud again. “Me,” I lie. “Mr. Nice Guy is gone.”
He sighs and checks the clock on the wall. “Fantastic.”
“I’m sorry.” And I mean it. My friends—Lindsey, Anna, and St.
Clair—have all been patient with me. More than I deserve. I told Lindsey what happened, but St. Clair, and through him, Anna, must have heard some version of something from Cricket. I’m not sure what. “Thank you for taking Franko’s place. I appreciate it.”
The European shrug again.
We work quietly for the next hour. As the minutes tick by, I feel more and more guilty. It’s time to change my attitude. At least around my friends.
“So,” I say during the next customer lull. “How did it go with Anna’s family? Didn’t her mom and brother visit for Thanksgiving?”
He smiles for the first time since coming in here. “I wooed them off their feet. It was an excellent visit.”
I grin and then give him a nod with exaggerated formality.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he says with equal formality. “They stayed with my mum.”
“That’s . . . weird.”
“Not really. Mum is cool, easy to get along with.” I raise a teasing eyebrow. “So where did YOU guys stay?”
“Where we always stay.” He stares back solemnly. “In our very separate dormitories.”
I snort.
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you spend Thanksgiving with the boyfriend?”
“Uh, no.” I stumble through an explanation about Norah being difficult and Max being busy, but it sounds hollow and forced.
We’re silent for a minute. “How do you . . .” I’m struggling to find the right words. “How do you and Anna make it work?You make it seem easy.”
“Being with Anna is easy. She’s the one.”
The one. It stops my heart. I thought Max was the one, but . . .