Skin and bones. I haven’t seen Norah in months. I don’t know how it’s possible, but she’s lost more weight. For as long as I can remember, Norah has been too skinny. Now—body propped against the porch railing, sweater balled into a pillow to support her head—she looks like a pile of twigs wrapped in hippie rags.
Is she just asleep? Or has she been drinking again?
I flush with shame. That’s my mother. I don’t want Cricket to recognize her, even though it’s obvious the pieces have been put together, now that the question hangs in the air. Nathan is rigid. He pulls the car into our driveway and turns off the engine. No one gets out. Andy swears under his breath.
“We can’t leave her there,” he says, after a minute passes.
Nathan climbs out, and Andy follows. I turn in my seat to watch them prod her, and she immediately startles awake. I release a breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I get out of the car, and I’m blasted by the stench of body odor. Cricket is beside me, and he’s talking, but his words don’t reach my ears.
Because it’s my mother.
Smelling.
On my porch.
I duck away from him and push up the stairs, past Norah and my parents. “I fell asleep waiting for you to come home,” she snaps to them. “I’m not drunk. Just evicted.” But I focus on my key in my hand, my key in the lock, my feet to my bedroom. I collapse in bed, but a voice says something about a curtain, it won’t stop talking about a curtain, so I haul myself up to shut it and then I’m back down. I hear them in the living room.
“Eighteen months?” Nathan asks. “You told me it’d been twelve since your last payment. I thought we’d worked this out. What do you expect me—”
“I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP. I JUST NEED A PLACE TO CRASH.”
The whole neighborhood can hear that. It takes nine long minutes before she lowers her voice. I watch the clock on my phone.
Lindsey calls. I stare at her name, but I don’t answer.
When I was little, I thought my parents were just best friends who lived together. I wanted to live with Lindsey when I grew up. It took a while for me to understand that the situation was more complicated than that, but by the time it happened, it didn’t matter. My parents were my parents. They loved each other, and they loved me.
But there’s always been this nag in the darkest corner of my mind.
I was right for Nathan and Andy, like they were right for me. Why wasn’t I right for Norah? I know she wasn’t in any condition to take care of me, but why wasn’t I enough for her to try? And why aren’t we—the three of us, her family—enough for her to try now? She may not be on the streets anymore, but . . . well, this time, she is. Why is it so impossible for her to be a normal adult?
My phone buzzes. Lindsey has sent a text:i heard. what can i do? xoxo
My heart falls like a stone. She heard? How long was Norah outside? How many people saw her? I imagine what my classmates will say when they find out that I have loser wired into half of my genetic code. Figures. It’s the only explanation for someone that screwed up. She must have been wasted while Lola was in the womb. But that’s not even true. I’m not half loser. I’m one hundred percent. I was created from street trash.
Andy knocks on my door. “Lo? Can I come in?”
I don’t reply.
He asks again, and when I don’t answer, he says, “I’m coming in.” My door opens. “Oh, honey.” His voice is heartbroken. Andy sits on the edge of my bed and places a hand on my back, and I burst into tears. He picks me up and holds me, and I feel small and helpless as I cry all over his sleeve.
“She’s so embarrassing. I hate her.”
He hugs me harder. “Sometimes I do, too.”
“What’s gonna happen?”
“She’ll stay here for a while.”
I pull back. “For how long?” I’ve left a puddle of red eye shadow on his shoulder. I try to wipe it away, but he gently takes my hand. The shirt doesn’t matter.
“Only a week or two. Until we can find a new apartment for her.”
I stare at my red fingertips, and I’m angry that Norah has made me cry again. I’m angry that she’s in my house. “She doesn’t care about us. She’s only here because she doesn’t have any other options.”
Andy sighs. “Then we don’t have any option but to help her, do we?”
It grows dark outside. I call Lindsey.
“Thank God! Cricket called two hours ago, and I’ve been so worried. Are you okay? Should I come over? Do you want to come over here? How bad is it?”
An explosion in my mind. “Cricket told you?”
“He was concerned. I’m concerned.”
“Cricket told you?”
“He called the restaurant and gave my parents his number, and then told them to tell me to call him. He said it was an emergency.”
I grip my phone harder. “So you didn’t see her, then? Or hear her? Or hear about it from anyone else?”
Lindsey realizes what the issue is. Her voice softens. “No. I haven’t heard anything, neighborhood-wise. I don’t think anyone noticed her.”
And I’m relieved enough to let the sadness and frustration flood back in. After nearly a minute of silence, Lindsey asks again if I’d like to stay with her. “No,” I say. “But I might take you up on it tomorrow.”
“She wasn’t . . . was she?”
It’s easy enough to fill in her blank. “Not wasted, not high. Just Norah.”
“Well,” she says. “At least there’s that.”
But it’s humiliating that she had to ask. There’s a beep on the other line. Max. “I have to go.” I switch calls with dread. A vision of my boyfriend at brunch with Norah flashes through my head. This is bound to put an even bigger strain on his relationship with my family. What will he think of her? Will it change his opinion about me? And what if . . . what if he finds something of myself in Norah?
“I missed you,” he says. “You coming to the show tonight?”
I’d forgotten about it. I’ve been so fixated on last night’s show that I didn’t remember he’d be back here for another one tonight. “Um, I don’t think so.” The tears are already building. No, no, no. Don’t cry. I’m sick of crying today.
I practically hear him sitting up. “What’s going on?”
“Norah is here. She’s staying with us.”
Silence. And then, “Fuuuuck.” He says it like an exhale. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Me, too,” I add.
He gives a small, understanding snort of laughter, and then I’m surprised by how angry he gets when I tell him the full story. “So she expects you guys to bail her out of this?”
I roll onto my side, still on my bed. “Like we always do.”
“It’s messed up your dads are letting her take advantage of them again.”
The thought has occurred to me many times over the years, but I still don’t know if it’s true. Are they—Nathan, especially—enabling her? Or would she be even more lost without them? “I don’t know,” I say. “She doesn’t have anyone else to turn to.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re defending them. If I were you, I’d be pissed. I’m not you, and I’m still pissed.”
His anger refuels my own. It’s getting easier to talk about it, to talk about everything. We go for another hour until he needs to pack the van for his show. “Do you want me to pick you up?” he asks.
I tell him yes.
I get dressed with a fury I haven’t felt in years. I find a gauzy black dress that I’ve never liked in the back of my closet, and I rip the hem shorter. Orange-and-yellow makeup. Red wig. Boots that lace to my knees.
Tonight, I’m fire.
I storm downstairs. My parents are talking quietly in the kitchen. I have no idea where Norah is, and I don’t care. I throw open the front door, and there’s a loud, “HEY!” but I’m already blazing down to the sidewalk. Where’s Max? Where is he?
“Dolores Nolan, get your ass back in here,” Nathan s
ays from the doorway.
Andy is behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going to Max’s show!” I yell back.
“You aren’t going anywhere in that mood OR dressed like that,” Nathan says. A familiar white van turns the corner and speeds up our hill. Andy swears, and my parents push out the door but block each other in the process. The van jerks to a halt. Johnny Ocampo slides the door open.
“Do not get in that van,” Nathan shouts.
I give Johnny my hand. He pulls me inside and slams the door. I crash into a folded cymbal stand as the van lurches forward, and I shriek in pain. Max lets out a rapid string of profanity at the sight of blood running down my arm. The van jerks to another stop as he leans back to make sure I’m okay.
“I’m fine, I’m fine! Go!”
I look out the window to see my parents on the sidewalk, frozen in disbelief. And behind them, sitting on the steps of the lavender Victorian—as if they’ve been there for a long, long time—are Cricket and Calliope Bell.
The van roars away.
chapter fifteen
I shouldn’t have come here.
It takes the band forever to set up, and I’m left alone the entire time. I didn’t bring my phone, so I can’t call Lindsey. The club is cold and unfriendly. I cleaned the blood off my arm in the bathroom, but it was only a scratch. I’m restless. And I feel stupid. My parents will be enraged, Norah will still be in my house, and the twins were witness to another foolish act. The memory of their expressions is almost too much to bear: the scorn of Calliope, the hurt of Cricket, the shock of my parents.
I’m in so much trouble.
As always, my mind returns again and again to Cricket Bell. Muir Woods seems like a lifetime ago. I remember what I felt, but I can no longer remember how.
“Lola?”
WHAT’S THAT? WHO’S HERE? Who did my parents send? I’m almost surprised they haven’t showed up themselves—
“We thought it was you.” It’s Anna.
“Hard to tell sometimes .” And St. Clair.
They’re holding hands and smiling, and I’m so relieved that I fall back against the club’s brick wall. “Ohthankgod, it’s you.”
“Are you drunk?” she asks.
I straighten and hold up my chin. “NO. What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to see Max’s band,” St. Clair says slowly.
“Since you invited us? Last week? Remember?” Anna adds at my confusion.
I don’t remember. I was so worried about Max touring and the day trip with Cricket that I could have invited the editor of TeenVogue and forgotten about it. “Of course. Thanks for coming,” I say distractedly.
They don’t buy it. And I end up spilling another private story to them: the story of my birth parents. Anna grasps the banana on her necklace as if the tiny bead is a talisman. “I’m sorry, Lola. I had no idea.”
“Not many people do.”
“So Cricket was with you when you found her on your porch?” St. Clair asks.
His question snags my full attention. I’d purposefully left Cricket out of the story. I narrow my eyes. “How did you know that?”
St. Clair shrugs, but he looks self-chastised. Like he said something he shouldn’t have. “He mentioned something about taking a road trip with you. That’s all.”
He knows.
St. Clair knows that Cricket likes me. I wonder if they’ve already talked this evening, if St. Clair already knew what happened with my mother. “I don’t believe it,” I say.
“Pardon?” he says.
“Cricket told you. He told you about all of this, about my mother.” Anger rises inside of me again. “Is that why you’re here? Did he send you to check up on me?”
St. Clair’s countenance hardens. “I haven’t spoken with him in two days. You invited Anna and myself here, so we came. You’re welcome.”
He’s telling the truth, but my temper is already boiling. Anna grabs my arm and walks me forward. “Fresh air,” she says. “Fresh air would be good.”
I throw her off and feel terrible at the sight of her wounded expression. “I’m sorry.” I can’t look at either of them. “You’re right. I’ll go alone.”
“Are you sure?” But she sounds relieved.
“Yeah. I’ll be back. Sorry,” I mumble again.
I spend a miserable fifteen minutes outside. When I come back, the club is packed. There’s hardly standing room. Anna has snagged a wooden bar stool, one of the few seats here. St. Clair stands close to her, facing her, and he smoothes the platinum stripe in her hair. She pulls him even closer by the top of his jeans, one finger tucked inside. It’s an intimate gesture. I’m embarrassed to watch, but I can’t look away.
He kisses her slowly and deeply. They don’t care that anyone could watch. Or maybe they’ve forgotten they aren’t alone. When they break apart, Anna says something that makes him fall into silly, boyish laughter. For some reason, that’s the moment that makes me turn away. Something about their love is painful.
I turn toward the bar for a bottle of water, but Anna calls out to me again. I head back, feeling irrationally aggravated that they’re here.
“Better?” St. Clair asks, but not in a mean way. He looks concerned.
“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry about all that.”
“No problem.” And I think we’re leaving it at that when he adds, “I understand what it’s like to be ashamed of a parent. My father is not a good man. I don’t talk about him either. Thank you for trusting us.”
His serious tone throws me, and I’m touched by this rare glimpse into his life. Anna squeezes his hand and changes the subject. “I’m looking forward to this.” She nods toward the band onstage. Max’s guitar is slung low as he adjusts something on his amplifier. They’re about to start. “You’ll introduce us to him afterward, right?”
Max has been too busy to come out and say hello. I feel bad about this. I feel bad about everything tonight. “Of course. I promise.”
“You neglected to mention that he’s much cooler than us.” Worry has crept into her voice.
St. Clair, back to himself, is clearly ready with a catty reply, and I’m pleased that the moment he opens his mouth is the same moment Amphetamine explodes into their set. His words—all words but my boyfriend’s—are lost.
The intensity radiating from Max mirrors what I feel burning inside of myself. His lyrics are by turn tender and sweet, scathing and cruel. He sings about falling in love and breaking up and running away, and it’s nothing that hasn’t been sung before, but it’s the way he sings it. Every word is saturated in bitter truth.
Johnny and Craig push an aggressive rhythm, and Max attacks his guitar with string-breaking ferocity. The songs become openly malicious, as if even the assembled crowd is to be distrusted, and when it’s time for the acoustic number, his usual soul-searching turns belligerent and cynical. His amber eyes lock with mine across the room, and I’m filled with his vicious attitude. I know it’s wrong, but it only makes me want him more. The crowd is fevered and delirious. It’s the best performance he’s ever given.
And it’s for me.
When it’s over, I turn to my friends for their reaction. Anna and St. Clair look shocked. Impressed but . . . definitely shocked.
“He’s good, Lola. He’s really good,” Anna says at last.
“Has he considered therapy?” St. Clair asks, and Anna elbows him in the ribs. “Ow.” I glare at him, and he shrugs. “It was incredible,” he continues. “I’m merely pointing out the presence of untempered rage.”
“How can you—”
“I need the bathroom,” Anna says. “Please don’t kill my boyfriend while I’m gone. And don’t leave until I’ve met Max!”
He’s weaving his way toward us now. People are clapping him on the back and trying to engage him in conversation, but Max’s eyes are only on mine as he brushes past them. My heart beats faster. The dark roots of his bleached hair and his black T-shirt are sweaty.
I’m reminded of the night we met, and there’s a flare inside of me that’s near animalistic.
Max stiffens as he reaches for an embrace. He’s noticed St. Clair. Max’s jaw tightens as he sizes him up, but St. Clair slides in an easy introduction. “Étienne St. Clair. My girlfriend Anna”—he points to her retreating figure—“and I work with Lola at the theater. You must be Max.”
My boyfriend relaxes. “Right.” He shakes St. Clair’s outstretched hand, and then he’s already pulling me away. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Max. Yes, I want to be with Max.
“Thanks for coming. Tell Anna bye for me, okay?”
St. Clair looks royally pissed. “Yeah. Sure.”
Max leads me down the block to his van. He opens the door, and I’m surprised to discover it’s still empty. We climb in. “The next band is using Johnny’s drums. I asked the guys to wait a few minutes before loading the rest.”
I slam the door, and we’re on top of each other. I want to forget everything. I kiss him hard. He pushes back harder. It doesn’t take long.
We collapse.
I close my eyes. My temples are still throbbing with the sound of his music. I hear the flick of Max’s lighter, but the smell that greets me isn’t cigarette smoke. It’s sweet and sticky. He nudges me in a silent offer. I refuse. The contact high is enough.
Max drops me off around two in the morning. I forget my wig in his van. I feel like a disaster. Once again, I’m racked with guilt and anger and confusion. I drag myself inside, and my parents are there, as if they’ve been waiting by the door since I left. They probably have. I brace myself for their wrath.
It doesn’t come.
“Thank God.” Andy crumples onto our chaise longue.
My parents are both on the verge of tears, and the sight makes me cry for the hundredth time today, huge embarrassing hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry.”
Nathan embraces me in an iron-tight hug. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
I’m shaking. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Dolores.” Nathan leads me upstairs, and Andy trails behind. I’m closing my bedroom door when Nathan says, “You smell like pot. We’ll talk about that tomorrow, too.”
Lola and the Boy Next Door Page 11
